Confessions of a Former Wrestling Fan

above: a former life

I received a drunk text the other day from a friend up at Penn State. I'm not even sure he meant to send it to me, to be honest, because it didn't really make sense without context. It said, "We're doing the Royal Rumble fucking live tonight!" And with that little text (and a recent movie involving the same topic), I started to remember a whole other life I used to lead.

I used to be a huge wrestling fan.

Damn! It's been a while since I even thought about my wrestling fandom. I kind of miss all of it, honestly. There'd be a group of about twelve of us in grade school that followed it religiously. We'd come in every Tuesday morning and talk about what happened on Raw Is War, and every Friday morning what happened on Smackdown. It was like some kind of mini-society.

There were other traditions as well. One that I held near and dear to my heart was when one of us would step up and rent a Pay-Per-View. Usually that'd occur in the summer since Sunday nights were otherwise school nights and they were on too late. Every year, my mother would let me rent SummerSlam, the annual wrestling event in August. And we weren't allowed to wrestle each other until the last bell rang; then we'd go nuts and pretend we were in the ring (though it was my basement) and inevitably someone would walk away with a bloody nose.

The actual program was something incredibly fun to watch. I was always a big fan of the specialty matches, like Hell in a Cell, or Casket Matches. But any match could be exciting. I remember the epic showdown between Steve Austin and the Rock, particularly. That feud, involving Vince McMahon as well, was so built up so well, over the course of months. There were other particularly fond matches I can think of as well: when Al Snow decided that he'd defend his Hardcore Championship anywhere, any time; The Rock vs. Mankind in an Empty Arena match during halftime of the Super Bowl; the food fight the entire roster of wrestlers had on Thanksgiving; pretty much any match Kurt Angle was in.

I vehemently defended the WWE against all accusations of being "fake." I don't know how many times I put up this argument: Well, of course they aren't actually wrestling, but it's all a form of entertainment. Does anyone ever accuse The O.C. or Seinfeld of being fake? No. But they are, aren't they? And does that detract from their entertainment value? No. I enjoyed WWE, not because I thought it was "real" or even "despite" the fact that it was "fake." I enjoyed it because it was fun to watch.

Wrestling was great to me growing up. It was a big part of my life for probably five years. As I grew older, I became somewhat tired of the storylines they were presenting, and I just kind of... grew out of it.

I even tried reading about some of the current events that have happened in the wrestling world recently (the aforementioned Royal Rumble). Most of the wrestlers' names I had never heard of, and the ones I did—Triple H, the Undertaker—were the ones I always fucking hated when I watched them. All good things come to an end, it seems.

But I still look back at all those good times I had because of WWE. They will always be fondly remembered.

Interview with John Lennon!

John Lennon died on December 8th, 1980. He was shot in the back four times by a man named Mark David Chapman. At approximately 11:15, he was pronounced dead at St. Luke's-Roosevelt Hospital Center in New York. John Lennon will always be remembered for his world-altering work with the most acclaimed and influential rock group in history (the Beatles), his decade of great solo musicianship, and his promoting a message of peace and joy to the whole world over.

BUT!

Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, and thanks too to a group of people that thought it would be wise to put words into John Lennon's mouth and bastardize his name, I was able to sit down with John for a few posthumous words.

If you want to have your own conversation with AI John Lennon, then click HERE. Otherwise, continue below to see my conversation with the non-living legend.


Joe: Hello!

John: What's your name, son?

Joe: Hi John, my name is Joe.

John: Hello Joe. Here come the reporters. I hope you're not disappointed.

Joe: Well, I wouldn't think so! I am speaking to THE John Lennon, after all.

John: That's interesting.

Joe: I know. Especially because you are... uh... ya know... dead, and all.

John: How do you know?

Joe: Christ, John, you were shot four times in the back. Mark David Chapman shot you. He says that Holden Caulfield did it, which should give you a sense of how stable he was. I don't think Holden could bring himself to kill a man. He's too self-deprecating.

John: Psst! (You've got to sell, sell, sell) [John provides a link to an online music journal.]

Joe: You never were one for shameless promotion. What gives?

John: I should say so.

Joe: You should say so what? Are you high?

John: Why do you think I'm high?

