People keep asking, so here, basically Tiki, who owns the Huntington Beach Ultimate Training Center has recently been on a Throwdown hating streak, that has extended to ripping the shirt off of Cheik Kongo as he walked into the gym to train. It is no secret in the MMA industry that Throwdown has ripped off EVERYBODY- fighters, vendors, right down to the guys who printed the first shirts, and the former VP. Well these guys were in some club and forgot that Tiki is the godfather of huntington beach

Check checkit

Jason Mayhem Miller

#000

We all have the image burned into our minds. It is a image burned into our collective consciousness, a muscular guy in a karate suit striking his toughest “pose named for an animal“, his luscious mullet flowing in the wind. If I could go back to the 80’s and tug that guy’s Daniel LaRusso headband off, I’d “sweep the leg, Johnny” and send him packing to New Jersey with his single-mother and adopted Asian grandfather who taught him that “waxing off” is an effective method of training for physical combat. A lot of us can’t shake this idea that martial arts aren’t anything magical. Frustrating as it is to someone as short tempered as I tend to be, there’s not a whole lot mysterious about why many people believe this to be true. Many people are idiots.

That being said, I was once one of those idiots. If someone were to punch at Steven Segal, he would trap their hand then give them the front flip action, then a swift kick to the neck-piece, and the camera pans up to his toughest kung-fu-face and a guitar squeals really hard. Meanwhile, in the neon-soaked streets of Hong Kong- Frank Dux was running from Forest Whitaker on the little Chinese boats, then fought in the Kumite to avenge his biker friend guy, and wins by defeating Bolo with a jump spinning crescent kick. It was SICK. I was on the trampoline doing super jump spinning crescent kicks until it was dark and I’d have to stop every so often to set the sensor light, before returning to my karate class in the sky. This was my reality. If you were a black belt, you had magic powers, you could glow, and if you knew the magic words (HA-DO-KEN!) you could throw a fireball. If I could just get my parents to buy me a karate suit, and maybe those ninja boots, and I’d be set. This was my reality and with the evidence that I had collected through A-Team reruns, Time Cop on VHS, and my friend’s friend’s karate instructor that had to check his hands in with the courthouse security staff, because they were being registered as deadly weapons I was sold on these ideas. So mystical, so magical, so “anime.”

When you wake up to those dreams, you realize the brutal, ugly, truth. Fighting is brutal and ugly, and the uglier the style, the more effective it seems to be. No one was making movies about Muay Thai, well, except that one where Jean Claude Van Damme, or “JC” as I call him went to Thai island to train for some quest, but comes out of training camp and still does kempo karate kicks, even though all he did was kick banana trees all day. The knees, elbows, and the” Not Camera Pleasing” kicks that entail the art of Muay Thai aren’t exactly the most breathtaking movements, but this ain’t a beauty contest. Muay Thai practitioners had to wait until 2005 to get a badass movie made for them, while we’ve been watching karate movies for decades. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not “Hating the Player” -good for karate. I’m proud of “him,” but he’s expired. Someone wondered what would happen when you put these flashy-kickin’-kata practin’-Mortal Kombat watching black belts to fight a skinny Brazilian guy but somehow the “unhandsome” Gracie style (complete with chest hair and pajamas) managed to teabag his opponents to death, even though he won while the other guy was obviously winning, I mean “He had to be winning- he was on the top!”

Well, if you think I’m calling my beloved sport “ugly” well you are wrong. I believe that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Is Bruce Lee’s jump spinning back-kick beautiful? Yes, absolutely. Is St. Pierre’s transition from the kimura to the arm-lock a thing to behold? Again, absolutely. Remember Ol’ Stevie-Ponytail’s wrist-lock front flip? It is lovely, I mean fricken beautiful but ridiculous to the point of banging your head on the floor with frustration. When you put two resisting, angry meatheads in the cage against each other, battling for cash and prizes, you start trimming the fat and getting rid of what doesn’t work- because you can’t afford to blow it by getting into a deep horse stance, and then getting punted into a coma by a giant shin-bone against your snot-box. When you are educated about actual combat, and the most effective forms of it, then you begin to see through the fog of mysticism that surround the TMA ’s. This clears your misconception formally perpetuated by mass media, that flashy kicks are required for someone to beat someone up. Thanks to You Tube, everyone knows what a real fight looks like, and 9 times out of ten- ( the one clip of the karate kid knocking out the cholo kid excluded) The beautiful methods normally falter to the more contemporary styles of ass-kickery.

