A few weeks back, I blogged about my return to my normal, dull life. Yeah, I'm acting as if I was living out an actual call of duty overseas or drilling oil in the snow for months on end, but it was a little less demanding and gooey. I was on tour playing the rock and roll music. Kinda the same thing, right?
That blog entry was my cold and hesitant jump back into the game, baby, where I was still weak and delirious from a two week east coast tour. I mainly wrote about a bundle of Transformers aiding me in reaching the lazy comfort I'm primarily used to, where a hot pizza pie comes first and a six pack of cold beer immediately comes second. Then, naturally, number one out of my number two comes third. Diarrhea joke FTW.
Within my words, I, as I mostly do, complained about the lack of interest I have in Transformers. It's not that they're bad or inherently unfun, they're just not my bag. Maybe throw in a felt cape or a blaster rifle to spice things up, guys.
Anyway, they were a gift to myself to help me feel normal again, to have fun once more, to wash away the emotional trauma of sleeping in truckstops and nursing a hangover every other morning. I'm not complaining, really, but I was left living in a hollow shell of the man I once was. Only time, money and oily, beefed up men would set me straight.
I mentioned I was looking for WWF shit. I felt it was the only thing that would piece my together my shattered existence, and at the time, it kind of felt right. Like paying for that extra shot of wheat grass in your fruit smoothie. That bullshit wheatgrass gets you every time.
Seeing as I haven't watched any kind of wrestling or have been vaguely interested in wrestling in over a decade, the urge happened unexpectedly. I accepted the odd interest, let it pass around in my mind and moved on. And I totally did move on, I swear.
Well, here we go.
It's "Ravishing" Rick Rude, bitches, all up in your face and you can't do nothin' about it.
In some way, I feel that I forcefully asked the universe for this, and I'd be a fool to pass it up. The universe might make me crash my car on the way to the grocery store or something. This is my logic.
Yeah, I haven't watched WWF/WWE/whatever you wanna call it since Stone Cold Steve Austin made Vince McMahon piss his pants in front of a live audience and Chyna was a household name. I wouldn't say this was the ultimate peak for the franchise, nor my favorite few years of leg-dropping debauchery, but it's right where I ended and that's all I know of the sport. You ask me what's going on in the world of wrestling today and I feel the only thing I can come up with is, "there's a really pale redheaded guy." I don't know who he is, and have only caught quick glimpses at the magazine racks in Barnes and Noble, but I hate him. So very much.
During my run as a fan, I collected the second incarnation of figures (think smaller than the original bricks of rubber from the 80's) had the ring to battle said figures, watched religiously on Monday night and even got to attend a live and in your face wrestling match extravaganza. Although it wasn't to be taped for live television and didn't count in WWF storytelling continuity, it was still a lot of fun to hear the classic slap of every chop, slam and choke in extreme sight and sound.
And although my wrestling experience ranged from the mid-90's to a screeching halt when I entered high school, I was lucky enough to have an older brother who taped matches off the TV from the time I was born, giving me the chance to witness the top contenders in their prime, well after it originally happened. And I thank him, because this was the good shit. This was the real shit.
This was the era of Brutus "The Barber" Beefcake, Andre the Giant, The Million Dollar Man Ted DiBiase. This was when there was no "over-the-top." You came, you saw, you had a talking parrot or giant scissors and you were always protecting your wife/girlfriend from getting hit on by the other wrestlers. Seriously, guys? Leave the chicks at home.
Who's to argue what "over the top" really quates to in the wide world of wrrestling, but I've always fancied myself an advocate for the especially over-the-top guys. Guys like Doink the Clown, Undertaker, even the androgynous Goldust, who did nothing but paint his face and sparkle. Anyone who looked weird, acted weird and made me feel weird when I closed my eyes in bed at night was golden in my book.
"Ravishing" Rick Rude has always been one such oddball favorite. There's no doubt that you're gonna be a fan of the bigshots like Macho Man and Hulk Hogan, but every now and then a star shines. Just so happens that this star liked to be ravishing and rude. What a prick.
I can only ever remember a few matches, but it always consisted of "Ravishing" being an asshole, taunting the crowd or flexing his muscles to the groans of men and the delight of women. I wanna say you loved to hate him, but that's probably not the best description because you just hated him. He pissed everyone off, picked fights and Goddamnit, he gyrated his hips and that was just not cool.
There's something to be said about having one of my favorite wrestlers be the guy that makes kissy-faces at the audience while grinding and humping the mat, but I refuse to think beyond that. Please, don't think beyond that.
When I found this is the aisles of a Toys R Us, I was completely sold. I literally asked and I have received. Remember that universal karma shit? It was about to hit hard if I didn't act fast.
My only nervous thought was the idea of taking it up the cashier to be rung up. A simple task of buying goods in a perfectly respectable manner in a perfectly acceptable establishment became the most embarrassing act of the night.
Picture this: A lonely man buying what may arguably be the gayest action figure ever, walks amid the shadows, eyes ablaze, no words uttered. I might as well be buying a fucking dildo.
Now, asking for a gift receipt wouldn't cut it either, because really, if I was backed into a corner and had to explain myself, no one would believe my "younger nephew" was begging for a sweaty action figure of a wrestler who existed in the 1980's.
So I had no choice, I had to buy something else. I at least had to make it look like I was buying my "younger nephew" birthday presents, and a scattered assortment of this and that might do the trick. Who's to question a grab bag of wrestlers, Pokemon and some stupid Green Lantern crap? Could look legit, as if I'm the coolest uncle for spending such a pretty penny, or could look like a terrible ruse to cover up a creepy fetish. So off I went...
...right back to the same shit. I've denied it in the past, but yeah, I'm a dumbass. I bought Jake "The Snake" Roberts. I couldn't bring myself to waste any more money on junk I didn't really want when good ol' Jake was staring me in the face. This ain't junk, trust me. When anything you buy comes with a toy rubber snake, you better snatch that up ASAP.
To an outsider, I figure I look like an enthusiast now. It's a good word to hide beyond in a situation like this. The illusion being that I was born and bred in an era of 80's wrestling and just couldn't go on any longer without a plastic reminder of days gone by. Like I'm reminiscing about my youth, living out my retro fantasies, etc. From the outside, there's nothing weird about it.
I feel good about this scenario. Real good.
Actually, yeah, I really like Jake "The Snake," but I like the idea of recreating one of the greatest storylines in wrestling even more. You see, one of the tapes my brother had let us watch featured, of course, Rick Rude in all his glory, but also featured Jake "The Snake" doing his thang, too. Body slam here, off the top ropes there, they did what they did and it was a beautiful thing. Life only got a little bit better when these two heavyweights went head to head in an all out battle of wits, strength and pulling your pants off to reveal the face of your opponent's girlfriend.
I'd summarize, but it's so much easier for you to check it out yourself:
God, I love this.
And there you go! I feel full and rich with life, a zest only two fist-pumping musclemen can provide. They'll live in Castle Greyskull and invite Mumm-Ra over on Sunday nights to watch Breaking Bad, occasionally work on their abs and argue over wheather Corn Nuts are, in fact, actual nuts.
What a wild Wednesday night.