On Dislocated Fingers

Last Tuesday, after a night of really hard rolls, I noticed my ring finger on my left hand was a little tender. In the morning I woke up and discovered my middle knuckle was as large as a quarter. This. Sign. I know this sign. My right hand has a ring finger that won’t straighten anymore, and whose knuckle remains to this day as large as a nickel (where it was once as large as a quarter). My left ring finger must’ve gotten at least partially dislocated somewhere in one of my rolls without me noticing.

Then Thursday (I believe it was), I felt my hand get caught in someone’s gi as they were passing. As he established his position in side mount, I noticed some strange and hard-to-describe pain – something along the lines of a dull, radiating type of pain that you’d feel in your joint. I yanked my hand from where it was awkwardly caught, and took a gander. Behold! What did I see?

Dislocated Finger

My goddamn pinkie! My goddamn pinkie was bent in a way that it should not bend.

I verbally tapped.1 Then I took a big-boy breath, grabbed my pinkie with my right hand, prepared for a 10 out of 10 on the This Is Going To Fucking Hurt Scale, and pulled my dislocated digit away from my body to realign everything, then gently lowered it back in place. Let me just say, putting my finger back in place hurt a lot less than I initially imagined. And that managed to take the awkward bend out of it, as in everything appears to be in working order (albeit more than slightly beat up and exceedingly swollen right now).

For those of you who don’t know, finger rehabilitation is painful. It is really preposterously painful. After a good dislocation, the ligaments in your finger tighten and, as a result, you lose some range of motion with respect to extension and retraction. Well, to get all the degrees of extension and retraction back, you have to make your finger bend. You have to slowly, forcibly straighten your crooked finger. Then you have to slowly, forcibly retract/bend your straight finger. With the tournament on Saturday, all things being equal, I’d really like to use my fingers while grappling AND so I’m on the veritable goddamn Finger Rehab Express. In the evenings after training (since this pinkie business), my apartment has likely sounded like the innermost torture chamber of a Gestapo prison, what with all the pain I am forced to vocalize.2 My friends sit around on the couch playing video games, and I want to wail away like the black lady in “The Great Gig In The Sky” as I force my pinkie to bend.

The Abu Dhabi Pro-Trials is this Saturday. I’ve trained like a madman, and am as ready as any man can be.  I’ll be sure to tape my matches, and plan to have a write-up finished by the Wednesday after. Thanks.


1. And for those of you who know me, I NEVER verbally tap. There’s just something innately horrible about seeing one’s own body contorted in ways we know it shouldn’t.

2. I’m reading The Diary of Anne Frank right now.


The Tournament Diet

I woke up this morning and everything hurt. I guess I’m about two weeks into my training for this upcoming tournament. Good lord I am ridiculously sore. My wrist hurts. My back hurts. I’m also training everyday, and wake up exhausted – regardless of how much sleep I get. Sunday, I stuck my face into someone’s chest while performing a double-leg, and now I have a rub burn on my forehead. Needless to say, I’m a bit of a wreck right now, and am complaining aloud right now. Sorry.

Diet Considerations.

What really kills me about competing is controlling my diet. Since I started lifting weights about 9 months ago, every three or four weeks or so, I have been gaining a pound. So instead of walking around in the mid to high 190’s, I discovered one horrific morning on January 3rd that I weighed 205 pounds. What. The. Hell.

Absolutely horrified – I had not weighed this much since I lived on campus (with free access to food almost all day) my sophomore year of college – I immediately jumped onto a very strict diet. As of this morning, January 17th (two weeks after starting my diet), I now weigh 190.8 pounds. My weight class for this competition is going to be ‘Under 183 lbs,’ sooo I’m almost there, still with a good two weeks and change before the tournament.

In principle, I could cut the remaining weight in a day IFI HAD TO, but the damn tournament was so hard last year that I’m reticent to exhaust myself the day before for weigh-ins. Each one of my matches was super difficult. I didn’t sub any of my opponents; and all the matches were close. This time, I’m going for a more conservative, smarter approach.

What am I eating? Essentially, I have four different meals that I allow myself to eat. What I feel like eating at the moment will determine what I cook.

The Mighty Four Meals:

  1. 48 Almonds and black, plain coffee
  2. Chicken breast (cooked on a cast-iron skillet) marinated with lemon juice, garlic, and maybe a pepper or two.1 A ½ spring-mix, ½ spinach salad big enough to cover the other half of my plate (about three cups worth), sprinkled with a nut/seed mix, and dried cranberries. A tablespoon of olive oil for dressing, but I can eat it plain too.
  3. Three eggs and 4 slices of bacon.
  4. A cup of oatmeal, plain.

