RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition. He does have an amazing PATREON, but also *normal* ARTIST WEBSITE too.

Saturday, April 5

12-Pack Review: EWA 04/05/02

BEER ONE: I’ve never done this before, attempting to do two 12-Pack reviews in one night, but what the fuck do you care? This is the internet. Either you’re below me on the social ladder and living vicariously through me just by reading this nonsense, or you’re above me psychologically on that ladder and you think I’m a loser. Either way, whatever. My back hurts, where I think kidneys might be, but I’m down like the ground and there’s a stack of indy tapes on my stolen wooden desk, so I need to get moving. This dude, Dan H., from parts unknown, sent me some tapes. He’s a good dude. I did this lifetime subscription thing a while back, and continually kept putting off sending out the lifetime subscribers’ super tape, because I always had new weird shit coming in the mail, which is still true, eternally. Yet he ain’t tripped on me. He even sent me a stack of northeastern indies without expecting anything in return. You see folks, there are still good wrestling fans out there. Check that, not good wrestling fans, but wrestling fans, that want to share what they enjoy. So many people are hung up on acquiring as much as they can and having a big fat list of tapes for their free geocities site that they lose track of the joy. Wrestling is about making you feel happy, and having the power struggles that we witness in real life, based on the old Zoroastrianism tenet of good vs. evil, come to fruition in front of our eyes, while we sip on a soft drink and pick at our fries with hot sauce. When I was growing up, and wrestling fuckin’ ripped my ass wide open all the time, I didn’t know shit about wrestling schools and booking and the like. Now that I do, oh well. Ho hum. And wrestling’s smart fans are cut from that cloth. You can’t send them a tape without it being labeled and the quality being like you taped the shit yourself live at the event and with complete match listings and times and all the fuckin’ nonsense in the World. Goddamn. Anyways, Dan H. hooked me up with the Eastern Wrestling Alliance out of Maine. I spent a summer one time in Maine, working on the blueberry farms. Did you know that a third of the state of Maine is nothing but blueberry farms? No shit. Plus, they got like 7 million antique stores. Plus, the tip of Mt. Katahdin is the actual starting point of the Appalachian Trail, on top of the mountain. We hiked up there, me and the dude I went up to work with on the blueberry farms. We lived in a tent city, and quit early to go hike Mt. Katahdin and head home. One of my shoes lost its sole on the hike up, I wrapped it in duct tape, but it blew out like three times, but on top of Mt. Katahdin was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Baxter State Park is what it’s in. Go there if you live near there, and even if you don’t. We came back down, took a nap halfway back under an overhang, and got in the other dude’s car. He was riding some other car’s ass in Dover-Foxcroft, Maine, and got pulled over. He looked at me and said, “Dude, I don’t have a license.” You know what happened? He got arrested and put in jail, and I didn’t. They wanted to search our car, but didn’t because the K-9 dude didn’t feel like coming out, which was good because we had what old schoolers call reefer in the ride. I drove off. Noah, the other dude, spent the night in jail, in air conditioning, ate a hot breakfast, and watched TV. I drove around looking for a place to get somebody to Western Union me some money, since I was broke since the blueberry farms only paid $2.07 per tray of berries. I couldn’t find shit, some locals threw empty beer bottles at me, and I slept in the front seat of Noah’s shitty little Mazda at park by a river, and ate a can of Vienna sausages for breakfast. So fuck Noah. Plus, he ripped me off on a bag of weed once we got back to Richmond. Plus, motherfucker had two hits of acid while we were in Tent City on the blueberry farm and took them both himself rather than share. And he kept stopping to buy batteries for his shitty CD adaptor thing for his car stereo and all we listened to was “Fee” by Phish, “Tom Sawyer” by Rush, and that goddamned acapella women’s group from Africa that I can’t remember the name of right now. Mama Zooya or some shit. Whatever. But Mt. Katahdin ruled it, better than anything in my life except my daughter being born in our house in Richmond, with a midwife. Those were definitely the two most-high with no substances involved moments in my life. Anyways, that’s where the EWA is from, and there’s mad rednecks who talk like Herman Munster in Pet Sematery up there, so I expect this to be good and hard to understand. Your ring announcer has neck tattoos, barely covered up by his grey shirt with the white tie. Two guys in polo shirts come out, obviously heels. This rocks already. Heels in sweater vests with classical entrance music are great. FUCK! This is during the Steve Austin “what” stage, as the crowd is doing “what” constantly and ruining this guy’s attempt at cheap heat, with a bottle of Suave in his hand and a brush. The prep heel is doing a good job of working the goofy fans’ “what” nonsense into his mic time.

