Tag Archives: UFC

Pretty Good Week

I lay in bed last night, wincing with every lactic-acid-filled movement and unable to get my knee into a position where it wouldn’t throb like a toothache, while my CPAP SCUBA mask occasionally leaked bursts like an air-duster in my eye, and I thought to myself, “Holy crap. Pretty good week.”

And on a Wednesday. So no, that makes no sense at all.

It’s painfully clear by this age that my sense of “good days” versus “bad days” depends less on circumstances and more on the mysterious tidal pulls of my emotional…moon.

(I feel like “emotional moon” should be the phrase for when people try to tease me until I explode. I need to work on an “emotional oil-check” maneuver.)

(Well, hello coffee, you are fond of tangents, aren’t you. You shall be called “The Segue Maker.”)

(Dammit, now I have Foo Fighters’ “Big Me” in my head.)

ANYway, it can suck that otherwise decent days and weeks might be overshadowed by my personality thunderstorms, so I rejoice in a week like this—busy, exciting, taxing, frustrating, painful, exhausting, and yes, good—that feels pretty awesome because…well, let’s say my homicidal moods have been kept to a minimum, and I haven’t bludgeoned anyone. Yet.

I? Am a ray of sunshine.

You start with free baseball tickets, courtesy of CCB’s cousin, for three consecutive days last weekend. And even though I missed hanging out with the major leaguers Saturday night (I was obliged to lose a soccer game, instead), I was still excited—and only a little bit mad with envy—to hear CCB bust out with random anecdotes as they occurred to him. “And then, as Jason Heyward stood up, Dan Uggla said the funniest thing!”

Bottom of the ninth…

Plus, I am again reminded of the awesomeness that the stadium, crappy though it is, is just a half-hour drive from us.

Then we won a hockey game, which is basically a miracle of miracles. Linemate Captain Beerslinger turns to me in the locker room and says, “Y’know what? That was fun.” Dude, I was thinking the exact same thing.

Monday’s Monday, but not too bad. I started the week with my usual anxiety regarding projects to be done—in this case, a number of small but still significant tasks—but lo and behold, I plowed right through. That’s a great feeling, getting stuff done, once and for all, checking it off the list. I like it.

Boxing workout was good, too, and even though CCB had a mussel catastrophe for Monday’s dinner, I got to see some extended fam and talk about their success (and one failure) with local restaurants. And playoff hockey, and sleep.

And Tuesday was good, too—Tuesday!—as I spent the day looking forward to grilling hamburgers and hanging around in the back yard being productive and feeling relaxed, all at the same time. (P.S. We had the hamburgers on garlic bread. Awesome.)


CCB grill. Hammer…chill. (Oh and yeah, our lawnmower is broken.)

Which brings us to Wednesday—another relaxed-but-productive workday that saw me transition from immediate-deadline things to longer-term projects. Look at me! Working ahead! Then our third visit to Fit Crew: squats and hops and rows and sit-ups and face-planting on exercise balls and the worst assisted ring dips ever. But I climbed the rope! (Once! When I was supposed to do it at least six times! But I did it!) With a mid-hour headache and just overall overdoing it, it was also the closest I’ve come in a while to fainting (and/or puking) in public.

But once you get past that feeling that you’re going to die, lying there on the couch with iced knees and a cool chocolate milk, there’s a great sense of satisfaction—feeling that much stronger, knowing that I won’t feel guilty taking a day off from exercise.

In fact, we will get a good walk in this evening—to and from the single-A baseball game with the ‘rents. Got a great package deal: $50 for 10 tickets to be used whenever throughout the season (normally $6 apiece), plus a hat and a $15 gift card to a local sports bar.

Sure to be one of these kinda nights at the field.

And that’s what I’m looking forward to right now—a minor-league baseball evening (and my hat!). And beyond that, a pre-holiday-weekend Friday (getting out of work early?), the cool balm of late-night hockey practice in the hot summer and knowing there’s no reason to go to bed early. More extreme exercise in the form of Saturday evening soccer, to be followed as quickly as possible by a jump in Krazy Kevin’s pool, and then a cozy UFC evening with friends, and then a Sunday with no agenda whatsoever—not even a worry about Monday, which is also agenda-less.

