It’s now been a while now since I started training with my affably sadistic Muay Thai coach, Derwin.   I’m probably a few decades away from stepping into the Octagon with Georges St. Pierre, but nonetheless I’ve improved: my punches come with a nice little snap; I no longer have to remind myself to rotate my hips when I throw punches; I don’t drop my hand and expose my jaw when I initiate a swing kick; and my combinations don’t unravel into series of painfully awkward bitch slaps (as much).   Derwin has used a lot of great methods to achieve this pathetically modest result, but few have proven as effective as when he simply hits me in the head and stomach repeatedly. Seriously – our best workout by far has been when the only thing I’m doing is taking blow after blow.

On its face it sounds a tad perverse, but considering that hits are something of a necessary job hazard for most fighters, knowing how to take one probably isn’t such a bad idea.  Which is not to say a fighter needs to like getting punched, only that taking a knock or two can really teach you something, such as…

1. …You’re Tougher Than You Think You Are. The most illuminating thing about a crack to the melon might be how well you can probably could stand it.   Admittedly, Derwin started light pretty light, but pretty soon he was throwing a few bombs.  He rung my bell more than a few times, and I did spend several days moving my nose around to see if it still ached, but honestly, I thought it’d be much worse. Actually, it probably would be if I’d just stood there and let him tune on me, but thankfully Derwin to took the time to show me how to…
2. …Always Be Prepared.  If you can’t block a punch, then lean into it (not away) – you increase time of impact, and decrease force.  If you’re taking a blow to the gut, tighten your abdominal muscles.  If you’re being hit in the face, clench your jaw, or if you can, lean your forehead into the punch (very hard up there).   Always keep your eyes on your opponent, protect your most vulnerable areas (jaw), and ALWAYS maintain your balance. But being physically prepared is one thing…
3. …What You Do After You’re Hit Is Every Bit As Important As What You Do WHEN You’re Hit.  Derwin hammers (pardon the pun) on this point a lot – martial arts are as much a mental game as a physical one.  Nothing can inspire bad choices quite like getting emotional when you’re hit.  Nothing can embolden your opponent like the sight of you getting angry or down on yourself when they hit you.  The best thing you can do is take it, shake it off, move on.   Keep your cool, and you’re morely likely to avoid costly mistakes, plus your opponent will think his weak ass shit can’t phase you (even if you piss blood afterwards).  There’s another word for this: poise.

I think you can see where I’m going with this – there’s something for a Better Man in every hit, both in the ring and life.  This isn’t news, even to me, but Derwin hitting me relentlessly is such a vividly poignant reminder that it’s almost like a revelation. That’s probably because I’d gone most of my life without getting in a fist fight.  I suppose that’s good, but I also know it made me absurdly afraid of pain.

The thing is, a lot of people are like this: fear of pain is their biggest motivator, and they go out their way to avoid it, putting themselves through all kinds of contortions that are likely worse for them than than the pain they’re trying to avoid.  But if you’re prepared and unflappable when the shit does fly (as it inevitably does), chances are it won’t seem so bad.  You’ll be more able to heed the advice of guys like Al Swearengen, the saloon keeper in the TV Series Deadwood:  “The world ends when you’re dead.  Until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like a man, and give some back.”

So there you go – next time someone threatens to beat some sense into you, chances are that’s exactly what they’ll be doing. Consider it a favour.

A few posts ago I wrote about the Better Man’s need for a feeling of control – the sense that no matter what kind of crazy badass shit is going down, he’s got the mind set not to freak out, but to come up with a workable game plan.  Call it what you want – confidence, self-possession – it’s the one thing I believe underpins a Better Man’s existence. It’s the key to successfully managing fear and feeling like a man, and it only comes from knowing how to do stuff – I’m talking cool, manly stuff, like building a cabin without nails,  braking in a hairpin turn, or preparing human flesh for the other crash survivors.  2011 is the year I embody that feeling of control, and that’s why every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon I let a semi-pro Muay Thai fighter punch me repeatedly in the head.

The puncher is this guy…Derwin Johnson, a personal trainer.  I befriended him this summer when I was developing a TV show based loosely on this blog.  I was considering him as a judge on the program, and for good reason – he’s got the kind of resume that shivers me testes: former infantry soldier, expert in kempo, muay thai, jiu-jitsu. Oh – he’s also a classically trained pianist.   Suffice to say, the man’s got skills. If there was ever a man to punch some sense into me, it’s Derwin.

Normally, Derwin spends his professional time applying his soldiering skills by leading one of the most strenuous boot camp workouts in town. He declares rather proudly that people vomit in the sessions, as though it’s a selling point.  That perhaps explains why he seems to think he’s doing me a favour as his glove pushes into my nose.

