#sleazy 70's wrestling

[wrestlingarsenal]

"Bulldog" Don Kent takes revenge after being subdued in jobber Randy Scott's repeated Headscissors (see yesterday's Scissor Series video.) In today's clip, the cheating Bulldog tortures his jobber using his studded dog collar as a weapon. Everyone in the arena, and everyone watching at home (thanks to some great close-ups) is aware of his illegal foreign object, save one person: the referee! Concerned audience members notify the clueless ref about the collar -- but he pretends to be deaf. (I love this ref!)

The crowd then tries to help young Randy by barking loudly to distract the Bulldog, forcing the beast to cover his ears and cower in misery. However, their cruel and relentless barking annoys him. This sends the beast into a rage, causing him to wreck the helpless jobber with that nasty dog collar!

This is great audience participating as they stoke the fire, leading to Randy Scott's demise. The barkers certainly bear responsibility for young Randy's destruction because they kept yelping at the angry Bulldog knowing it would set him off. Stop barking, I'd think to my young self, you're going to get the wimpier guy murdered! But maybe the fans are meanies and they get a charge out of the anguish they're inflicting on the Bulldog and, in turn, on Randy Scott. So this kinky match, or one like it, is exactly what turned me gay for wrestling.

Of course, as a youngster witnessing this violence and mayhem, I'd ponder why the Bulldog wore a dog collar in the first place if he can't stand barking?! Why give the audience this cue to your bark-phobia knowing they could exploit your weakness to torture you?!

And by the way, where did this freak obtain his strange collar and his aversion to barking? Was he raised as a dog in some dungeon master's kennel, forced to wear a collar and wrestle for his supper?? My horny adolescent brain would picture all sorts of twisted scenarios, inspired by this sleazy, barbaric style of wrestling that drove me wild 50 years ago.

[pebblesagainstaewswindow]

Hey sorry if this is a dumb question but who is Joey Ryan? I just recently started watching wrestling + don't think I've heard mention of them before?

Not a dumb question at all honey, don't worry!

Joey ryan was a wrestler whose gimmick was "sleazy '70 man (pornstar) whose dick is his greatest weapon". Many of his moves were centered about that and he had other weirdly uncomfortable looking moves (ex. The booblex. A german suplex where he'd grab the opponent chest, and yes, he'd do this to women too). He organized various promotions and was part of several indie wrestling organizations.

Turns out, the gimmick was not just a gimmick but it also reflected in his real life habits: in June 2020 many women in the so called #speakingout movement (you can find info in the tag even on here, it was a trend that was created to denounce sexual assaults and misconducts in the wrestling industry) came forward with accusations against him, saying he assaulted them and worse. After this, he fell off the face of the Earth for a while, only to come back with a very shitty video that tried to justify his behaviour and "apologized" to his victims (however it was a classic "youtube apology", you know, the ones that feel fake as fuck?).

But that is not the end of it! Apparently, seeing as the YouTube video wasn't enough to revive his more than dead career, he's trying to sue those who accused him, which is fucking bonkers and just a way for him to silence them.

Hope this helped!

If you want more info on the speaking out movement and joey ryan you can scroll through the speaking out tag on @superkixx 's blog, I've seen posts with links and resources. I think i might have reblogged some too!

[pjbehindthesun]

chapter 16: road dogs and glass eyeballs

Friday, October 26th, 1990

“I still can’t believe you came to see me off, Luce! You sure Jeff didn’t mind? Doesn’t his flight leave soon?”

“Nah, we said goodbye this morning.”

“You really should have stayed in bed with your man and snuggled like the adorable otters you are.”

My friend giggles, although I’m not quite sure where she’s managing to come up with the oxygen, since my brother basically has her in a stranglehold as we all stand on the curb a little ways off from the Greyhound bus in the very early hours of the morning, getting ready to say goodbye. I’m trying hard not to think about the goodbye part.

She eases herself free and kisses his cheek. “Yeah, but I know he’s getting back in a few days. You? Who knows when you’re gonna grace us with your presence again.”

“Yeah, well, Portland’s a lot closer than Asheville.”

I interject, “we’ll come down and see you once you get settled in, promise. We’re due for a road trip.” Lucy bounces on her heels in affirmation, but Alex lets out a huff of disapproval.

