So here we are. Another UFC pay per view coming up. Finally, a fight I've wanted to see for a good while. You've got Carwin the Neanderthal versus Lesnar the Aryan wet dream. Brilliant. Convinced that one day my genius will be recognized, based on my relatively noteworthy accuracy when it comes to making fight predictions, I will now continue to risk it all in terms of reputation and the undying adulation of my fervent public, and say that I think Carwin is going to pull it off.

Am I convinced of this? Nah. But it's the way I am leaning, provided Carwin understands that this will have to be the performance of a lifetime, which I can't imagine to be a concept which has eluded him. He must, absolutely must, have an answer to the problem of a remarkably agile behemoth in the way of Brock shooting at him like a flesh and bone missile, hell-bent on taking him down and raining those ball-peen hammer punches down on his mug. If he can't make that happen, he is going to have an unpleasant time.

But I think he's a smart enough guy to understand that. And I don't think Lesnar has ever faced someone who matches him in size, power, and who has hands like anvils. In any event, here's hoping that this fight will be everything that it promises to be on paper: Two very big, very talented, mean ass mofos-each representing some obscure category in the evolutionary ladder- looking to beat the living shit out of each other. If it doesn't, I will never order a UFC fight again. Then maybe I'll be able to keep up on my car payments.

Is the Ice melting?

It is twenty five minutes until showtime. It's a fucking recession, and I told myself that the UFC, which is dangling us all by the proverbial ankles and shaking out whatever meager pennies remain in our pockets, is not going to get me this time. Franklin as a last minute stand-in for a Tito Ortiz who seems to be headed for the ol' self-destructive tear so popular with modern athletes (think Tyson, Rodman, etc.). "Really" I told myself, "who GIVES a shit?"

Evidently I do. Those greedy bastards have got me again, like a crack dealer waving some primo rock in an addict's face precisely at the moment he has decided to fly straight.

So, with fifteen minutes left, I give you my prediction. I am going with Franklin. The followers of my blog (which may consist of a crazy uncle and my buddy who may or may not interrupt his porn surfing long enough to log in) may ask why.

The answer is I believe that, while an Iceman in his prime would have eaten Franklin for breakfast and farted out hair gel fumes, suffering the types knockouts which have befallen him in the most recent part of his career may have taken that narrowest of margins-which are often the difference between a champion and a challenger-away from him. Brains don't heal, and I think Franklin is a sound enough strategist to pull this one out. Of course, Chuck still has those sledgehammers, and a solid connect can always re-establish his credibility, but I am leaning toward Franklin in a decision or a late knockout. Peace.

Hello again, friends in the world of MMA. It's been a little while since I've posted, so dejected was I at the debacle that was Abu Dhabi; Matt Hughes overwhelmed an adequately skilled but physically outclassed Renzo Gracie, Frankie Edgar won a moderately entertaining kickboxing match against BJ Penn and Anderson Silva found a way to translate his incredible mastery of the sport into a thoroughly boring experience in his match against Damian Maia (yaaaawn)-a promotions nightmare for Dana & company, as this event was supposed to launch their move into the international big time. Can anyone say FLOP?

Redemption came, sort of, via the WEC event that soon followed, in which Jose Aldo showed signs of being the best pound-for-pound in the sport, in spite of his reluctance to finish a limping, virtually immobilized Uriah Faber that seemed there for the taking. Manny Gamburyan made us take note when he took out a Mike Brown who is quickly getting introduced to the school of hard knocks and proving that when it comes to MMA, fortune can be a fickle companion indeed.

Dana and his cronies are really dangling us by the ankles now, seeing how many pennies and lintballs come out of our pockets. Quite frankly, I'm starting to smell a bit of a market saturation. If you're going to make me shell out a monthly c-note so you can get your lady a new set of wheels, you better start blowing my socks off. But, for this month, you've got me by my MMA loving privates, as my curiosity compels me to see, firsthand, what will happen with the Machida-Shogun rematch. Tough one to call, but I say Machida will figure out how to win this one more decisively, if only to prove to himself (and the public) that the belt belongs on his waist. As far as Koschek-Daley is concerned, it's one of those situations in which I think Josh's well rounded arsenal will allow him to pull it out, but boy, would I love Daley to beat his ass, which is far from being out of the question. Until next time.

The Eyes of March

Greetings, friends.

March is shaping up to be quite the interesting month in the world of MMA. Brandon Vera just got his ass handed to him by a Bones Jones who showed us some next level s*** both on the ground and off, in addition to physical attributes which should be a major cause for concern for his fellow light heavies as he continues taking scalps with no sign of slowing. And, at 22, he's just getting started.

Alessio Sakara, clawing his way back from the bowels of MMA obscurity, put an end to his match with a manorexic looking James Irvin with a left hook that pushed the Sandman's eyeball halfway into his skull. Ouch.

Gabriel Gonzaga, while throwing a lead round kick, stepped sloppily into the left of Junior Dos Santos and out of immediate title contention, clearing another rung in Dos Santos' climb to the top of an increasingly compelling heavyweight division.