BEER TWO: They are setting up tonight’s card, apparently. Evil preps fuckin’ cold kick it in the ring. How could Vince fuck it up with the Mean Street Posse, or whatever? And why was Joey Abs in that mix? It’s ruined Joey Abs forever for wrestling. He rocked before that, even had wrestling trunks that said “GOD FEARS VENOM”. Who the fuck challenges God, even amongst the retarded of us? Nobody. Then again, God never done no 12-Pack Wrasslin’ Tape Review. In the promotion booked in my chemically imbalanced mind, God is a heel manager. And I’m gonna win his beard by the end of the summer. Judging from the basketball goal and the painting of a guy in military gear with a machine gun on the wall, this is an Armory. Your first match is for the EWA Hardcore title. Johnny Curtis is first, and he’s dressed like Lance Storm as a freshman in college in Maine. He threw somebody’s hat down on the ground, that was nice. Wow, some fat kid in the first row has a dry erase board to make signs with. How come I’ve never seen that before? Your champ is Chris Venom, and he comes out. He looks like he enjoys eating pizza. Now, a third guy comes out called Damian Houston. He’s obviously the pumped up young crowd favorite. He will be battling the odd here, and probably coming out on top. There’s a decent looking chick with big tits in a white t-shirt behind the announcers’ table. Damian Houston has nice fluidity in the ring. He missed the top rope once on a move outside, then did it again, and looks like he sort of fucked himself up by hitting the ring apron. Houston is dominating the match. OWW! He took a weird legdrop across his back and he wasn’t laying down. I can’t imagine that feeling good. Such incidents create lortab prescriptions. Hey, Curtis did a nice weird submission move on Houston, with his head pinned forward while Curtis kneeled, then Venom came in with the dropkick to the head. I didn’t know they got lucha in Maine? HOLY SHIT! Damian Houston just flipped himself onto an empty chair face first ringside; luckily, the camera was right there to watch him. That was the closest to Faces of Death I’ve seen wrestling footage in some time. This is a pretty good match, for an ECW-influenced 3-Way lightweight deal. Hey, I hadn’t noticed the evil long-haired manager in a leather jacket holding the putter yet. Chris Venom wins and holds his title for another day. Stephan Ramsey is wearing a sweater over his shoulders, and he is facing El Tornado, who looks like a skinny white guy in a mask.

BEER THREE: As much as Ramsey did not want to take his little golfer hat off, I’m figuring he lost a hair match recently. Tornado does a crazy moonsault outside the ring. Goddamn, Tornado is all sorts of lucha-riffic. They really must get Lucha Libre in Maine. There’s mad two counts going on. Until the prep wins. Preps always win. Fuck preps. The fat tittied chick in the white t-shirt behind the announcers is talking smack. She probably has a baby’s daddy. Seventeen people came out at once, which means one thing, a lumberjack match. The Enforcer Larry Huntley leads the way, and boy is he working at the Jiffy-lube. But like the good spandex soldier he is, he reaches under the ring and tosses a few chairs and cookie sheets and the such into the ring. Adam Hastey is the opponent. He has tiny black sunglasses, a chair with “X” painted on it, and his black t-shirt has the sleeves cut off all the way down the side so that his shirt is like a towel with a hole in it over his head, like those blankets that Mexicans wore in old Clint Eastwood westerns, just without all the colors and bandoliers. Hastey does a corkscrew moonsault. They really must love the Lucha Libre in Maine. Granted, there were plenty of Mexicans on the blueberry farms. Hell, the third day, we had l’Immigre raids on mint-green 4-wheelers. Fuckin’ l’Immigre. Half the crew took off, the best was this family of like eight, led by some old dude, who all jumped in their silver van with Florida tags that had a license plate cover on the front that said “THE GAMBLER”. They were loading up five-year-olds and fifty-year-olds. It rocked. I guess sometimes I forget how cool all that was because I was high most of the time back then. Kids, take it from me, The Confederate Mack, don’t get high all the time when you’re living in a tent a couple hundred miles away from home, with no money to your name. Cooking rice in a pot on a campfire is not easy, not even with instant rice. Huntley is very indy, and looks like the TOUGH LOVE on the back of his trunks was spray-paint stenciled. Hey, fire extinguisher gimmicks. That foam isn’t good for you, folks. As is usually the case with lumberjack matches, everybody is fighting everybody ringside right now. And they all fight to the back, which leaves Huntley and Hastey in a lumberjackless lumberjack match. Huntley uses a guitar to beat Hastey down, and it sucks. BUT HASTEY KICKS OUT! He ducks one clothesline! He ducks a second! Then they clothesline each other! Both men are down. Hastey gets up, and bad lumberjacks continually try to interfere, getting the boot all along the way. Hastey is destined to win, and win he does. Some kid in the crowd has a sign that says SPOOK CITY. I don’t think I went there when I was in Maine.

