First rule of Advanced Dungeons and Dragons, Don’t talk about Advanced Dungeons and Dragons. Second Rule of Advanced Dungeons and Dragons…. DON"T TALK ABOUT ADVANCED DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS!

I recently had an opportunity to see one of the most talked about films of October 15 1999, Fight Club, staring Brad Pits and Edward Snortoncoke. The film is loosely based upon a club of homos who meet once a week to take off their shirts and then have violent gay sex together. This less shocking and less provocative revamp of A Clockwork Orange is rooted on an average Saturday night at the University gaming society. But I am not writing to talk about the movie, because the only thing worse than a sitting through a two hour and forty-five minute movie, is talking about a two hour and forty-five minute movie. No, I am writing this to talk about one of Canada’s favorite pass times, Fighting and drinking (not in that order.)

Growing up as a black man in the streets of Compton, I learned two things very quickly, I’m lousy at fighting and bitches ain’t shit but lips and clits, word. Fighting is a very odd thing on the road to becoming a man, in that everyone thinks they can do it, when really only a few can. Furthermore, as a man it is excepted that we must all fight at one time or another, and again few of us rarely encounter confrontations, and even fewer of us act on it. I am no different. I cower from possible violence like movie studios cower from new Chevy Chase projects. And after seeing Fight Club, I think I know why. Cause the feeling you get after getting in a fight isn’t the win or lose euphoric glow that media has told us accompanies confrontation, but a feeling of absolute shit. You heard me.

I got into a fight at the beginning of this summer. Hommie was stepping and I had to shut ‘em down. I was drunk at a BBQ out in the projects (a rich upper-class cabin party) and was attacked by a brother from a different mother because I was creeping his Philly. I won this fight. The next morning I felt crappy because I let my temper get the better of me, I hurt someone else with no justification for it, and I had a fat lip and sore knuckles. Damn, why you wanna play a brother like that.

I got into a fight about a month earlier at one of Kid and Play’s house parties. I was drunk, someone yelled something at me that made me mad, The end result was getting my head put through a wall. I lost this fight. The next morning I felt crappy because I embarrassed myself in front of a huge group of people, had to pitch in to get Play’s wall fixed, and had a welt on my head the size of tennis ball… worse yet, a hippie put it there.

I got into a confrontation about two months latter. I was with my bitch Shanice, and Cue ball was steppin’ in the Macs’, trying to get me to loose my shit. I slung some verbal insults at the biaytch and then walked away. I didn’t throw down. I walked. The next morning I felt crappy because I felt I didn’t stand up for myself. I felt like a coward.

My main man Kenny Rogers once sang "sometimes you got to fight to be a man." And Kenny was right. There are sometimes when you have to make sure your shit is packed tight and get like Attiro Gaddy. Laudy Daudy. But don’t let movies like Fight Club fool you. You’re never going to feel good about it. You might get that adrenaline rush during and for a short time after. But it wears off, and you have to look at yourself in the mirror through black eyes the next day. If I could go back and re-fight my battles this summer, I would have chosen them more wisely. Punk’s dissin’ you in the Macs’ deserve to get beats sometimes, and a two hundred-pound hippie is still two hundred pounds. But go see Fight Club anyway. It’s not bad, and neither is fighting I guess, because sometimes you have to get wicked. Disregard everything I wrote above, (except for the part about a Bitch being shit but lips and clits, cause that’s nothing but gospel). Let’s go kick Brad Pit’s izass. Peace.