I will preface this blog post by saying not every man needs to be a prize fighter, Brazilian Jiu Jitsu Black Belt, steroid eating gym bro, or former SPECIAL RECON FORCE SEAL RANGER SNIPER NINJA (sorry if I left any one out) but FUUUUUUUUUCK! If you have a set of testicals swinging between your legs you ought to be able to do some pushups, see your dick, defend yourself/loved ones, and not look like a “get the crane out” morbidly obese woman. It’s not asking a whole fucking lot.
A male should look like some version of a man, without needing to squint and turn your head sideways for a ten minute visual analysis.
We can add potbellied bean poles to this as they are just as useless and will likely live longer, thus using up more resources and still contributing nothing. It’s just that “The Fluffies” were all fucking over that day and grabbed my attention.

As I walk through the airport on my way to some hippie stronghold for the weekend, I notice something. It’s like that bite sore in your mouth you can’t keep from running your tongue over, or that scab on your knee you couldn’t help but pick as a kid. I don’t want to see it, but there it is; step after step, head turn after head turn, I can’t escape it. I am surrounded by weak, doughy, fluffy, titted men. 1 out of 15 or maybe even 25 don’t look like eunuchs. Their body types may vary dramatically: apple, pear, watermelon, cornucopia; but their mannerisms... well they might have all learned them at the same college course. Shoulders slumped, eyes on the ground or their phone, paunches protruding, hips swaying, and a shambolic gait a zombie would admire. As they pass, I can’t help but wonder if the planes have enough seatbelt extenders, if Starbucks has enough pastries and Macchiatos, these are “men” in the loosest sense of the word. Scratch that. They’re not men, they’re just male. These males would be of no use in any crisis situation, nor would they be able to defend their loved ones or even themselves. They rely on others, on Alphas, to do the job of Protector and Defender because they refuse or are incapable. As a matter fact, the only crisis I see them playing any kind of positive part in would be “Remote Plane Crash”. The role: well-marbled meat for the able-bodied survivors.

​“In an expanding universe, time is on the side of the outcast.” - Quintin Crisp
I’ve never been one to follow fashion in much of anything except maybe firearms, jiu-jitsu gi‘s, and ska bands. Come to think of it, that’s probably not fashionable. I’ve always found myself on the road less traveled. I'm not even really sure why. I mean, I’m fun at parties and chicks dig me and all, but I’ve always done my own thing. Maybe out of necessity, maybe out of narcissisity. Being an only child till the age of 10 could be a reason. Being uninterested in traditional team sports and most childhood norms could be another. Whatever the reason, I seemed to have spent and spend a majority of my free time alone: playing by myself lost in a crazy alien battlefield, or running from scary shit my mind dreamt as a child; endlessly drilling techniques, working on bench press form, or reading about long-ago wars as an adult. 
My father wasn’t around much when I was growing up as he was an over the road truck driver. He wasn’t a big sports fan, either. He was a fireplug of a man, 5’7 and weighing 185 pounds just by jogging, sprinting, jumping rope, push-ups, pull-ups, and some DP concrete dumbbells. I’d catch him in the garage fooling around, doing some sort of body weight conditioning workout in between working on his Harley, or his pick-up, or whatever “honey do” list my mother had for him the rare times he was home. I remember counting him doing push-ups to a hundred once. I was amazed and I had to know the “secret”. He said the secret was to always start at one.
 
I wasn’t very popular in school. My parents divorced when I was 11, so we went from a two-parent two-income home to single mom one-income home. So "cheap tennis shoes" is how you read that last sentence. As we all know, kids can be real cocksuckers. I dealt with that - the cheap shoes, the Wal-Mart clothes, til I was in high school. In high school I got a job. Actually, I got three jobs and I could buy any clothes, any shoes, and basically whatever I wanted. From all that bullshit I took from those little pricks something positive finally came about, though it took a couple of decades. I was thinking on my childhood after a “Trunk or Treat” in the town where I live. I was shocked by some pretty obvious signs of poverty. I thought about these kids getting made fun of about their hand-me-down shoes and I remembered how bad I wanted to just tear some kids' tongues out when I’d had enough. I made the decision to start a charity that collects new, name brand shoes for underprivileged kids at Christmas. It's my chance to be the change I wanted to see.