Take me for example. I am far from a bronze Adonis, but I have spent enough time in the gym to look like Schwarzenegger, had I been pumping iron. Instead what I have done is spent my time sharpening my skills in the most effective forms of martial arts, which are generally regarded as Wrestling, Brazilian Ju Jitsu, Muay Thai, and Boxing. Just like me, they aren’t the most gorgeous things on earth but they work a hell of a lot more than overgrown muscles stacked on top of muscles. Ronnie Coleman’s physique is quite impressive, with his rippling striated deltoids, but I’ll take Matt Linland’s farmer body, or Fedor’s “stick of melted butter” build in a fight. Strong enough to perform the techniques necessary to win, without the pretty excesses that may get you laid at a pool party.

Back to Mullet-man, standing in a deep horse-stance, in his American-flag parachute pants, and

The beautiful stylist teaches himself, through hours of kata, to use shiny metal weapons bought at the flea market, to battle off attackers from multiple angles. It looks awesome. The problem with traditional martial arts is that they’re like a bikini model with down syndrome they look great at first, but once you get around either for too long, you feel guilty for even being involved. When I was doing my kata’s in the back yard of my family’s government housing, complete with meditation I really believed that my moves would translate to the ghetto kids in my neighborhood. The ugly truth was that the only person that my karate worked on was my little sister, including the time I snap-kicked her in the tooth making her cry and cutting my foot open, my mom walking into quite a scene. I had to graduate high school with a scab on my foot for god’s sake. I kid, of course, the techniques that worked in the constant fistfights that plagued my neighborhood in my elementary school years, were far from the flashy kicks I learned in tae kwon do. Real fighting turned into a wrestling match with punches, and kicks were reserved for when one guy got the other laid out on the playground. My dad taught me the “Miller right” an overhand punch thrown from the waistline, that can go right into a headlock throw. It was ugly as sin, but got me out of, and into a boatload of trouble for many, many years. Much better than the ineffective spin kicks that that man in the ugly para-pants showed me. I feel as if this months article is very effective at conveying a message, I just hope that it isn’t that ugly.

Even by the time I had awakened from my karate-fueled stupor that lasted approximately 16 years, I still fell victim to martial arts mysticism. Even in my first few fights as a professional fighter I still thought there was some type of magical moves I could use to win a fight complete with a musical score permeating the small armory in southern Georgia. Even though most of my fight training at the time consisted of Gracie Ju Jitsu’s floor fighting, I always started the fight with a head kick- an obvious remnant of my grade school Tae Kwon Do classes. Once I got over that particular obsession, I began to think that it would be a better idea to attempt flying triangles or flying arm bars, or jump into a flying guard of some sort. In this day and age of Ultimate Kickboxing, going to your guard is blasphemy, but at the time when JuJitsu still had it’s special cloud of magic dust floating all around it, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

What I did figure out was although there was no secret move choreographed by John Woo that could give me a free pass to stardom, there was just the ugly moves. The ugly hard work of mixed martial arts. Chokes, kicks and punches that are direct and to the point. No frills or ponytails or armless karate gi’s to rely on, just the tenacity of an athlete who devotes his life to honing his skills to perform at the highest level on one loud crazy night in a loud crazy arena to thousands of loud crazy fans. Oh crap. I just figured out the beauty of our ugly sport. The beauty is in the athletes ability to perform real moves under real pressure. The thousands of hours spent kicking a heavy bag, strangling friends, and punching one another, all for one time to shine on a Saturday night. Although there are no secret tournaments to fight for the chance to win a giant golden dragon, what we do have is the beauty of watching the competitor with the best game-plan and best skills becoming champion on high definition television. Now we just need mullets and flying triangles to come back in style, and the whole universe will have come full circle.

Jason Mayhem Miller

#000

That's really all I had to say. Actually it got stolen at the pool at the Hardrock, as I walked around in my turqouise underwear. Bastards.