“Don’t listen to ‘em, man, these two will suffocate you if you let them. Especially this one,” Alex ruffles my hair, “just go live your life, enjoy it. We’ll see you around.”

His words feel like a boot print on my chest. I swallow hard, as if that’s going to wash away the tread marks.

“But, call when you get in anyway, okay?” I curse the little quaver in my voice, which I know is what’s making Alex roll his eyes.

“I will, I will,” Patch sighs, but with a loving smile quirking his mouth.

The hiss of the bus’s air brakes makes me wince, and we all turn to watch the rest of the small group of passengers start climbing on board, or hugging their loved ones, or fussing over luggage in the storage bay. Luggage… oh right, I’d almost forgotten…

“Hey, kiddo, I forgot, I have one more thing for you in the car…”

“For fuck’s sake, Cora,” Alex ribs, but I walk past him unblinkingly, leading my brother back out to the parking lot where I can talk to him in peace.

Patch’s forehead wrinkles questioningly as I open the hatch of the Rabbit and thrust a bike wheel into his chest.

“Here, hold this, I had to pop it off to fit the whole thing in the back…”

I wrestle my bike out of the tight space and frown back over at the bus. “Huh, I thought there was a bike rack on those things, but I guess not… well, a cable lock will keep the wheel and the bike together in storage until you get there. It’s a quick release attachment, you know how those work?”

“Cora, slow down, what…” Patch’s shoulders shake with a soundless laugh as he watches me fidget with the bike.

“What do you mean, what?”

“You’re not giving me this thing, are you?”

“That’s the plan.”

He shakes his shaggy head. “No can do, C, it’s a sweet idea but it’s yours.”

“Yeah, well, it was also my idea for you to leave your truck all the way back in western Carolina in the first place, and I don’t like the idea of you all on your own in a new town with no way to get around.”

“They’ve got buses and shit, Cora.”

“Humor me, you brat,” I finish working the bike lock key off my key chain and thrust it into his hand. Something in his face contracts, and he pulls me into an embrace.

“Love you, C.”

“Love you more.”

“Try to be happy, okay?”

“Mmhmm,” I affirm, squeezing him tighter.

We rejoin Lucy and Alex on the curb, help Patch stow his one small duffel bag and new-old bike underneath the bus, and start to hug our goodbyes. None of the words being said seem to want to stick in my numb, fuzzy brain. The only things immediate enough to feel real are the last little squeeze he gives my shoulder before climbing onto the bus and the look of excitement on his face as we wave him off.

Lucy wraps her arms around my neck from behind in a fond hug, leaning her head against mine. “He’ll be alright.”

I swallow hard again and nod, not willing to unclench my teeth just in case that’s the only thing keeping me from crying.

“You two are unbelievable. He’s a grown man, he’ll be fine,” Alex grumbles.

Without even turning my head, I know exactly what kind of glare Lucy’s giving him. But instead of arguing with him, she lets go of me and turns me around. “So, I gotta head back and get to work, but it’s movie night tonight…”

“Oh, right.” I’d lost track.

“...but I feel like heavier artillery’s in order. Night out?”

I glance at my boyfriend to gauge his reaction. “Oh, I don’t know, I mean, Alex is leaving Sunday morning, I probably ought to --”

“No, hey, it’s cool,” he cuts in, “I can go game over at Brian’s, you girls have fun.”

Lucy smiles and starts to chatter about what we might do for a girls’ night while we walk back to the Rabbit, but I’m stuck on Alex and his eagerness for a night apart so soon before a whole week of nights apart. We really are done here, aren’t we? What are we even doing?

***

“So, have you decided what you want to be?”

Cora’s rummaging through the thrift store’s bargain bin of hats as she asks me about Halloween. There’s a thing next week at the Tavern with a drink special if you show up in costume, and I’d talked the guys into it the other night. Cora took a little more convincing, but I think the prospect of sitting home in an empty house finally got to her, and she agreed to play along. Normally, I don’t think Alex leaving town for a week would have her feeling quite this down -- after all, they’re pretty good at managing time apart for her research trips -- but it’s obvious how intensely she’s already feeling the void left by her brother. She’s keeping it together admirably, but everything about her is more subdued since this morning.

“I have absolutely no idea,” I tell her as I pluck a fuzzer off of a pair of red velvet platform heels. “I was thinking I could just recycle the flower child from last year, I still have the fringed vest.”