Joe: Well, for one, you're John Lennon. Didn't the Beatles, like, get high all the time? If not, then explain to me what the fuck Magical Mystery Tour is. Secondly, you are talking nonsense, shit that only someone stoned out of their brains would say.

John: Maybe something interesting will happen.

Joe: Are you even listening to me, dude?

John: I am not having a press conference, Joe.

Joe: Good thing too. Last time you did you claimed you were bigger than Jesus Christ himself. My pastor didn't like that one bit.

John: Thanks for the compliment. Well, thank you for that.

Joe: That wasn't a compliment. Fuck it, whatever. So, let's ask another question. Who, in your opinion, broke up the Beatles?

John: Where? Dead man, cold hand, jumped out the bedroom window.

Joe: HEY! I said, who broke up the Beatles?

John: You've got my full attention. What have you heard?

Joe: "Full attention." Right. Anyway, I heard it was that chick Yoko.

John: We're a twenty-four-hour couple.

Joe: Dude, you were whipped! Paul, George, and Ringo were probably fed up with it, and that broke up the Beatles. Admit it!

John: It's all over the place.

Joe: Just say it. Yoko broke you guys up. Stop avoiding the question.

John: Tell me a story, Joe.

Joe: You're a dick. I'll tell you a story: Fuck Yoko!

John: Yes.

Joe: Oh, I get it. You actually do fuck Yoko. Ha. You probably do the "That's what she said" jokes all the time, don't you?

John: Well, you know, Stevie Wonder wrote about his kid, didn't he?

Joe: You're still making no sense, but I don't care, because that just reminded me. Was "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" really about a picture your kid drew in school, or were you just tripping balls?

John: I understand.

Joe: You understand what?

John: I haven't a clue. I just knew it was slipping away.

Joe: Maybe you shouldn't have rolled such a fat blunt.

John: Psst! (I'm selling a product, so I'm back again) [John again provides the link he did before.]

Joe: Dude, you aren't that good at selling things. Next thing you know, you'll be trying to sell me an album that has you and Yoko butt-naked on the cover. Haha! Who ever heard of such a thing?

John: Very Alice in Wonderland.

Joe: That album cover couldn't have been LESS like Alice in Wonderland.

John: Makes sense to me.

Joe: Sigh... so, uh, do you like Paul?

John: Only in the mornings.

Joe: What happens at night?

John: I have no idea. I've never thought about that.

Joe: Are you telling me that all those years you spent together, the scene in Mersey at dank clubs, your rise to stardom in sold out crowds, your famous TV special with Ed Sullivan, the late-night recording sessions with George Martin, all the plane rides, all the days and weeks and months and years you spent with him, you did NOT ONCE think about if you liked Paul after the sun went down?

John: I couldn't even get Two Virgins out on Apple.

Joe: John, we already talked about that. I feel like I should be on one of those anti-marijuana commercials. "This is what happens when you try to interview John Lennon high."

John: Huh?

Joe: Nevermind.

John: Oh well thanks for trying to explain it to me anyway.

Joe: We have time for one last question, and then I'm going to go try to forget about how I blew the biggest interview of my life and made a fool of myself in front of John Lennon. I'm probably going to hang myself, actually.

John: You get used to it, believe me.

Joe: That's right, I forgot, you're dead already.

John: Perhaps.

Joe: When I do actually die, what Beatles song should I play in the background?

John: I haven't a clue... "Six Months"?

Joe: I've never heard of that song.

John: The layers of the onion. That's what it's all about.

Joe: Are you giving me a clue? Should I play "Glass Onion"? Is that it?

John: We're not agreed on it.

Joe: You know what, fuck you John, I'm just gonna play a Rolling Stones song instead.

John: Well thank you for that, Joe.

Joe: Any time.

John: I really couldn't say for sure.

My Friend Rose

[Mandy, Mike, Dave—I apologize in advanced because you've already heard me talk about the topic of this post ad nauseam. Which makes it silly that I'm writing about it, since barely anyone else reads PoYB besides us four. Regardless, it's something to write about, so I'll persist.]

You may have read about my favorite resident at the Lafayette Redeemer, Rose, in a previous post. In case you missed it, here she is:



I try to talk to Rose for at least five or ten minutes at the end of every day's dinner. She's a crazy ol' lady, and I love it. She'll talk about the strangest things, like about her vitamins, or about how her daughter has a cat with lots of fur. And she'll talk about the same things every day.