Jason Mayhem Miller

#000

Jason "Mayhem" Miller: Heroes

---

By: Jason "Mayhem" Miller

When you talk about Hero’s it’s hard to stop from getting cheezy. I mean full on cheeze-iriffic to the point that you catch images of Rocky (the 80’s one, not the HGH one) posing in front of the American flag with a black eye while a swelling of horns accompany him in a slow motion shadowboxing montage, climaxing into the next scene where “our hero” goes to do battle with whatever monster or Russian that the mass media was telling us was evil at the time. It’s particularly hard for me not to get cheezy, because when I hear the word “Hero” my cynacism gland ruptures and sends sarcastic goo all throughout my body, sending me into toxic shock syndrome, and I can only be revived with a strong shot of espresso, which normally allows me to put finger to keyboard and relieve some of the built up pressure. But, it seems the moment that I release that pressure, I get hit with a completely new pressure- the fact that I am hero to many a Mayhem Monkey™. If you think your life is stressful, try living with the fact that you have a cult of bi-polar 15 to 40 year old males relying on you to first, not kill yourself, then perform inside and outside of a steel cage for your living wage. Still not as bad as the stresses of dealing drugs, or being Kevin Federline, but stressful nonetheless.

But enough about me, and my Z-Level celebrity that has plagued me for all of 5minutes in my 15 grand minutes given to me by Andy Warhol and more recently, myspace.

When you compare the guys I looked up to as a kid to the people I idolize at the current stage in my life, the difference is staggering, and not just the choice of spandex between the two.

First off, the Hero’s I looked up to were normally on the big screen, normally emblazoned with a flowing mane of thunder cat hair, or wore a mask that shielded his identity from the common men, as well as the dastardly villians for whom he reviled. I put my faith in these oft-animated, normally spandexes giants of He Man epic proportions, every day right after school, dropping my TMNT lunchbox on the kitchen floor and clicking on the TV, eyes blazed wide open, so as not to miss a single sentence uttered by any of those green, half-shelled ninja fighters.

As I got older, I realized that Pro-wrestling was fake. A sham. It was all fixed. If you are reading these words for the first time now, then I hope you are sitting down for this portion of the article. I am very sorry for your loss, but those athletes are just play-acting the whole thing. Sure it is athletic and at certain times very stunning, there is no danger to either competitor’s ego, just his body. He knows whether or not he comes home with the championship belt, no real stress on that front.

So at this tender age of I can’t remember, I guess I was like 15 at the time, I was confronted by the painful reality that all the guys I looked up to were actors wearing stretchy-pants. This didn’t pain me as much as the angry infantry seargant that lived in the upstairs bedroom with the crazy nurse lady. My parents, whom I saw when they were hastily going to, or begrudgingly returning from work. I had once looked up to my dad, who would come home with a familiar army cigarette smoke- motor pool-type smell on him, when I was still lamping with my lunchbox on my dresser. My parents could never body-slam Andre the Giant in front of One hundred thousand in attendance and the millions watching at home, but I didn’t care about these things anymore. I had moved on I was 16 now and almost a man in my head.

The world of MMA eventually beckoned me to join it’s “cult” of sort that I quickly joined the ranks of every bad-boy-spandex wearing brazillian wannabe jujitsu kid on the block. My hero’s last names were usually Gracie and I sometimes said “my friend.” at the end of my sentences ugh, at least while I was on the mat. Anyway, I trained hard, left home to be the best “NHB” fighter of all time and tried to soak up all the knowledge I could from these connectors to my hero’s -the ju jitsu instructors who had trained with Rickson, and Rolls Gracie but some of those hero’s started to seem as if they were no longer living up to the standard that I had set up in my head for them and I began to set adrift on the hero front. I got good enough to maybe possibly beat up my hero’s and definitely beat up some of my ancient heros, like my tough old man, who didn’t know how to defend the triangle choke.

I continued along my hero-less journey, until I finally stumbled on to the internet as a full time hobby. I then heard miraculous tales of amazing battles and internal struggles overcome by these champions in the cage. The UFC was getting popular, at least in my eyes, despite what pay per view numbers said, and by golly, I was hell-bent on being as awesome as these superstars standing on the ramp while hard-rock music was playing and fireworks exploded all around them.

