Police say that boxer Arturo Gatti, who was found dead last weekend, was strangled in his sleep by his 23 year-old ex-stripper wife. As if that wasn't unpleasant enough, Perez Hilton put up some other dude's picture on Gatti's "R.I.P." post.

The former junior lightweight champion was found dead in his hotel rom in Brazil while honeymooning with his second wife and baby; foul play's suspected. Gatti was a scheduled witness over a fight that rendered his opponent brain damaged. [NYDN]

Did you know that on Friday nights in New York City there's a place where you can go to watch male models get punched in the face by local boxers? It's true! It's called Friday Night Throwdown and there's video.

If anyone watched the Hatton v. Pacquio fight last night, the biggest loser wasn't Ricky Hatton. It was Larry Merchant whose inane lipid-eyed commentary damages more brains than Pacquio's right hook.

Senator McCain has his inconsistent and deeply personal conceptions of "honor" and "justice," which means that occasionally he fights for completely symbolic things that we nonetheless approve of wholeheartedly, like this. Free Jack Johnson! McCain is a huge boxing fan, of course, and he's teaming up with Peter King and Ken Burns today to urge President Obama to pardon Johnson for his 1913 violation of the Mann Act.

Remember those pictures of boxing champ Oscar de la Hoya wearing fishnets and stilettos that surfaced last fall? And he said that they were fakes, but everybody was like "Ha, yea, right. Of course you say that, trannie boy." Well, turns out they were really fake! I'll be darned. Oscar's reputation will never fully recover, but it must be said: this was great Photoshop work:

"Puncher" is an energetic little parody of boxing/wrestling/karate/gangster films, with an opening rap song, sweetly incongruous sound effects, and some nice shots of cute boy butt. The creator (film student Patrick Gill) has 47 other shorts; my favorite is "Ray Romano Is Sad."

Harry Winkler was an old-time boxing photographer who lived in California and spent most of the 1920s and 30s taking iconic photos of boxers. His collection is notable for capturing the humanity of professional fighters, picturing them less in the ring (though there is some of that) than in their everyday lives—on the rowing machine, at the ball game, shooting dice. For his full archive of thousands of photos, see here. We've selected ten of the best examples of his collection, which can be found after the jump.

As the collapsing housing market brings the nation closer to financial ruin and banks threaten to end the quarter with multi-billion dollar losses, New York's bankers are now, finally, turning against each other and fighting in public. Unfortunately it was part of a big sanctioned boxing tournament and not like a street brawl or something. (Yet!)

Last night in the sweaty morass of Gleason's Boxing Gym, a crowd of weird literary types gathered around a boxing ring. Famous pervert-alcoholic-author Jonathan Ames was set to fight Craig Davidson, Canadian author of pugilist novel "The Fighter." At 43, more than a decade older than his opponent, Ames was technically the underdog. But the crowd was in his corner. His friend Mangina was there, with the fake leg, wearing a flesh colored unitard and a fake vagina. Sitting in the front row was none other than 90's chanteuse Fiona Apple, looking anxious. Why was she here, we wondered to her face. "Because Jonathan is my boyfriend." Oh? It looks like Ames won before he even started. But Fiona couldn't help him when the bell rung for the first of three two-minute rounds. But maybe she helped him win! Laurel Ptak was there to capture the carnage, the victory and the moments of tendresse.

Last night was Box NYC, the third annual boxing, dinner club, poker event and model show, produced by Jed Weinstein at the Hammerstein Ballroom. Sponsored by Trump Vodka and Poker Life! We've long been of the opinion that testosterone untempered by a little gayness is a horrifying thing. Last night, we were vindicated. The sidewalk in front of Hammerstein was covered in a red carpet with a roped off area within which various divans and settees were arranged for smokers. From 8th Avenue, one could already see a dense cloud of cigar smoke. Walking into a room of dudes who are richer, older and more aggressive than oneself is a discomfiting sensation. Great shafts of light fell onto the Paul Stewart suits and bald spots of successful i-Bankers who paid up to $8,000 for a table. Downstairs, on a hideous carpet, men played poker. In the bathroom, dudes drank Scotch, peed AND talked to each other all at once. My mind was blown. And then the boxing started.