Usually, diet considerations are not a matter of increase but decrease. For most people – this is certainly true for me – it’s more important to cut out the superfluous shit everybody eats every day. No more burgers. No more eating preposterously large portions, when portions that would sate most human beings would do just fine. No more sodas. No more pizza. No more goddamn carbs – damn do I miss bread sometimes, though.

Once a week, I give myself a cheat meal. Last week’s was a double-cheeseburger. This week, I cheated with Indian food. My small daily indulgence is fruit juice. If I had a rigorous workout before the meal – the kind of workout that makes your hands and legs shake, that takes you to that dark head-space where you begin to have thoughts like, “This guy is going to have to kill me to beat me,” or “If I do one more squat, I’m going to fucking keel-over and faint (and I hope this shyster-bastard weight kills me when I fall face-first2) BUT I am going to do it anyway. Because fuck it. Because death before dishonor. Because I don’t love winning so much as I HATE losing – then I pour myself a modest glass of cranberry juice (or grapefruit juice) to enjoy with the meal.

Of course, to lose all this weight, I’m also doing an assload of exercise. But really, the exercise is to prepare myself for the tournament, not to lose the weight. I’d be doing as much exercise if I was already on weight. It’s a matter of earning some competitive advantage against your opponents; and exercise is part of that game.

Just thought I’d post an update about the tournament training, now that I’m ~12 pounds lighter than I was two weeks ago. Thanks for reading.


I spent the first hour of my morning debunking various pieces of the “Sandy Hook is a Hoax” insanity. I swear to god people are dumb enough to believe anything. Claims like these about a coverup, government conspiracy come from the same people who say that government is overly bureaucratic and inefficient. I wish they cared enough or were intelligent enough to recognize they held contradictory beliefs on the ability of our government. People need to be more skeptical.


1. I used tilapia for 4 meals or so, but I could not quite figure out how to cook it correctly. Occasionally, I switch out the chicken breast with beef of some kind. I’m looking forward to trying it with some cut of pork in the near future.

2. I really did have these series of thoughts on the 17th rep of a 20-rep set of Super Squats. It’s hard to explain, as I’m a perfectly rational human being. When you trap someone into a corner – by making them desperately tired, for example – there is a whole new set of thoughts which crop up. Close, competitive matches that bring you to the brink of your physical limitations force spontaneous eruptions of…insanity, of a kind of competitive insanity.

A very gentle, soft-spoken teammate of mine had me in a choke yesterday. It was not secured properly, but he tried to secure it as tight and awkwardly as he could. Exhausted and considering tapping, my damn lapel was covering my mouth, forcing me to breathe through my nose. Our match had been high-intensity too. Knowing I could not stay there indefinitely eating this choke, I burst from the position, fought for the top, secured and finished a triangle during our scramble. Later, he and I laughed about it after picking up the mats. “I knew the choke was not in there, but I said to myself ‘Hey, I never get here with Justin. I’m going to try to cut his chin off with his own lapel; I might as well try.’” ← His actual words.

The Happy New Year Entry

Happy New Year.

The Abu Dhabi Pro-Trials is coming up February 2nd, 2013. This was the tournament two Thanksgivings ago, the one where I took second place by being strangled unconscious. Some 14 months ago, I have a new belt now. And I’m hoping to have to another excellent showing – preferably WITHOUT the whole “being strangled completely unconscious” thing.

What am I doing for the lead-up to this tournament? Well, lots. Lots, and lots, and lots.

Monday and Wednesday afternoon, I go to Atomic Athlete to lift weights for functional strength. We’re somewhere inside a strength cycle right now…which means I’m sore everywhere all the time. Olympic lifts are as technically demanding as they are exhausting. I can’t make any sense out of it.

If you’ve never done a snatch before, you are probably looking pretty credulously at the (presumed) 95 pounds he’s lifting. But…seriously…it’s really, super fucking hard.

You know, the strangest thing about being stronger (having now been lifting weights for 9 months now) is that I get more tired moving my own bulk around. Too though, I get less tired exerting myself against another person’s bulk, because they are subjectively ‘less heavy’ than they were – now that I’m much stronger. Another person’s bulk (whatever their size) represents less of my total strength than it did 10 months ago. So rolling with someone heavier than me (in particular, getting smashed by heavier, stronger guys) is much, much less exhausting than it used to be. It is also a much less viable way to beat me.

