Smackdown

Yesterday, in between wiping the sweat off my brow at my computer while madly trying to write enough pages so that my advisor doesn't laugh at me when I turn them in today (here's hoping), I got an email from a friend who had been scrolling through the Boston Globe online's "Nightlife" gallery ("Send us pictures of you and your friends enjoying the nightlife of Boston!") and ran into a photo that I had submitted about 100 years ago of me and James and our two friends from New York at a UFC fight last August. Another head or two appears in the photo, that of our friend, Matt Lambert, who was actually in one of the night's fights. That's why we were there. You don't get me to pay $30 to get into crap-ass Avalon otherwise.

Anyway, as you can see from the photo, we're all luxuriating in our summer tans, many drinks were poured, and a good time was had by all. The strangest development of the night, however, was how much I loved seeing grown men beat the shit out of each other. There was metally-type intro music, a real cage-like ring, a slutty woman in a bikini holding the fight cards--a bunch of stuff I would have thought I hated. Nope, loved it.

I especially loved the punching. And apparently most anything is allowed in UFC; it's not all pansy-fied like boxing where they have gloves and a bunch of rules. In UFC, people get their arms broken by being twisted too long in the wrong direction and things like that. The men around me (I'd say UFC spectator ratio is roughly 30:1) were looking away occasionally--wincing and cringing during some of the grosser moments. Not me. I had inexplicably turned into a crazed, bloodthirsty violence-lover by virtue of walking in the place. My biggest disappointment of the night was that the referee didn't let Matt whale on his opponent longer (he won easily, but wasn't given time to get enough of those loud, fisty, smack-type punches in before the ref called the fight and let the sad, quivering loser out of the ring).

I don't consider myself a violent person, either. And, when I think about it, it's quite possible that I should be disturbed by my glimpse of this brutal alter-ego. Unfortunately, I don't have time for that kind of soul-searching at present, as I have 50 pages to write, not to mention Liddell-Couture coming up on pay-per-view April 16.