The first time I saw an MMA fight I nearly threw up. There’s a brutality to mixed martial arts that most people can’t stomach, and I was no exception. The fighters wear these ridiculously tiny 6 oz. gloves that don’t soften the blow in the slightest—they might as well be wearing brass knuckles. They’re allowed to use their calcified elbows as weapons as well, and they’re even permitted to kick each other in the face as hard as they can. To witness a devastating high kick to the left temple makes even the most hardened viewer’s fight-or-flight adrenalin kick in, and at first this horrified me, since historically I’ve always firmly resided in the “flight” camp. After I saw my first MMA fight on TV the pacifist in me silently vowed I’d never watch it ever again.
But I kept getting drawn back, and at this point I’m a diehard fan. My friends who hate MMA ask me why I watch it, and my boilerplate answer is always: “It truly is a physical chess match, and the appeal for fans like myself is the intrigue of the matchups of styles. Can someone with a wrestling background defeat a standup striker? Can a Muay Thai boxer defeat a Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu black belt?”
This answer is always met with skepticism, and I can see why. While I earnestly believe it’s human chess (albeit one where the pieces bleed and lie concussed after a particularly brutal checkmate), whenever I have a friend watch it with me the fights usually end with an archaic burst of “ground and pound,” which is where basically the fighter sits on the other fighter’s chest and rains down unimpeded blows from above.
“That’s not chess, I used to do that to my little brother in kindergarten,” one friend noted.
And while I appreciate the combat itself, I have to admit all the other aspects of the sport, which is dominated by the UFC, irritate me to no end. It unabashedly caters to the Spike TV crowd, since the main demographic is 18-34 year old males, which means a large percentage of the viewership consists of former frat boy meatheads that revel in the “blood sport” as a way to satiate the excess testosterone coursing through their GNC-sculpted biceps.
What I despise the most is the entrance music for the fighters. For some reason the soundtrack to UFC fights is predominantly late-90s nu metal—that gratingly cheesy hybrid of heavy metal and rap that I’d thought was still popular only in Florida or something. I often sit there and daydream about what my entrance song would be if I was entering the octagon. I’d sarcastically play songs like Foreigner’s “Waiting For A Girl Like You,” or 70s lite rock fare like Climax Blues Band’s “I Love You,” or Gary Wright’s “Dreamweaver.” I daydream about the crowd singing along to REO Speedwagon’s “Keep On Lovin’ You” or Air Supply’s “All Out of Love,” but in reality this would likely cause a Bruno-like riot.
My wife can’t stand that I watch MMA, and the other night she finally found a way to get me to change the channel, by slyly suggesting that my choice of entrance music suggests a latent homosexuality that thereby explains MMA’s appeal to me. “Close your eyes and listen to the next fight,” she said.
He’s got side control, eager to make the full mount…he’s going for a rear naked choke…yes, yes, he just sinked his underhooks in and is now going to choke him out from behind…they’re both really sweaty, so it’ll be difficult for either man to get a good grip on each other’s bodies for a submission…he reversed him, now he’s got full mount, and is starting to deliver some ground and pound from the top position…it’s only a matter of time now…
I opened my eyes. The fighters looked exactly like the Kama Sutra-esque positions being breathlessly described by announcer Joe Rogan, not to mention the fact that both fighters were wearing baby blue spandex underoos that had advertisements for “CondomDepot.com” emblazoned across the rear.
“Touche,” I said, and halfheartedly started surfing the channels. I settled on Top Gun playing on TNT. “This was my favorite movie in middle school.”
“You’ve seen this a million times! Come on, let’s watch something else,” she pleaded, but I refused to change the channel.
She might be able to goad me into not watching MMA for a night, but Maverick will always be my wingman.
Today two friends are publishing their latest novels. First up is Matt de la Pena, whose third novel, WE WERE HERE! He's the author of BALL DON'T LIE and MEXICAN WHITEBOY, and back in the day was a D1 basketball player who went head to head with the likes of Steve Nash, etc. Below is his announcement:
---------------- Hey everybody,
I'm writing to let you all know my new novel, WE WERE HERE, is in stores today. This book is incredibly special to me, and I would be honored if you'd consider picking up a copy.
