This guy is a buddy of mine. He is one tough mother. Check out his latest victory.

A friend to our blog and all-around bada$$, Jamie Varner, was featured in a cool article last month. We interviewed the man last year, but this piece of press is pretty rad, too. Hopefully he will get back in the ring if and when his hand heals. We here at TRIBE are pulling for him.

Check it out below:

Resist. Multiply. Root for Varner.

In August of 2008 we interviewed Jamie Varner, WEC fighter and champion at his weight division.  He was kind enough to answer our questions. If you are interested in what he had to say - just check our previous pieces from early August by clicking on the tags below. 

Last night Jamie defended his title against Donald Cerrone.  We may even get a chance to meet this talented young man in a few weeks, as he travels to NJ to visit a friend we share in common.  

Check out the fight below.  It was a great one.

WEC 38: Jamie Varner vs. Donald Cerrone

Resist. Multiply. Support MMA.

Well, the fourth came and went very quickly. Things have been moving with much speed, all being pulled towards the life changing cosmic vacuum that is August 19th, Stella’s due date. I have a very strong inclination life will be on fast-forward until then, and the remote control is nowhere to be found. It only makes sense that this patriotic weekend was a blink of an eye.

Here is the recap: Beer, Nap, Eat Meat, Eat Brownies, Nap, BBQ with friends, Phone calls to nationwide friends, more beer, more napping, BBQ with more friends, additional consumption of hotdogs and burgers, more inhaling of sugar and fat a.k.a. brownies, return phone calls to far away friends I missed while napping, paint baby’s room, UFC 86, take aspirin, vitamin B, re-hydrate, go to sleep, listen to distant fireworks, Strummer guardian like barks interfere with sleeping, Stella is sound asleep, God Bless America, going to detox tomorrow (aloe vera tablets, gallon of water with lemons in it) For this mission home court advantage is mandatory. More fireworks to come, of the private sort.

UFC 86 -

Stella and I hosted a UFC 86 party over the weekend. The fight card was exceptional. All of the preliminary bouts were worthy warm ups for the main event. Forrest Griffin vs. Rampage Jackson was the much-hyped main event, and it lived up to all of the excitement. The championship match went all five rounds ending in a decision awarding Forrest Griffin, the underdog, the victory and the light heavyweight belt. Forrest Griffin is tough as nails, and is always the great up setter. From the corner of my safe, comfortable couch I have to agree with the decision. It was one hell of a fight, controlled by Griffin. Both of the combatants I like, so I was not pulling for anyone in particular. I just wanted to see a very good fight, and I most definitely did. Both men are incredible athletes and gracious fighters. The brief post fight interview conducted by Joe Rogan, an exceptional commentator, demonstrated the fighters are very humble and humorous. All at our party really respected both fighter’s skills and the kind, complimentary things they said about their opponents after all was said and done. In a past post I commented on how MMA is misperceived as a brutish, skill less bloodspot. This past weekend, Rampage Jackson and Forrest Griffin, seasoned veterans, entertained the fight world with their physical prowess, and followed it up with being, well, hell, fine gentlemen, setting the record straight that MMA is a honorable sport. Perhaps, these UFC all stars should conduct a finishing school for the NBA or MBL. The ballers’ could learn a couple of things from the brawlers.

One of the people sitting on the couch with me was Kevin, Stella’s younger cousin. Recently, Kevin returned home from serving two separate combat tours in Iraq. It was an honor to have him, and it was very fitting to have him spend time with us over the July 4th weekend. He is a 24-year-old Iraq war veteran, and we’re glad to have him home with us alive and well. Thank you Kevin, another up setter, he beat the odds!

Another attendee of the party was the famous, soon to be infamous, Karaoke Mike. Karaoke Mike is Stella’s enigmatic, always entertaining father. Karaoke Mike has many aliases. Well, Karaoke Mike is obviously one of them; he rocks the karaoke Mike hard and means business when belting out renditions of Kenny Loggin’s, and La Toya Jackson’s sole pop hits. Also, make sure never to get in his way if he is singing Sinatra’s “My Way” for the 87th time.