BEER FOUR: That heel prep shithead from the beginning, his name is Alexander Worthington III, and he now has a match against some dude dressed like a shitty prep with a shitty entourage and they’re eating pizza. The dude’s name is K.L. Murphy. This is great. I hate preps, too, and Murphy has shed his fake belly, apparently he was just mocking his opponent. They did a wonderful trying to cheat but it didn’t work and the other heel buddy almost got pinned before the ref realized that wasn’t even the dude in the match thing. You know. The prep ended up winning while I was taking all my clothes off. It’s kind of fucked-up to just be sitting in your house where nobody’s gonna stroll in or show up, and wear clothes. When it’s hot, or even when you have conditioned air, it’s always nicer to be buck ass naked. The best thing about the EWA entrance ramp is they have this ramp built up to some curtains, inside this gym, and when the curtains open and you see somebody walk out, they walk down some steps right away. So it’s basically a stage for no reason whatsoever. Frankie Armadillo looks like a gangbanger, if there was a gang that wore yellow. His podna, as Too Short would say, is Dr. Heresy. Dr. Heresy is young and scary and looks like he should host a public access show. I automatically assume all wrestlers with Dr. in their name will rule, but Dr. Heresy has blown this idea for me, though he does have his own face airbrushed on the back of his lab coat. These guys’ comp is Brian Black & Adam Booker. Booker is some sort of champion. Your ref looks like an American Virus. It’s really not fair that I do a second review tonight, as I’m already drunk. Then again, was it really fair for that shitty cop in Dover-Foxcroft to try and search our car because Noah had a fuckin’ wooden flute? Of course that’s not a bong, you stupid fuckin’ cop. Goddamn. Fuck Maine, with its McLobster sandwiches at the McDonalds, and with its Stephen King. That guy sucks, and has big glasses. Frankie Armadillo is getting the shit beat out of him, worked and legit. I’m sure he’ll be looking for a bag of ice the next day. Dr. Heresy acts and looks a lot like Jimmy Fallon from Saturday Night Live. At least he’s not Dr. Stud. Dr. Heresy does a headbutt on Booker, and it hurts his own head a lot, too, to where he falls down. I love that deal. The ref counts on a chokehold and Dr. Heresy breaks at four, then yells, “You don’t tell me what to do…only I tell me what to do!” That’s perfect.

BEER FIVE: Some dude in the crowd is starting variations on the herpes chants. Adam Booker gets the pin and Adam Booker is really good. Now we’ve got lots of bell-ringing, people running around, a deranged Dr. Heresy pretending he won, all sorts of shit. The next match is for the EWA tag titles. Mad Dog and Draven come out, with face paint, weird evil Jason masks, and nooses. Plus long black leather coats. Johnny Idol & Mike Steele are the Egomaniacs and they are the fan favorites, and the champs. Or maybe they’re not the faves, as they seem to be talking mad shit. My eyelids hurt. Mad Dog & Draven are like a pair of Rhino’s, just less Four Seasons and more Taco Bell. Idol has Draven and does the Candido hold the guy up forever in a suplex thing, but Idol also yawns and taps his cheek, then makes the tag before dropping the suplex. I found that very nice. Your referee is younger than new dirt. Wow, they’re doing all sorts of pin break-ups. Holy shit, this is actually a great tag match. The Damned wins after interference by some other team who were wearing that hideous orange-based camouflage. That is wack.

BEER SIX: Now there’s a 20-man battle royal. I love when heels pretend to punch kids, to make the kids flinch. There should never be anything more than a seven man battle royal, because above that, you just end up waiting for shit to settle back down again. Now, all you’ve got left are the two preps and Damian Houston. My fingers hate typing when I’m drunk. Alright okay, alright okay okay. Alright okay, alright okay okay. I’m feeling you. Worthington gets tossed. And the other faggot prep bitch loses. Damian Houston wins. I am drunk. Peace.

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