RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition who does all types of things, daily. The best place to get it right now is his Patreon or find his books at Amazon.

Saturday, January 26

SONG OF THE DAY: Wrestlemania 20



The wrestling storylines today are mostly just the WWE storylines, and that storyline’s largest manufactured arc is that somehow the Royal Rumble leads up to Wrestlemania season. This of course is all trash storylines compared to back when wrestling was a myriad of regional promotions ran like degenerate improv theater, where the writers were basically outliners and the ridiculous characters who fell through the cracks into the wrestling business fleshed out the details, often times outlandishly. What I’m saying is despite the resurgence in digital appreciation for the wrestling arts, the WWE is fucking boring. And it always has been. But if you tell somebody that, they get mad at you, if they are a wrestling fan. But being a wrestling fan and thinking the WWE is great is akin to saying you love having sex but all you’ve ever had is straight missionary. You have barely even explored what it means, and to be honest, haven’t even gotten to the good stuff.
But we are also America, a prudish culture that has built this myth that we are bold because of our freedoms. Yet most people are afraid to express themselves in any true fashion, and thus the repressive expression of the WWE is perfect as a performative act of quirkiness. But in actuality, it is no coincidence that Vince McMahon’s wife Linda is part of Donald Trump’s governing team. The WWE and Donald Trump are fraternal brothers, and the pretend change “drain the swamp” antics of Trump which have given us open fascism are the result of years of social conditioning that the WWE’s professional wrestling has given us. All this didn’t happen overnight – we were primed for decades.
Anyways, it’s Royal Rumble weekend, which is a buffet of boring chemically enhanced performers, mixed in with faded stars of yesteryear, meant to create a nostalgic pop in the greater markdom, in order to spark a desire to give half a fuck about the upcoming Wrestlemania, which pretends to be a Super Bowl of sorts, thus tying the Royal Rumble to Wrestlemania build-up into Super Bowl weekend, and the twin sports entertainment arms of American fascism (football and wrestling, neither of which is actually what it claims to be).
We are not doomed, but we’re way more fucked than anybody seems willing to admit. There will be a period of nihilistic degeneracy, as exemplified by this Westside Gunn (and Griselda Records crew) track named after Wrestlemania 20. I am too old now to look forward to this period, but fuck it, you play the hand you’re dealt, even if the dealer is dealing from the bottom of the deck, your entire life.

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