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June 27, 2006

Shameful self-promotion

One of the best things about my friend Jeff Gilbert is that, at least in the last backstage photo he sent, mugging with Kiss (or at least some old guys in makeup), his hair still flows clear to his butt. And none of it seems to be falling out, which is less easily forgiven.

The other thing is that Jeff Gilbert was Chuck Klosterman before Mr. Klosterman - whose first book I liked well enough to use as a teaching tool last fall - played his first air guitar lick, much less drank his first beer. Which is to say that most of Jeff's writing and listening career [sic] has been devoted to a deep-rooted appreciation of heavy metal.

The rest of it he saves for Stephen King.

As the story goes, Jeff was kicking around Seattle in the early '90s and The Rocket needed somebody to answer the phones and I promised if he'd take the job I'd teach him to write; there may also have been health benefits thrown in, or not. Against some odds, it worked. He was and is one of the few readable writers about metal, and it's been a real treat recently to find odd bits of crossover music close enough to what we cover here at ND to add his byline to our trophy case.

None of which altogether excuses the amended republication of his first collection of short stories, Two Werewolves, A Six-Pack And Elvis, the opening salvo in a genre which I suspect he invented: humorous horror fiction. It's one of those self-published control freak things (he calls the enterprise Hairball Press, which fits, even if he doesn't have a cat; he also publishes a tabloid called Mansplat), much the same way Mike Perry began tooting his own horn on the way to becoming one of my favorite confessional writers. (Mike's new one comes out in the fall, and you'll like Truck: A Love Story, but that's another entry).

Thing is (bear with the digression, though we should all be used to them by now), last week Liz Mandrell (no relation), visiting between sessions at a three-year MFA writing program run by the University of Texas, was lounging in the family coffee shop with a strange guy she introduced as the editor of a literary magazine in Ohio. Twenty years ago this meeting would've made my day, as, twenty years ago, I had literary aspirations. Instead, when he asked if I wrote fiction, I reflected on the years it had been since I even tried and shrugged, another magazine writer gone astray.

But in yesterday's mail, there it was, my first published fiction, a co-writing nightmare masquerading as the bonus cut to Jeff's new edition of Two Werewolves.

It had seemed a harmless and thoroughly forgettable joke (and probably still is). One night, bored, and probably after copy-editing the original edition of Werewolves, I wrote a paragraph or two of faux horror and e-mailed it to Jeff with a taunt: Your turn. So we pingponged the story back and forth, each trying to leave the other in a corner one couldn't write out of, both of us cleaning up the tone of earlier paragraphs until, now, we can't quite tell who wrote what. Well, we can, but neither of us wish to admit to such folly.

And, anyway, why'd he keep that? I had enough sense to delete my copy five computers ago.

So. After all those years I'm finally a fiction writer. Who knew? The story has nothing in common with the rest of my fiction except that there's a dead guy at the middle of it, and that's all I'm giving away. Jeff, he's selling the wretched thing on Amazon. You've been warned.

Posted by Grant at 10:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

June 13, 2006

A pacifist's battle

For the first months of our courtship, Susan and I had a semi-regular Wednesday night date at the fights. I still cannot guess quite why she came with me, but, for my part, I have nurtured a long affection for blood sport. A curious thing, that, for a pacifist.

Often we sat near a young man we knew only as Bobby, who was always fashionably attired (one night in a stunning yellow and black outfit from Calvin Klein, another all red, white, and blue from a different designer). Once he interrupted a phone call to hold his cell over his heart during the national anthem; he would save seats for us if we were late, and ask after our absences.

We went eagerly to this place neither of us belonged, fascinated…for a time. Don King had a record-improving promotion running at the Music City Mix Factory in downtown Nashville; one night we saw, for $15 at ringside, three former heavyweight champions fight: Oliver McCall, Michael Moorer, and, if memory serves, Greg Page.

They were hardly competitive matches. Indeed, once we got to know the cast of regulars, none of the fights were in doubt, and so we found better ways to spend Wednesday night. Ultimately, the cards evaporated amid rumors that homeless guys were being paid to take a public beating.

I would emphasize that those were rumors. I think I know enough about boxing to be confident that the average homeless guy wouldn't even have been credible as an opponent. One of the things one comes to appreciate at club fights is how much skill it takes even to be bad at fisticuffs, how much intelligence (yes) is required to play chess with your hands and feet while your face and belly are being beaten. Nevertheless, the fights were orchestrated by a canny matchmaker who wished to embellish the record of the boxers in his stable, and seemed unconcerned with offering them the slightest education these nights in the ring.