Despite this, Muay Thai training has been a huge improvement from last year’s aborted attempts at jujitsu.  Rockstar-cum-MMA fighter Robin Black had said jujitsu would be perfect for me – he called it “creative problem solving under duress” –  which, to me, is the one skill every Better Man should wish to have.

Unfortunately, about the only creative problem solving I managed to do was trying to figure out how to avoid getting paired up with the angry geek cursed with weaponized self-esteem issues and a penchant for free-balling under his gi. This is no dig at the gym I went to – the trainers were great – but there was a lot of theory and not enough practice.  About the only time I broke a sweat was when the angry geek almost choked me into unconsciousness.   Selfish as it sounds, I needed a class that would be only about me.

So far, much of Derwin’s instruction is punishment-based. But unlike jujitsu’s unanticipated punishment of feeling another man’s testicles on my head, I can see how Derwin’s punishment works to my benefit.    So far, I’ve learned some very important fighting techniques, such as…

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In the first year of his presidency, Ronald Reagan spent countless hours trying to persuade congressmen to approve a crucial sale of military planes to Saudi Arabia.  By all accounts, it was a grueling effort that a took a personal toll, so when Congress voted (by a narrow margin) to approve the deal, Reagan turned to an aide and said “I feel like I’ve just crapped a pineapple.”

That’s pretty much describes my feelings all year with this blog.  And just like anything you might expel from your bowels (pineapples or otherwise) I’m not sure if I’m proud of the results so much as glad that the year is over.

To recap: 365 days ago I vowed to become a Better Man by today.  In my first post, I wrote about waking up Christmas morning to find the tires on my car slashed.  It was the final insult in a year’s worth of indignities, and the parallels weren’t lost on me: my easy ride on the wheels of good fortune had been suddenly deflated by the ugly vicissitudes of life.

And so this blog was born, a chronicle of my efforts not only to reverse my fortunes, but to change for the better – to find the wisdom and fortitude to overcome my crises. I’d resolved to do this by taking on several laudable, hare-brained and occasionally dangerous projects, all designed to improve the quality of my character.    In the process,  I learned a few lessons:

LESSON #1: It’s Okay To Make Wildly Unrealistic Plans That You Fail to Achieve.

When Joseph Stalin ruled the Soviet Union, he laid out several Five Year Plans that came with virtually impossible economic targets the workers had to achieve.  We’re talking crazy goals, like wheat production that required more farmland than physically existed in the entire country.  When the workers failed to achieve their targets, Stalin made sure heads rolled…literally. That’s too bad, because in spite of the “failure” the Soviet Union still achieved phenomenal economic growth, outpacing even some capitalist countries.  Cranky, homicidal Joe was so focussed on what didn’t happen that he couldn’t see the progress his country had made.

In my Better Man-ifesto, I came up with nine very ambitious projects, ones with high numbers for both artistic merit and technical difficulty.  I did not stick the landing on most of them.  Project “Do Me a Solid” was all about volunteering, yet the most  I ever volunteered for was seconds at dinner. The God Project was another disaster – although I must admit my heart wasn’t in it. Having grown up going to church, suddenly going back felt a little like going to the fridge for the milk, finding it had gone stale, then putting it back thinking if I return later it might be good again.  In all, I failed to complete ANY of the projects in their entirety,  including the seemingly easy goal of being a Better Asshole (Project Ari Gold).

Now, it’d be easy to pull a Stalin and dwell my failures, but that would mean overlooking the unanticipated successes of this year.  Take Project Renaissance Man (self-reliance and technical aptitude) – I didn’t pick up ANY of the skills I’d set out to learning.  However,  I’ve since compensated for it by discovering my inner Boy Scout – for example, I may not know how to fix my motorcycle, but now wherever I ride I carry a space blanket, canteen, and a survival knife in my saddle bags.  That way if I break down on the highway, at least I won’t die of exposure, dehydration, or bear attacks.  In fact, my house is now littered with how-to guides, and wherever I go I carry tools for most crises, even if I don’t know how to use them.

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A friend of mine, upon seeing this picture from a previous post,  said “It’s perfect. You look fat and a little hungover.” This made me sad, since prior to taking that photo I actually got up, lifted some weights, showered, and shaved.  I even sucked my belly in before snapping it. Her comment made me more than sad, actually, because it confirmed what I knew was happening…I’m starting to look old.  It sounds somewhat obvious to say, but it’s hard to gauge the ravages of time when you can only see yourself age in tiny increments every day (as we all do).

