Milo Greene and The Age of Mediocrity.

I went to ACL Live last week with a friend of mine who gets into every show in this town, even if she has no tickets, because she is so loved by everyone here. If this town has a sweetheart, it's her. It was a radio station's anniversary party and they had 4 bands in the lineup. And, in my humble opinion, there is nothing better for your soul, and there is no better distraction from what ails you, than live music.

Before the show started, we took a bit to hang out with her friend that works behind the bar there, and to wander around in the hallways, looking at photos of the greats. It was a series of mostly black and whites done by Jim Marshall, of some of the greatest performers and musicians that have ever lived, all young and full of life, and most of them holding a bottle of Jack Daniels. It was haunting to look at in a lot of ways. Johnny Cash, with his mouth captured in the beginnings of an emphatic "FUCK YOU," and a stiff middle finger pointed at the camera, handsome Ray Charles with such a smooth expression that, though he obviously could never see it, he must have known women melted over, Jimi Hendrix, with his guitar raised so high above his head it looked almost like it was about to carry him off to heaven. All lost to the world. Jim Morrison, Eric Clapton, Willie Nelson, and a dozen others, all no older than I am now. And then there was this one, which was taller than me and which I stared at for a long time absorbing the vibrant life still coming from her smile -

In a way, it's probably not such a great display to have directly outside the doors of the ACL Live Theater, as whoever goes walking through memory lane amidst these photos is going to have some seriously high expectations of any performer on that stage. And... maybe that's what happened to me.

The first band was called Delta Rae, and there were 5 or 6 of them from North Carolina, all singing and some playing instruments, and one of their songs raised goosebumps on my arms and brought tears to my eyes. A song about what it's like to wish you could love someone, because they'd be so good to you, and life would be so easy... except that you don't, nothing could ever make you, and it breaks both of your hearts to know that truth. It was phenomenal.

All the rest of it was crap. Not to say that I wish I hadn't gone, a crappy live band, to me, is still better than no live band. But Lauren and I had been having a discussion before we walked in to our seats about who would be 'the greats' from our generation... and we couldn't come up with anyone. Janis wasn't just great because she died young. If that were the case, Amy Winehouse would be our generations Janis... and I just don't feel like that's true, though I did like her. And though I had hoped to be looking at the face of the future of the greats at that show, it didn't happen.

It's not that any of it sounded bad, or that it wasn't kinda catchy. But the headline band was called Milo Greene and I was so underwhelmed it made me sad, because their brand of music is everywhere I look now, and so many people seem to think it's great stuff.

There were 5 of them, 4 of whom were singers. Two guitars, a bass, a keyboard and drums. There were all kinds of crazy lights going as they played, and they were kind of intermittently thrashing around like they were rocking out with a fury. But they weren't. This is what we get for music from our generation, way to often, and it's so mediocre it's embarrassing.

Stevie Ray Vaughn did not have a lightshow going on behind him. He didn't have a bunch of extra musicians there to prop him up or make him more entertaining. The man could play the guitar so well, and with such passion, that his audiences were barely able to believe what they were seeing. Aretha Franklin did not need a slew of other people singing behind her to fill in the ranges she was missing. She wasn't missing any. She didn't need a chorus of voices to help transport her audience somewhere else. Before there were synthesizers, or strobe lights, or lasers there had to be raw talent, or no one would pay to see your shows.

And today, we have bands like Milo Greene. The band members could all sing, but only within a boring range that never strayed very much higher or lower or louder than your typical indie fluff, and they could all play, but not a single one of them was exceptional at anything. And what makes me sad, is that the audiences don't seem to be bothered by it. Add in enough brightly flashing colors, and enough weird sounds in the background, and if you aren't that good at singing or playing, just get three other people to do it at the same time, and call it good. It was so boring. It was so forgettable. Passionless, cookie-cutter filler. It's a good thing I didn't pay to see them or I might actually have been mad.

I think sometimes, about that question people are always asked; if you could go back to any era to witness it, what would it be? Usually I say Ancient Egypt, so I could see who it was that really built those pyramids, and how. But I'm starting to put the 60's and 70's closer to the top, just so that I could have been around to see music when it really had the power to change the world.

Now comes the hard part

Up until Friday afternoon, had I freaked out and changed my mind about letting Josh go work in Afghanistan for 6 months, I could have hopped in the truck with just my toothbrush, and driven like a mad woman up to Indiana. They had him cooped up there in a shitty barracks room full of bunks, with a bunch of Pashtun-English interpreters, some of whom snored so violently he actually texted me once in the middle of the night to say he was sorry for any nights when old Jack Daniels had made him saw logs.

That option has now passed. And at the moment, I feel like time from here on out is going to slow way down.

Half the time, I'm absolutely pissed. I didn't sell all my worldly possessions and run off like a nomad to be alone in a strange town for 6 months. And then half the time, I remember the dollar signs attached to this contract, and what it will mean for our ability to hop on a sailboat in pursuit of a life less ordinary. We could save for 3 or 4 years... or be ready to go at the end of 6 months. I go back and forth. Good days, and bad. I bought a calendar so that I can cross those days off, but it begins in January and we obviously aren't there yet.

In case it isn't so obvious, this is the reason I've dropped off the face of the earth for so long. Because after the end of his last contract in Albuquerque, and once we knew that days were numbered until he had to take off, we've been all over the place, cramming in all the fun stuff we possibly could. I'm kicking myself a little for not writing some blogs about stuff as it happened, because now I'll be trying to piece together memories, but I was just too busy making them to record everything.

Right now, I'm holed up in my house, watching a very persistent little red cardinal try to bust his way in my back window. He's been at it for hours. Comes back every 5 or 10 minutes to see if it will work this time. My mom's dad liked to watch them in his backyard in Fort Worth, which makes me miss him. It's kind of adorable and I wish Josh could see it, which makes me miss him too. I was trying to make a list of all the things that I needed to go back over and cover before I lose them in the back of my flighty brain, but that kind of hurts at the moment so I'm giving up. Maybe later. I find myself saying that a lot lately.

I am at least grateful that the nature of his job in that war zone will be far safer than what it was the last time he was there. As safe, really, as you can possibly be when your job involves bombs....

My co-worker asked me once, the last time we thought he might be headed over there, "Jeez girl, why is it that you can't fall for a guy that stays in one place?!" I remember stopping what I was doing, thinking hard for a few moments, and shrugging, because she was right. I can't. Not really, anyway. The things I love about him are the things that make him so compatible with me. That boy is a wild and restless spirit, and almost always, that's something we get to share. I just have to sit this one out is all. Or rather, to have my own adventure in a new town, with new friends. I guess we'll just see what happens next.

A Week at Greg Jackson's Gym

It was a few minutes past 9:00 am when we found "The Batcave". That's what we'd named the elusive and revered MMA Pro gym owned by Greg Jackson and Mike Winklejohn, that some of the most bad ass fighters on Earth call their second home. The place whose address isn't listed on the Jackson’s MMA website, and from which emails return undeliverable with obscure error messages.

Two days previous, my best friend Lauren Taylor had flown into Albuquerque to crash at my place and attempt to infiltrate the gym. She fought professionally in Alaska, our home state, winning two championship belts before moving south, and was on the lookout for new spots to train in the lower 48. The morning of the great search for the hideout, we got up early, and I drove her to the address for Jackson's MMA that we found on the internet, but we saw right away that it couldn’t be the place we were looking for. We'd heard the rumors from other fighters about Jackson having a public gym and also a ‘secret gym’ for the big dogs. I'm sure that 'secret gym' will sound funny to Albuquerque locals, but to two girls from Alaska, and apparently to fighters from everywhere but New Mexico, the place might as well have been Platform Nine and Three Quarters. An apt comparison, really, because finding it did involve some of what Lauren would later call "Google Wizardry" on my part. Eventually, I came up with an address, and, having no idea where we'd end up once I put it into my GPS, we headed that direction.

Upon arriving, I was unsure we’d actually found the place. The sign was out front, but it didn’t look anything like what I’d pictured. It's a gritty concrete building in a neighborhood that you can feel in the air is probably rough by night. The front door and single window next to it are made of one way mirror so you can’t see in, and they’re armored with steel bars. In the days following, we saw one guy digging through the dumpster outside of the gym, and another guy stealing a hat out of an unlocked car door. The building itself has a lock system on the front door that requires a keycard to be slid through in order to get the door opened. The irony of this made me grin. Of all the places that a person with ill intentions might choose to break into... a gym full of world class fighters is, in my mind, second only to a drunk-redneck house party with a firearm stockpile on the table.

When I pulled in, we were one of only a few vehicles in the parking lot. Lauren didn't know what to do. This camp trains some of the best fighters on earth. They can afford to be picky, and the gym is, after all, an invitation only deal, and she had no invitation. So, knocking on the door and saying, "Hey, umm... can I train here?" had her extremely nervous, but she went for it. Strangely enough, the locked door happened to be propped open when she reached it.