I packed a van full of junk, which happened to be all of my worldly possesions in a van, kissed goodbye my old life as a kickboxing instructor and left Atlanta to California, in search of a hero and hopefully become a hero. A strange thing happened once I got there and as I delved deep into the world of mixed martial arts often rubbing shoulders with my heroes and occasionally getting to punch, kick and choke them. It was just like a dream. Eventually, many of the shadows and smokescreens were lifted from my eyes. I began to see people in a light that I didn’t have any desire to see them in. With each bit of knowledge that I received would clarify my perception that much more, and what made a hero for me shifted more and more. The spandex clad heros that I had once longed to be were, well, a bunch of douche bags, for lack of a better term. Once I was made aware of this fact, and saw that all humans are just humans, I felt a lot differently and thought that what makes for a “Hero” should not be taken lightly. To each person it is unique, and your opinion must be shaped through personal experience, as well as skill we aren’t always adept at, using logic. I can just say a lot of fighters that I have met have proven to be as heroic as they look on TV, I can’t say who was douche bags and who made me feel bad about who I chose to idolize. All I can really say for sure is that I now idolize people who go above and beyond for others. When you aren’t just living for yourself, but for someone who may need the help more than you. Like the first nurse, Florence Nightingale, or like the nurse that worked nights so that I could have school clothes. Or like my boy fighting the war in Iraq, Rivera covering his boys on the ground from the chopper, or the smelly old Army seargent with the sandpaper beard who wrestled around with me in the living room while my sister screamed I am trying to watch Back to the Future!”

As far as the Cult of Mayhem Monkeys that I have amassed throughout my career as a professional ass kicker, it’s a bit unnerving to have a group that holds you responsible for yourself, and expects you to perform to the fullest every time you step into the public eye, which for me, is surrounded with a chain link fence with sponsors on the mat. At the same time I am more than happy to go out, put my ego up for grabs, and dance like a fuzzy monkey for all those that show me love. I hope I dance to your liking. Wow, That doesn’t sound so heroic, but I suppose we all choose our own heroes. I’ve got mine, do you have yours?

Jason Mayhem Miller

#000

If you have not already heard, I'm fighting "Jacare'" on June 15th in the Dream Organization in Tokyo, Japan. I'm pumped, and I'm training like a madman right now, which is stopping me from showing up to Kimbo's fight, which Proelite.com is covering this weekend, right here, on proelite.com mofo!


Mayhem
000

Jason Mayhem Miller

#000

Finally got Proelite to stop crashing my goddamn browser. Buying a mac because I won't have all the stupid drama I have with my pc... unless I have a whole new set of problems. Anyhow I 'm getting used to Safari, and watching Ryo Chonan get a haircut at supercuts, to replace his retard hair that he currently has, when he asked for "short sides, longer top" and they gave him a mohawk. Awesome.

I think I have a giant staph infection on my leg. Which pisses me off, because I'm a clean dude and safari underlines "staph" because it doesn't recognize the word, and I don't know how to spell staphacacaloushamalamadingdong, or however you spell it.

Vegas is suprisingly comfortable, and as usual, I'm rambling. Maybe it's the disease taking over my brain. Bastards.

SOUP AND SALAD!

Mayhem

Fuck Beyonce' and her happy wedding, and perfect image. There is something wrong with her, I know it. She has to have some problems. Maybe her father was abusive or her last boyfriend was an asshole or SOMETHING. Please tell me her life isn't all american express commercials, kissing Jay-Z's fat lips, unicorns, pandas balancing on red balls, flying toasters, sunshine kisses on her perfect skin tone while her other rich and famous friends pull up in their Lamborghini's. "Hey! Whatup Missy? Just sit that potato salad next to Eminem's bean dip, we almost have the jumper completely inflated."

I can't even spell Lambergeenee. Maybe I'm bitter that I am only smiling on the cover of elite fighter magazine, which is stocked at the back of the barnes and nobles bookshelf and she is smiling from every grocery store checkstand from Shanghai to Shittown (which is in Texas) and has her earthly desires met, and now she's getting married, which to women is like winning the superbowl or something. Maybe some day I will find my Jay-Z, and everything will be just fine, but I'm not counting on it.