Thanks to the rigid borders of my parent’s co-mingled DNA, aging has me in a sleeper hold – in addition to being shaped like Spongebob Squarepants,  I suffer the family curse of  loving rich, fatty food and being unable to metabolize it quickly – I only have to look at a picture of perogies and I put on weight.  Nonetheless, being single and working on television means I cannot afford to admit defeat, so I wage a war of attrition on my body’s genetics, one whose outcome is already predetermined (death) and for which the best I can hope is a few battles won.

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I’m cinched tightly between the thighs of a man named James,  in an embrace that might seem tender if I wasn’t  trying to, “pass his guard” by getting over his legs. James is trying to prevent that by squirming away.   Occasionally,  James will initiate a throw where he tries to put me over his shoulder and take top position, but he doesn’t always get it right, and ends up inadvertently dropping his testicles on the top of my head (thankfully, they’re covered). I’ve taken exactly eight hours of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu so far, and much of the training has been like this….two men, on the floor, seemingly groping each other like horny teenagers.  This is phase one of  PROJECT: IRON FIST, and as I burrow my head into James’ chest to avoid another tea-bagging,  I consider the Larry-David-like-life-choice that got me here.

For the past several years now, I’ve been practicing something called Bikram yoga, or “hot” yoga. It’s done in a room heated such that some people have

been known to pass out, or vomit.  I started Bikram’s Yoga for two reasons; 1) I believe running is only  for people in danger, and 2) a beautiful woman I wanted to sleep with took it.  Sadly, I slept with that woman just once, but the thought that other beautiful women taking Bikram yoga may be similarly inclined has kept me returning.  It is reinforced by the fact that Bikram classes are littered with healthy, gorgeous women – in fact, one of them teaches my class.

This teacher looks like Megan Fox with a gap tooth, although unlike the famous Ms. Fox,  this doppleganger is rather pleasant.  Given her fondness for scandalous yoga costumes and demonstrating postures in a manner that makes most of the men in class light-headed, I believe she’s acutely aware of the impact of her beauty on others.

Bikram’s classes are strict on talking – only the instructor is permitted to speak.  What you’re left with is a room of people grunting and groaning as they contort themselves into vaguely suggestive postures.  It’s in the midst of this that one day Ms. Fox saunters over to me and pauses.  She  regards me with a quizzical look, then asks quite loudly, “Are you an ultimate fighter?”

ME: Excuse me?

FOX: An ultimate fighter? One of those martial arts guys.

ME:  Uh…why do you ask?

FOX: Well, you’re big and muscular (YES! SHE NOTICED!!) , but you’ve got a great practice.  Most guys I know like that are into martial arts.  Are you?

Now, I’ve watched mixed martial arts. I’ve even produced a mixed martial arts TV show.  But I have never, EVER, tried it before.  I’ve never so much as lifted my hand in anger to anyone, with the exception of my little brother, which is an older sibling’s birthright and responsibility. After a while, even that got tiresome.   I’m quite sure I could be mugged and pistol-whipped by a ten-year old girl.

But here I am, in a deathly quiet room with forty sweaty people and one impossibly beautiful instructor, all of them are waiting for an answer.   I suppose I could have said no, but at this point hope is trumping common sense, seducing me into thinking  ”she could be flirting”. Answering no could squelch whatever chance I may have to see the tiny remainder of Ms. Fox still covered by her skimpy yoga outfit.

So I improvise, and squeak out, “Jiu-Jitsu”. It actually comes out more like a question (“jiu-jitsu????”), as if to see whether or not she finds it believable.    She starts nodding her head.  “I knew it!” she exclaims, proud of her misguided powers of deduction.   I’ve just fathered a daft notion of one day seeing Ms. Fox naked,  one that Ms. Fox will no doubt murder in its crib when she finds out I’ve told her a very public lie. A better man would not do this.  It leads me to only one conclusion:  I must put the truth to my lie.

That’s why I  now find myself pulling James to the mat, struggling to avoid having to once again wear his balls for a hat.  He’s about 5’6″, slight, in his early 30s, with a hairline that’s slowly retreating to a far shore at the back of his head. James has been taking classes longer than I have, and there’s a single-mindedness  in the way he trains. He’s not a generous training partner  – he’s seems unconcerned about giving me a chance to practice some of the moves. Instead, I play the foil  as he perfects his own technique.  When James does lets me try, he  interupts often and explains what I did wrong with the barely subdued impatience of a child who knows he can do better.

