Post by Deleted on Oct 26, 2015 14:10:54 GMT
I hadn’t spent this much time in Texas since the time I got thrown in the drunk tank at Del Rio for a week.
Time sure flies when you’re having fun.
Since then, I’ve downgraded my boozing from “raging alcoholic” to “habitual drunk”. I figured after a certain point that I couldn’t afford to be on that much booze and put on a halfway-respectable effort in the ring; unless I wanted to set a Guiness World Record entry for Most Houselights Inspected.
So I waved goodbye to the Alamo and got on that bus to the next destination. Asides from catching up on some much needed sleep, the trip itself wasn’t memorable in the slightest. I remembered thinking about all those cumulative hours I’ve spent on the road since embarking on a career in pro-wrasslin’ on a stupid fucking whim all those years ago.
I thought of all the things I could’ve accomplished: I could’ve written the next Great American Novel, gotten a college education, or at the very least, fucked my way through the entire lineup of the Moonlight Bunny Ranch a hundred times over.
I came to a realization that it’s not so much the hazard of putting life and limb on the line in the squared circle that's killed so many of us in the business; it’s the endless time spent in-between those shows, all that time on a life spent perpetually on the road.
Eventually, it catches up to you and you might find yourself wondering how the fuck did you flush all those years down the toilet; sacrificed to the altar of your own misspent youth and bad fucking choices.
Given of course, if you’re as lucky as I am. It could just as well end up with a pissed-off motel manager kicking down your door and finding your lifeless, blue carcass on some shit-stained mattress with a needle in your arm.
But fuck it, what mattered was that I got to Houston in one piece by the time the sourpuss conductor shook me awake from my Xanax-induced sleep.
And the good Lord said, let there be rain, fucking lots of it and enough to drown an entire city….
I dropped my canvass bag and stretched out my arms on the pavement, when everybody else was running for the nearest shelter.
I thought about Grin and that toothy smile of his against the jet black of his mask. I gave a passing thought to everybody’s favorite tecnico, El Vainillo, a latter-day Don Quixote with a mask and a hero complex that inspired the Pollomania fans and how absurd it looked against the backdrop of the deep-fried insanity that is Pollomania…
And I’m meant to be the Crazy one in the lineup.
I stuck out my tongue to taste the rain, it could’ve been contaminated with fucking arsenic for all I cared but it didn’t matter.
All that mattered is that I’m here, in this moment, this time and space.
Catch me if you can, motherfuckers.
Time sure flies when you’re having fun.
Since then, I’ve downgraded my boozing from “raging alcoholic” to “habitual drunk”. I figured after a certain point that I couldn’t afford to be on that much booze and put on a halfway-respectable effort in the ring; unless I wanted to set a Guiness World Record entry for Most Houselights Inspected.
So I waved goodbye to the Alamo and got on that bus to the next destination. Asides from catching up on some much needed sleep, the trip itself wasn’t memorable in the slightest. I remembered thinking about all those cumulative hours I’ve spent on the road since embarking on a career in pro-wrasslin’ on a stupid fucking whim all those years ago.
I thought of all the things I could’ve accomplished: I could’ve written the next Great American Novel, gotten a college education, or at the very least, fucked my way through the entire lineup of the Moonlight Bunny Ranch a hundred times over.
I came to a realization that it’s not so much the hazard of putting life and limb on the line in the squared circle that's killed so many of us in the business; it’s the endless time spent in-between those shows, all that time on a life spent perpetually on the road.
Eventually, it catches up to you and you might find yourself wondering how the fuck did you flush all those years down the toilet; sacrificed to the altar of your own misspent youth and bad fucking choices.
Given of course, if you’re as lucky as I am. It could just as well end up with a pissed-off motel manager kicking down your door and finding your lifeless, blue carcass on some shit-stained mattress with a needle in your arm.
But fuck it, what mattered was that I got to Houston in one piece by the time the sourpuss conductor shook me awake from my Xanax-induced sleep.
And the good Lord said, let there be rain, fucking lots of it and enough to drown an entire city….
I dropped my canvass bag and stretched out my arms on the pavement, when everybody else was running for the nearest shelter.
I thought about Grin and that toothy smile of his against the jet black of his mask. I gave a passing thought to everybody’s favorite tecnico, El Vainillo, a latter-day Don Quixote with a mask and a hero complex that inspired the Pollomania fans and how absurd it looked against the backdrop of the deep-fried insanity that is Pollomania…
And I’m meant to be the Crazy one in the lineup.
I stuck out my tongue to taste the rain, it could’ve been contaminated with fucking arsenic for all I cared but it didn’t matter.
All that mattered is that I’m here, in this moment, this time and space.
Catch me if you can, motherfuckers.