I sat in the truck, anxiously fidgeting with the stick shift, looking at the front door, and the signs to the left of it that marked parking spots for Coach Jackson and Coach Winklejohn. When Lauren came back out, she was bouncing on the balls of her feet. The guy she'd spoken to inside had told her to just hang out til 9:15 or so, when Julie usually got to work. "Julie" is not some office manager. Julie is Julie Kedzie. She just fought Meisha Tate in a Strikeforce bout, has fought almost everyone that's anyone in women's MMA over her 10 year career, and now has the honor of commentating for Invicta FC. She also happens to be a close friend and personal assistant to Greg Jackson, and the Jackson's MMA Women's Team Captain.

For lack of any better ideas, we waited in the truck for a while, hoping to see Julie pull into the parking lot. The whole thing seemed like asking to be invited into the White House. She was back to worrying. Maybe whoever that guy was had just not known how to say, "No, we don't accept random show-ups for practice." Maybe Julie Kedzie would laugh in her face. It was past 9:15, and the front door was now firmly closed. We were still one of the only vehicles there, until a truck pulled into the parking spot to my right. It looked like it belonged on the mud trails in AK, and that made me smile a little, before turning my attention back to puzzling over the entrance to the Batcave. Lauren was watching the truck when the driver door opened and shut, and she sucked in a sudden breath that made me look over at her as she said, "Dude. Dude.... that's Carlos Condit."

He was pulling his gym bag out of the back of the truck. My skin erupted in tingles and I could feel my heartbeat in my ear canals. For a fight fan, this was something like how you'd feel if Samuel L. Jackson got out of the car next to you at the grocery store. My first thought was, "Of course. OF COURSE the first person you see at Greg Jackson's gym is Carlos Condit, when you haven't showered since Saturday night. Fuck."

I watched in the rearview mirror as he walked behind my truck, and frowned a little confusedly at the Alaska license plate on my giant 6-tired beast. When he came around the left side he looked back over his shoulder directly at me, then he turned back toward the door and slid his keycard through the lock. The door didn't open. He slid it a few more times and yanked on the handle and had no luck. I started laughing quietly, a little crazed, and said, "Look LT, even Carlos Condit can't get into this gym!"

I couldn't believe I'd just seen the guy in real life. The last thing I had expected that morning was to make eye contact with the UFC Welterweight # 1 Contender/UFC Interim Welterweight Champion, but there he was. Of course. Showing up to practice, like he probably does 2 or 3 times a day, seeing as how he has about 6 weeks left before he fights Georges St. Pierre for the belt, now that GSP has come back from his injury. I  looked at the door after he'd been let inside, for several beats with my mouth sort of hanging open. He drives the pickup that I myself have always wanted. Same year, just a different color. He's 6'3", but he looks smaller than I imagined, probably because fighters always look huge to me when they're on TV. And, I have to add it, he is even more handsome in real life (let's face it guys, you wouldn't all like Ronda Rousey so much if you didn't think she was hot).

Someone came out of the gym just then, and went to the car parked in one of the coach's spots. At the time, we thought it was Coach Winklejohn. She started squirming around in her seat and saying, "Should I go talk to him? I don't know if I can go talk to him. Goddamnit, I don't know what to do." My head snapped to the right and I barked, "You'd fucking better go talk to him. We're here, and you don't have much choice if you want to get into that gym. Go on, get out the truck!"

I watched for the next few minutes. Whoever the guy was, he was trying to give her the run around, though that was understandable because to him, she was just a random off the street. I could hear him trying to give her a phone number, and an email address, but she wasn't having it. She said she'd been told to talk to Julie Kedzie. They guy finally let Lauren back into the gym with him to go and search for her. I crossed my fingers, and hoped she'd be able to charm her way into this deal.

A few minutes later, she blasted out the door and across the parking lot to my window, smiling like she'd just won the Powerball. I had expected that if she could pull it off and get invited in, I'd just go run errands while she was training, and then come grab her when she called me but, bless my best friend's heart, instead of just telling them enough about herself to get an open invitation for the week, she asked if I could come inside and sit in on practice.

Jackson's MMA is like Mecca for fighters. A lot of them will make the pilgrimage there at some point, if given the chance. I hurriedly tried to fix the mess in my ponytail, and locked up the truck before following Lauren in the door. I was terrified. I, of all people, did not belong in this magical place that turns determined athletes into shining stars. I expected strange looks from everyone inside. I thought they'd have strict rules about who could come in, especially if it was someone who didn't fight. I thought it'd be on lockdown like the U.S. Mint. I thought a lot of things that didn't turn out to be remotely true.

Which, I probably should have known. When are things ever the way we imagine they will be?

No one scowled at me, or looked at me strangely. I almost instantly felt like a narcissist for even having been worried about such a stupid thing. People training in MMA gyms are doing their very damnedest to work themselves just to the brink of a coma at every practice. Why on Earth would they even bother being puzzled that some girl they don't know is walking around, wide-eyed and barely able to form coherent sentences? Sometimes self-consciousness is really just self-absorption.

The gym is not enormous like other major gyms I have heard about. It isn't fancy, the equipment isn't all shiny and new, and it isn't spotless. Somehow, that made me feel a little more comfortable. I don't know why I thought it would be spiffed up like a Hollywood V.I.P. lounge... probably because awards like "Best Gym" and "Best Coach" that are frequently bestowed upon the place bring to mind... a lot of money. Which in turn brings to mind fancy suits, polished surfaces and snobby attitudes. I am almost embarrassed to write those words now that I know better.

One of the first greeters I had inside the gym was Bailey. Bailey is Julie Kedzie's dog. She's some kind of Rhodesian mix, with red fur and a block head like a Pit. She's well-trained enough to know to never step onto the mats, and I've never heard her bark. She wasn't the only dog either. There was a bulldog playing with Bailey the first day, a beautiful grey Pit a few days later, and the cutest French Bulldog puppy I've ever seen in my life. His name is Nacho and he can't weigh 10 pounds. This is even cuter considering he is owned by the 6'7" 250 pound Heavyweight Travis “Hapa” Browne, who was the main event against Antonio Silva last Saturday at UFC on FX 5, and who, in my opinion, has the sickest tattoos out of anyone at the gym (which is really saying something). The two of them playing together was both odd and adorable. I hadn't expected dogs to be welcome. In my experience, the presence of dogs almost always equals the presence of cool people.

I sat through Jiu Jitsu while Lauren practiced with some of the girls we met when we first arrived, one of whom, Michelle "The Karate Hottie" Waterson, fought in Invicta 3 last weekend, and won a spectacular fight by split decision, and all of whom were very kind to me and Lauren both. I was trying to pay attention to what people were learning, and how they were interacting and NOT pay more attention than was appropriate to the Interim Welterweight Champ. Being obnoxiously starstruck is rarely flattering. I got the impression right away that Condit is a pretty quiet and private dude, and therefore probably would not be happy to know that he had an audience while he was trying to concentrate, and I suddenly felt like I'd rather never come back there than wreck that atmosphere for him, or for any of the other fighters who were there working so hard. I recognized how sacred the gym was to the students who train there. I felt an enormous sense of gratitude that the universe had landed me there, and refused to fuck it up by acting like an annoying fan girl.

When practice was over, we migrated toward the door and were talking to Julie. I was feeling more and more at ease because she was so welcoming, and was petting Bailey, when the door opened behind me and Greg Jackson walked in. There he was, the mastermind behind so many champions. Dana White's current arch nemesis. The guy whose face I'd seen on TV through the chain link of the cage, cornering his star fighters.

Julie introduced Lauren, and Lauren introduced me. Before he said anything, he apologized for being bleary and jet-lagged, but that he'd just gotten off of his flight back from Montreal. Which, I realized, I knew. Jon Jones had just gotten his arm almost snapped by Vitor Belfort in the UFC, but had managed to beat him two rounds later, and keep his belt, even with a numb appendage and probably nerve damage. Cub Swanson had knocked the crap out of Charles Oliveira with a brutal overhand right. Brian Stann had lost, sadly, to Michael Bisping. All three are Jackson's fighters. Of course he would have been there in those corners.

He asked if Lauren needed to stay in the fighter dorms they have above the gym. She said no, that she was staying with me, then asked him what she could pay him to train at the gym for a week. His answer, which surprised the hell out of me again, was, "Don't worry about it. You don't have to pay anything. We're glad to have you." Then he patted her on the shoulder warmly, smiled at both of us, and went off to do his business being the best coach in the world.

We spent the rest of that evening in disbelief at the day we'd just had. And the rest of the week was no less crazy. As a fan and not a fighter, people that train at a gym like Jackson's have always held this air of celebrity in my mind that was hard to reconcile with what they were actually like in real life. They're all... just normal dudes (and chicks). They're all chill, kind, focused and determined, working together contructively, with no segregation between skill levels.

At some gyms, the theory is that sparring in practice should be balls-to-the-wall, hard as you can fight, regardless of the skill of your opponent. What this means is that when facing partners that are way better than you, you are most likely getting your shit kicked all over the gym. The idea is that you'll get used to it, and then have no fear once you're actually inside the cage. Lauren disagrees with this philosophy, and so do I. It only seems more likely to make a fighter gun shy, and set them back in their pursuit to not be afraid to take a punch, which is something most of them fear, at least at the beginning. After all, getting hit feels instinctually wrong to most humans.