I must admit my heart aches for James a little.  There’s something wounded about him. He seems hobbled by shyness but forced to engage the world by virtue of having his ass handed to him by a bully or two.  I suspect his path to this class has involved more formative indignities than most.   Judging from his know-it-all manner, some of them were probably deserved.

The plodding methodical nature of the training (combined with James’ deficit of charity) makes me impatient.  I’m unsure of what I’ve gained from class (other than friction burns on the top of my feet that look a little like AIDS lesions – the result of being dragged along the mat).  I understand the need to get the basics right, but despite this part of me still wants to tumble a little bit just to see how the mechanics of jiu-jitsu work in a real combat.   Then again,  you’ve got to be careful what you wish for.

We’re about to learn our first choke hold,  a move that’s charmingly called the “root canal” .  Essentially, it involves grabbing  the collar of your opponent’s costume by crossing your arms and tightening your grip. This is guaranteed to make your opponent tap out  (or give up),  our instructor says.

In a rare magnanimous gesture,  James invites me to try it first.   I start on James but the generosity is short-lived. Once again I’m not doing it right…either my grip in his costume is too light, or I’m not getting my elbow high enough on his neck.   We switch, which suits me fine – knowing what kind of effect I’m going for will help me perfect it,  right?

James gets on the bottom.    “Ready?” he asks.  “Sure, go ahe…” I have no time to finish the sentence before James has pulled aside my costume with this left hand, shoved his right hand to the top of my collar, shrimped out to the right to get his left elbow against my neck, then pulled back in to tighten the choke.   I can feel my face go red and my blood pressure skyrocket.    My only effective means of communication is to tap against his arm, the equivalent of saying “uncle.” James does not comply.   I tap again, this time harder.   Blackness starts creeping downwards across my eyes like roller blinds.  I can see just enough to know that James has a glassy, triumphant look in his eyes. He’s enjoying this.

I tap a third time and James releases.  “Ooops! Sorry! But it’s just like that,” he says happily.  “Now you try.”

Except I have no desire to try.  I understood jiu-jitsu would necessarily involve someone trying to manipulate me into submission, but  it never really occurred to me that I would be expected to do it back.   James may have just tried to render me unconscious, but I’m strangely sanguine about it.  I am, however, profoundly troubled by the idea of doing the same thing to him.  I find the idea…shocking.

And right then,  I realize James has taught me my first invaluable lessson from jiu-jitsu – I have no killer instinct. None. With the exception of my little brother (and really, that’s a brotherly obligation),  I’m put off by the idea of inflicting pain on another person.

I’ve already imagined why James is so in touch with his inner rage. The entire sum of his youthful angst is channeled into a highly effective root canal. This is sublimated revenge for every time someone tore his Fraggle Rock t-shirt, trashed his Ursula Le Guin books,  stole his prized Dungeon and Dragons game set. There’s something primitive about his need.

I, on the other hand,  have no weaponized self-esteem issues.  Sure, there were the occasional insults, but nothing that escalated to bloodletting.  I was simply too unremarkable to warrant the attention of  the future violent offenders at my school.  I wasn’t too fat or too thin, too small or too big – basically, I slipped under the radar in life. James – he wasn’t so stealthy.

I get on my back and try to execute the maneouvre with increasing dissatisfaction from James. Everything I do is either, “too high” or “too loose.”  Now, “too indifferent” is a criticism that never occurs to him, although it’s probably the most true.

This only serves to prove that I’m a lover, not a fighter.    I suspect, though, that Ms. Fox may love fighters (I believe all women do, whether they cop to it or not).   If I’m to do well with jiu-jitsu,  I’ll need to find my killer instinct, my “inner James” if you will.   I plan to take an inventory of my past nemeses and project their cruelty onto whomever my opponent may be.  It’s either that, or out myself as a blatant liar to Ms. Fox.    Both options are unsavory.  Nonetheless, the better man must win, even if it is against angry geeks…nothing personal, James.

“No way,” he says, “There is no way you can do this.” He isn’t saying it to be mean, or to discourage me. Robin Black is concerned for my life.

You see, I just finished telling him about PROJECT: IRON FIST, my plan to fight in a MMA bout before the calendar year is out.   I wanted to get Robin’s opinion on the project, since he is uniquely qualified to render one; he’s already done exactly what it is that I’m setting out to do.

For those of you who haven’t heard of Robin, a primer: three years ago he is a

glam rocker from Winnipeg, front man for a band called the Intergalactic RockStars.   He is a high priest of hedonism, prone to all kinds of excess and saying all kinds of outrageous things that are designed specifically to provoke others.   Robin’s life is like a scene from Caligula.  But it is at complete right angles to who he truly is – a decent, well-meaning fellow who only wants to succeed at the thing he loves.

