You gotta be a moron... you gotta be a *moron* to wanna be a fighter.

"I remember those cheers
They still ring in my ears
After years, they remain in my thoughts...

Rocky IV and Mike Tyson's Punch Out.

I first introduced myself to the sport of prizefighting through two cartoonish interpretations, one boxer who brought down Communism and another who brought down Iron Mike Tyson. What wasn't to love? Boxing represented a sports where one man could, despite all clichés, achieve anything.

You could become starry eyed, and dream what it might be like to stand in the ring, toe to toe with the champ, going the distance and leaving it all in the ring. It's beautiful, to watch two men dance, duck, move, jab, shift, watch, nod... graceful. The sweet science. By the time I learned of boxing, I'd given my heart to baseball. I wanted to make room. I tried.

"Go to one night
I took off my robe, and what'd I do? I forgot to wear shorts...

Then Tyson fell from grace. First, literally, to Buster Douglas in Tokyo. Then, figuratively, to Miss Black Rhode Island. It shook the foundation. Wait... Boxers were people? With faults? They could do wrong? I know it sounds ridiculous, naive, cynical perhaps... but I was 9. This equals learning the truth about Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. You grow up, and those crazy childhood dreams go away. It's a little thing, but the little things take away those big things...

"I recall every fall
Every hook, every jab
The worst way a guy can get rid of his flab.
As you know, my life wasn't drab.

I tried to keep watching. Following young boxers like Zab Judah, older boxers holding on too long like Holyfield, boxers peddling their wares to find a second life like Foreman. Money corrupted all. There were 5 major heavyweight belts. Five. You can't have a Rocky Marciano if four other guys can claim to be Marciano, too. Some of those champs can't fight the others because HBO and Showtime can't play nice. And if you disagreed with them and you've got a few bucks... hell, start your own league. Boxing, meet the circus.

I watched in college. I remember watching an undercard on HBO with floormates, don't remember the boxers. The winner would land a shot to the loser's temple, the loser's knees buckled... the winner would land 3 more shots before loser came back to Earth for an obvious KO. Two men beat each other savagely and I couldn't look away. The grace was there, however barbaric you find it. This isn't like horse racing where 50 years ago, everyone loved it and now it's like "Wait, what the fuck's a mint julep?" The game's alive - the sport. But the business, like every other major sport, took it's toll.

"Though I'd much... Though I'd rather hear you cheer
When you delve... Though I'd rather hear you cheer
When I delve into Shakespeare
'A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse', I haven't had a winner in six months.

I don't pretend to be an expert on boxing. I've seen the Ali-Liston fight, Marciano, the controvery of Schmeling, the Sugar Rays, the Rumble in the Jungle, the Thrilla in Manilla... but on tape. In books. I didn't live it, and so, I concede any credibility. I know enough, however, to hear ESPN peddle a conspiracy that Ali started hip hop and know that's not what he, nor boxing, ever aimed to be. Ali aspired to be the greatest on his own terms. Every boxer's dream. To remain standing at the end of the night, arms raised, knowing you stood your ground on your own terms and didn't back down. Yes, the money's nice. Yes, there's no World Series or Super Bowl of boxing. But, something has to click. You have to want it badly if you're willing to risk an accelerated chance at Alzheimer's and a shorter life span.

It's funny, now, how a legendary mecca like Gleason's Gym in Brooklyn offers a fantasy camp. You can live the dream, of sorts. Sure, you're safely removed from the brutality while you dream. Everyone's in on the act. You know it can never be what it once was, what Hemingway dreamed about, Mailer and Plimpton so eloquently described. The ghosts haunt the halls.

And that's all that's left to Boxing. The ghosts. Chasing the ghosts, and hoping you can add one yourself. To entertain the crowds and take care of yourself. To leave a legend behind you, a pure one that no one can question.

Well, it's still not too bad a dream. Implausible, sure. Not bad, though.

"Though I'm no Olivier
I would much rather... And though I'm no Olivier
If he fought Sugar Ray
He would say
That the thing ain't the ring, it's the play.
So give me a... stage
Where this bull here can rage
And though I could fight
I'd much rather recite
... that's entertainment."
-Jake LaMotta, Raging Bull

Start your day right.

TGIF, everybody.

Of course, I'm working tomorrow. So that probably stands for, "That's Great! I'm Fucked!" Go figure.

Went to see Zamboni Revolution alum David "Stan" Young last night. (You can see what he's been up to @ JoeyandDavid.com -- link's always on the right of this page). He's taking his show to the Aspen Comedy Festival. Good show last night, and bonne chance to him.

Looks like I'm going to be doing a little bit of writing in the future. I'm officially signed up for a sketch comedy course with the Upright Citizens Brigade. I'm working on a challenge thrown down by another Zamboni alum, Johnny K. And I have an offer to potentially write about fantasy football. Rapture.

I'm going to the City of Brotherly Love next week to cheer on the little lady at a Trial Advocacy competition. It's always very exciting to see her in her element, and this time, she has nothing to lose... it'll be memorable (and yes, in a good way). I'm keeping a steel chair handy, just in case.

To celebrate, here's some damn good television...



And here's a story about chimps with spears (and I don't mean K-Fed).

Perhaps I just need to reference body parts more often.

I'm taking up sketch comedy writing again. Currently just for kicks. Going to take some classes with the Upright Citizens Brigade soon.

No word yet on any attempts to option the rights to the children's book with the scrotum:

Yet there it is on the first page of “The Higher Power of Lucky,” by Susan Patron, this year’s winner of the Newbery Medal, the most prestigious award in children’s literature. The book’s heroine, a scrappy 10-year-old orphan named Lucky Trimble, hears the word through a hole in a wall when another character says he saw a rattlesnake bite his dog, Roy, on the scrotum.

I'm sure Disney's hard at work on this one.

We've gotta get out of this place...

...if it's the last thing we ever do.

Insomnia

How you spend the time determines the severity of insomnia.

Not being able to sleep but being able to write an award winning story - seems fine by me.

Not being able to sleep but catching up on a book you've been reading - seems not so bad.

Not being able to sleep, then channel surfing while not watching anything of consequence - not so good.

Trying to fix it by venturing out to a local watering hole, only to be reminded exactly how much you loathe "Tainted Love" as two drunken female types dance around a herd of guys who think they might have a shot - take sleeping pills.

Staring at passing cars in hope that someone will come to take you away - punch yourself in the face.

Creating a list of people you know and creating clever ways to kill them, such as shooting them out of a cannon but into an anvil, or driving 900 miles in a diaper - try listening to some Enya.

Rearranging anything - just go to goddamn sleep.

New Amsterdam

I work for Fox now.

The network that brought you Married with Children. American Idol. Man v. Beast.

It's a pilot called "New Amsterdam," about the trials and tribulations of an NYPD detective who's significantly older than he seems (hint: It's called NEW AMSTERDAM). No word yet on They Might Be Giants or the Four Lads providing the theme music.

A lot's going on. Almost pitchers and catchers. The Rangers are mediocre. Apartment is warm.

I just got the OK to go home. I'll do that.

Root canal tomorrow.

Super Bowl Sunday.

Have you had your break today?