Yep, pretty good week.

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May 5

Happy Cinco de Derby!

The horse/jockey cards (one for each horse in the derby) probably represent about four total hours of work since yesterday evening. (I’m done with the Exacto knife for a while.) Oh yes, the saddle cloth colors are accurate to the gate, and each card includes the horse’s morning line. Put in a dollar and pick a horse; winner gets the pot. (All credit to old Asolo alum Dancing Jim–War Emblem once won me $20 at his place.) All this to be accompanied by mint juleps and the world’s worst collection of crazy hats.

Cheap bourbon and homemade mint simple syrup.

The Deelios and CCB and I are warming up with hockey and corn dogs right now. Looking forward to the arrival of Krazy K and Suzi Q, the ‘Rents and Little J. There’s also free UFC tonight, Mayweather/Cotto (not that we’re paying $60 for that shit, but we’ll keep an eye out for the results), Galaxy/Redbulls and…I dunno, some other stuff.

So, y’know, wish us luck! (I’ve got $5 each on Creative Cause, Daddy Nose Best and Went the Day Well. C’mon, boys, mama needs a new sombrero.)

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So we’ve decided we’d like to make our little UFC gathering on Saturday a bit more of an event. C’mon over, we’ve got a guaranteed tensome. There hasn’t been a fight in a while, first of all, and this one promises to be another satisfyingly bloody embarrassment for one of our favorite jerkoffs.

Secondly, it’s CJ’s birthday. Don’t make the kitten cry.

We’re thinking the standards–some beer, some booze, maybe some nachos? Something like that. Sound good? See you there? It’s going to be a Deelio-riffic Big J/Little J/Krazy K kind of group. You know you don’t want to miss that.

(Seriously: Jon Jones has almost a 10-inch reach advantage on Rashad Evans. This is going to be epic, as the kids say.)

Don’t forget your game card.

If you can’t come, you can still play along at home. Here’s how it works:

Drink a Four Loko. Then a beer. Fill out your sheet. Wait for the fights to start. (Drink another beer.)

Watch 135-pound fighters whirling around the ring. Put a big red X through your first fight predictions. Watch 145-pound fighters whirling around the ring. Put a big red X through your second fight predictions. Pour a Jack and Coke. Explain to the cat the benefits of the butterfly guard.

Watch your third pick take a widdle nappy-nap on the canvas. Submit to the appropriateness of two-fisting while watching combat sports.

Rally shot? AWESOME idea.

Kitteh refuses to learn proper kimura technique. Bandage face. Add beer. To stop the swelling.

Watch fourth fight. Check your picks. Ponder why you picked “Round 8, minute 3r1rsosfjsmmmthhfhrss” in a three-round fight. Give yourself 10 bonus points. For being awesome.

Watch fifth fight. Ponder how the cat has more correct picks than you do. Edit your sheet to declare Joe “Rogaine” Rogan the loser in every fight. 10 more bonus points.

“Rogaine sucks!”

Develop a drinking game centered on Joe Rogan sucking. Develop a shot called “Joe Rogan Sucks.” Develop a plan for marketing your shot recipe until you’re interrupted by Joe Rogan sucking.


Leave remote with cat; take a widdle nappy-nap.

Wake up to Animal Planet Late Night. Change channel back to Pay-Per-View. Scold cat. Order pizza.

Discover half-finished beer behind a book shelf. Go ahead and assume it’s yours.

Watch…wait, which fight is this?

Eat pizza off game sheet. Ponder why pizza has more correct picks than you do.

Ooh! Main event?! Yay!

Declare yourself the new Official Voice of the Octagon. “IiiiiiiiiiiiiIIIIIIt’s TIIIIIIIIIIIME!!!!!”

Make yourself some hot tea with lemon. And honey. And…blue curacao?

Try to google Jon Jones’ tattoo. Fall asleep midway through typing “Phillillippippiansssss.”

Wake up to Mike Goldberg shouting “IT’S ALL OVER!” Assume he’s got a point there. Apologize to cat.

Blame Herb Dean for ending your night prematurely. Go to bed.


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