At Jackson's I saw partners adapt to each other. If, when the buzzer sounds and it's time to switch partners, the person you are next paired with is not as advanced in terms or strength or speed or skill, you adjust to their level. Not enough so that you let them beat you for the warm and fuzzies, but enough so that they can actually work on technique instead of shielding themselves the entire time, being overwhelmed by punches. That way, the team gets better as a whole, and all it's members benefit. Considering how Jackson adamantly refers to his team as a family, that whole concept seems to fit. Better to engender trust, encouragement and compassion in your family, than frustration and the pursuit of dominance between brothers and sisters.

I did my best to stay out of the way, just happy to be able to see inside the machine that cranks out some of the best in the world. Every here and there, I'd overhear someone say something that made me giggle because it sounded so surreal to me, but seemed so normal to them. Stuff like, "Hey coach! Have you heard from Jon? How's his arm?" Because... in that setting it's totally normal to ask about your buddy Jonny Bones Jones, the UFC Light Heavyweight Champion of the world, and the status of his recent injury.

Or Jackson’s announcement to the whole room in regards to the new rules for training schedules he was laying out that began with this statement, "All of you that are in Strikeforce or the UFC, from now on..." Because... rather than a few fighters from major promotions here and there like most gyms, they make up that big of a chunk of Jackson's students.

I heard Carlos Condit say, when he returned from a few days absence, "Hey, good to see you, yeah, I had to go to that press conference." By which, he means the one where he was sitting across a table from Georges St. Pierre himself, explaining, with respect, that he is going to win their fight. The comment was brief, off-hand, and spoken with a mild tone of annoyance as though being the star of a UFC press conference is an unnecessary distraction from his real work. Which... it is.

One of the fighters, Bubba (I'm not sure what his real name is, aside from his newly christened fight name Bubbasaurus Rex, but he was really nice) told me at one point, "John Dodson right there, he's next in line for Demetrius Johnson. He's just as fast and hits twice as hard. Got this one in the bag easy." Which... is at least partially certain. The evening after I met John, I saw Mighty Mouse Johnson on TV, saying that John would probably be his next fight.

There was Diego the cute Brazilian that won The Ultimate Fighter season 14, who is a fireball of a person. All passion. Talking like it was just normal life (which, for him I suppose it is) that he's about to head to Brazil for his fight in UFC 153.

And, there was Julie Kedzie. More fascinating in many ways than any of the guys there, because she's a woman, and she made it in the fight game when there was very little of it around. She's a pioneer of sorts. Who not only knows, but has probably fought, almost any female fighter you can think to bring up (except Ronda Rousey. Though it would please me greatly if she ever got to knock that bitch out... although I’d rather it was Lauren who pulled that off). And, true to form, she did her best to say only positive things about almost all of them.

I just tried to act like everything in these conversations was normal, though, for me it was anything but.

More than any of the tons of star fighters, the person that most fascinated me was 'Coach Greg'. I didn't know anything about him before going to the gym, other than the skewed horseshit coming out of Dana White. In fact, I just deleted a bunch of paragraphs delving into the bullshit surrounding THAT whole mess. I'll save it for another blog. Suffice to say, the fact that Dana White didn't want to take any credit for the failure of UFC 151, and his subsequent attempts to pass it off onto a coach that has no part in orchestrating the whole deal, were pathetic. After the first few days, I became certain that Dana White doesn't know shit about Greg Jackson.

The guy is hilarious, warm and generous. He cusses like a sailor, he is a gifted and natural teacher, and his choice of practice music is AC/DC. I watched him calm the tempers of frustrated fighters (which are fucking scary sometimes), and with just a few words, redirect that passion into the skill to overcome it in the ring. I watched him explain a concept in MMA class in such a way that even his students from Japan and Eastern Europe who didn't speak English grasped it fully. And I saw him take tough love and turn it into jokes. "Look, if you walk into a jab, you're an idiot. No, wait, ok, let me rephrase that. If you walk into a jab, you're a fuckin moron." And everyone laughs, nods their heads, and listens harder. I went home after the 4th day at practice, and started doing some reading.

Jackson grew up in a rough part of Albuquerque, which drove his interest in fighting, and opened his first martial arts school when he was 17. That in and of itself baffled me. When I was 17, I was really only interested in finding someone to buy us beer, ditching school and otherwise scaring the shit out of my parents.

No one in America, or anywhere other than Brazil really, could teach him the stuff he was seeing the Gracie family pull off in the early UFCs, so the man started teaching himself Jiu Jitsu based on the principles of physics and geometry. Let me just.... repeat that statement. He taught himself how to do Jiu Jitsu... because he is a fucking genius, and is able to visualize how geometry and physics translate into the angles and leverage needed to gain dominance in a fight. He uses those same principles to create new techniques in this ever evolving sport. He isn't teaching shit to his students that he's seen other fighters pull off elsewhere. He is inventing the stuff. That's the culmination of my point, I guess; Greg Jackson is actively inventing mixed martial arts.

But what rocked me more than anything else once I learned it, was that he doesn't charge his fighters any money. The guy remembers what it was like trying to train while living on scraps, and won't ask that of his students. Arguably the best coach in the world is purposefully NOT raking in shitloads of cash, though he easily could, because to him it just isn't the right thing to do. I suddenly understood why the gym isn't huge, and the equipment isn't fancy. Because Jackson believes that accessibility to the talented but broke fighters of the world is more important than flashy gear. This is all particularly interesting in light of Dana White's comments to Jon Jones that Greg Jackson "is not your family" and that "if things went bad tomorrow, brother Greg wouldn't be there for you" because "he is a businessman."

Before I knew shit about Greg Jackson, I might have thought of him in those terms. Especially considering that Jon Jones made a million dollars in his last fight. Whatever percentage of winnings coaches usually charge would have been a nice chunk of change, and would seem like quite an incentive to work hard with Jon Jones. Nope. Coach Greg just does it because he loves to. Nor, I'm certain, would he take any credit for being the MMA world's version of a saint and a father figure. If I were to say something to him about his genius or his astonishing benevolence, what I'd get back would be some sort of self-deprecating joke designed to dodge the spotlight. He is the very picture of what martial arts is intended to instill in human beings; humility, grace, kindness and courage, drive, intelligence, and sheer love for the sport. The man is real. There's not a shred of him that cares or wants the drama that comes with the game. I knew it instantly when he showed up the first day I was there, as I listened to him gripe about cameras and interviews and press conferences taking up the time that he needed to be spending in the gym with his students. If I'd been a journalist of any sort, or he'd had any idea before the very end of our last conversation that I planned to write all this down, you could arguably brush this off as his attempt to look good in the eyes of the public, but that wasn't the case. All he knew was that I was a tiny girl from Alaska who was getting a huge kick out of hanging out at his gym.

I have started to piece things together about Jackson's fighters since last week. Think about the guys that Greg Jackson has trained, that have made it to the top in the UFC; Donald Cerrone, Jon Jones, Shane Carwin, GSP, Carlos Condit, and my new recent favorite, Cub Swanson, among many others. Every single one of them have these things in common; they're smart fighters. Well spoken, not interested in talking shit, respectful, patient and confident. My guess is that these are traits they possessed and that Jackson encouraged and cultivated, or they're traits that were learned from looking up to Coach Greg as a role model.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Monday was the last day that I took Lauren to practice. When I saw that he had a minute between the heavyweight and lightweight classes, I approached Greg Jackson, which was the easiest thing in the world by the end of that week because he's such an approachable guy. I said, "Lauren is leaving tomorrow, so I won't have an excuse to hang around anymore and I just wanted to say thank you for being so kind to her, and to me, and for letting me crash practice. It's been a really amazing experience and I appreciate it so much." What I expected as a response was something along the lines of, "Yeah, sure! No worries," but what I got was instead was this; "You know, you're quiet, you don't get in anyone's way, and you're fun to hang out with. You're welcome to come in anytime."

I went wide-eyed and could hardly think of anything else to say. The guy probably has no idea what that meant to me. I doubt very much that I'll ever have the guts to just show up and hang out without a reason to be there, which makes me a little sad. But I know I can do one good thing to thank him, and everyone at the gym. Whoever this blog reaches will have a different perspective to add to the information they use to formulate opinions about that gym and the fight game, when all people usually have is the reports of biased fighters, grouchy UFC owners, or sneaky journalists. Now they'll have my perspective, and I am none of those things. I'm just a fan, inspired by goodness and fascinated by that "special kind of crazy" that fighters possess. If I believe anything now about the Jackson-haters that are currently so prevalent on the internet, it is that their lives, and the whole world, would be better if they had Greg Jackson as a teacher, and his students as peers.

Commercials; thanks for ruining everything you can get your grubby fingers into.

I posted a screenshot from my phone on Facebook the other day, of Mitt Romney waving his hand, and doing his best to make a face that says, "Don't worry America, I'm here to rescue us from the shit we're in." Facebook's logic in throwing this picture into the middle of my mobile newsfeed, is that two or three people I am friends with "like" Mitt Romney. They do this with other stuff too, showing me that so-and-so "likes" Wal-Mart or Samsung or Amazon, implying that this is merely a suggestion that because I am friends with so-and-so, I might want to "like" these businesses too. Except that anyone who is not a complete idiot can tell that Mitt Romney and all of the aforementioned businesses have pitched a lot of money to Facebook, in order to weasel their way into my space, through yet another venue.