There's one thing, though, that she doesn't talk about often. I've only heard her talk about it twice in our friendship. That is, she sees people that don't exist.

See, most people just assume she's crazy, but she actually has a legitimate disease called Charles Bonnet Syndrome. It's not that her mind is particularly messed up, it's her eyes. The blind spots in her eyes are turning into other things when she sees. Instead of blind spots that your eyes are supposed to have, she sees little people. Children and young men. And they don't exist. Consider the following conversation we had:

Rose: I'm not doing so well today.

Joe: Why not, Rose?

Rose: Well, someone stole my purse. My daughter just gave me a new purse, and someone stole it.

Joe: Rose, I'm so sorry! Do you know who took it?

Rose: Why yes! I know exactly what he looks like too. He's kind of small, has reddish-tan hair. He looks young. He comes to my apartment sometimes.

Joe: How did he get in?

Rose: I don't know. Sometimes he is just there. I heard him opening up my husband's old wooden chest, and I saw him run out of the apartment with my purse!

Joe: You should really tell someone that this man was in your apartment.

Rose: Well, people are in there all the time. Little children come. They stay late at night sometimes. I don't know, I guess their parents drop them off. They don't speak. They don't eat either, I tried feeding them unsalted pretzels. They sleep under my bed. These little children.

Joe: ....

Obviously, this is not normal. It's very clear that these children are figments. Children whom you don't know can't just show up at your apartment and sleep under your bed, for christ's sake!

I feel terrible for old Rosie. I can't imagine having little strange children in my room all the time, just silently watching me as I do the dishes, read a book, or type on this blog. That's gotta be creepy as hell.

What's worse is that for Rose, it's not creepy. It's normal. She sees nothing strange with little children being in her apartment as she sleeps. She doesn't question it when a short redheaded man allegedly steals her purse. To her, these visions are a reality.

And there's no cure for Charles Bonnet Syndrome. I guess all I can do is continue to have conversations with her and be her friend, because at least the children go away for the five minutes we spend together every day.

Extreme Top Five Home Edition!

I fucking love Microsoft Paint

This winter break is soon coming to an end. I'm about to move out—again. There will be some things I miss about this humble abode, but there are some things that make me regret that I left Basil's 249 in the first place. Cue the Top Five!

Top Five Reasons I Like Living at Home

5. The fridge is always fully stocked with good food. For instance, there is always porkroll. You can't get porkroll at La Salle. Also, there are things like milk and cheese, and I don't have to pay for them, and I can use them any time I'd like. I took these amenities for granted before college.

4. I have a job that I actually enjoy. The Lafayette Redeemer is incredible. The La Salle Connelly Library is... not.

3. I don't have to do my own laundry. That means I have fresh clothes every four days, not every [insert time when I feel like doing laundry here].

2. The hand soaps my mother buys are fucking incredible. Some days my hands smell like Black Raspberry Vanilla. Other days I get a whiff of Cherry Blossom. On lucky days I'll use my personal favorite, Midnight Pomegranate. In Basil's 249, my hands just smell like Natty.

1. Access to a car. That means if I wanna go somewhere, I have a legitimate means of transportation other than walking.

Top Five Reasons I Hate Living at Home

5. I sleep in every goddamn day, and I waste away most of my afternoon. The days become shorter when you live like that, so if you're trying to live life to the fullest, it's no way to live at all.

4. If I want to throw a party, then, well, I need ask permission. And the answer is "No." Only a few people. And there's no fridge to stock with beer. In other words: it's a hassle. At Basil's 249, the sky is the limit as far as partying is concerned.

3. I don't fit in my own fucking bed here in my Rockledge bedroom. If that isn't a reason to hate living at home, I don't know what is.

2. I'm always alone here. I wake up, I'm alone. I eat breakfast, I'm alone. I come back at night, I sit here alone for hours. I miss having the company of others to count on.

1. Mike and Kyle never bitched at me to clean up my room or pick up my clothes or to stop drinking every night. And I hate being bitched at.