Bob Arum, God bless that man, gave me some serious belly laughs when he, in an interview with Fanhouse, referred to MMA fighters as skinheaded white guys rolling around like homosexuals. Brilliant. (I know, Bob, if I were a boxing promoter who came to the horrifying realization that all those oodles of money that used to go into my pocket are vaporizing into the MMA infused ether, I would be spewing some panicked gibberish myself).

And finally, we have this weekend's UFC, featuring, among other things, George St. Pierre's title defense against Dan Hardy and Frank Mir vs. Shane Carwin.

Frank Mir is a highly competent, well rounded fighter who shows a consistent dedication to improving and posed a threat to anyone at any time. But I'm going to have to go with Carwin on this one. As technically sound as Mir is, I don't think he will be able to handle the 'X' factor Shane brings to the table. His sheer, brute strength, backed up with enough skill to get the job done, should, by my incredibly precise calculations, result in a knockout within three rounds.

As far as the main event is concerned, I'm not saying anything novel in predicting a St. Pierre victory; he is bringing too much to the table for me to think otherwise. I don't see Hardy out striking him. I don't picture Hardy winning a takedown or ground battle. St. Pierre's sheer physicality is such that I often think that either a) he's juicing, or b) he's one of those genetic freaks that come along once every couple of decades.

With that said, I have to come out and say that Dan Hardy tugs at my MMA heartstrings. He's an underdog who embodies that punk spirit that reminds me of some footage I saw of a Sex Pistols concert in which Sid Vicious flips the bird at the audience as he plays guitar, prompting someone to throw a bottle which hits him dead in the middle of his face. As he watches the ensuing gush of blood land on his chest, he looks up and f*****g SMILES! Now that is hard core.) How can you not love it when he threatens to beat the fake tan off of St. Pierre?

Dan Hardy could give a rat's ass whether people think he can win or not, and he is not about to let anyone else, particularly some UFC golden boy who can jump over your head, keep him from his goals. Sure, it's a long shot, and his strategy of exposing St. Pierre's alleged glass jaw is flimsy at best, but a part of me secretly hopes that, while guys like me are typing opinions on a laptop at Starbuck's and guys like him are fighting, Dan Hardy will show us where we can stick our opinions. Go get 'em.

KO-Cain

Hellooo, kiddies!! So nice to make the acquaintance of my fellow MMA enthusiasts. I am delighted to be in a forum where I can freely opine on matters MMA and beyond, without having to look over my shoulder as some 'roided up, shaven headed maniac fresh from his jiu-jitsu class has decided that I am some pedantic windbag that needs to be silenced, and it's HIS job to shut my mouth.

Whenever I give my take on the world of MMA, I often ask myself if there is any reason anyone should care about what I think. And I always come up with the same answer-there is none. It doesn't mean a damned thing. I won't even watch award shows because the idea of watching a show about what somebody thinks about what somebody else does is absurd; no one ever built a statue for a critic. So, in addition to pontificating on the gladiatorial spectacle we have all come to love, I will offer tidbits I've amassed from my years as a martial artist, trainer, student of the human condition and overall squirrel tryin' his best to get his greasy little paws on the proverbial nut (that didn't come out right).

Anyways, as I write this, I've just finished watching Cain Velasquez decimate the eminently competent but perhaps long in the tooth Minotauro Nogueira. I can't say I was surprised at Cain's victory, but the emphatic swiftness with which he settled the affair raised more than one eyebrow and moved him closer to a shot the UFC's heavyweight title. The evolution of his standup skills was evident for all the world to see as the renowned wrestler never bothered to wrestle, opting instead to use round kicks and knees that would earn the respect of any Muay Thai practitioner before scrambling his opponent's brain circuitry with some sound, devastating boxing. This skill set should prove problematic, to say the least, for those who stand between him and the title he most certainly covets. But the question remains, can he deal with the explosive bulk of the UFC's resident Drago, Brock Lesnar, or Shane Carwin? Can he kick the crap out of Frank Mir like I think he can? Either way, you've done your job, Cain, 'cause I'd be happy plunk down the fifty bucks to find out.

And now, for my 'MMA for Life' tip.

A few years ago, I used to hang tough with my boy Jeff. Jeff was a record label exec from Long Island. After working with a few gangsta rappers, he became one of those infuriating whiteboys who fancy themselves 'hood rats with credentials because they drive SUV's with tinted windows and speak in some contrived, pathetic version of ebonics. But Jeff was my friend, and I would give him self-defense tips, one of which was the suggestion to wear heavy shoes whenever possible and, at the first sign that things are about to go bad, just kick the shit out of the opponent's shins.

Well, one day, at a night club, someone must have grown weary of Jeff's harmless but irritating charade, and decided he was going to clean his clock. Jeff got shoved, and as his foe wound up to deliver his drunken overhand right, Jeff punts the guy's shin with his boot, which, of course, was a Timberland. The guy stared into Jeff's face for a few long seconds, terrifying my friend, as that kick represented the extent of his martial arsenal. Next thing you know, the guy collapsed in agony, rolling around and screaming about his leg. Whew. Come to think of it, I'm not very proud of that, as I feel, in retrospect, that maybe Jeff deserved to get his ass kicked, because that little Eminem/Vanilla Ice thing he did could really get on your nerves. Oh well. Until next time.