This drives me fucking crazy. I HATE commercials. When I was a kid and commercials came on TV as we were watching as a family, my father hit the mute button, and we all took the opportunity to go do something else; grab snacks, put dishes in the sink, go pee, get a blanket, etc. We rarely ever watched the commercials, and if we did, they were silent and therefore, far less annoying. I don't know if my father was actively saying a silent "fuck you" to the advertising industry, or if he just didn't want to listen to shit he didn't care about, but either way, the result of my up-bringing in this fashion is a rebellious surge of annoyance at commercials in general. And, basically what this means now, is that I'm pissed off everywhere I go, because there is no longer any media venue where we are safe from forced advertising.

The campground that we're in right now has free cable. I haven't had TV in years, but the boys wanted to watch the Lions vs. 49ers game here on Sunday, and it became quickly obvious that there was not enough stuff for me to get up and do on commercial breaks to fill all the time they occupied. I started counting about halfway through the game, and there were several times that the game would only be one a bare few minutes in between commercial breaks. The same 10 commercials, over and over and over. And they turn the volume up for commercials, so if you've had the game turned up high trying to understand the commentators it blasts your eardrums when they break for advertisements.

It's like this everywhere now. When I was a kid, there might be 3 or 4 commercial breaks in an hour long TV show, and they were strategically placed so as to enhance the drama of the show, and only lasted a few minutes at most. Now, it seems like I am watching more commercial than show. We had The Ultimate Fighter on here last Friday night, to watch and see if Naptime Nic was going to make the cut from 32 fighters to 16 that would move into the fighter house, and get a shot at the UFC contract. I used to bump into him often around Anchorage, I've seen him fight lots of times, and has been one of our longest running belt holders. The fact that Alaska is getting put on the map for the fighters it produces when we don't have the fancy gyms or big names of the lower 48 is fucking awesome (one of Lauren's teammates is at TUF tryouts as we speak, actually. Go Andy Enz! Reppin' AK!) The point is, I had been waiting to watch this premiere of TUF for two weeks, and was really excited. But it was the same story. Nic won, and that was really cool to see (if he can make it, there are a few of you (you know who you are) that had best be at those tryouts next year!), but I swear to god, if there was 10 minutes of actual show in between commercials, then I'm a platypus.

It really took the enjoyment out of the whole thing for me. I do not need a new cell phone, or a new car, or a new TV service or a fucking cheeseburger. If I ever do, I will investigate them at that time. I really do not need to see the same ad for these things 18 times in an hour. And I'm only less likely to consider the products that are being shoved down my throat, because I find it so aggravating that the marketing industry obviously thinks I am a complete idiot. Model-sexy, hot girls do not cram burgers down their throats. More likely, in the filming of that commercial, whenever they have to re-do the take she spits out the bite she just put in her mouth. Chuck Liddell did not get to be a bad ass fighter by using a home exercise device you can strap to your bedroom door. Eating at a pancake joint does not make you feel like bounding through the park with butterflies all around you. Buying a hybrid is not a green solution, when it involves you getting rid of the perfectly good car you already owned and passing down more junk for the junkyards. It's so stupid, all of this stuff.

And it would be one thing, if it was only on TV, even with the ratio of commercial to actual show being grossly off-kilter. Instead, I now have to wait through 15 minutes of commercials at movie theaters, even after being raped out of 14 bucks at the ticket box. And what's more annoying, is that I'm not at home and do not have a volume control. When I turn on the radio, rampantly skewed political facts are blaring out at me. When I pull up to gas stations, a little automated box starts yapping at me in shrill tones, trying to get me to sign up for another card, so that one more massive entity will posses all my information and legally will be able to attach one more vice grip to my proverbial balls. There are billboards everywhere I drive, ads that pop up in front of the news stories I am reading, entire pages of magazines devoted to shit I don't care about or want to see, and now Facebook has decided that I have to look at photos of Mitt Romney in my newsfeed, without the option to remove them.

One day, about a year ago, I was stewing about this particularly annoying facet of American life, while on a series of flights to get back to Alaska. I was leaving Josh after almost 3 wonderful weeks visiting him in the Outer Banks where he was working a job. So, needless to say, I was extremely sad. Going back home to our apartment in Anchorage, all by myself, running on very little sleep, dealing with security lines at airports, etc. My laptop screen had frozen with some shitty pop-up ad covering the story I was reading. Commercials were playing on the little screens built into the backs of airline seats a foot from my face, and still on my neighbors screen an extra 6 inches away when I turned mine off. All I wanted was quiet and darkness, and all I could get was flashing lights, unrealistic representations of life, noisy garbage flying at me from all angles. I was angrily steaming in my seat about how unfair it is that I am not able to escape the shit anywhere that I go on a regular basis, how it is always invading my personal time, my space, my thoughts... when the flight attendant finally came around with drinks, I ordered a Maker's Mark and a glass of ice and popped open my tray table to set it down....

And there atop the surface of it was a giant sticker advertising the newest Samsung phone. They're so hell-bent on covering every available spot in the shit, that they've moved onto airplane tray tables. I actually started giggling. The whole thing is a joke. As the great Bill Hicks once said, "By the way, if anyone here is in marketing or advertising.... kill yourself. Thank you."

Sports? Me? That don't make no damn sense.

I'm in the process of starting this online course thing that Bleacher Report offers on it's website. If you do all the assignments, and the editors like what you produce, it gets you a few steps closer to getting a regular spot on their website (3rd in traffic on the web for sportsy related stuff).

Never in a million years would I have guessed that something like that would even spark my interest. Sports? What the hell do I care about sports? When have I EVER cared about sports?!

Never until very recently, is the truth. I was the kid sitting in the shade under the big oak tree during recess in grade school, and wondering with slight distaste how those kids on the soccer field could be so... aggressive. Stealing the ball, shoving each other, getting all.... sweaty. It all made me vaguely anxious.

I could never do that kind of stuff. When forced to play competitive sports during P.E., I was always the last person chosen for a team. (who the hell came up with THAT system anyway? Talk about extra trauma for the frequently picked-on, smallest girl in the class... fuck you, gym teachers!) When one of those giant 4th graders, who should have been 5th graders, came running at me, there was no remote cavern of my brain ANYWHERE that entertained the notion of keeping it from him or her... are you fucking kidding me? They looked so angry! They're so mean! "Here! Take the fucking ball, I never wanted it in the first place!" Or that's what I would have said if I'd possessed the vocabulary that I do as an almost 30 year old broad.

For much of my life, when asked casually if I wanted to toss a football around someone's yard, or kick a soccer ball, or throw a frisbee... I would decline. The fact that I so utterly suck at sports, mixed with the certainty that I'd be setting myself up for a myriad of disparaging comments about my complete lack of physical prowess, usually made me throw out some kind of self-deprecating one-liner about how no one would buy me beers anymore after I lost them the game.

Then, Lauren started fighting. And winning. Two Championship belts, and 4 Jiu Jitsu state gold medals; two in her weight class, and two for sweeping ALL the weight classes in the women's division. I couldn't believe how exciting it was to watch someone I love completely out-master everyone they put in her way. I watched what she went through to be the best. The hard work, the emotional roller coaster, the toll it took on her body, the injuries, the frighteningly frequent illness (happens when you suck your body dry and then expose yourself to all the yummy germies that live on gym mats), and despite all of it, she only pushed harder. On top of everything I've seen her come through in her life, adding this set of completely unexpected accomplishments to the list made her story fascinating to me. People all over Anchorage know her. She's been on commercials for the AFC (AK Fighting Championship). Everyone wants to shake her hand, try out her gym, talk to her, make friends... my friend went from being Lauren, to being Lauren the Celebrity. It was the most bizarre transformation I've ever witnessed firsthand.

At first, in terms of fighting, I only cared about her. But she'd take me to the bar with her to watch the UFC, or over to fer friends' houses who were also fighters, and I got to listening to them talk about why they liked the guys (and girls) they were pulling for, and disliked the ones they hoped would lose, and I started to get interested. Every one of those guys in the UFC has a story like Lauren's. Not the same plot of course, but some equally as intriguing. And as much as I don't give a shit about sports... I think people are utterly astonishing creatures. And... strange as this obvious connection sounds... it is people that play sports.

It is a mind and a drive entirely different than mine that makes up an athlete. They are amazing, some of them. And by and large, the sport most densely populated with those athletes, the ones that astound us with their sheer will and skill and... "fuck you, I won't come in second!" attitude, is MMA.

I don't 'know a lot about sports'. I know a lot about people. I know that it takes an extraordinary story and person to be the best in MMA. I know that Georges St. Pierre used to be relentlessly beat on by bullies who'd steal his lunch money, and now he has two black belts and a UFC Welterweight belt, and is still the classiest, most humble and respectful man in the sport. I know that Jon Jones had only fought Pro for 4 months before getting into the UFC, winning 6 fights in 3 months, and now he is ranked pound-for-pound, the 2nd best fighter on the planet. I know that Donald Cerrone is a sweetheart because I met him at the AFC, and started making fun of his cowboy hat before I had any idea he was there as the AFC's guest for being one of the UFC's top fighters. Basically, now I know that sports only touch us because of the stories.... and stories are sure something I have a knack for telling.