In my opinion, the conclusions which can be drawn about the benefits of weight-lifting for one’s Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu game are more subtle, less straight-forward than the weight-lifting enthusiasts would purport.1

My single greatest take-away lesson from this past tournament was that I was pretty tired during my matches – even though I managed to recover reasonably well in-between the matches themselves. My old standard was “If I have been training regularly AND can run between 3-5 miles in a reasonable time without having a heart-attack, I’m probably up for this tournament.” This last tournament, I was in the kind of shape I normally bring to tournaments, yet I still got tired. Is this because I’m having to move my heavier, now-muscular ass around? Possibly. I’m not sure, but this is currently my pet theory.2

All that to say, I’m also going to implement a regimented running program on Thursdays and Sundays. If my muscles demand more oxygen, I’m going to need more cardiovascular endurance. And as it happens, running is something I know a little bit about. Just spitballing here, I’m going to look to start putting in competitive times for five-mile runs, along with some proportion of intermittent sprinting. We’ll see if that doesn’t sort me out. If not, I would be comfortable in asserting that cardiovascular strength was not the problem in either this past or this upcoming tournament. We shall see.

There are associated dietary changes for upcoming tournaments, along with changes in the way I train. But I’ll talk about that some other time!

Does functional, Olympic-style weight-lifting improve your ability to affect your jiu-jitsu game?

Yes. A yes with footnotes, a few catches, a caveat here and there.


Oh, one last thing. Here is my LOVELY Sam Harris throwing a shoutout to Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu in the middle of his article entitled “FAQ on Violence.” Excerpted below…:

“I do not believe it is irrational to prepare for very low-probability events which, should they occur, would produce the worst suffering imaginable for oneself and those one loves. And, as I pointed out in my essay on self-defense, the actual probability of encountering violence, even in the relative safety in which most of us now live, is not as remote as many people think.

There are also psychological and social benefits to self-defense training, which offer further reasons to engage in it. If I thought, for instance, that practicing Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu made people more fearful and neurotic, I wouldn’t recommend it—or I would tell people to do the absolute minimum to familiarize themselves with the problem of grappling on the ground. But I think BJJ makes people much more confident in the world (and for good reason). The art is extraordinarily useful—in the unlikely event that one needs it—but it also brings many other benefits. Thus, preparing for violence in this way need not be justified by a narrow focus on statistics. Whatever the likelihood of needing to use it for self-defense, BJJ is a good thing to learn.”


1. In particular, the most difficult formulation of this question (in my opinion) goes something along these lines: Would I have performed better at my last tournament if, instead of lifting weights once and then training BJJ, I had ONLY trained BJJ? Instead of cross-training, what if I spent all that extra exercise time on the mats? Training 6 days out of the week (three of those days being two-a-days) SURELY would have had some significant impact on my showing this past tournament.

2. I could also be getting older. I started competing in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu tournaments at 21-years-old, after all.

The Christmas Entry

“I’d like to take a moment, as many people have, to just acknowledge the void that has been left by the death of our friend Hitch. While it might be possible to guess what he would have thought about a number of the topics raised here, it’s almost impossible to imagine how well he would have expressed those thoughts. The man had more wit and style and substance than a few civilizations I could name. So there’s nothing to do but take another moment to miss him.” – Sam Harris

I miss the Richard Burton boom of his voice, dirty limericks told at the drop of a hat, quoting lines and lines and lines of Hamlet from memory, and the stories of his travels.

Happy Holidays.


“Death and The Present Moment” by Sam Harris

The Hazards of Training

Or one of them, at least: Injury.

Two weeks ago, I went home for the first time in eight months or perhaps longer then that still. I’m not exactly sure. The last time I distinctly remember being home was when my ankle was still injured from tough Abu Dhabi Pro-Trials training. In any case, this time I went home without injury and had made the conscious decision to train with all my old friends back home.

So I arrive, and look up my two oldest friends still in the business of doing jiu-jitsu. Today some seven years now past since I first started training with these two individuals, they now hail from two separate academies. First on the agenda is going to visit my old instructor.

