Volume Uno

Here’s me, back from cattle country, for good. Home for less than three weeks, and Wisconsin’s quickly becoming a repressed memory. Although I thought I had secured a spot on this page months ago, I was temporarily denied, politely rebuffed [“Isserlis already has a Vegas column,” I was informed]. So instead of making a much-anticipated return, with screaming Japanese women and me giving the thumbs-up to everyone in a two-mile radius, I’ll have to settle for the rather unannounced, unexpected debut I’m making now. No need to bring up past miscommunications and further ruffle the down of the superbly talented and visionary 1 Tuff management. I’m happy to be home, thrilled to be here. [Thumbs-ups]

So, Ben Gets Punched? you ask. It’s true. I do. More than pretty much anybody who doesn’t get his hands taped up first. Big guys, smaller ones, occasionally midgets and skilled circus animals. I usually don’t see ‘em, being that the back of my 7&1/2-sized dome tends to attract the most fists. It’s a target; I’ve accepted that, and my fate as a human heavy bag. Every once in a while, when you find yourself pondering why you’re sniffing concrete when seconds earlier you were spewing seamless gangsta-rap freestyles on a Manhattan street corner, the halogen goes on, you feel some greater consciousness has been stumbled upon and this awful world suddenly does make sense. Then you get kicked in the face and pass out.

Thought of theme and form has led me to this conclusion: there will be none of either in this column, despite what the name may insinuate. I’m more hoping that my tales of forceful skull contact can serve as a prelude, a jumping-off-into-the-stratosphere point, a framing device for thoughts big and small, concussed or otherwise.

With 1 Tuff's diversity at an all-time low, Ben is eager to add his unique
blend of sci-fi nerd and Midwestern buffoonery to the mix

This doesn’t, of course, mean I won’t recount the head-punchings in Hi-Def detail. I absolutely will. Have to. I’m just counting on those yarns to feed the internal discussion monster, who just so happens to resemble the almighty Sarlaac, not so much in form as in interior composition: expansive and cavernous, potentially deadly if you stay in there long enough, but possible of granting rebirth and a fresh outlook if you slip out at the right time. Kinda the same thing it did for Boba Fett, who eventually freed himself from the real Sarlaac with a spanking new purpose: kill Solo [if you’re hearing this Boba Fett Lives! news for the first time, feel free to celebrate in any fashion you deem fitting]. Maybe a convoluted analogy, but it involves Boba Fett, so get over it.

I view Ben Gets Punched as more of a statement of fact than a running column topic; my tales of cranial abuse will provide a conduit for exploring the deeper realities of our world and its supposedly endless possibilities. The column won’t be strictly athletic-driven, we’ve got the Sports Dude for that [you should, however, expect splashes of unsolicited commentary on one team readers will care about (Yanks) and others they most certainly will not (Bills, Badgers), and the possibility of a Freddy vs. Jason-style clash with the Sports Dude looms]. It won’t expressly explore the hopes, frustrations and banalities of our modern world and individual lives, a la Mallo’s Existential Eczema, although touches of the late, great Wyles will surely slip themselves into my work, for everyone’s sake. It certainly won’t be consumed by the misguided musings of the short, single Jewish man; my lack of both insight and interest on the subject preclude this.

This column shan’t be limited in any way by the demands of the marketplace, nor the expectations of the Internet readership. Although establishing a blueprint, slipping into a standard format, would be as comforting as knowing that you can buy beer at any hour of the day in this great state [sidebar: never go to the Midwest: no alcohol after 9:00 p.m.], settling for that facile autobahn to enlightened writing seems like an out; it’s a little too well-paved.

I’m more of a rally-car guy, and hopefully one half of my brain can be the dude in the passenger seat who’s got that map, pointing out directions. Hairpins and holdups, twists and crevasses await, and currently I’m all too eager to encounter and attack them all. Not to say that the navigator inside me — or the guy working the stick and steering wheel — is a world champ, fast and flawless. Peril is rampant, spin-outs inevitable. But crashing the ride and rebuilding the engine is more than essential at times; it’s cleansing, a rebirth of sorts, and although the outer package may look the same, and you install the same exact lifters and cams and headers as before, something’s just different. You can’t step into the same river twice, right? Well, at Ben Gets Punched, I plan on driving my rally machine into each river one time, and that’s it.