I figure I can't be the only fan in the world who loves to watch, loves to pick their champion, and never in a million years could be in the ring themselves (even if they did have a midget-sized weight class). There's got to be a market for out there for people like me. So, in addition to trying to break into this writer's world on other fronts, why not give this a shot? I love the fighters, and I love to write about them. And maybe someday, I'll get a press pass and some sick seats and the chance to make friends with these people that I deeply respect and admire... as long as they don't want me to play, too ;)

Who ever knew I'd be such a trailer-loving girl?

Before we left Alaska, when my dear best friend threw us a going away barbecue/bonfire, jokes were being tossed around all night about Josh and I scrapping the normal, respectable life to go become trailer trash.

I understand, that to some people, the desire to live in a trailer instead of an actual house seems very odd. The drawbacks exist, of course, and to a lot of people, they drastically outweigh the benefits.

My home is only 385 square feet. I don't have a dishwasher. My oven is too small to fit my full sized cast iron pot. It, and my stove both run on propane, which must be refilled from time to time. I'm sure there are other annoyances... I just can't see them.

Once upon a time, I owned a house. My ex and I, that is. It was damn near 2,400 square feet... and I wouldn't say that I hated it but, in the years since I gave up my share of the ownership, I have not missed it once. I have, instead, felt relieved whenever I realize it is not my burden any longer. That's got to mean something.

I was 22, and living at my mom and dad's place in the last few months before we moved into that big house, so that we could save some money. I clearly remember being unable to sleep and feeling faintly desperate on the last night I stayed there before move-in day. And then, a more magnified version of that feeling in the days after we moved in. I just told myself to shut up, because I was doing what I was supposed to be doing. Or so I thought at the time.

I would sit in the corner of my 630 square foot living room, facing the highway that was behind the back corner of the house, hating the noise, trying to remember why I'd thought it had been a good decision to bury myself in debt for the place, and also trying to talk myself down from panicked feeling that was threatening to bubble up in my esophagus.

I tried to make the place mine. We painted the big living room wall a beautiful, dark brick red, and it looked like a huge warm hearth with all the golden, cedar wood shelves built around the fireplace. We planted a row of rose bushes, and a Maple tree in the front yard in hopes that we could someday have a few fall colors in Alaska's mostly-brown autumn. I hung photos of my family and friends and travels all over the house. I had tons of dinner parties, because I love to cook for the people I care about. I had lots of good nights with friends, sitting on the kitchen counters drinking wine, having fires in the backyard, and telling stories while wrapped in blankets in my giant living room. And still, I never grew to love that big house.

I hated that I had to walk downstairs into the basement to do my laundry. This might not seem like a big deal to most people, but I am very much prone to forgetting to do anything that isn't directly in front of my face. I hated that the basement was cold all the time. I hated that there was no way (at least with the level of effort I was prepared to dedicate) to keep a 2,400 square foot house clean for very long. Dust, dog fur, dirt, sawdust, ice, mud, it never ended. I hated the noise of the highway always in the background of whatever I was doing. I hated all the weird layers of old carpet and ugly wall paper we had to tear out. I hated the never-ending list of things that had us spending money hand over fist to keep upgrading the place, on top of the two vehicles, four-wheeler and garage full of tools we were already paying for, besides the house. Not to mention the gas and electric bills in the winter. HOLY shit was that ridiculous. But a big part of it was that I hated that the house was so unnecessarily big. How my footsteps echoed no matter how quietly I tried to walk, because I was often the only one there. By the end, I really couldn't have given a shit about the state of my house. It was just a breeding ground for the unhappy feelings with which I was struggling while living there. I stayed gone rather than taking care of it. When I had to clean, I inwardly nursed the most silly of grudges against the whole place. I was so glad to leave it behind.

Part of it, to be fair, was that I have never been a very good house-keeper. There's always something else I'd rather be doing, including NOTHING (I do sometimes like to do nothing). I can walk right by a mess or a pile of clutter and not even see it. I think it comes with the ADD/art brain. Owning a house that is sucking your financial resources out of you, and isn't even something you like having, doesn't encourage good habits of that sort. Neither does living in apartments. I did really like my apartment downtown in Anchorage. It was a beautiful home. But it was not mine and putting hours of work (painting, etc) into it didn't seem worth my time either.

Imagine then, my surprise at moving into this dinky (by comparison) little house-on-wheels... and finding that I truly love it. I just went to the grocery store (a Whole Foods. My first time!) and when I arrived back home (which is currently a crappy campground in Albuquerque) and walked in the door, I found myself smiling.

I love my trailer. I love cleaning it. I clean every day. THAT in and of itself is a shock. I love making little lists of stuff I need to track down to make it work better for our full-timers lifestyle. A knife magnet; so we don't have to have a knife block taking up our limited space on the counter. A paper towel holder that I can mount under the microwave for the same reason. In fact... pretty much everything we need is for that reason. Hooks for jackets, keys, towels, etc. Shelves for Josh's side of the bed. Hanging folder thingies for important papers. Mundane things, all. But making this little house come together, making it more functional, more comfortable... all of it pleases the punch right out of me. I love that it's such a small space, that I can run through and wipe it spotless in 20 minutes if I have to. And, regardless of whatever inconveniences present themselves in this life we've chosen, I LOVE that my house is mobile.

Albuquerque is cool, for now. But I wouldn't stay here forever. Too dry, not enough trees. But all of that is ok, because I don't HAVE to stay anywhere. We can leave whenever we want. In fact, as we've just proven in getting to Albuquerque, we can make it halfway across the country towing our house in two days. And where will we end up next? I don't really have any idea. I'm just glad to be where I am right now, instead of hoping I'll get to feel that way someday later on, like I used to.

An update from the Atlantic coast

I don't know how to write this blog and make it entertaining. I seem to really only be able to pull that off when I'm sad or angry about something, and.... I am far from either of those things. Everything is awesome. I mean, relatively speaking. I still miss my mom and my friends, but there's too much cool shit going on around here for me to dwell on it.

We moved from the shittiest town I've every been stuck in; Anniston, Alabama, to a comparative oasis of awesomeness; Wilmington, North Carolina.

Anniston had only chain restaurants. The same 15 bland and unremarkable choices that you could find in any truck stop on a major highway. It had the same 5 major box stores that sell everything but not at a very high quality. It was saturated with chemicals and full of people who utterly sucked. 

The coolest of them was the bartender we went to hang out with 2 or 3 nights a week, because he was so grateful to have cool people around and didn't skimp on the sauce. He was explaining to me at one point that his family sometimes goes up to the villages in Alaska on missions for the church, and he's gone with them several times. At that point, he raised his eyes skyward, made the sign of the cross over his chest, and said, "Lord forgive me, I know, I do work in a bar." As if... being a bartender was something more worthy of asking forgiveness than the bright red shirt he was wearing with Coca-Cola emblem style white letters reading ENJOY VAGINA! The irony was palpable.

Other than that guy who, confused as he was, was probably the closest thing to a friend I could have made in that town, everyone else regularly did their best to be rude, rip us off, and generally make it clear that we weren't welcome. 

The guys at the tire shop, which was across the street from the very Monsanto plant that had been dumping PCB's into the drinking water supply of Anniston for 40 years, were a prime example of this. I found myself speculating about the possibility that they'd lived in the vicinity of that carcinogenic, brain-melting, chemical pit for a few generations at least. It could have explained a lot. The answer that was given to Josh when he asked how much it would cost us to get our new tires put on our old rims was, "You from Alaska? Y'all can afford it." Asshole. Even after agreeing on 15 bucks a tire, they tried to charge us 120 bucks, counting each tire they'd taken off a rim AND each tire they'd put on as one individual unit. It got uncomfortable real fast after that. And... that was a lot like what we ran into all over town.

It was a sad place. A concrete hole in the ground, with smoggy, hazy, thick air, and no birds singing in the morning, because animals didn't want to live there either. No good food, no good bars, very few cool people, lots of cockroaches and a variety of poisonous bugs, and a perpetual sense of the doldrums lingering over everything.

Imagine my surprise and delight then, in moving to Wilmington, and finding everything we've found here.

We've been out to eat many times already, though we usually try not to do it that often, simply because there is so much good food to be had. Almost none of the restaurants around here are chains Everything we've eaten here has been amazing. 

Rather than being stuck buying everything we need for the house AND all the groceries at either Target or Walmart, as that was almost all Anniston had to offer, there is a full grocery store just down the road from here that almost exclusively sells local produce and meats. 

Rather than dealing with a shitty landlord for a month-to-month lease apartment, we're living in a campground in our bad ass house-on-wheels. We've already learned lots of things about living in a big trailer. Don't leave the cover on the sink if you're not going to be around for a few days, because when you open it, it will smell like musty sponge. Make sure to leave 4 or 5 feet between the trailer and the plug-ins or else the living room slideout doesn't have room to come out and then you have to re-connect the hitch and move the damn thing when you've already put it up on blocks and set the jacks down. Put everything away where it goes as soon as you're done using it or it will turn into a mess FAST. It's a work in progress to organize this monster, but it's also kind of exciting. From here on, our house comes with us wherever we go. No more living out of backpacks. It's wonderful.

