The last time I wrote blog posts proper may have been twenty-oh-six. The style of writing has a special reserve in my mind; one where only overutilized smilies and high school meanderings over teenage girls may lie. My idea of success is to Fake It Till You Make It(tm), however, so in preparation for future writing (future being a writer) I may as well speak in bite-sized chunks concerning my life and opinions.
My quest to find something exciting in the next few weeks before classes begin is making me pack for my parents’ house. I’ll see family, eat barbecue, and pet cats. This is where I always end up, I suppose. A part of me wishes to drive to the other side of the country or to the southern-most tip of the Southern-most America and relieve my bank account on a nightly hotel room when I’m done walking around aimlessly. But having money now means I am more concerned about its distribution. If I had a dollar, I would spend it on a candy bar with no problem. Now there are multiple dollars, and I consider the expense and budget myself. This seems silly, though I don’t mind being frugal in older age. Considering some amount is left unspent from old Christmases and birthdays, though, there is also a desire to spend on some random trip where I return to Rock Hill with a hat made of Russian wool and never disclose where I’ve been. Oh, well. I’ll have a relaxing time at home. And I went to a museum and ate at some new restaurants.
My mind has wandered to wrestling, as it wont to do. The rumored news of Johnny Gargano’s departure from independent Dragon Gate USA to WWE was shot down last evening, though I still have suspicion in me that this is for storyline purposes-only. Gargano’s reasons include that he needs to help independent wrestling with his star power, and that leaving for the larger organization only leaves a place like DGUSA in a needier state. Independent wrestling is in a sour spot, but not due to unforeseen circumstances. There exists a real pettiness in today’s scene, and real-life rivalries between Gabe Sapolsky and Jim Cornette put their own livelihoods at risk. Each desires “exclusive contracts”, a product of big-time, multi-million dollar federations in heated national feuds. Independent work is so below that of the old WWF vs. WCW rivalry, and it’s still beneath the modern WWE viewer. If a viewer of the lone national product refuses to watch anything beneath it, why have twenty other companies competing instead of working together? My fifteen dollar internet-pay-per-view money is split between Ring of Honor, Chikara, DGUSA, Evolve, Pro Wrestling Guerilla, and more. Despite some overlap, these are mostly composed of entirely separate wrestlers. As a result, each one gets a select few “stars” of the bunch, and fill the rest of the card up with filler. There’s no reason for me to watch Adam Page on PPV. Adam Page is fine, sure, but he’s a starter. Caleb Konley has no business being in your semi-main event. Go back and examine ROH’s old Final Battle cards. Nearly every conceivable star of the independents is there, working together, all pettiness put aside. The same shows, the same old shows with overwhelming influence, could happen now if every promotion were to be friends. But it’s a ridiculous competition for a ridiculously small audience, which is why ROH now pushes Tommaso Ciampa and Mike Bennett: all the Akira Tozawas and Ricochets of the world are locked up someplace else.
So go live your life, Gargano! I hope you enjoy what you do, and I hope you don’t get involved in petty nonsense.
Speaking of petty nonsense, I listened to Diabolic’s (the rapper’s) album Liar & a Thief. I received a gigantic pack of independent (because I’m just so indie about everything!) rap albums, which I’ve slowly been making my way through when I get self-conscious about the lack of new music I listen to. Most have been good, okay but blending together, and some very good. Diabolic was…he was something else. A glut of people give rappers props when they have “sickkk beatz”, which is something I found abundant in Liar & a Thief. But I’m always a lyrics man. Always have been. And the album absolutely collapses in on itself when you see the writing and realize who is writing it. The forced, looking-around-the-room pop culture rhymes are there as they always are, but with it comes a lot of misogyny and a lot of desperate, perhaps unknowing pleas for a mental health counselor. Here’s the NSFW Self Destruction (Outro), which I think is supposed to sound tough and funny and totally off-da-chaaainnnnnn. All that runs through my mind is “Boy, with this and mass shootings we should probably advocate for some reform!”
Violent rap music, at its best, is supposed to sound tough. It’s childish to threaten to shoot someone if they look at your girl funny, God knows the action itself is awful and wrong, but you should actually believe in it. (Or you could rhyme without threatening to murder people, which plenty of great albums do!) Diabolic sounds less like Eminem and more like Stan. Stan is someone you never want to be!
Saints Row: The Third is complete, and it’s fantastic. There’s a lot to say about it that may not fit here. Saints Row may be the video game version of Pineapple Express. The entire purpose of its creation was to have as much fun with as many stupid parts as possible. A multi-million dollar budget was spent on dicking around, and that’s unheard of from the 2012 versions of gigantic video game publishers.