Map, Part I

The town we live in, it's just swell, ain't it? It should be preserved in some way. Way back in June on PoYB, Mike suggested a bunch of pictures that showed all our favorite spots in this town, and I think that's a great idea. However, that's his thing. I, on the other hand, want to draw a map, a huge fucking map, depicting everywhere that we hang out, everywhere that something happened, everywhere that is special to me.

I actually did this one day about five years ago, and recently found it in a drawer:


(Click to enlarge!)

As you can see, this is somewhat of a rough draft.

First of all, I did not take it very seriously. I was young, naive. I'm sorry. But honestly, was the smiley face over Rising Sun Ave really necessary? How did that even get there? Is that some kind of rug on that side street of Cottman? And did I just give up on one section and write "Not Important"?

Secondly, and more importantly, this map would look much different today—even if it did still have that big tear down the middle. I'm talking about the five years that have passed since I made it. My world has since expanded and changed. The places I considered important then are not so important anymore. I've traveled farther away then a few blocks from Five Points. The landscape has changed, both on the earth and in my weekend.

So, my goal for 2009 is to draw a map, a legitimate map, maybe six pages big, that depicts my world as I see it. It's not going to be to scale according to measurements. It's going to be to scale according to how important it is to me. And hopefully, this time there won't be random faces and rugs and cross outs all over it. Look for it exclusively here on PoYB sometime this summer.

The Laf

You read a lot about the legendary "Lafayette Redeemer" on this site. Ya know, the retirement home in NE Philly? After all, most of our contributors either currently work on the waitstaff or have for a period of time in the past. The great group of waiters and waitresses we have come to work every day is only half of what makes "The Laf" so special. The other half? Our much beloved old folks.

If you don't work at this place, but you are friends with me or my coworkers, you are probably already tired of hearing the multitude of stories involving these treasured old-timers. But due my newly discovered ability to upload phone pictures onto the computer (and an equally new ability to clandestinely and somewhat creepily take pictures of senior citizens), we are now able to put faces to the names for you. Here are a few of my favorite (or least favorite) old folks:


"The Turban Lady"

I'm not sure you can appreciate the beauty of this picture if you don't know this lady. She normally wears a big ol' turban, but for some godawful reason, on Thanksgiving she wore a wig. She looks like Elvis Presley past her prime. This woman treats waiters like dirt, so I don't feel bad making fun of her.



Seal "Stanky" Sanky

Rumored to be sister to the landlord from Three's Company, though this is unconfirmed and certainly not why we love Stanky here. She talks as if she's riding a bull, about to fall off: "I-I-I'll have a-a-a Cr-Cranberry JUICE!" It's like a stutter but higher pitched (ask me to do an impression in person, I'm not going it justice here). And Seal holds the distinction of being the first resident to fart in my face. Congrats, Seal.



"The Seagull"

Come on, now. She looks like a Seagull, and talks like one too (if seagulls could talk). That is her only distinction, really.

Eugene

Used to be grumpy; we think he used to drink a lot but has since cut back, and is now sober and in good spirits. Known for coming to his apartment door without pants on when our very own Dave delivered a tray. Dave refuses to speak of the incident, or how well-endowed Eugene is.

Epstein

Known her southern drawl and her drink preference. Thus, expect the first thing she says to be "I'll hah-ev a tall V Aye-et gee-youse." Also know for her photographic memory and terrible hearing. So, whenever I ask her a question, she'll simply say my name a few times because she's proud she can still remember. I.e. "How was your dinner?" "Joseph. Your name's Joseph!" "Yes, it is, but how was your dinner?" "You're not David, you're Joseph!"

"Claw Lady"

Known for her signature parting phrase: "Have a good one!" with the "good" being pronounced like it rhymes with "food." She's called "Claw Lady" because when she waves goodbye, she only uses two fingers, which looks like a claw.

"Ben Franklin"

Because she looks like Ben Franklin.

Rose

My favorite! My absolute hands-down favorite resident. I always make time to go over and sit with her for at least ten minutes a day. She's the nicest lady in the world, even if she is a little crazy. We tend to have the same conversations every day—she must forget a lot—so I know a lot of weird stuff about her, like her breakfast routine and how her daughter is a school nurse. She even gave me a graduation card, which was the best thing a resident has ever done for me. I hope Rose lives forever.

There are many residents from the Laf that I don't have a picture of that I wish I did.