We went out on the town Friday night and they had a bunch of police standing by in case of shenanigans. It can be an issue, because Wilmington is very near a Marine base and they like to drive down on the weekends and cause a ruckus. I may not be a huge fan of cops, but I was absolutely delighted when I saw that the cops were not in cars or on bikes, but instead, on horseback. Seeing a horse standing around in the middle of a downtown bar scene just tickled me pink. Even better than that, almost every bar in Wilmington allows dogs. How fucking cool is that?!

The whole experience is also made better by the fact that Josh's brother and his girlfriend are here. That takes a lot of the work out of a new town. We've already gotten to go out to a little island off the coast on Saturday in one of their friends' boat. They tell us which beaches are more lenient with the rules about beer and rowdy behavior. They tell us which restaurants are good. And, just like all of Josh's sisters and family have proven to be before them, they're awesome people.

It's great to have a girl to hang out with when the boys want to talk about guns and tell war stories. Especially one who is like-minded, and is a feisty and hilarious, beautiful little Dominican lady, to boot. I am learning a lot from her and it feels good to make new friends.

Essentially, I have nothing to bitch about and it's so nice.

I dreamt of you the other night...

...that you moved into a house down the street from me. We tried our hardest to ignore each other but it was quite hard because we rode the same bus to work as teachers at the same local high school. It was a high rise building in the middle of the city, whatever city it was. And, upon entering the main lobby doors every morning, we dutifully turned opposite directions and walked, not quickly enough to betray our mutual desire to escape each others company as fast as possible, but not slowly enough to give the impression that either of us would rather linger.

Then one day, a meteor hit. And before we'd even gotten news of what had happened, a wall of dust came rolling toward us, taller than the building we watched from, and behind it, an almost equally tall wall of water. It disintegrated the glass outer walls of the building, and washed through and around the bottom ten floors as if they'd never existed anyway. Suddenly, we were each no longer afforded the luxury of pretending we were strangers. We were running in teams, rappelling down on ropes and cables into the ducts and passageways of the bottom floors (dream logic) to try and access rooms that were insulated from the flood, and to see if we could bring back any of the kids who were still alive down there. We had to communicate, we had to plan, and we had to watch each other's backs. We were shuttling wet, half hypothermic, shocked and terrified teenagers into the warmth and relative safety of the home we'd made near the top of the high rise.

We also went together on a very risky trip across the canal that had formed between us and the nearest building. The flood had somehow bent the steel frame of the building, so that it was tilted at an angle. The balcony which was our destination was half submerged in water, and the half that remained dry had accumulated a few dozen people who had fallen under some kind of despair-induced catatonia. They just stood there, for hours without blinking or moving, staring East as if only able to focus on what little solace it gave that the sun was still rising every morning. As if that wasn't weird enough, they had also turned blue and developed strange patterns on their faces reminiscent of crop circles or the Nazca Lines.

The reason we'd gone to seek this strangely affected crowd, was that one of them was your best friend. He also happened to be Eddie Bravo, which is weird. No idea why that guy would pop up even peripherally in my dreams... but then I have no idea why I was dreaming about blue people or the end of the world or you, either.

So, we wrapped Eddie Bravo up in a blanket, and then again in a tarp, making sure to leave his face exposed for air. Then we laid him down into a kid's plastic toboggan sled, which... of course we had laying around, and we pulled him behind us back across the channel between our buildings and got him to the nurses who somehow made him turn back to a normal color and got him to speak. They said it was some common ailment. Like... the doldrums or something, only in actual physiological form. Normal for people who are in shock from a major trauma. You were so relieved you were almost brought to tears. By that point, we'd gone from avoiding each other to sticking together. And you were you... the way I remember you from back when I first met you;

Handsome, charming, possessed of some bizarre intuition that I was never able to understand, that allowed you to see through me and read my mind, rakish, a little arrogant, a little reckless, street smart, and very wise. Giving off some sort of air or frequency that worked its way, like microscopic barbs, slowly underneath my skin.

Then I woke up. It was Sunday, late morning, and Josh was already awake making breakfast. I laid in bed for a long time, thinking. Analyzing how I felt. Inhaling little sips of love (which smells like bacon, on Sunday mornings, in case anyone was wondering) as it drifted out of the kitchen, and trying to sort out what that dream was doing popping up in my otherwise happy life, right when I didn't need or want it. And I marveled at how drastically things can change.

In little bits and pieces, all your romantic gestures came back to me. All the words that could have been ballad song lyrics composed for me. All the things you ever did that made my heart start to feel like a pulsing aneurysm. And then... all the times I discovered, or realized that each of those things had been only part of the game you were playing. The one in which I was probably the most prominent player other than yourself... but that was definitely not only a two player game. Every little let down, every misleading statement, all the confusing behavior, mixed signals and random absences, every pitfall in the rollercoaster, every lie, every question you managed to strategically sidestep, every other girl I knew in my heart was getting some fraction of the same treatment, though you denied it fervently until I gave up asking.

I know that, at times, what you gave me was the best of yourself. That there were times when what I saw in you was as real as you'd ever shown to anyone. You told me I'd cured you of your old ways. And, here and there I'm sure that was true, though it was always temporary.

I once believed that you knew me, inside and out. That we were supposed to weather the storms together. That we were what fate looked like to other people. Like all the songs that have ever grabbed you by the seat of the soul and yanked hard. Everlong. Wonderwall. La Belle et le Bad Boy. That you truly would "crawl for miles over broken glass" if I needed you. I was so dense.

Because... the reason I know that I can publish this letter on the World Wide Web... is that you'll never read it. Because despite the fact that I would die if I could not write anymore, despite the fact that I regularly dump the contents of my heart and mind onto pages that are easily accessible to you, and that you've always known existed... you never did and never will care, or come looking for them.

I don't know why dreams happen the way they do. Part of me thinks... I should feel guilty, but I don't. My subconscious wrote a hokey movie script. There was a conflict, a climax, and two main characters. I watch a lot of that kind of movie. And my brain must pick you, just like it picks anyone else once in a while, as a character out of my past. Makes sense really... you were, for sure, a character. An actor. Entirely different on stage than in real life. And while you could be wonderful at your best... at your worst, you sucked me into something that was so painful. You were a player, and I was a pawn. I would have handed you my entire life on a silver platter, and you would have stored it like a prize trophy among the closet full of silver platters you have possessed over the years. You spun a whole world together in front of my eyes out of pretty, empty things, that would, so you said, exist for us someday. And thank god, they were never going to. You made so many attempts, insinuations, amends and promises....

And that guy that I adore in actual reality, who makes his love transparent, easy and clear, who is currently singing so badly that it's hilarious, at high volume to drown out the sound of the fan over the oven... The one that changed his plans for me, made room in his life for me... that guy makes me breakfast on Sundays.

50 Shades of the Worst Book Ever Written

  I saw a really funny editorial that someone posted on facebook the other day about how bad Fifty Shades of Grey was. I laughed and nodded my way through most of it, because she was right on the money about almost all of it, and I'd had similar reactions when I read the book (here's her piece in case you're interested. It's worth a look).
  Now, I'm going to add my two cents.
  It's bad. It's so bad, that the only thing that kept me reading it, was my utter shock at how impossibly bad it was.
  The entire plot, and every single character, are so completely not believable that I may quite possibly have developed a wrinkle above my left eyebrow (which raises involuntarily when I am being fed a ration of shit). aMy face never relaxed from it's "are you fucking serious?" posture throughout the whole book.
  I like my men manly. I like them to be the antithesis of me, because, if you know me I am sure you're aware, I am packing enough 'feeler' for two people. I don't need a guy who's sensitive. I need a man who acts like a man. I have no desire to mess with the outlines of nature. Meaning, I want a guy who's a little pushy (where he needs to be), a little dominant, and who is far stronger, tougher, etc. than I am.
  Because, if I am the pushier, stronger, tougher or more dominant between a man and myself... I don't really think of him as a man. I mean really, what kind of man gets pushed around by a 95 pound bleeding heart? Not my kind.
  With that in mind, I didn't have any pre-conceived notions going into the book about disliking Christian for his dominant tendencies. By the end of it though, I was almost snorting out loud at every one of his ridiculous demands of the spineless, insecure little fuck up Anastasia, that I am supposed to believe is actually beautiful, alluring, intelligent and irresistible. Right.
   I don't have to go into the details there, because it's been said. But even I, who admittedly appreciates a little bit of domineering every once in a while, was absolutely appalled at the fact that the author of this book (a woman) sat around thinking up situations in which a young lady is more or less seduced, abused, stalked, threatened, assaulted, and bordering on raped, over and over again, and is, rather than describing her rage, indignation, revulsion and shock, describing how turned on she is by this behavior on his part. And the fact that he's so not worth her time only steels her into a quest to try to turn a sadistic lunatic into a sensitive lover.
  I have to ask... what kind of real woman would even consider this? And if the author is the majority of women, and I'm way off base here... Lord help us.
  Now, the only part that I disagreed with in the blog I linked above, was at the end. She says something about how criminal it is that this shit is being put out there for young and impressionable women who won't know better, and may end up thinking that this type of relationship is normal or acceptable.
  I... am going to sound a little heartless right now, but to me, if you are lacking the brains, sense of self-preservation or self-respect that you would have to be missing in order to fall head over heels for the douchey psycho that is this male character... if you are that stupid, I don't feel bad for you. I am not worried about this book corrupting the minds of young women into thinking that a sadist is a suitable boyfriend, because the minds that could become corrupted in that sense are past saving. Social Darwinism exists for a reason. If you have to convince a girl that a man such as this one deserves to be laughed at, not fawned over, she was fucked from the beginning, and we don't have enough space of resources for her anyway.
  What bothers me more, is that this book has swept the country like wild-fire. Everyone's read it, a lot of people hate it, but a lot of people love it, too. How is that possible? How could anything that is written so incredibly poorly, be so popular?