High School wasn’t bad, it wasn’t good, it just wasn’t much of anything. I ran cross country my freshman year. I was horrible. I hated running, coupled with the fact my coach was an asshole - that special kind of asshole that made you want to pour battery acid on his cunty little MG convertible. I tried football my sophomore year and it was OK. I had no idea what I was doing. I played tackle (no pulling) “just hit the guy in front of you, dummy, that’s all you gotta do.” My scholarship dreams were dashed on the rocky crags of my athletic incompetence. I rambled and fumbled through that season. Football did, however, become my ticket to the weight room and I will always be grateful for that. I think it was Henry Rollins that said “200 pounds is always 200 pounds”. The weights are always there. A 45 pound plate is always a 45 pound plate. I could blaze my own trail. Outside the weight room, I could read and study technique and manuals for the next time I came in. I was a young mad scientist in charge of my own experiment. After I got my license, I moved and changed high schools. I moved to a bigger town with a YMCA where I could train almost 24/7. I no longer needed organized sports as a ticket in. I was 16 and I couldn’t seem to train enough. All I could think about was graduating early and joining the Army. My recruiter mentioned something about being a “PT God” in an effort to impress my drill instructors.  That was the only excuse I needed. Honestly, I really just liked seeing how much I could take. How far would I push myself. It wasn’t until later I would find it could go much farther for someone else, but that’s another story. 

When I entered the army, I found more like-minded brothers, but I still spent a majority of my free time alone, reading military history or at the post boxing gym. I thought of the reading as “required” and I didn’t know how to fight so I figured I better learn (being a for real soldier and all). I had lots of brothers I hung out with but I still would more times than not opt to be alone. I’d shadowbox and read till 2:00 or 3:00 AM sometimes. Part of it was teaching myself and part of it was getting to know and understand myself.
I don’t think I was or am antisocial, I just didn’t see the point in a lot of the fun bullshit time-wasting activities. My training in the gym, in the ring, or on the mats often grabbed my time and attention. This was especially the case when I returned to civilian life and started my law enforcement career. Again, training to me seemed like something not just necessary but mandatory. Especially since I was no longer carrying a rifle and sometimes had only my hands or impact weapons. Over 90% of my coworkers (notice I did not call them “brothers”) do no kind of training at all. I had a few friends at work and almost all would kind of shit talk about how much time I spent lifting or if I came to work with a blackeye from Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, an MMA fight or Thai Boxing. Little to nothing do I have in common with most of my coworkers. My training and commitment to myself forced them to see what they weren’t doing and how ill-prepared they are. 

Weak fucking losers always want to tell others what they can’t do. I have fought in the ring for fun and I've fought for real and I’m all too aware of the difference. Eat a dick. My quitting time will either be decided by another human, nature, or a supernatural phenomenon if that’s your belief. My quit will come from an outside force, it won’t come from inside me. 

I’m not sure what age I was or how long ago it started, but something changed. These people that constantly told me I couldn’t do this or that kind of disappeared. They were replaced by missplaced, defiant people who sought to do the things I do. I have heard since I was in my teens how “you won’t be able to do that when you’re older”. My answer then was “so then I should never fucking start it?” My answer today is “I’m 43, a Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu black belt, powerlifter, and born-again skateboard enthusiast. What is it exactly I’m not going to be able to do again?”
Over the course of my life so far I have ascended just a couple of steps, from outcast to leader of outcasts. I have owned or co-owned two different martial arts schools in the last 10 years. I absolutely love training our outcasts. I never wanted to be part of something just anyone could do and neither do they. A drive to be part of something most couldn’t do or wouldn’t even try, not even because it is hard but because it takes time, skill and commitment. Everything I've ever loved or have been passionate about could be described that way I think. Those passions are a big part of what drives the outcast. I was playing the long game and didn’t even realize it. I was just doing what I loved. I think that when you are true to a thing, no matter how over-the-top or subtle, you may start as just an outcast but you will find your tribe; like-minded crazies who desire more than the status quo. And if you’re lucky enough, you may even GET to lead them!

Why

I’m not sure what surgery I was recovering from; maybe it was one of my bicep repairs, one of my elbows, one of my wrists, or maybe it was when one of my hands was pinned. I don’t remember because I started having surgeries back in the good ol’ days when opioids weren’t the fucking devil and doctors prescribed them when things actually hurt. That being said, these pills do make my memory a little fuzzy.

​My mom appeared next to my bed in the recovery room. She asked how I felt and I replied something like “I feel like I’ve been born again. I can’t wait to see if their job holds up.” The job being whatever they fixed. With a concerned shoulder grab, she asked me why I keep doing this to myself. She asked me what if I tear something up so bad they can’t fix it or what if next time it’s a broken back or both? I think I responded something like “what if the queen had balls” or something similarly crass that I’m sure she was proud of me for saying. Opioid haze not withstanding, we talked again later as suggested by the recovery room nurse, i.e. no big decisions, purchases, or life altering promises for 24 hours at least. 

