Thursday, August 27, 2009

From Mezz0:
Brasil Post #1: Layover in Chicago



Written while on a layover in Chicago (LAX --> ORD --> GRU --> RIO):

I’ve been training Brazilian Jiu Jitsu for around six years. I never would have gotten involved in this sport if it weren’t for a friend opening up an academy and encouraging me to try it out. Although I outweighed him by fifty pounds, he beat me handily, and then showed me how he did it. I love this sport. I love that it is both a physical and mental challenge, that the old and the weak can beat the young and strong with superior technique. I love the clash of different styles, setting traps that people fall into, switching gears fast, the weightless feeling the other guy has when a sweep is executed perfectly, the feeling of wrist-burn when I am attempting to strangle choke someone until they tap or pass out. I love cheap moves - wrist-locking white belts, hand on the throat, knee to the groin, choking someone’s chin. I love the Brazilian refs who cheat for other Brazilians. I love that when Brazilian Jiu Jitsu was being tested in its infancy 80 years ago, the Jiu Jitsu guys took all comers, and broke the arms of the karate guys who challenged them. I love the unspoken pecking order, having functional, rather than vanity muscles. I love the aggressive tattoos and the don’t fcuk with me attitudes. I love watching people at the very top taking the game in directions that are simply beyond my intellectual grasp. I want kids so I can teach them. I want to do this for the rest of my life. I hope I’m training into my 90’s like Helio Gracie, the founder of the sport, yelling at people 70 years younger that their technique is poor, going to my grave with my gi drying in the closet.

My expectations are that we will train, surf, drink caipirinhas, visit the tourists sights, and have fun in what the natives call, the “marvelous city.” I feel extremely lucky to have this opportunity, to be able to take off two weeks of work in a terrible economy, and to have an amazing spouse who encouraged me to go.




Written today:

My plane arrived in Sao Paulo without a problem. Unfortunately, after three gate changes, our flight was cancelled. Everyone scheduled to fly to Rio was routed around like lemmings all over the airport. We were told to go through customs, but when we arrived, we were told to return to the gate. Halfway to the gate, we were told to return through customs. We all cleared customs, collected our luggage, and boarded a bus to another airport. Upon arriving, we all waited around because nobody knew what to do with us. Finally, we went through ticketing, and checked our baggage once again. We boarded the plane, on a different airline, and arrived at a different airport in Rio than we were originally scheduled to arrive in. Luckily, I was able to make a call at the second Sao Paulo airport and let my instructor and teammates know when and where I would be arriving. After a short flight, I made it - five hours late after being in transit for 30 hours.

Monday, August 24, 2009

From Mezz0:
Childhood Confessions #3

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Saturday, August 22, 2009

From Mezz0:
Ass Factory


I just returned from a two-week trip to Rio De Janeiro with my Brazilian Jiu Jitsu instructor, his wife, one-year-old daughter, and three of my teammates.

We were rarely all in the car together, but on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, two of my teammates and I were in the back seat, our instructor was driving, and his wife was breastfeeding their child in shotgun position (which has a more traditional meaning when in Rio). We had just returned from the beach, and Chimmy, a lethargic 19-year old, fell asleep on the window as we were driving back to the apartment complex.

We had arrived and left early, so as we were driving back to Barra along the coast, there were still copious amounts of attractive women standing, wearing thongs, and facing the ocean. My instructor looked in the back seat, saw Chimmy sleeping, and yelled:

"Chimmy! Wake up! Your missing all kinds of ass!"

Thursday, August 06, 2009

From The Youngest:

Strangers With Candy

or

Flying Into Los Angeleeeez

or

Phishing in the Mountains (Part 1 of 2)


As a part of my ongoing quest to achieve a permanent state of enlightened bliss through drugs and music, I packed up last week and flew out to Colorado. PHiSH was opening up the second leg of their 2009 tour with a return to Red Rocks Amphitheater, the most spectacular outdoor venue in the country, to play 4 nights in a row.















For a lay-person to understand the significance of this event within the Phish community, it's necessary to provide a little bit of history.


Red Rocks was witness to several wildly celebrated Phish shows from years long passed, including their last run in 1996. It's the place where they busted out some of their older songs, dipping back into their epic 80's Gamehendge material. It's the place where fans started the nazi-esque "hood" chant. It's also the place where they were banned for 10 years after angry, ticketless hippies terrorized the nearby town of Morrison, throwing beer bottles and bongs at the local cops.






















As one astute observer mentions in this news footage, "People are just dancin' and tryin' to have fun. We should be able to do whatever we want...just RAGE IT, man..."


Fuckin'A, dirty hippie girl from the 90's, fuckin'A.


The night before I left for Denver, I called up American Taxi to get a ride to the airport at 9:00 the next morning. The next morning at 9:05 I started getting worried and, despite my repeated calls and harassment of the dispatchers, my African driver didn't show up until 9:55. That gave him about 40 minutes to get me to the airport before I missed my 11:00 flight. I noticed a pillow on his passenger seat and suspected that he had tied one off the night before at a wild khat party. He began making excuses, claiming their systems were down and that his GPS wasn't working (it sure as hell did when he plugged it in). I saw bits of chewed up plant material stuck to his teeth and dismissed his excuses quickly, "I don't care what the hell's going on as long as you get me to the airport in time. I will not be checking luggage. Let's GO."















On the way to the airport I called United to check on the status of my flight. Through some minor miracle, it had been delayed for 35 minutes. I sat back in my seat and gave a deep sigh of relief, wondering if I was the only person who was a regular benefactor of a universe that seems to bend to accommodate my will.


Before packing up my carry-ons I had checked the TSA guidelines to see if people are allowed to bring food past security. For some reason, their website only tells you what NOT to bring. I had four special home made chocolate/butterscotch/peanut-butter treats that I wanted to bring along for the concerts but I was worried that they would just get thrown out at the checkpoint. It turns out that they don't give a damn about food...most food, anyway.


Coming into Los Angeles
Bringing in a couple of keys
Don't touch my bags if you please
Mister Customs Man

-Arlo Guthrie


I took a seat at an airport cafeteria bar and bought a tuna sandwich to accompany my tall Sam Adams. The plan was to meet a fellow fan (we'll call him Wrecked) out in Denver. Wrecked was a person who I had never met or talked to up until about 2 days before I left. He had made late hotel reservations for over $150/night so I offered up my hotel room to share with him and a couple of his friends.


Minutes after receiving his email, Wrecked was permanently banned from the online Phish forum where I found him. He had repeatedly made light of the website's strict enforcement of the "no n-word" policy. I wondered to myself if I was making a terrible mistake. All I knew about Wrecked was that he was living in Chicago and that he had caught a Zambrano homerun a while back and freaked the fuck out. I reasoned that if anything went bad, I could track this fucker down.


At the airport bar, I sent him a text to let him know I'd be about half an hour later than expected. He had flown in to Denver the day before. I received the following reply.


From: Wrecked

10:57am

Its fucking freezing here

Hope you brought hoody n jeans


I already had heard that Denver was unseasonably cold, so I came fucking prepared for fucking freezing weather. I boarded my fucking flight, noticed a handful of other fuckers with Phish shirts on, and we took off for fucking Colorado.

More to come...

Wednesday, August 05, 2009

From The Youngest:
Take That, Artie Cobb
(I was planning on finding a youtube video, but the poor bastard doesn't have one, click the image for all you need to know)