  My fear is part of something bigger that I've been noticing about books for the last few years. Think about the last 4 books that everyone you know has read. My guess is, that at least 3 of them, are The Hunger Games, Twilight, and Harry Potter. (Not to take anything away from Harry Potter, I think it's imaginative and wonderful and I loved the books). What do they all have in common? They were written for KIDS!
  And this one, though obviously not intended for children, is so trite, so cliche, so boring, and so fucking BAD that to me it says something quite embarrassing about us as a generation of readers. We can't be entertained anymore by literature unless it's dumbed down to a level that kids can grasp it, or it's a big, shitty pile of smut with no artistic merit whatsoever. I can't believe you could make sex scenes so abjectly not sexy or hot or appealing. And yet... look at how many copies this book has sold.

 I was in a laundromat here the other day, washing my comforter that's too big for the washing machine at the house, and it was a very strange scene. A bunch of people, not old enough to be in wheelchairs, but who were, a couple with oxygen tanks, or else they were too overweight to walk without holding on to something, many of them whose hair was so greasy it was sticking to their skulls, most of whom were speaking a dialect of English that was so deep-south that I could not understand what they were saying, staring dull-eyed and transfixed into the flatscreens on the wall showing day time soap operas. These have somehow gone from being just overly dramatic and lame, like they were when I was a kid, to being overly dramatic, lame, almost soft-core porn. This was news to me.
  I was quite stunned, and very sad. This is what stereotypes are based on. (Merica!) I watched these people pour themselves into the poorly designed and completely unreal characters on TV, and I was pretty certain that most of them had probably not had any kind of real sex in at least as long as they'd not been able to reach their own asses, that most of them spend their entire day eating food that isn't real food, watching TV that isn't real life, and reading books like... Fifty Shades of Grey.

Monsanto really is the devil. And it's grossly contaminated the place that I currently live.

When we first got here, we met up with the rest of Josh's crew and went out to dinner. I overheard his co-worker Sarah say something along the lines of, "Try not to drink the water around here, there was a giant Monsanto plant up the road from Anniston."

I knew a little about Monsanto. I know it's kind of a dirty word. For a long, long time, the U.S. Patent Office refused to consider allowing patents for seeds, for the obvious reason that seeds are a life form and therefore cannot be described in the same terms as other 'inventions' like sewing machines, gaskets or light bulbs. Then, in 1980, the Supreme Court ruled that 'live human-made micro-organisms' could be patented, and Monsanto ran with it.

They created a genetically modified seed that is resistant to it's company's other major product, Roundup Weed Killer. And because they could patent this seed, they started making farmers who purchased the seeds sign contracts stating that they would only grow crops for one season, and would throw away the seeds produced in that crop instead of reusing them in future years. Frontline did a show specifically on the suicides in India on the rise due to farmers there going bankrupt when they were not able to pay for seeds for a new crop.

In order to enforce these agreements, they employ Private Investigators who cruise around posing as surveyors or regular old townspeople, but are actually following farmers suspected of reusing seeds, taking photos and video. Then, they'll show up at said farmer's house, show them the photos, tell them that they must settle with Monsanto for infringing on it's patent immediately or they will lose their farms and everything they own, and that there is no point fighting it, because Monsanto is too powerful. They're behavior has been compared to that of the  Mafia , more than once.

It would be one thing if this only ever happened to people who did knowingly violate the contract. But instead, if Monsanto seeds blow into your fields and produce crops, they can come after you, too. They've done it on many occasions. And while your average farmer might be able to afford a lawyer, he probably can't afford the legal team that would be required to fight Monsanto, and the government.

Because, we can make no mistake, this company has got it's fingers deep into our governing bodies. Clarence Thomas wrote the Supreme Court decision that made it possible for Monsanto to patent it's seeds. He was also Monsanto's lawyer in the 70's.

Michael Taylor used to be an assistant to the FDA Commissioner. Then he went to a law firm under a project that worked solely on getting Monsanto's artificial growth hormone approved by the FDA. Then he went back to become Deputy Commissioner to the FDA from '91 to '94. Then, Barack Obama gave him that job back in 2009.

Michael A. Friedman was also a Deputy Commissioner of the FDA. Now, he is Monsanto's Senior Vice President.

Linda Fisher was an Assistant Administrator at the EPA. Then she left to act as one of Monsanto's Vice President's for 5 or 6 years. Now she is Deputy Administrator of the EPA.

And, good old Donald Rumsfeld was CEO of G.D. Searle & Co., which was purchased by Monsanto in 1985, and resulted in a $12 million dollar paycheck for Mr. Rumsfeld and, I think it's safe to say, also bought a fair number or 'little favors'.

So, pretty much, the Environmental Protection Agency, charged with keeping our air clean, our water pure and our environment otherwise safe, is in Monsanto's pocket. The Food and Drug Administration, charged with keeping our food and pharmaceuticals safe to consume, is in Monsanto's pocket. And, at one time, so was the U.S. Supreme Court, and the two-time Secretary of Defense.

If they were a nice-guy company, maybe this would be less frightening. But they aren't. They've been working on moving their production in recent years into agriculture, and their image into that of a 'friend of the farmer'. I've seen the billboards. It's fucking creepy. But what are they actually responsible for making? Let's make a list;

rBGH - a synthetic growth hormone injected into cows, in order to make them produce more milk. The FDA, whom we've already established will probably say whatever Monsanto wants, claims that milk from cows treated with rGBH is no different than milk from un-treated cows. However, there have been no long term studies on this, and the only short term studies that exist come from Monsanto, who at one time described the skin eruptions, toxification of major organs, and severe pain experienced by workers exposed to an herbicide explosion at one of it's plants as, "fairly slow acting" and "irritation of the skin".

Agent Orange - Chemical used to deforest areas of Vietnam where American soldiers needed to penetrate the jungle. I don't think I have to explain what Agent Orange did to the people exposed to it. Ask your parents. My mom described Agent Orange as one of the "trigger words" for her generation. In the same way that "IED's" might be to ours... only worse.

Saccharin - fake sugar. Illegal in Canada. The USDA attempted to make it illegal in 1972, but lost, mostly because the major user of fake sugar at the time was Coca Cola who was too big to fight. In case you didn't know, the stuff is made of coal tar residue, and it's fucking bad for you.

DDT - great for killing bugs, unfortunately also great for killing anything that ate the bugs. Banned in the U.S. in 1972.

And, one of their biggest productions for over 40 years, good old PCB's. Which, for anyone who doesn't know, cause major neurological problems, endocrine problems, immune system problems, reproductive problems, and they cause big black pustules to grow on your skin. Oh, and they're carcinogenic BIG time.

This is where I got interested in this whole subject. I was watching a short documentary on food companies the other day, when this phrase came out of the narrator's mouth, "No where is this more evident, than in the most highly contaminated city in America; Anniston, Alabama."

I about sprayed coffee on my computer screen. I'm in Anniston, Alabama, right now. I remembered Josh's co-worker saying something about the plant near here. I started digging.

The plant is 2.3 miles from where my butt is currently planted. Monsanto invented PCB's, at this plant here in Anniston, in 1929. It was in the 30's that the health risks associated with PCB's started becoming widely known among manufacturers, and documents have since been exposed that show that Monsanto was very well aware of the dangers of PCB's as early as 1938. In the 50's, it was urging the plants' workers to wear protective clothing, and to shower before going home. In 1966, a bunch of Blue Gill's were dropped into the water of Snow Creek. Within 10 seconds, they all lost equilibrium and turned on their sides. Within 3.5 minutes, they were all dead, with their skin sloughing off their bodies. In 1971, the U.S. government banned the production of PCB's altogether.

The problem was, that Monsanto had been dumping tons upon tons of PCB's into Snow Creek, which feeds into Choccolocco Creek, which feeds directly into the drinking water for this town. They also buried tons of PCB's in open pits near the plant, where rainwater could freely wash the stuff into the cities water sources. And, despite knowing the dangers, they never told anyone in Anniston anything at all.

It wasn't until 1993 when a local fisherman caught a grotesquely deformed fish and sent it off for testing, that they town knew anything at all. The fish was saturated with PCB's, and the spotlight turned on Monsanto.