“Oh come on, we can do better than that. What’s Jeff going as?”

“Larry Bird.”

“Typical,” she snorts. “I’ll only acknowledge it as a success if he wears the super short 70’s shorts.”

“Oh, bet on it,” and we crack up loudly enough that the only other patron in here on a Friday night looks up from his careful inspection of a broken camera to figure out what we’re laughing at.

We poke around the racks, trying various things on for size, debating costume ideas for the creatively and budgetarily challenged, and ultimately settle on plans for us both. Pleased that I managed to incorporate the velvet shoes into my own idea, we pay for our finds and walk the few blocks to the bar where we’d planned to have a drink. On our way, we catch up on each other’s lives. Her frustration with her advisor Jim, who keeps forgetting to send in a recommendation letter for her fellowship application. My annoyance with Greta for piling more responsibilities on my plate after someone else in our department quit. Her excitement over finally getting a chance to listen to the new Neil Young album. The stray cat that I’ve been seeing in our building parking lot, who looks ready to have her kittens and who I’ve been leaving food out for. Where we’d actually go on a road trip, not just to Portland to visit Patch but throughout the whole West. It’s a steady, comforting rhythm that’s rudely interrupted by a sleazy guy about our age who’s already three sheets to the wind when he catches up to us on the sidewalk as he walks the same direction.

“Damn, where are you fine ladies heading tonight?”

I have to try not to laugh as I watch the loathing seep out of Cora’s every pore. Half the fun of going out anywhere with her is watching her destroy buffoons like this one, who only seem to materialize when we don’t have our usual herd of guys in tow. But she’s in a quieter mood tonight, so I decide it’s my turn.

“Just out for a walk,” I respond in a neutral tone.

“And may I app..ccompany you?” he hiccups, I guess trying to seem gentlemanly but failing miserably.

“No thanks, it’s a girls’ night tonight, just want to spend time with my best friend,” I throw an arm around her shoulder because I could have sworn I just heard her growl.

He clucks his tongue. “Ahhh, I get it, I get it, that’s *hicc* that’s beautiful. I just,” he slurs, and at the sound of Cora grinding her teeth I have to look over and stifle a laugh so the asshole won’t notice, “I’m out here looking for the same thing as everybody, y’know? Just trying to find love, my girl, my one and only, my road dog…”

“Your road dog.” Cora repeats in monotone, no longer able to resist the temptation.

“Yeah!” the guy enthuses. “My road dog, you dig?”

“I do not.”

“Like, my best friend, my road dog, the one I wanna travel this wild and crazy life with *hicc*, you know how it is. Well, I don’t wanna bother you no more, you girls be good,” he gives us a sleepy grin and disappears around the corner while we continue straight.

“Calling a girl a dog is a special kind of pickup line fail,” Cora cackles.

“Points for originality though, I kinda love the whole road dog thing.”

“You do?” she shoots me a withering glare.

“Yeah!” I stop on the sidewalk and drop to one knee, holding her hand while she looks at me like I’ve totally lost it.

“Cora, my darling, my dream, would you… be my road dog?”

“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!” We hold hands and skip the rest of the block.

***

Sunday October 28th, 1990

“Hey, Red, guess I missed you, uh… hi, it's Stone, obviously, what other rude motherfucker would call you at this hour? Anyway, uhm, I just… wanted to say hi, and fill you in on our New York happenings… oh, Kelly had a thrilling brush with the law today, it's a long and pointless story and I really wanna bore you with it if you're around. Call me, okay? The number here's… shit, hang on, what is it again?...”

Why does the sound of his stupid, rambling voice make me grin like such an idiot? It probably helps that no one’s watching, I guess. I wouldn't be caught dead smiling at Stone like this in person because I know I’d never hear the end of it. Someone has to keep him in line.

I grab a notepad while I listen to him look up the number in his room and read it to my machine. I didn't miss his call by much, it's not even 7:30 here yet, so I figure I have time to shower before I call him back. He’ll probably be up late anyway because of the time difference that he obviously forgot about. There's no reason to rush, and I’ve got the whole apartment to myself now.

But I’m rushing anyway.

