I am currently on Lorazepam, also known as Ativan (the image above is a no BS advertisement for the drug from 15 years ago. Actually, it may be more or less than 15 years, but right now I don't feel all that motivated to look it up.)

Many years ago, the Old Man was suffering from massive amounts of stress, and his CandyMan dosed him up on the stuff. This was the first time I ever beat my Dad in ping pong. What I thought was a defining moment in my life turns out to be due to the tranquilizing affects of the drug. I carried that win with me for twenty years, and now I realize that my whole competitive life has been based on a lie.

Now I am on the drug for the first time, and there is a thin layer of fog between me and the rest of the world. Criminals have been known to gobble these little numbers prior to armed robbery, etc. I'm about to lay someone off, he had it coming, but I'd still rather watch myself lay him off than actually lay him off myself.

I explained to the Old Man, upon arriving in Chicago, that I was experiencing debilitating bouts of panic and wasn't sure what to do. He suggested alcohol, which is a very strange thing for a Baptist to encourage, particularly because he has not really drank in several decades in order to be a good role model.

But I held out, and he gave me two capsules of prescription medication. He said to only take a quarter of a capsule at a time. I took half of one and flew into a wild panic (I considered forcing myself to vomit it out) that has subsided into a peaceful, easy feeling. I could get used to these, literally, as they are extremely addictive. Now it's time to be an agent of the creative destruction.

Brazilian Jiu Jitsu Sadists


The guys that train at my Brazilian Jiu Jitsu academy are fucking insane. This is not the best academy on the block, it was not founded by one of the legends of the sport, a lot of people don’t even know the black belt that owns the joint, but these motherfuckers train hard.


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(Brazilian Jiu Jitsu Acadamies In My Area Code)

My first week there, everyone was gearing up for a big competition, so I had one of the most torturous hours of sports in my life. A large Brazilian man named Curtis was screaming in Portuguese at the class in between brief shouts of drill instructions. He got out (I swear I am not making this up) a big stick and banged it inches away from our heads as we practiced various escapes. He yelled instructions in broken English, and then when we couldn’t understand them, we did pushup after pushup after pushup. He brought out innovative and sadistic calisthenics from places far away and times long past.

You get to a point beyond willpower in which your mind is completely numb and recessed into survival mode. There’s no choice to do or not do, there’s just your physical body responding to instruction. My only goal was to survive without vomiting. I made it, although not everyone else did. Afterwards, everyone hugged each other. We all felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment for surviving class.

In the locker room, our gis (kimonos) stank of alkaline sweat from bodies completely depleted of carbohydrate stores. I looked around and noticed something strange – the torsos of everyone in that locker room looked like Greek statutes from the Classical period – lean and muscular. It was unnerving, and made me feel morbidly obese by comparison.



That was months ago. Today in class, guys were talking about Curtis, and how his visa ran out and he was back in Brazil. I told a few guys that I thought he was a sadist, plain and simple, and had found a place in which he could channel his sickness into a productive activity, and get paid for it. The other guys laughed it off, and then one of them brought up a story.

“About a year ago, my shoulder popped out of joint. I was in tremendous pain, screaming and everything. Curtis ran over to me and told me he could pop the shoulder back into joint, that he had done it many times before. He leaned me up against the wall, and tried to pop it in. He missed. I almost fainted with pain. He tried again and again – at least six or seven times – and after each time he tried, I inwardly hoped I would finally pass out and not have to deal with the pain anymore. As he wrenched my shoulder, I thought I saw him smiling. It could have been a grimace, I mean, I was delirious with pain. Finally, someone came to their senses and told Curtis they would just take me to a hospital. The doctors said that Curtis had done a lot of damage to my shoulder, and now I would need surgery.”

Another guy listening into the conversation added, “This one Saturday Curtis was running class, and we had a visitor from another school. I don’t know if he was out of town, or just checking out class or what, but he couldn’t keep up, and half way through, he left the mat to get a drink of water. I think he might have been quitting for the day. You could see Curtis’ eyes glaze over with anger, not only at an unauthorized water break,* but the shameless display of weakness. Curtis yelled at this guy to get back on the mat, and started making him do calisthenics in front of everyone. This guy looked like he was going to cry, and just did his best to comply until total physical exhaustion. Curtis then told him to ‘get the hell out of here’”

So today was a promotion day. In most academies, it is a day of celebration. People invite family members. There are pictures and certificates. But in this academy, it is also an opportunity for the black belt that runs the place to tell you all the things you are doing wrong. For example, this one guy named Dan received his black belt after eight years of training. Eight years in the same academy, serving the same master, becoming one hell of a BJJ practitioner. The guy is small and crazy fast. When I roll with him, he rotates through a series of probes faster and faster until I can’t keep up with the defenses and I’m flying through the air. It’s like grappling in fast forward.

So prior to receiving his black belt, Dan was held up in front of the class and told that while he was very good, he had a tendency to fall apart during competitions. The black belt that runs the place talked about how important it is to have blood in your eyes before a match, and Dan was pretty much a big pussy who was too scared to show his true grit and skill.

I got a stripe (one of four on my way to the next belt), and felt great shame as I was held up as an example of someone with potential that pisses it away by not coming regularly. Almost as if reading my mind, he further explained that a lot of people in the room had commitments with work and family and kids, but still managed to make it to class. I got a stripe and a public shaming, and I still consider it a bargain at $130/month. Can’t wait for Curtis to get back from Brazil!

*This is the gist of the story, however, the kind fellow telling the story might have used a different choice of wording.