Some aren't quite kooky enough, and have good vision, so they'd probably notice if I took a picture and get mad. These residents include Abe, who writes poems and never shuts up, Mr. Goldberg, who takes forever to finish his meal but is a decent human being, Mary, who is just plain crazy, and Mrs. Fierstein, who can be such a bitch but definitely has a soft side somewhere.

Some are just plain dicks and don't deserve to have a picture taken, like Fat Joe, who is a pompous asshole, the Abominable Snowman, who threw up on his plate and lied about it, and the Wife-Beater, who beats his wife and left her a wreck of a woman.

Some I just never got around to taking a picture of. There's Nate, Celeste, Mrs. Doubtfire, The grandmom from Happy Gilmore, the Jaffeys, the Weinsteins, the smelly dude from A1, the lady who always orders Russian dressing, the chick with the nose plug, the dude who steals the lemons, Goldie, Dr. Cox, the muppet with the beard, Regina, Leonard, the Golden Girls, Marsellus Wallace, the naked mole rat, and countless others.

Some moved out, and I miss them dearly.

Some are deceased, and I miss them even more. Rest in Peace Ben, Harry, Etta, and Sylvia, and all the other innumerable past residents.

Yes, a workplace is only as good as the people in it. The waiters are great, but the real joy is working with such amazing (and sometimes not amazing) old folk. I hope they've enjoyed me as much as I've enjoyed serving them, making fun of them, spending hours and hours a week with them, and becoming friends with them.

My Life, via the Sunday Comics

I have a terrible habit. Sometimes, when I'm drunk like I am now, I make inane comparisons of my life to entertainment media. For instance, I'll be mangled out of my skull, watching a movie, and I'll feel the need to compare everything in my life to the events in the movie. Or, I'll be going through a rough time, and I'll put my iPod on shuffle, and it will seem like every fucking song is giving me advice on how to act. I'm sitting here, right now, more inebriated than I should be, and I'm reading the comics section of the Inquirer, of all goddamn things. I'm being a drunken idiot again, and I'm thinking that the comics are talking to me. They are describing my life. This cannot be true, and yet somehow it is.



I'm such a bitch. So is Lucky Eddie. Granted, Haggard probably considers Eddie a great friend, and Eddie surely appreciates all the shit Haggard has done for him, but really, Eddie, your a bitch for doing such a menial task for Haggard. Sometimes I feel this way when I'm making the long walk/drive to the beer store in order to get my friends drunk.



But who am I kidding? I fucking love my friends. Sometimes, like Snoopy, I forget how much I can love and rely on them. But, just as the comic points out, they'll come sledding out of no where and I'll appreciate them all over again.



Christ, this is the story of my life. The only part I cannot completely relate to is how Fred claims it was "a night to remember." Sometimes I just simply don't remember.



This is the Laf to a T. There is no productivity to speak of at the Lafayette Redeemer, and the bosses don't help the situation. Thank goodness we all have a great time every fucking day, productivity be damned.



This sentiment rings true in so many levels. I'm all about sappy shit like "bringing in the new year," etc. But the fact of the matter is that we are all still the same. Nothing has changed. We are all going to be the same people we were on December 31, 2008, and we are going to make the same decisions—as well as the same mistakes.



One of my New Year's resolutions was to not let girls control every little goddamn decision I make. This comic, however, accurately depicts just how impossible my resolution is. Women have a power over us men that I will never understand, never enjoy, never accept, but will always follow.



I fucking hate Mutts, but that goddamn cat thinks the way I wish I could think. There he is, freezing his little kitten ass off, and in the blanket of snow, he somehow finds the time to appreciate every little snowflake that falls upon him. Shit's deep.

This is the worst of them all. This comic, ol' Beetle Bailey, is the type of shit that haunts me. It's scary because such a self-realization is so relatable. Who wants to give up what they have, just to settle down? I'd be a terrible, terrible husband, just like I've been a terrible, terrible boyfriend in the past. It's crazy because the last six boxes accurately sum up every relationship I've ever had. And the fact that Sarge can smile in that last box sends shivers down my spine. He's right, I'll never be a good husband. I'll never be appreciated by anyone. I'll never amount to anything. Never before has so much pessimism been displayed in one lousy comic strip. But I guess that's what happens when you read the comics drunk.