When we did talk, it was about 2 to 3 days post-op. I was propped up in bed and she asked if we could finish our conversation. I said “sure” since I couldn’t get up, or find my car keys, or even drive anyway. She started with the “what if‘s” and “how comes”. I politely stopped her. 

“It’s what I do. It’s who I am. It’s how I maintain my sanity. It’s how I contribute. It’s how I honor those who taught me. Quite simply, it’s just my life. I know of no other way to be and I wouldn’t change any of it. Not one injury. Not one surgery. Not one setback. Not one misstep. They’ve all played a part in the story that I wrote. And every one of them is just as valuable as the next.”

She smiled and kissed my cheek. “Your dad would be proud.” And with that she walked out.

Equality exists inside the Circle of Our Civilization. On the borders, however, that equality stops. Inside the Circle is “Us”. Outside the circle is “Them”. Anytime a “Them” tries to harm an “Us” or break our Circle; when others try to harm my people, myself or take my property, they cease to be human. They become “things”. They become objects to focus my aggressions on. They become objects I will try to erase from this world. You try and take my shit, I’m going to try and take your life. If you try and hurt my people, I’ll crucify everyone you’ve ever known.

As I watch all the ninja videos on IG and the web, I am struck by one extremely troubling constant:   videos of art(s) displaying technique against a non-resistant opponent and/or dummies.  The best part though is said video being used or shown as PROOF TO THE SYSTEMS SUPERIORITY!  I would say the worst culprits are those of the edged-weapon arts (too dangerous to spar), but I'm sure there are some old school DIM MAK guys out there selling a "Death Touch" program using videos much like the ones I'm describing.  With that said, I have studied Kali and various similar arts for a couple decades and understand the use of "dead patterns" as a training tool.  This is something different.  It appears to be a vetting of the program of sorts.  I have no problem with someone trying to make a buck, even off a dumbass.  I do have a problem with "Snake Oil" systems that make unbelievable claims or that are just insulting to those of us that KNOW what real violence is and how it behaves.  I have never punched anyone, no matter how many times, and had them stop resisting unless I knocked them unconscious.  Until that lapse in consciousness, they fought like hell, counter-attacking and looking for any opportunity.  In some cases like their life or freedom depended on it because it did.  I, however, have never stabbed anyone but I have BEEN STABBED and let me tell you true believers, I was all over that dude, swinging, grabbing, and if  I'd had an opportunity to gouge his eyes out of his head or bite his ear or fucking nose off I would have done it.  BECAUSE HE STABBED ME!!!  You can't believe everything you read and even less of what you see on "The 'Gram" .  
I felt obliged to offer seven little gems on the subject of knife fighting in particular and violence in general.  These come from "Put'Em Down, Take'Em Out! Knife Fighting Techniques from Folsom Prison" by Don Pentecost. 
1. Ruthless determination will over shadow technique or choice of weapon every time. 
2.The will to win is more important than the skill to win. 
3. When you experience pain of any kind your first and immediate reaction must be anger. 
4. REMEMBER RESISTANCE IS WHAT SEPARATES REALITY FROM FANTASY.
5. In a life threatening situation get whatever you can, whenever you can, as many times as you can.
6. As long as your opponent is physically capable of harming you, there is no such thing as excessive force. 
7. Any person has the capacity for violence if he has the motivation, right environment, and the situation warrants violence.  

​What does it mean to be “Friendly”?

I was scrolling through IG today, and stopped on an ad for campers/mobile homes. At the bottom of the image of an old Airstream Trailer, it read “Friendly”. Now there is a word that I rarely use, if ever. I also rarely hear it. It used to be a word I used. But that was in another life, a long time ago. In that other life, “friendly” was not an adjective, it was a noun. It meant: “We’re comin’ in”, We’re on the same side”, “Where do you need us?”, or “We’re here to get you the fuck up outta here.” It meant tons of things. But the gist was always this: we’re here, we’re united, we can do this, we will win together. 

Oddly enough, some months back I stumbled on a word while researching the Rhodesian bush war, and it’s a hashtag I now use: “Pamwe chete”. It’s a phrase from the African Shona language. It means “Forward together”, or “All Together Forward”. At first, I just thought it sounded cool, but when I found out what it meant, it was no wonder to me. Words and language can be funny things. And the meanings we attached of them may have absolutely nothing to do with the word itself except in some ancillary disconnected way. Or they could just have different meanings in different lives. The fact that this is the day after Memorial day is not lost on me either. It’s just one more way that old life reaches out and steers this one. 

So here’s to those other lives. Those long ago times when our whole vocabulary may have been different, and it’s meaning something other than the obvious. Those lives shaped this one and gave us granite foundations to build it on. Lives we won’t squander. Lives we will wring out together for those waiting on us somewhere else.