Evan Tanner, R.I.P.

I discovered the UFC after a very necessary romantic break up left me with a one bedroom apartment in Harlem, just under a couple hundred dollars in what used to be a shared bank account, and a not-so-great paying job to buoy the lot. What I also had was a Blockbuster card and, thanks to the low ebb of that buoy, a bevy of free evenings. And Blockbuster, being the Shoney's of cinophelia, had such treats as Black Ninja IV, Ghost Dad, and--in perfect keeping with its bread-and-circus MO--real-life bloodsport in the form of the UFC.

Now, Ghost Dad and BN4 would both have driven me to violence, whereas the UFC expended the energy behind that furious urge to break teeth and bone with one's bare hands successfully and dependably. Clearly, the latter was the healthiest way to invest my $4.23.

Among the first fighters I came across and learned to admire was Evan Tanner. He and Randy Couture (among a few others) had a kind of bonhomie to their presence in the Octagon--a love of the fellow man they were beating the holy crap out of--that impressed me deeply. Couture's was based in an All-American sense of sportsmanship. Tanner's was more a Zen thing--an unalloyed joy in the here-and-now, no matter how painful the present moment might be.

I realize that I'm coming to this wake several months late, but after occasionally wondering where the man is now I discovered that he's gone. As was his wont, he went in search of life's most extreme conditions and--to his credit and our loss--he found them.

Watching the elan with which he both gave (did he ever!) and took (really, did he ever!) a beating, I always had the sense that his spirit was at peace. So I'll content myself to say goodbye to his body solely.

Evan Tanner, R.I.P.

The Merchant Of Menace

ANTONIO
In sooth, I know not why I am so sad:
It wearies me; you say it wearies you;
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn;
And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,
That I have much ado to know myself.

Sigh...

Weeny, Weedy, Weechy

I drew the sketch below when I was on a short-list to pencil a friend's comic book story--set in the further reaches of 1st Century Rome--and was experimenting with various visual styles. I finished this a while ago so it's not rose blossom fresh but it's not past its sell-by either. And hey, I'm feeling artsy but not enough to do the work to make something completely new.

You might recognize the model. What a diva to work with...

Here, There, And Everywh...

...I'm sorry, what's that you say? There's no "there" or "everywhere" and certainly no "anywhere?" It's just HERE?

Well then. That's where you'll be able to find me now. Over there.

I mean, here.

Late Night Guest Blogger

"Stepping" in for me: Miss Eliza Do-too-much.




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(Marlon adds: "Indeed.")

A Separate Concrete Example

Since my favorite blogger has her comments restricted to team members only, to this, I say this:

"Organized religion is a slippery slope. First, you shrug away the Pope's hateful politics then before you know it you're Southern Baptist..."

...

I have so much more to say about the subject, but the magnitude of it wearies me. So for now, I'll stick with that...

You And I Do

Wii do.

Wii did.

Wii will.

Thanks to mom, oh yes Wii will.

Life is smashing.