Chronic is another name of Mikes’. This title is fitting because he suffers from the most peculiar, non-related, long lasting physical ailments known to man. He looks very good for his age, youthful, full head of hair, and a vibrant complexion, but internally he is falling apart. If you were to sit down and have him explain the doings of his innards then you the listener would have a laundry list of internal problems rivaling that of a retired professional wrestler. You would think, while listening to Mike, he spent twenty-five years touring Western Europe and obscure, out of the way villages of Mexico, body slamming dangerous opponents on a nightly basis. Mike doesn’t even know what a full nelson is; he has been both a nurse and a teacher his whole professional life. There are no pile drivers necessary when nursing or teaching. So, where do the ailments come from? (This will be touched upon tomorrow – teaser/trailer –Karaoke Mike is sitting in my kitchen at 4 in the morning. He is wearing nothing but white, glow in the dark, let me bleach them one more time, tighty whities, fruit of the looms, writhing in pain. I come down the stairs to find…)

Another fitting name for my father in law is Don Peligroso. In some Latin countries, Don is a respectful title put in front of the first name of prestigious, powerful men. Men who may own a lot of land, or who have been very successful in the world of business may be addressed as Don so and so. Make no mistake, I have a lot of love and respect for my father in law, hence the title Don. However, Peligroso translates to danger, or dangerous. Mike is the Don of Danger. This perfect nickname was self-appointed. While spending time in Costa Rica, Mike deemed himself dangerous. Stella, myself, and JFL (a friend traveling with us) all agreed, whole-heartedly. (teaser/trailer – At both Houston International Airport, I refuse to refer to it as George Bush airport, and Liberia International Airport in Costa Rica, Mike was one second away from getting strip searched and imprisoned. Both travel/security debacles happened all in one day! Impressive, dangerous, peligroso)
(more…)

100 days to go

Owen reporting for duty.

When we travel by plane, Stella is asleep before the plane takes off. Impressive. I’m jealous.

When we travel by car, Stella is asleep five minutes into the trek. Impressive. I’m jealous.

Then there is myself, and my lack of sleep. I’ve never been a sound sleeper. I wouldn’t necessarily classify myself as an insomniac a la Tyler Durden from Fight Club, but its safe to say I go to work tired more often than I do well rested, ready to be a very productive worker bee (great Fight Club reference if I do say so myself).

Its safe to say when the baby comes, I’m not very concerned about loss of sleep, or late nights. So many parents have told me, in a delirious tone, frustrated tone, “Oh, you’re never going to sleep.”

I say nothing. What’s the point? They have their minds made up, and so do I. I don’t sleep very well as is. With child, I’ll have celestial company, the best kind, my kind, mi familia. They actually sound surprised when saying such obvious things to me. What did they think they were signing up for? Sleep away camp. Its parenting, and a prerequisite for the beginning of it, is lack of sleep. Deal with it.

Normally, what I do when Stella is out cold, snoring like a drunken lumberjack (not that I know what an unconscious lumberjack sounds like sober or drunk), competing in what I call “The Pregnant Snoring Tournament” I play my guitar. My axe, as guitars have been referred to, is a Gibson Les Paul, and when plugged in to an amp it is mean, cutting deep with distortion, but with truthful clarity. Hell, the guitar is designed by the man himself, Les Paul, the inventor of the electric guitar. How many lives do you think he has impacted?

Mr. Les Paul lives in Mahwah, NJ. The 93-year-old music revolutionary lives about 20 minutes from my home. I wonder if he is a night owl; maybe we could jam, run through a blues tune that lends itself to jamming.

Sometimes I play along to Stella’s snoring; we create a little Yoko and John thing. Of course, it’s an unplugged session. At that time of night, I’m supposed to be asleep, so I’m a bit off, not as focused or clear, so usually I just practice my scales, or shapes. It’s a great way to burn the midnight oil. I’m confident the baby can hear the scales being run through and the chords being strummed.

*Sorry I didn’t get to the UFC Reality Show – I do watch it TeVo’d (word?) while wide awake with guitar in hand and pregnant wife snoring right next to me. I wonder if Les Paul invented the electric guitar during a late night brain storming session? A piece of wood. Six strings. Electricity. Snoring. Welcome to my nocturnal existence.

Tomorrow’s Topic:
So when are you due?

Resist.
Multiply.