And visit him I did. He has a new location, a shared space with some CrossFit-types. It’s a far cry from the puzzle mats which NEVER fit together properly and two-students-is-a-good-class days when I first used to train with him. And he had a fair bit of students too, most surprisingly some of the old students I used to train with ~5 years ago.

Now I write to you, my audience, reaching for the words to describe those familiar feelings when you see old friends who’ve progressed so much since you saw them last. With that feeling too comes the knowledge that you yourself have progressed so much since you saw them last; so many things have happened. What? What is that feeling? The immeasurability of time. It just keeps passing, with or without our permission. I don’t know. I don’t know what that feeling is.

So after a lot of back-slapping and how-do-you-dos, my former instructor – now a seasoned brown belt – and I lock horns on the mats. We’re having a fairly competitive match for the first five minutes. It feels a bit strange, as this man first taught me how to do a triangle, how to do an armbar, how to control someone from the back, et cetera, et cetera. It feels strange now being competitive with someone who used to be able to beat me so goddamn handily back in the day. I realized, as we were grappling, that I have tough matches every day on the mats. In the city where I live, the BJJ community is large enough such that there are people who can push me wherever I need to be pushed. My Former Instructor lives in a very small community and does not have access to the same quality of training partners. I also get among the highest technical instruction available in Texas; and it shows NOT in that I think I am the Technique-God’s Gift to Jiu-Jitsu. Rather I would say when I’m rolling with someone, I can ‘feel’ whether or not this person is going to pose a legitimate threat by how they respond to technical problems which arise while rolling.

After about five minutes of back and forth – we were still warming up – the match started getting pretty heated. It’s just one of those things that happens. From mount, I went for an armbar. MFI managed to get on top, and successfully defend the armbar. His posture was immaculate, grips well-placed too, so I decided to open my guard to see if I could manage to open an avenue for attack. Now having placed him in butterfly guard, I reached into the back of his collar to start working on controlling his posture (eventually setting him up for a sweep, let’s say). With my hand in the back of his collar, he rolls my elbow up, and slaps on the fastest reverse-armbar ever seen Across The Seven Seas.

Reverse Armbar

Recognize, however, that he was in MY butterfly guard. Not the other way around.

And somewhere in my old sunnuvabitch brain I knew as he began to apply it: I was not tapping. Not to that. Consequences be damned. If someone’s in your guard, you can ALMOST NEVER be tapped. Position before submission. The days of tapping while in my guard are long since past.1

Then came those too-familiar popping sounds. Tendons and ligaments tear. Bones start to loosen from their cartilage hinge. But, just like the last time I refused to tap to something (has not happened since the days of my white belt career – and that was for very different reasons), there was surprisingly little pain. Warmth. What I felt in my elbow was warmth.

MFI stopped applying the submission and asked if I was okay. “Sure,” I said. I hadn’t made a single sound in pain. “I’m fine. Are you ready to continue?” I said, now warm-elbowed but as still and calm as the morning dew. He looked at me like I was crazy. And of course, I was. [I am.] We slapped hands and continued.

My approach may or may not have been along the same lines as the nightmare scene in The Cable Guy. I was armbarred as he feigns leaving at ~0:53. Then I recapitulate my attack with renewed vigor at ~1:13.

“I just want to consume your immortal soul on the mat. NO BIG DEAL!”

However, as you may be surprised to learn my audience, when tendons, ligaments and such get partially torn, the first thing that happens to that limb is the loss of stability. The second thing usually associated with partially-torn tendons/ligaments is loss of grip strength, or loss of finger articulation. I earned my full-mount, and intended to capitalize as tight and technically as I could. But my left arm was made out of rubber bands now. As I sunk my right grip deep into his lapel for the old Roger Gracie Special and carefully tried to swing the rubber band arm around his head to sink the other half of the choke, he blocked his lapel. Trying to sink the choke with 20-pounds of rubber bands for an arm, I realized, was pointless. Even if I could push my rope-of-an-arm through to where it needed to be, I could not realistically secure a tight enough grip to strangle an infant.

Five more minutes of futility pass, then our match ends. No victor. No points. A draw.

Was it worth it? That’s a hard question to answer. Since I’m injured now – I have something called Golfer’s Elbow – the obvious answer is “No, of course not, you ignorant bastard.” But in another sense, the answer is “Yes. Yes it was.” There, however, is where I must leave it.

