When I find myself in the mainstream, I feel perversely compelled to reassess my tastes and interests. (It hurt, really hurt, when I found out that I enjoyed--no, loved--James Cameron's Avatar, especially since I was so certain I would be "above" it.) I make no claims that my tastes in wrestling are typical. And I never insist that others follow my tastes in this or other things. This blog is more than anything else a self-exploration--a combination of journal and scrapbook, as I've said before. If there's stuff here you can relate to, I'm always surprised and thrilled to hear it. And I'm happy to find that my efforts are of use or value to others besides me. But mostly I'm writing about what I (as in me, my, mine) love about wrestling in its many forms. The blog's therapy, and God (in whom I have no trust) knows I sometimes need that.
The fireman's carry, because once or twice a month I'm tempted to torch my living room and call 9-1-1 for rescue. The strongest restraint is the knowledge that too few firemen will go the extra mile, strip off their shirts, and airplane-spin me till I'm dizzy. (Having never experienced it, I can't say for sure, but I've always imagined the airplane spin to be heaps of fun. The more experienced among you should correct me if I'm mistaken.) When a wrestler needs to tote an opponent more than five feet, muscly shoulders make the best delivery system.
UM, NOT SO MUCH
The Irish whip, because we all know that the flung opponent "bounces" off the ropes because he wants to. Don't we? Or am I shattering someone's belief system here? (Just kidding, believability is not my highest priority in wrestling entertainment anyway.) Granted, the whip adds zest to a wrestling match, creating the illusion of speed and frenzy and expediting the transportation of one's opponent from one spot to another, but there is far too little body contact to wholly satisfy me. Why not deck the guy, heave him across the shoulders, and carry him? Or just lift and toss? I know, I know, I grumble.
Choking, because asphyxiation is sexually arousing. And why run the risk of dying accidentally (and alone) by doing it to yourself with your mother's discarded pantyhose, when you can pick a fight with some hot-tempered badass and have him do it to you? Classic movie fight scenes in which two rugged men struggle, often while chest deep in a river, clutching each other's throat till one of them snuffs the other (usually by thrusting the loser's head under water and holding it there--thus making it look like the river, not the hero, killed the guy) are one reason why Golden Age Hollywood will last forever.
UM, NOT SO MUCH
Folding chairs, screwdrivers, florescent light bulbs, razor wire, and thumbtacks, because ... ewww! In the late seventies, pro wrestling did everything it could to (1) capitalize on the popular bloodlust excited by slasher movies and Hong Kong chopsocky and (2) reduce the amount of prolonged, tight, and sweaty clenching that was beginning to look a tad too like coitus (especially since by 1976 even mainstream Americans had seen at least one porn flic and thus knew what coitus looks like). The promoters' answer was bladejobs: spectacular bloodbaths that lent "authenticity" (or, to quote Stephen Colbert, "truthiness") to wrestling entertainment. Even now, wrestlers in too-tight skimpy briefs who want to make it clear that they are NOT eye candy engage in blading and often brandish their deeply etched foreheads with pride. Me, I am too fond of the eye candy.
The victor planting his foot on the vanquished, because nothing says "You've been owned" quite like resting a foot on the chest, back, throat, or forehead of a fallen adversary. The gesture is imperious enough to suggest manly egocentrism or at least the heightened machismo one expects of a successful combatant. I'm also fond of a kneeling archer pose astride a prostrate loser's face.
UM, NOT SO MUCH
DQs, countouts, no-contests, and draws, because I require closure in a pro wrestling match. Roughhouse is another story. Grappling for tits and giggles is different than a squared-circle contest, which implies dramatic structure. A tussle with a buddy on the rec-room rug does not require closure. But every drama, Aristotle taught us, has a beginning, a middle, ... and an end. (I'm equally unimpressed with false endings and the endless intertwining of character arcs in serials.) I love a big finish. I don't mind (in fact, I often quite like) when winner and loser shake hands in a gentlemanly fashion at the end of a match, so long as there is a definite winner and loser. Loss by technicality is not my idea of an ending. It's fine for "legitimate" sporting contests, because in life many efforts resolve themselves (if at all) ambiguously. But in the kayfabe world of wrestling, no, not so much.
To be (perhaps) continued ...