A prosecutor friend was later horrified that we had ever been near the building, for they often served warrants there. There were always plenty of police at the door when the fights ended, and so we always felt safe returning to our cars before the dancing began.

Oliver McCall was by far the most gifted fighter we saw. He is best known for having unexpectedly beaten Lennox Lewis (in Japan, I believe), and subsequently having lost the belt because he cried in the ring. We saw one of his comeback fights, and one or two others (apparently he fought five times in Nashville, and, at 41 continues to attempt comebacks). The first time he came into the ring, part of the audience saluted him “Crybaby! Crybaby! Crybaby!”, only there was a weird kind of pride in their voices.
McCall had an edgy presence, for he came to watch, too, some nights, and apparently has been arrested once or twice with drug paraphernalia. Wild eyes, and people stayed clear of him, for the most part. Whatever he drank was brightly colored, but may only have been juice, for he was in training. But in the ring…whatever you think about the cruelty of the sweet science and the madness of bloodsport, in the ring Oliver McCall was doing what he was meant to do. The sloppy opponents in front of him bored him mightily, trifles not worthy of his gifts, but every once in a while a punch would get his attention and he'd remind everybody who was in charge.

Such grace and beauty.

And yet I am a pacifist, always have been, and can report with pride that I've never hit anybody in anger, though one or two elbows may have drifted while cutting through the key in my younger days.

For any number of years - enough years that I have vague memories of seeing Haystack Calhoun and Chris Taylor at my grandparents' house in Merced - I have also been a fan of professional wrestling. This is harder to explain, perhaps, especially today.

It was once a great carnival art form, before steroids and national TV. I can remember seeing glorious Dutch Savage matches from the Portland territory, and spent Christmas Eve with my brother in 1976 or 1977 watching Jimmy Snuka and Playboy Buddy Rose in a cage match, surrounded by people who we otherwise would never have seen except at DMV. The regulars knew it was faked, but the beauty of the art at center ring was that it didn't matter, for the knowing did not staunch the cry for blood. And, yes, there was terror and revulsion in that appetite. I have always been a little bit detached, and sometimes it's a blessing.

But that was hardly the last match I've attended.

Still, the artform has declined badly. The last match I attended, in Nashville, was being taped for national TV. The pyro failed and so, later, the wrestlers came back out and did a second take of the whole bit. The audience, I guess, was glad to be in the know and cared not at all for their part in the deception.

Still, when the camera work (or, rather, the direction) is so bad that you can see blows that didn't land, and when the skill most in demand is a willingness to take punishment rather than the difficult and time-consuming grappling and gymnastic skills of the old legends, my attention wanes.

Which, at last, brings me to the Ultimate Fighting Championships. As best I can tell from a brief internet search, the UFC is simply the most visible U.S. version of mixed martial arts combat. In addition to its pay-per-view battles in a wire octagon (which sounds more brutal than it is; well, no, it doesn't) the UFC has spawned a reality show on Spike with a houseful of aspirants.

Years ago I saw an early UFC, perhaps the third contest they held, and was horrified. And somewhat entranced. UFC was formed to do two things: To promote the Gracie school of jiu-jitsu, whose leading exponent is, at 180 pounds, a legend; and to answer the question, Which form of hand-to-hand combat is most effective.

Those first matches were brutal affairs, mismatches of size and discipline. As the Gracie school dominated those early affairs, a particular mix of skills and approaches proved to work, a balance between grappling and striking techniques. Royce Gracie's 13-3-3 record would hardly get him ranked in boxing; he's in the UFC hall of fame, and deservedly so. (At least presuming the sport has been around long enough to warrant a hall of fame.)

And, yes, it's a sport. Not a guilty pleasure, nor something I expect my wife to enjoy with me, but a sport nevertheless. The men who do battle in this (and various other mixed martial arts) promotion are phenomenally gifted and driven athletes. The ability to think through the endlessly complex variations of hand-to-hand combat - while somebody is trying to choke you or beat you senseless with his elbows, or break one of your limbs - fascinates me. Not because of its violence, but because of the focus required.

That focus is precious to me. It happens sometimes when writing, occasionally when designing; used to happen when I was young and lifting weights or running the floor. It blocks everything else out, that focus does, and means that when Susan comes in to tell me dinner's ready I will jump from my chair, though she makes no attempt to be quiet.

When it's over, and UFC matches rarely go to decision, the two men who seemed hell-bent on killing each other embrace in what I take to be the ultimate gesture of respect.

Now…how do I reconcile this with pacifism? I don't, not yet. That's why I started to write this, and, again, I have failed.

Posted by Grant at 2:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)