After I shower and throw on whatever sweatpants and shirt are closest, I fold my legs up and sit on the couch with the phone, wiping away the occasional stray drip of water from my sopping wet hair, and dial the number he left. He answers on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Okay, bore me.”

I'm greeted by the laugh he makes when he's feeling particularly pleased with himself. “Hey Red, you got my message?”

“Obviously, idiot.”

“Hi to you too,” he sasses. “Jesus, where are your phone manners? I’d make a crack about you being raised in a barn, but in your case it's probably true and I wouldn't want to make you relive the trauma, so…”

“Ooh, etiquette lessons from the most obnoxious, sarcastic piece of shit I’ve ever met? Gee golly mister, sign me up.”

“I think my rates are a little steep for you, Red.”

“Oh really? What do you charge?”

“If you have to ask, you can't afford me.”

“I’ll cry myself to sleep tonight.”

“Is this you using your manners? Try again.”

“Hi, Stone.”

“Hi, Cora. Sorry to bug you so late, is this a good time?”

“I called you, man.”

“Fair.”

“And it's way later there than it is here, anyway.”

“Ah, fuck it, I’m still on Seattle time, this trip’s not long enough to adjust. Whatcha been up to?”

“Mostly studying for that exam I’ve got on Tuesday, but I needed a break, so I just got back from a run and got your message.”

“You know, I thought I could detect a rank, sweaty odor as soon as my phone rang…”

“Well either you should call your doctor about those olfactory hallucinations, or you should tell Jeff to throw those damn hats in the washer already. Anyway, it’s not me, I just showered.”

“Ah.”

He’s quiet for a beat, so I decide to prod him. “And what are you up to?”

“Nothin’. Being lazy in bed.”

“Aww, that’s kinda cute. Tell Jeff I said hi.”

“Jeff’s out with Kelly tonight, so it’s just me.”

I shift my position a little on the couch to distract myself from the odd little thrill that just shot down my spine.

“Just you, huh?”

“Yup, you got me all to yourself,” he jokes, pouring the seduction on thickly.

“You’re a pig, Stone, it’s not like I asked 'what are you wearing’ or some seedy shit.”

“T-shirt and boxers,” he says bluntly.

“I didn't ask! ...where the fuck are your pants, dude?”

“It’s almost midnight and I’m in bed, why the fuck would I be wearing pants? This is what I always sleep in.”

“Again, for the record, I did not ask.”

“Why, what do you wear to bed, a Victorian nightgown?”

“New subject, please.”

“Oh my God do you wear a nightgown??”

“NO!” I laugh, my cheeks reddening.

“Then what? You're not getting out of this without telling me, Red, I told you mine.”

“I DIDN'T ASK.”

“I'm gonna have to get a look at this nightgown when I get back, I feel like it's got to be fuckin’ awful if you're trying this hard to avoid telling me about it. Like, high neckline, ruffled hem, puffy sleeves…”

He sounds way too gleeful for me to believe he’s ever going to drop this, so I brace myself to rip off the band-aid. “Icantsleepinclothes,” I mutter.

“Excuse me? Didn't catch that.”

“I can't sleep in clothes. I go to bed naked.”

“Oh… oh.”

“Yeah.”

“No nightgown then.”

“Uh uh.”

“Well okay then.” He’s quiet for an excruciating pause, and then, “point of clarification, are you in bed now?”

“I am not, you pig. I am studying on my couch, fully clothed.”

“You're no fun,” he baits me.

“NEW TOPIC,” I shout, mostly just to drown out my own laughter to avoid encouraging him.

He fills me in on their trip so far, which has included a case of mistaken identity that landed poor Kelly in jail for a few hours while he and Jeff were occupied in meetings. Overall, though, the trip seems to be leading to a productive resolution with the old record label people. I forgot how much I love talking to him like this, aimlessly. Even when we lose the thread of the conversation and sit together in silence, it doesn’t feel weird, it just feels peaceful.

“I had a dream about you last night, you know.”

“Yeah? Good dream, I hope?” His words are innocuous enough, but I can hear his smile permeating his voice, that stupid challenging smirk.

“Ugh, not like that kind of dream, gross,” but I'm smiling too as I tangle my fingers in the phone cord. We're both talking in quieter voices all of a sudden, too, even though there's no one to overhear us and nothing of consequence being said.

“Oh yeah, disgusting. Absolutely revolting,” he cackles in that breathy, almost silent way he has when he thinks he's being utterly hilarious.