At some point Robin Black the person and ROBIN BLACK! the persona reach a kind of cognitive dissonance. See, Robin is not being himself so much as playing himself – a wild, angry, fun-loving, mysoginistic wolf-child with a yen for “golden showers.”  He compares it to being the “heel” in professional wrestling.   Then it starts to take it’s toll and after a month-long-booze-coke-ketamine-Red Bull bender that ended with a seizure induced from hypoglycaemic shock, Robin realizes it’s time to change his life.  His answer – Mixed Martial Arts.

Three years later, he is now a hardened semi-professional MMA fighter with a 2-3 record, a modest statistic that doesn’t fully encapsulate all the hard work and strife required to achieve it.

“I trained 6 hours a day, 6 days a week, for three years. I quit music. I never, ever left my house except to train — no movies, no bars, no girls, no life. No other projects…only this, and sleeping. This is not something that can be accomplished if you are hoping to do ANYTHING else in life.”

Despite this, Robin says he was still woefully unprepared for his first fight, which he lost, “rather shamefully.” Still, it was the most thrilling thing he’s ever done. “There’s no bigger high than getting up in front of 5000 people in your underwear, knowing you’re about to feel pain.” He adds, “sounds weird to say, but you’re risking a lot; your health, your dignity.  I’d stopped risking anything with music and life is all in the risk.”

Of course, you could find risk in any number of things that don’t involve the spectacle of thousands of people watching you beaten to un-consciousness, so why this?  This is where Robin says something that resonates with me, “As humans, our instinct is to flee from a confrontation and that’s good.  Our urgent desire to run from danger is what has kept our species alive.  But sometimes, we have no choice but to face a crisis head-on.”

I’m nodding wildly at this point, mostly because I’m a dedicated confrontation avoider.  I’ve rarely seen an argument or negotiation I didn’t want to duck out of, even if my position was righteous.  If I see confrontations on TV, I actually cover my face with my hands.   There’s a great line in that movie Wyatt Earp where Kevin Costner’s character says to another, “You’re not a deliberate man, Ed.  I don’t sense that about you.  You’re too affable.”  He may as well have been talking to me.

THAT is why I’m now itching to get in a fight.  I have no particular interest to feel my fist smashing into a mouthful of teeth, but I see where just knowing how to do that, can help;  you can assess a situation quickly, make strategic decisions in an instant and most importantly, feel comfortable with confrontation so you can make rational judgments. Most people avoid acute pain because they don’t know what it feels like and that leads to some warped choices… just look at Larry David. But I figure, at some point pain is necessary to achieve progress.

Yes, but as Robin says, there’s a difference between not shirking from pain and running like an idiot straight towards it.  If I get into an MMA fight by the end of year, even an amateur one, Robin’s prediction is unequivocal: “You will not have trained sufficiently and you will be hurt. Badly.”  I’m starting to feel a little like Donald Rumsfeld – there are things that I don’t know that I don’t know.  I realize that plans have to change when, as Jeffrey “The Dude” Lebowski would say, “new shit comes to light.”

Thankfully, Robin has a solution – forget mixing my martial arts and pick just one.  His choice: Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.  When I mention this to some friends, they laugh, saying it sounds like something  girls do while wearing bikini’s, or one of those dances that have become an exercise work-out, like Tai Bo. But BJJ is a cornerstone of MMA.   For a long time, UFC was dominated by Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu specialists; a Brazilian named Royce Gracie (whose family revolutionized BJJ) would regularly take his opponent (who was often bigger than he was) and neuter the power of their punches by wrestling them to the ground and applying a pressure hold until they submitted.

However,  Robin thinks Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu is good for me because of my reasons for wanting to get busted up in the first place:  Jiu-Jitsu has great value outside the ring. “It’s creative problem solving under duress.  It trains you to think many steps ahead while being, in the moment.  It’s just generally cool. It is a thought-process-changer and will have a great effect on your life.”

Robin thinks that by training 2 hours a day for three days a week,  I could be ready to compete  in 3 months — but I would lose.  If wanted to actually be competitive, I would need, say … 10 months.

As it so happens, one the biggest Jiu-Jitsu tournaments in North America is happening… in 10 months.  It’s called the Joslin’s Canadian Open and happens in nearby Hamilton.  So I have a plan and a goal: I will train 3 days a week for the next ten months and will enter the novice men’s category in my weight class.

Tomorrow,  I will begin training at a place called Mecca in downtown Toronto.   I’m scared shitless, yet at the same time, the idea of my face in someone’s crotch as they trap my head in a leg lock seems…thrilling.  Giddyup.