Post by Jack of Blades on Feb 12, 2009 10:22:32 GMT -5
Have you ever seen that Bruce Springsteen video? That ode to Philadelphia? The one where Springsteen navigates the urban sprawl of the city like some Dickensian Flâneur. With Brucey as our guide, we are treated to a travelogue of epic proportions. Through the power of montage, Springsteen impresses on us just how magnificent a location this is. In this three minute tourist guide, we see Philadelphia as a bastion of cultural diversity, a milieu of understated majesty and a home for an AIDS-ridden Tom Hanks.
Clearly, Bruce Springsteen has never been to Philadelphia. He can sing until his next movie soundtrack deal comes through the post; he will never the capture the true Philadelphia. The one that I know. The one the WCF knows. The one that will be transplanted into Minnesota come Friday.
In the real Philadelphia, crimson masks replace smiling faces. There would be no shots of friendly neighbourhood barbershops, no instances of inter-racial basketball games and certainly no Tom Hanks. Instead, it would be all thumbtacks and barbed wire. All thugs and no hugs. This is the Philadelphia I helped create. And this is the Philadelphia I am returning to.
You see, the WCF is essentially a microcosm for its hometown. To comment on Philadelphia is to pass judgement on Mr Lerch's little enterprise. And, as such, upon my return to the sweat-stained canvas, it seems appropriate that I play the Springsteen role. The role of the outsider looking in; the commentator beyond reproach. Just speaking what I’m feeling.
However, unlike 'The Boss', my little sojourn around town has not been met with fishmongers waving their stock at me nor joggers politely asking to overtake me. Instead, I've been greeted by a six-foot snow cone and a heady dose of status quo restoration. Regardless, I have taken notes. Notes that I am willing to share with you, my fellow pugilists.
Creeping Death/Corey Black: The man who claims responsibility for my return. The man who purports to have simply picked up the telephone, gave me a call and stated “Hey. You should come have a match at my show.” While it is a well-known fact that I live my life purely by Corey’s instructions (See Payback 2007), I tend not to respond well to people who suggest conversations with me are as colloquial as placing an order at your local pizzeria. Regardless of Creeping’s distortions, I find it comforting to know that some people will always remain the same. There you are, still attempting to suggest that the use of flaming tables is as ubiquitous within a wrestling ring as a headlock. There you are, maintaining your policy of population control. 'The King of the Deathmatch…' A manufactured massacre that allows Mr Black to punish the inexperienced for their neophyte status. A holocaust disguised as a match type. Eugenics played off as a gimmick. Cultural selection masquerading as a competition. A leopard never changes their spots.
Of course, you could argue this point. You could claim that you have changed. That you are a different man. I mean, you did change your name didn't you? Of course, whereas the sobriquet 'Creeping Death' carries with it intimidating undertones, the name Corey Black suggests you to be the nine-year-old star striker of some pee-wee soccer team. “One step forward, two steps back…”
Torture: Hooray, the champion is back. The man who will guide the WCF through the quagmire of interesting storylines and quality wrestling. Bring on the T-Shirts, action figures, novelty pencil holders, the Torture-endorsed home baptism kits…
Seth Lerch: “A fool and his money are soon parted. A fool and his company seem perpetually asunder.” For a company that I am not entirely sure is 'publicly limited,' the frequency by which the WCF is the victim of an aggressive takeover is astounding. Company ownership changes hands more times than Shane Sires changes persona. I’ll give you a little tip: Any lawyer who suggests that his client's company can be usurped through a wrestling match probably doesn’t hold any kind of legal qualification.
Logan: What on God's green and verdant earth happened to you? Look, when I went all man-mental, I vowed to crush the world of professional wrestling under my heel. I did not make friends with an anthropomorphic ice-cube and adopt a savoury carnival snack as my personal lord and saviour.
Chino: I thought I smelt something illegal.
Frosty the Snowman: I had a friend once. His name was Lawnmower Jones. His appeal was that he had an angle that was slightly off tangent, like yours. He fucked lawnmowers. What have you done recently?
