SONG OF THE DAY: Hey Ruby (Shut Your Mouth)

This is such a great fuckin’ song and I wish I had known it when I still lived in the shitty basement apartment underneath the woman who mined bitcoins and her adult son who lied to the DMV about his address being downstairs so the police would show up with warrants for his dumbass and I’d be like, “no idea who that is, he don’t live here,” and they’d make me show my ID but then leave, and after they drove off, I’d go upstairs and bang on the door and tell the woman, “The cops were looking for Gabe again.” Dumb fucker stole a keffiyeh package one time, I just know it, had to get a PO Box for a year while living in town just to keep that fucker from taking my shit with his stupid ass. Anyways, this would’ve been a great song to play back then, except I would’ve been the one asking them to shut the fuck up, which is not the ideal role in role playing this song, although I would’ve played that role by pointing my subwoofer directly upwards from the laundry room (because some flooring was missing there up above me) and blasting this up into their level loud as fuck, to get them to be quiet. In my Greater Appalachian unorthodox mystic brain, this makes perfect logical sense.

SONG OF THE DAY: All Cried Out

Pro wrestling as it exists now (bunch of comic book dorks acting like they’re tough with each other) is pretty bad, as is the genre of singer-songwriters (bunch of art school dropouts acting like they’re tough). But I like to imagine in my mind that the two worlds crossed over, and in order to be called a “singer-songwriter”, it meant you had to go wrestle somewhere in southern Appalachia, and Richie Havens had been imbued with the spirit of Porkchop Cash, but also a bit of the violence of Abdullah the Butcher, and anyone wanting to claim singer-songwriter status had to get through a blood feud with Richie Havens, culminating in a barbed wire cage match, but not a nice cage but one of those raggedy ass ones made of 2x4s with the barbed wire sort of staple gunned to the whole thing, so it was all very precarious and fucked up but perfect. I mean, that’s the essence of a good singer-songwriter too, instead of being some suburban jack ass who dabbled in punk music in their youth but now wants to think of themselves as working class so has ironic Nascar flags. Time machine Porkchop Cash Richie Havens BURNS YOUR FUCKING FAKE ASS Nascar flags, and then throws the warm ashes into your eyes.

SONG OF THE DAY: Roll Um Easy

IF YOU ARE THE DUDE WHO STOLE MY LITTLE FEAT CD THE NIGHT WE HAD A PARTY IN MEHERRIN AFTER BURYING MY DAD BECAUSE YOU PLAYED IT BY THE BONFIRE IN YOUR TRUCK, PLEASE REVEAL YOURSELF SO THAT I MAY KNOW WHO I HAVE HELD A LIFETIME (and beyond) BLOOD GRUDGE AGAINST PLEASE. My youngest sister refuses to tell me to this day who you are, and she even bought me a new copy of that particular CD, but it just don’t sound the same. It just don’t sound the fuckin’ same bro.

M4SCVL1N1TY D3F1N3D...

masculinity defined

from young age as expression

of violence, with full brute force

MOTYOTD: Patterson vs. Slaughter (May 4, 1981)

We return to this journey through the Wrasslin’ Watcher’s Matches of the Years in early May of 1981, when the television cowboy Ronald Reagan had just completed the first three months of his eight year run of performative traditions, enabling the mass fleecing of the American continent as well as the rest of the world by corporate interests. Our match from this period is an evil Marine drill instructor who has obviously strayed from the God blessed American themes of Marine life, in Sgt. Slaughter, who is escorted by a sequined out old man called “The Grand Wizard of Wrestling”. The opponent, in an I Love NY shirt (with a heart for the love), is Pat Patterson, who in real life was an alleged pervert (not just because gay) who took indecent liberties with underage ring boys. Their match is a Street Fight, meaning anything goes, and they are both wearing cowboy boots, in Madison Square Garden. This is the Ronald Reagan era, deeply, already.

Unconvicted sex offender man is whipping evil Marine with a belt, and choking him, and it is a street fight so nobody can stop it. THIS IS THE REAGAN ERA NOW! The match continues with mostly just belt whipping and occasional punches mixed in on Slaughter, and kicks, and good commands an early lead. But then Slaughter gouges the eyes (it is always the eyes being gouged), gets the belt, and starts his own period of whooping supremacy.

Slaughter gets the belt around Patterson’s face, in a gag-type position, which visually simulated a choke but is not really a choke, and just a performative image perfect for professional wrestling. But also lolol it is a known in retrospect sexual deviant having himself publicly gagged with a leather belt, and then his NY love shirt is ripped off by the wayward Marine as well. Like a majority of professional wrestling’s greatest matches, this is two men beating down their homosexual desires, a Don’t Ask Don’t Tell Street Fight.

But then, after taking this constant slow beating, Patterson comes into ring, and gets Slaughter’s legs, and launches him into corner, where the evil Marine does a beautifully quick blade job to his own face, while even standing there in the ring, not even tucked down in normal stealth blade mode. It creates an immediate gush of crimson mask, which was not super common for the staid WWF style of northeastern wrestling. But we had entered the Reagan era… there must be blood.

As Slaughter, an immediate bloody mess staggers around, the crowd goes mad with bloodlust themselves. Patterson jumps up and becomes a deranged dancer, throwing exaggeratedly overblown punches, Slaughter over-selling the punches with same exaggerated effect, and it’s so fucking comical if it wasn’t an evil Marine bloody as fuck and an unconvicted sex offender being cheered.

Slaughter pulls brass knucks out, and staggers around to put them on (he has really cut himself an amazing one here), and fuck man Slaughter is the best at being punch drunk. The brass knucks are countered the second time he goes to them though, and Patterson uses the advantage moment to pull off one of his cowboy boots and just pound Slaughter on the forehead with a boot, or throw him into the steel corner post, it is a very simple brutality going on here, but it is paced perfectly for the deranged professional wrestling crowd to enthusiastically soak up every bloody punch. The Grand Wizard throws in the towel, but Patterson keeps beating on Slaughter, until he climbs into the ring, and the ref acknowledges the towel and calls for the bell. Slaughter staggers around as if still willing to fight though, and has lost no credibility for the Marines.

The crowd loved the blood, and the secret sexual deviant is victorious over the Marine, and this was the number one match of the professional wrestling in our year of the lord 1981, at least according to those who have observed wrestling without necessarily taking part in the necessary activities to be a practitioner of the wrestling arts.

t r e z v

peckish rooster chopping block -
wild, headless back flips through the
chickweed and red clover clumps

k n i f d

moonlight knife blade reflections
dull; wandering trackside woods,
looking for this dude coleman