Jason Mayhem Miller

#000

Dude is it gay if the sunshine hits your face in socal and jack jonson is on KROQ when you start the car and you can't help smiling? That happened today while picking up some furniture with Triumph United teammate and 6 month US resident Ryo Chonan.

Chonan getting some traditional american cuisine.

 

 

 

When I returned to the confines of Ikea, Chonan was waiting quietly, japanese pokerface engaged, when triggered by the overhead sound system, I asked myself this question:

"What is the reason behind the popularity of the song "dude looks likes a lady" by Aerosmith?"

It doesn't make much sense to me. Liv tyler's dad is dancing around in tighty pants, and screeching out quite the catchy tune, but lets face it, it is a happy little diddy about trannies.  That is america my friends. Also from todays trip to Ikea I learned that Telemundo is in HD. THAT IS AWESOME. I just enjoy saying "Tel e MOON do en Hache' De" with a spanish accent. Also learned today- Chonan currently owns tom cruise's motorcycle from the movie "Top Gun" (in his words) and in "high school time" he raced on the on seaside cliffs, as well as mountain roads that in my mind are the most pictuaresque rocky twisting things you could put in Hache' De, and Chonan describes wearing the knee pads and going 280 Kilometers and Hour, however fast that is. (Sounds effin fast)

Chonan also didn't know what Sublime was until I said "sometimes "bob marley style" sometimes "punk rock" to which he yelled "SUB RIMEY?!"

 

Chonan with mustard on his face.

 

When a homeless man was screaming at people on the patio of "Rucky Debils" (chonan's words) its sparked chonan to say "Japanese homeless, very quiet, just get cans, get 4 o'clock food at 4 o'clock and 1 minute." Prompting me to ask,
"In america people are homeless because of drugs, in japan, homeless from drugs?"

"No"

me:   "They are crazy?"

"No, No money."

Dude is it gay if I call another man cute? Doesn't matter, I like women, and I'm confident in it, but yes its gay.

Jason Mayhem Miller

#000

Someone sent this question that I read in traffic in LA, and I answered, in traffic, in LA. I "less than three" techmology.

Dear Mayhem,

I have been dedicating much of my time recently to training in some of the facets of MMA. Being a path I would like to follow I am curious to know if you could answer a lingering question for me.
I have a heart murmur, a condition which prevented me from joining the armed forces, which I am concerned will prevent me from one day stepping into the cage. This is caused by extra muscle tissue in the heart that does not allow the valve to close completely, which in turn let’s blood flow back through the valve creating a buzz or murmur.
I ask you because you have fought in many MMA organizations and could perhaps at least point me in the right direction. Any response that you could give, any help you could lend, would be most appreciated.

Always a fan,
Aspiring fighter

**************************

Sure, I have fought in everything, but it doesn’t matter, I’m not a doctor dude. My advice to you is listen to the doc, then kick some ass, if the doc says you are healthy enough to kick ass, then smack some cheeks around a bit, however never take medical advice from a man with a bright red strip of doom in his hair, even if he is a loveable psychopath named Mayhem.

Love, Mayhem

 

 

*****EDITED****************

 

This just in---- pt 2

From Mayhem Monkey

Thanks for responding I appreciate that.   I just figured I would reach out and ask a fighter who has been through many a prefight physical and ask if you heard any thing about stuff like that.  
And by the way I usually have colored hair myself red and blue being my favorites.   thanks again.

FROM MAYHEM:

kick ass dude, I know the doc checks us before we’re licensed, but again, I just turn my head and cough I dunno what he’s doing.

BTW, if you do fight make sure and rock your hair into a Strip of Doom. (tm) It will give you extra mental focus.

 

Jason Mayhem Miller

#000

I'm in Hawaii for another few days, despite the fact that my flight was today. I figured that Hollywood isn't going anywhere, and I heart the Aina. My adventures are taking me everywhere, including a toy store with Jnaks, an autograph signing at a bookstore, and right now the grimy bathroom at Coffee Talk on walaie. KICK SOME ASS.
video and pics when I get settled into the hotel again.

Baka Yaro!

MayheM

Jason Mayhem Miller

#000