As a few of you know, it is my ritual to head to a local bookstore on my pub date, hide out in the romance section and spy on my new book until I witness someone buying it. Of course, for BALL DON'T LIE I was stuck in the Park Slope B&N for over six hours, until I finally threw in the towel and bought the damn book myself (I even paid with credit card, hoping the store clerk would connect the de la Pena on the card with the de la Pena on the book jacket -- sadly she didn't). This year I've decided to run up to the first person I see who is even BROWSING the book and give him/her a big hug, and maybe even a kiss (unless it's an incredibly overweight male). Then I'm going to purchase the book for this person and buy him/her a shot of Patron. Or two. So please don't pull the mace if you're suddenly blindsided by a 6'2" half-Mexican.
If you're currently injured and unable to leave the house you may also order the book online . . .
-- I also launched a brand new website this week: mattdelapena.com
-- And for those of you in NY, I'll be at the Park Slope B&N October 20th with Libba Bray and David Levithan. After the reading we're all heading out for drinks.
Thanks for reading all this. And again, it would mean the world to me if you picked up a copy of WE WERE HERE sometime this week!
Please let me know what you're up to!
Matt de la Pena
----------------- Second up is Jonathan Lethem, whose latest novel is CHRONIC CITY. Here's his announcement:
Friends, pardon a mass e-mail. I promise it'll be a stand-alone, not the first in a series.
Today Chronic City is published. I think it's the best thing I've done, and I wanted to let you know.
"The novel functions much like Manhattan used to – a mad scramble of connections made and, more often, missed…make(s) a reader ache for a city long gone." – Esquire
"A sprawling book about pop culture and outer space…realistic and fantastic, serious and funny, warm and clear eyed. One of the new generation’s most ambitious writers, Lethem again offers a novel that deals with nothing less important than the difference between truth and lies. And some stories about good cheeseburgers." - The Daily Beast
"A stellar, multi-layered novel." – GQ
"Lethem has often sought to interweave the realistic and the fantastic; in Chronic City the result is nearly seamless." - New York Magazine
I'll be traveling a lot in the next six weeks and if you're curious to know about appearances or media moments, they'll be tracked here: http://www.facebook.com/JonathanLethem
I recently wrote a post for Amy Bodden Bowllan's blog at School Library Journal that offers a nationwide author/teacher collaboration/dialogue to deal with racism in schools. Here's the link:
Today is the pub day for Frank Portman's second novel, ANDROMEDA KLEIN. Frank, aka Dr. Frank, of The Mr. T Experience, debuted a few years ago with the ridiculously smart and funny KING DORK, which just about everyone seemed to read. On his blog he posts pictures of fans reading his books and I'd briefly considered doing the same here a few years ago but realized it would have made this blog seem like a portfolio for my mom as if she were trying to break into, I dno, book holding modeling? That last sentence probably makes no sense, if you haven't already checked out his blog: http://doktorfrank.com/
I haven't read what people seem to presume is his teen Jewish re-make of The Andromeda Strain. Actually, it's about a girl, coincidentally called Andromeda Klein, and--okay, I haven't read it yet, so rather than try to offer a made-up summary the way I used to at book club meetings, here's the flap copy description:
Andromeda Klein has a few problems. Her hair is kind of horrible. Her partner-in-occultism, Daisy, is dead. Her secret, estranged, much older and forbidden boyfriend-in-theory, has gone AWOL. And her mother has learned how to text. In short, things couldn't get much worse. Until they do. Daisy seems to be attempting to make contact from beyond, books are starting to disappear from the library, and then, strangely and suddenly, Andromeda's tarot readings are beginning to predict events with bizarrely literal accuracy. Omens are everywhere. Dreams; swords; fires; hidden cards; lost, broken, and dead cell phones . . . and what is Daisy trying to tell her? In the ensuing struggle of neutral versus evil, it's Andromeda Klein against the world, modern society, demonic forces, and the "friends" of the library. From Frank Portman, author of King Dork, comes another unique literary experience. Andromeda Klein is dark, funny, smart, and entirely unforgettable.
If it's half as good as KING DORK it's twice as good as other books that were four times worse than his debut. Meh, I haven't used Boolean algebra in years so those calculations might be off. Okay I'm not really in blog writing mode right now, just check out his second novel, okay? Okay, then...