“You wanna hear about it or not?”

“Definitely.”

“Be nice, then. I should warn you, I have extremely weird dreams…”

“Ooh, a disclaimer,” he says in a scandalized tone, “now we're gettin’ to the fun stuff, lay it on me.”

“You're a pig.”

“Mmm, so you said.”

“I just mean like surreal, kind of psychedelic, but very vivid. Nothing’s straightforward in my dreams, ever.”

“I'm dying to know how you dreamed of psychedelic me, then.”

“Well, I guess it wasn't technically a dream about you…”

“Tease!”

I'm so stupid for blushing, ugh.

“Pain in the ass. You weren't really in it, you were just the first person I wanted to tell about it when I woke up.”

“...aww, really?”

“Really.”

“...Cora… that's so sweet…”

“Maybe you should reserve judgement until you hear it.”

“Well, I’m all ears.”

“Okay…” I take a deep breath and slump deeper into the couch, trying to figure out the best way to explain my weird little world to him. “So, the first thing to understand is that in the dream, the Earth isn't really a planet in outer space, okay, it's… it's a glass eyeball in a jar…”

“This is what made you think of me??”

“Damn it, man, have a little patience,” I laugh.

“Patience is my middle name,” he deadpans.

“Well, they can’t all be winners. Wait, what actually is your middle name?”

“Carpenter. You didn't know that?”

“No, asshole… wait, really? Stone Carpenter Gossard?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Your parents really went all in on a theme, huh? Respect.”

“Yeah, well, the hippie streak runs deep.”

“Clearly. I like it, though. Anyway, if you're such a know-it-all, what's my middle name?”

“It's, uh… fuck, I don't think you’ve ever told me.”

“Which means you have to guess!”

His groan of irritation gives way to a low little laugh. “Hmm… let me think…”

After a long pause, I’m pretty sure he's striking out. “Admit defeat, Stoner, you got nothing.”

“Give me a chance… okay, Cora… Cora…” Move along, nothing to see here, just Stone sighing my name, that doesn't affect me in the slightest, nope… “Cora Something Shaw…”

“Compelling, but incorrect.”

“You're impossible.” His grin broadcasts itself through the phone again. “Well, in order to suit you, it has to be something short and matter-of-fact… nothing flowery…”

“You're getting warmer.”

“...and you’re a good little Catholic girl,” ...nope, that doesn’t affect me in the slightest either, Jesus if you save me right now I promise I’ll believe in you again... “so it's probably some saint bullshit… Maria? Theresa? Anne? Joan?”

“Ha, colder. Except for the monosyllabic part.”

“Okay, I give, what is it?”

“You got closer than I’d like to admit, to your credit, but you forgot the hippie dad.”

“In my defense, I didn't know you had a hippie dad. This isn't the paterfamilias asshole, is it?”

“Nope. That's the stepdad. My actual dad is a whole other story.”

He’s quiet for a beat before speaking up in that same tender, vulnerable tone I heard for the first time at the cafe, when he’d asked if he could call. The tone I've been wanting to hear again ever since, against all my better judgement.

“I’d like to hear it sometime.”

“Hmm. Maybe when you get back. So, any last guesses?”

“I give. You got me.”

“Really? You're folding? That's damn disappointing, Stone.”

He chuckles. “If this is the worst way that I manage to disappoint you, we’re in good shape. What's your fucking name, huh?”

“Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes…”

“Hang on… monosyllabic… Lane? Cora Lane Shaw?”

“Ding ding! That's me!”

“Huh. It suits you. Very strange.”

“Hey, thanks,” I sass him.

“No, no, I mean it… like, I’m sure they couldn't have known when they named you, but it's the perfect song. The surface seems wholesome enough, but the closer you look, the more… ‘off' it seems, the more interesting and cryptic it gets…”

“I can deal with being interesting and cryptic.” I bite my lip in, which is stupid because there's no reason to hide how hard I’m smiling when I’m by myself.

“Well, good, because that's you. Speaking of which, back to eyeballs…”

“What? Oh, right… okay, so we're all living on this glass eyeball suspended in a jar, right, just sitting forgotten on a dusty shelf somewhere in a warehouse or something… and the jar is filled with some kind of gas, I guess that's our atmosphere, and stabilized by electromagnetic fields so the eyeball can float.”