Golfer's Elbow

After the holidays, tournament season is going to start up again. There’s a big one in February. Golfer’s Elbow takes up to six weeks to heal. It’s been two. Depending on how the rest of the recovery goes, I’m going to participate. Whatever the case, I’ll keep you informed, my audience. Thanks for reading. Happy Wednesday.


1. Whether or not I had enough time to tap is really a separate question. I suspect the answer is ‘no.’ That fact, however, does not change the fact I was NOT going to tap to such a cheap submission.

Tales From Bouncing pt. 4

Sorry, my audience. I completely forgot that Friday I was scheduled to work from 2pm to 3am. Anyway. Where were we?

I released The King of Douchebags; and he immediately turned around and swung his wildest haymaker right at my face. The sloppy, looping, wide punch might have hit me, had it not been for the fact I was about three feet outside his range. When you’re drunk and untrained, gauging how far somebody is when you want to punch them perhaps is difficult.

I put my hands up and out as he began to approach me. He swings at me again, and I circle outside. Not that I know anything about striking, I should mention. But as a grappler, I have enough intuitive sense for both the things I do well and my own limitations. Either stay too far to be effectively struck, or too close – and for god’s sake, don’t stand there looking to exchange. I punch like a goddamn girl, anyway.

And I Choke Girls Too

[I also make sure to only fight people obviously weaker than me.]

After that second swing, I notice that one of my bouncers and KD’s Fat Friend are wrestling with one another on the street directly outside the club. What the hell has been happening while I was dancing with KD? Keeping one eye on KD (who is still approaching me with the intention of fighting, albeit slowly, drunkenly, slovenly), I moved quickly to pull Bouncer back inside. Bouncer has FF in knee-on-belly when the cops show up blowing whistles and flailing their hands. The authority we have over patrons inside the club does not extend outside the doors, I’m afraid. In principle, fighting in the street could get everyone in trouble, patron and bouncer alike.

Bouncer goes back inside, and FF walks away. But KD is still trying to fight me! He swings another wild one, and I circle out. Again, I’m refusing to engage – because I’ve never been in trouble with the law and am TERRIFIED of the cops. Absolutely terrified of police.

Four uniformed police officers have formed a perimeter around us, ten yards out, and are closing in.

“Hey!” one of them yells. I put my hands up – immediately recognizing a lawful order when I hear one – and keep circling. KD swings at me again. “Stop! STOP! I said–” the police officer puts his hand on the left arm of KD. And in a display of staggering stupidity, KD turns on his heels and punches the officer in the jaw. Jesus Christ. ‘That guy has just entered a world of shit,’ I remember thinking.

The officer temporarily reels from the punch. Having witnessed the whole thing, the other three officers IMMEDIATELY cascade-tackle/takedown O’ Most Unceremonious, Discarded Feminine Hygiene Product. The officer who was struck did not even have time to reply in kind. They cuffed KD, stood him up, and started questioning him.

And out of another display of sheer stupidity, FF showed up again – presumably to rescue KD in some capacity.1 Nice Guy points that moron out to the cops, and they arrest him too.2 Yes, all in a night’s work.


1. That is, until KD found himself “in the rookers of the millicents” as Alex from A Clockwork Orange, would say.

2. Later, I got the story on FF from Bouncer and Nice Guy. Apparently after KD chicken-clucked his way to 2 and I grabbed him, FF immediately punched Bouncer. Nice Guy established a modified, standing back control, and, together with Bouncer (the guy was fat, remember), threw him out. Once out, FF grabbed Bouncer; and in one way or another, they ended up on the ground. Well…now don’t go threatening us with a good time.

Tales From Bouncing: Part 3

Halloween Weekend was pretty busy for us. Lots of Non-Austinites were in town, muddying up our beloved town and its vibe.

Bouncer – of previous story infamy – found a Hispanic male, about 6’2, ~195 lbs, average build, vomiting in the restroom. As this is obviously against bar policy, Bouncer informs this tall, Hispanic male – herein referred to as King Douche – that it’s high time for him to leave. KD initially is resistive to the idea, making fuss enough to make Barback’s (too of previous story infamy) spider-senses tingle. Barback approaches the situation, and KD, realizing he is outnumbered, gives up without further struggle, and leaves the bar.

Bouncer returns to me standing at the door, gives me KD’s description, and tells me not to let him back in.

Okay. This is where the story should end. But it doesn’t.

A few minutes pass, and Bouncer returns to me.

“Did you let that guy in the red shirt back in?”

“No,” I told him.