Skyler Striker: News of my return has been tempered with its synchronicity with yours. Tomorrow night, we shall meet in battle. Tomorrow morning, I will talk to you directly. Your importance goes beyond brevity; you deserve much more than a paragraph. You brought me back.
God, it feels good to be home.
Clearly, Bruce Springsteen has never been to Philadelphia. He can sing until his next movie soundtrack deal comes through the post; he will never the capture the true Philadelphia. The one that I know. The one the WCF knows. The one that will be transplanted into Minnesota come Friday.
In the real Philadelphia, crimson masks replace smiling faces. There would be no shots of friendly neighbourhood barbershops, no instances of inter-racial basketball games and certainly no Tom Hanks. Instead, it would be all thumbtacks and barbed wire. All thugs and no hugs. This is the Philadelphia I helped create. And this is the Philadelphia I am returning to.
You see, the WCF is essentially a microcosm for its hometown. To comment on Philadelphia is to pass judgement on Mr Lerch's little enterprise. And, as such, upon my return to the sweat-stained canvas, it seems appropriate that I play the Springsteen role. The role of the outsider looking in; the commentator beyond reproach. Just speaking what I’m feeling.
However, unlike 'The Boss', my little sojourn around town has not been met with fishmongers waving their stock at me nor joggers politely asking to overtake me. Instead, I've been greeted by a six-foot snow cone and a heady dose of status quo restoration. Regardless, I have taken notes. Notes that I am willing to share with you, my fellow pugilists.
Creeping Death/Corey Black: The man who claims responsibility for my return. The man who purports to have simply picked up the telephone, gave me a call and stated “Hey. You should come have a match at my show.” While it is a well-known fact that I live my life purely by Corey’s instructions (See Payback 2007), I tend not to respond well to people who suggest conversations with me are as colloquial as placing an order at your local pizzeria. Regardless of Creeping’s distortions, I find it comforting to know that some people will always remain the same. There you are, still attempting to suggest that the use of flaming tables is as ubiquitous within a wrestling ring as a headlock. There you are, maintaining your policy of population control. 'The King of the Deathmatch…' A manufactured massacre that allows Mr Black to punish the inexperienced for their neophyte status. A holocaust disguised as a match type. Eugenics played off as a gimmick. Cultural selection masquerading as a competition. A leopard never changes their spots.
Of course, you could argue this point. You could claim that you have changed. That you are a different man. I mean, you did change your name didn't you? Of course, whereas the sobriquet 'Creeping Death' carries with it intimidating undertones, the name Corey Black suggests you to be the nine-year-old star striker of some pee-wee soccer team. “One step forward, two steps back…”
Torture: Hooray, the champion is back. The man who will guide the WCF through the quagmire of interesting storylines and quality wrestling. Bring on the T-Shirts, action figures, novelty pencil holders, the Torture-endorsed home baptism kits…
Seth Lerch: “A fool and his money are soon parted. A fool and his company seem perpetually asunder.” For a company that I am not entirely sure is 'publicly limited,' the frequency by which the WCF is the victim of an aggressive takeover is astounding. Company ownership changes hands more times than Shane Sires changes persona. I’ll give you a little tip: Any lawyer who suggests that his client's company can be usurped through a wrestling match probably doesn’t hold any kind of legal qualification.
Logan: What on God's green and verdant earth happened to you? Look, when I went all man-mental, I vowed to crush the world of professional wrestling under my heel. I did not make friends with an anthropomorphic ice-cube and adopt a savoury carnival snack as my personal lord and saviour.
Chino: I thought I smelt something illegal.
Frosty the Snowman: I had a friend once. His name was Lawnmower Jones. His appeal was that he had an angle that was slightly off tangent, like yours. He fucked lawnmowers. What have you done recently?
Skyler Striker: News of my return has been tempered with its synchronicity with yours. Tomorrow night, we shall meet in battle. Tomorrow morning, I will talk to you directly. Your importance goes beyond brevity; you deserve much more than a paragraph. You brought me back.
God, it feels good to be home.