Since then, they've transferred the plant to one of their subsidiaries, Solutia. That's the name on the plant that's visible now when you drive by. And it's obviously less associated with the legacy of dumping carcinogenic, nasty chemicals into the drinking water of this small town for over 40 years. But the problem still exists.

I've read in more than one article, that if you live on the west side of town, you shouldn't eat, drink, smoke or chew gum while mowing your lawn. That kids should play on the concrete and not in the grass. That people should go out of their way not to disturb the dirt, or churn up the riverbeds because this whole place is still so thick with PCB's.

It isn't safe to drink the water, eat the fish, or any produce grown in local ground. I started buying distilled water at the store as soon as I found out. And all it's done is add to the list of reasons (cockroaches, poisonous spiders (who have made a meal out of Josh's leg), thugs (who are constantly milling around my house), gunshots right behind the house, the fact that racial separation here is palpable, did I mention the cockroaches?) that I want to get the fuck out of here as soon as possible. I'm not much into living in a cancer pit.

A new love for a strange flesh.

I can't sleep. It might be one of the things in life that I am worst at. And, no matter how much older or smarter I get, I will apparently never be able to learn that, regardless of how badly I need or want to sleep through the night, if I go to bed before 10:00pm, I will wake up two hours later, and be up until 3:00 or 4:00.  Which is precisely the situation I have landed myself in, again, this evening.

On top of that, if there is anything that I'm supposed to be waking up even relatively early for on any given morning, just knowing it will cause me to sleep like shit, or not at all, the night before. Which is what happened to me yesterday evening. Which is why I really needed to sleep through the night tonight.

Also, when I have alcohol in my system. That makes me sleep like shit, too. Not for the first two or three hours, of course, but after. Which is what happened to me on Thursday night. Well, not 'happened' to me. It isn't like I wasn't an active participant in the vodka and strawberry consumption, while hanging out on the roof of our building looking at the stars and telling stories, but you know what I mean. Which is why I went to bed early last night rather than staying up late as I normally would on a Friday. 

Basically what I'm saying, is that being an insomniac blows goats. I guess... I can move on now.

We got up this morning and got in to Birmingham, which is a little more than an hour from here, at about 9:30, to take the first of four leather carving classes that we're signed up for at the Tandy Leather there in town. I had gone in there with Josh and Matt yesterday just for something to do, because they both needed some new materials and then got to talking with the three people who work there and before I knew it had happened, we'd made new friends. Funny how that sneaks up on you. 

I was watching one of them work this scrap piece of leather with a whole array of tiny little knives and stamps, and as soon as I saw the way it gave in under the edge he pressed into it, turning from tan to almost red in deep, fluid lines, I wanted it under my own hands. When they told us they gave the classes at 9:30 every Saturday, I was already on board to come back to Birmingham even if the boys hadn't been interested.

At first, the little swivel knife didn't make sense in my fingers. You have to press with your index finger, and steer it with you thumb and middle fingers, while turning the leather underneath it so that you can see what you're doing, and making sure to hold it straight up and down without letting it lean to one side or another, lest you end up with a weirdly shaped line. Not a motion that hands naturally lend themselves to. But once I found the rhythm of it, you could have left me there all day, pressing designs and shapes into throw-away scraps of leather.

It's a medium unlike anything I've ever put my hands on before. Get it wet, and it will mold into pretty much whatever shape you want. Bend, fold, twist and rub on it long enough, and it will only take on more character. Press different shapes and angles into it, and it retains them exactly. The simplest design, while boring on paper, looks magnificent in leather. 

More than that, it's an incredibly sensual experience. It is, after all, skin. And what makes it beautiful, is that unlike materials made from plants or trees or fibers or plastics, it holds on to a characteristic that looks... alive? I can't explain it. It's mammal. It's familiar. It's flesh. It isn't that far off from human in the grand scale of things. And it's the last gift given to us by an animal that we use for a vast array of purposes. 

Carving into it is a throwback to something primal. Something that feels.... like it is supposed to feel. I don't know how better to say it.

I've not had a real chance to explore this place very much. I could say that Alabama sucks, but that would be based on what I've seen so far in my short wanderings between small towns, and that's not really fair. If someone came to Alaska and judged the whole place based on little towns like Glenallen or Galena, I'd tell them they missed the point. 

So, I haven't given up, but I'm still grateful that this new little hobby has landed in my lap. It is pretty perfect timing, because it gives me something more to do on weekdays (not that I've been able to be lazy since we got here. Shit just won't slow down), when I can't really skip town and go any great distance with our only vehicle. And while I'm not sure that Alabama sucks, I am pretty sure that this town... well. It's not my speed, that's all. 

Peace, kids. I'm going to go back to drawing in my animals skins, to see if I can figure out how to make the pencil sketch of the Green Man I drew last night, into a mask. Because I think that would be pretty stinkin' cool.

It isn't glamorous all the time.

Every once in a while, you just fall into the dumps. Or at least, some people do. I used to have the mistaken impression that everyone was like me (as stupid as that sounds). That every once in a while, we all just kind of... hit a rough patch. I certainly do. Currently wading my way through this patch as we speak.

This kind of thing doesn't happen to Josh. Maybe it's genetic for him, I don't know. I used to be convinced that it was impossible for him to just never feel down, and that obviously he was stuffing whatever feelings he didn't want to face way into some deep, dark cavern in his heart and that it'd cause him a damn heart attack when he got older. But now, I think... he's just not the kind of guy who gets down.

It's a hard thing to explain to him and it used to drive him nuts. Being as fond of me as he is, it's natural that he'd go looking for a solution to whatever it is that ails me. The result of that being, that I try to explain why I'm sad, and he gives me an answer to my problem and then more or less expects that there isn't anything else to talk about. Age old man/woman issue. I don't want an answer. I generally know what the answer is. What I really want, is for him to tell me it'll be ok, give me some love for a minute, and then make me laugh. It's taken some time, but he's a sharp guy. He's pretty much got it down to a formula now, and for that I applaud him. But there are still some times when I just feel too shitty to be cheered by his Dracula voice or sneak attacks from behind a closet door.

I am not sure I'll publish this blog. Maybe. In the pursuit of being truthful, I ought to give out the highs and the lows as they come and not cherry coat my life. Actually, maybe it would be nicer of me. I often get this sense that people think my choice to go running off with my lover to see the country is this glamorous and pearly existence in which we are always having fun because... why wouldn't we? We're young, free of responsibilities, etc. And, most of the time, yes. My life is fun. But nothing is shiny and perfect all the time.

This country really isn't built for people who want to live the way we are living. I tried to get us both on my insurance policy for the truck, and the lady was completely confounded by the fact that I couldn't tell her what state we were 'living' in. To me, it's fairly simple. Alaska is home, but for a while, we'll be all over. And insurance rates are WAY cheaper down here in the states than in AK... but only if you pick one and stick to it. Small example, but it's something that we run into a lot. Apparently, you have to have a stable address. And I get it, that's the world we live in and we just have to play by the rules... but we don't want to. Ugh. Anyway.

I miss my mom. And sitting around Jen and Lars' table. I miss... being around girls. We're currently in an apartment above a doctors office, and the only other apartment in this building is currently occupied by Josh's friends/co-workers, Donnie and Mohawk Matt.

They're both incredibly easy to be around, and have made me feel so welcome. They're funny guys. I came upstairs the other night to grab beers for those of us hanging out on the porch, and there was Donnie... drinking his rum and root beer alone in the kitchen, bobbing and weaving and singing, eyes closed and deeply engrossed in the Frank Sinatra playlist he had blasting from the stereo. I mean, he was feeling it. If I'd had any doubts before I saw that (I didn't), I loved him instantly when I did. That's a real man, right there.

Donnie is a clean cut looking, ex-navy, super laid back, very American dude, for lack of a better way to describe him. And then, there's Matt. I think he's in his early thirties. He's half Jewish, half Mexican, does not give a FUCK about what anyone thinks, and will tell you anything and everything as straight as he sees it. He built his motorcycle from scratch. He has a septum ring. He makes knives for a living, when he's not digging up old bombs, and they are fucking beautiful (See? Look!). He's an artist, really. He's the one who taught Josh how to make the knife sheaths out of leather that he's been obsessed with for the last few months. He has more tattoos than anyone I've ever met. And, as you might have guessed, he has a very substantial mohawk.

It has been nothing short of interesting to be around these two gentlemen the last few days. To look at them, you'd never guess they have a thing in common, but they apparently met working a contract a few years back, and were fast friends. That and they both love guns. I pity the person who walks into one of those houses looking for an easy target. They're rowdy, crass, sharp as tacks, and they get along with Josh famously. It makes me happy to see him with kindred spirits, so to speak. Especially when, for a long time, Josh only had my friends to hang out with, because his had all gone back to Afghanistan, or weren't otherwise in Alaska when we were.

And... I'll just say it... this part of the country isn't for me, and I'm going to be spending a lot of time here... alone. Except when the boys are all home... and even then, a girl like me can only talk about knives, guns, leather, and booze for so long before she starts to feel out of her element.

It'll be fine. I just have to push through it.

But damn... I really really miss my mom.