“Okay. Let’s go kick him out. He looks rowdy, so let’s grab Nice Guy, too.”1

The three of us approach the crowd. “That’s the guy,” Bouncer heard KD say to his fat friend.

First, diplomacy. As the resident diplomat of our bar, I made first contact…:

“Hey man, my bouncer said that you were throwing up in the restroom. You need to leave.”

“Na bro, I’m good,” KD says. He is taller than me, bigger than me, and has a bottle in his right hand.

“Listen, I’m the manager. I’m telling you that you need to leave.” My left eye is glued to the bottle. I think on one of those martial arts science shows, they stated that weapons wielded by one hand can impact their target at upwards of 35 miles/hour. I suspect a bottle shattered at 35 mph over my head would make an awful mess of my face.

“Na bro, I said I’m good.” KD’s posturing has become aggressive. I guess his plan is to intimidate me into going away.

“Look…I don’t care what you have to say. You need to leave!” Judging by his continued posturing to my reply, KD is dead-set on strangling diplomacy into nothingness.

“Go away –” he stops short for an irritated inhalation before continuing, “You know what?! One,” he yells, flapping his arms at the elbows (while his hands stay in the same place, more or less), and continuing on with the general aggressive posturing.

And is this guy counting? I guess he thinks I’m five years-old?

“Two.” Another flap. Moments like these always make me wonder how people could ever believe we didn’t come from animals.

That brief observation aside, I also realize in that split second that most people who count only do so to three, then come consequences – AND we were already at two. Well shit. Call it self-preservation, preservation of face-against-bottle smashing. Call me an incurious bastard about the “Surprise!” which almost assuredly was coming at his three count. Call me all these things…but, realizing what was almost certainly coming in a fraction of a second, I closed what little distance was left between King Douche and I, overhooked his stupidly flapping arms (paying close attention to his bottle-hand), and stuck my forehead under his jawline.

Oh did he start struggling then! Cussing up a storm too.

But I’ve heard those cuss-words before. And I knew the struggle, too. Not wanting to dance with KD right there on the dance floor – what would everybody think? And I was still a little worried about his bottle – I transitioned from tight double-overhooks to an armdrag for the back.

Once I established a modified, standing back-control – my right hand controlling his right arm, and my left arm over his shoulder, left hand gripping my right wrist – I realized I really caught myself a marlin! Goodness this guy was trying to ‘rassle with me. I’ll be damned if I was going to let him go before he was out the door.

The King of Douches’ lust for battle, however, was insatiable. And he continued to struggle, and continued to struggle, as I dragged him from behind out the side entrance. So we slipped on the wet bar floor. He fell on top of me, and I momentarily lost my modified back control. Being on the ground while the number of combatants is unknown, in a dark, confusing, overly loud environment is probably not the best idea – I decided, in the split-second I found myself underneath him. He came to the same conclusion, as he stopped struggling with me to regain his footing. I let go of his hand to stand up in base – but I had wisdom enough to keep my chest to his back as much as possible.

My left arm still draped over his left shoulder, he began to turn around (toward me) to strike me. This, of course, was unacceptable. In the instant he moved to turn around into me, his right arm was temporarily behind his back. I grabbed his wrist, palm up, and doubled him backward with my left arm.

Now in a pain-compliance hold, My Marlin was suddenly and very surprisingly docile.2 How the mighty doth fall. In fact, he tapped me with his left hand, indicating perhaps I was applying it too tightly and was about to hurt him. Well, he hadn’t hurt me, so why should I hurt him? Maybe My Marlin was all posture, after all. Maybe nothing was going to happen as he reached three. Maybe I overreacted. Maybe this fellow trains. Maybe he has some honor after all! So I loosened up on his twisted arm, opened the side door with my back, turned us around, walked a few more steps so that he was successfully out of the club, and let go. All would be right with the world now. Rainbows and smiles.

No. That son of a bitch turned around the microsecond I let go and swung his wildest haymaker punch right at your humble narrator’s noggin.

I’ll continue this story tomorrow. I have to run an errand. Sorry, my audience, I didn’t update yesterday. I went home Monday, and spent the first half of this week running around back home – eating way too much food, training, and sleeping all day. You know, all the things we do when we get home.


1. “Nice Guy” is one of our part-time bouncers. He’s a genuinely nice guy, and pretty damn good at jiu-jitsu too.

2. The hold is nearly identical to one of the Gracie Jiu-Jitsu headlock defenses.