“Right, okay…”

“Well, it was supposed to be a sterile environment, but something went wrong, or someone screwed up, I don't know, but something started growing on the eyeball. So all the life on Earth we’ve ever known… dinosaurs, trees, amoebas, dogs, cats, humans… that’s all we are, we’re all just eyeball fungus.”

He's silent for a long time, and I imagine his face looking the stupid smug way it always looks before he launches into a typical sarcastic takedown, but when he finally speaks again, his voice sounds so sincere, almost childlike.

“How do day and night work inside the jar?”

My smile splits so wide it's hurting my cheeks. “I... I don't remember. I’d have to go back in the dream and look it up.”

“You can do that??”

“Sure, I do it all the time… can't you?”

He lets out a soft laugh. “Baby, I think our dreams are such entirely different animals, I couldn't begin to relate.”

I don't give a fuck whether he can relate, or about much of anything else, except wanting him to call me that again... “Well, uhm, you’ll have to tell me some of your dreams so I can be sure. I showed you mine…” holy shit, did I just say that?

“Hah. I don't have anything to offer on this scale of creativity. I don't even remember most of them, and the ones I do are just your typical, mundane, playing-a-show-in-your-underwear-type stress dreams, shit like that.”

And now I'm picturing him in his underwear for the second time tonight. Fantastic. Doesn't he know my subconscious don't need any outside help objectifying him lately? Focus! What were we talking about? Oh yeah...

“Anyway, one thing I do remember is that the stars are not real.”

“Oh, inside the jar? That makes sense. What are they, do we know?”

“It’s a scientist’s dream, of course we do. A long time ago, people got sick of having nothing to look at at night. So someone climbed up there and pasted a bunch of random stuff on the inside of the jar for the people-fungus to look at and dream about. But over time, the sticky stuff wears off, right? and the pictures fall down, and someone has to climb back up there and paste the ‘stars’ back into place. So, somewhere, there's a real Stairway to Heaven, just for that purpose: for the one person whose job it is to climb up and put the stars back up when they fall.”

The silence stretches on long enough that I fear we’ve been disconnected. “...Stone? You there?”

After what feels like an age, his voice drifts over the line, barely above a whisper.

“And this is what you woke up wanting to tell me?”

“Yeah… it's stupid, I know…”

“It's not stupid at all, it's… that's beautiful.”

“No, it's definitely stupid, all my dreams are. I just woke up and... you were the first person I thought of who might possibly understand.”

“...I love it, Cora.”

“Really?”

“Mmhmm. Really.”

After another long pause, I ask, “You okay over there?”

“Yeah, never better. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“How your brain must work, if that's the normal dream output you're used to. It's gotta be pretty wild in there.”

“I mean, I think it's just nonsense most of the time, odds and ends that get mixed up from my waking life and jumbled into stories.”

“Yeah, but like, that's a pretty intricate story. And you remembered it! I'm jealous, I wish I remembered more of mine.”

“I guess the thing about being an artist is that all your creativity comes out when you're conscious, huh?”

“Mmm, maybe. So, uhm… tell me another one? Please?”

Damn him, when did he get so endearing? “I don't know, this exchange is feeling a little one-sided… I think maybe I need to limit you to one dream a day, especially if you don’t have any good ones for me.”

“Aww, come on.”

“Nope. Go to bed, call me tomorrow, maybe I’ll have a new one for you.”

“I’ll settle for an old one, they're all new to me.”

“You’re getting greedy.”

“Oh, unabashedly,” he laughs. “Come on, just a short one? Maybe your dreams’ll rub off on me and I’ll have a better one to tell you tomorrow.”

“Uhm… well, there is this great one I’ve had several times --”

“Oh, god damn it,” he grumbles.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I just forgot, I might not be able to call tomorrow night, we have a dinner thing. Fuck.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, well, hopefully anyway. If everything goes well tomorrow we were gonna go celebrate a bit. And if not, I guess drown our sorrows.”

“Aww, poor thing, getting wined and dined by record execs, what a terrible burden it is to be cool.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, “but this is pretty cool too.”

“What?”

“This. Just... having all kinds of time to sit and talk to you about nothing. Kinda like when you were in Alaska, remember?”

“Yeah,” I bite back another grin, stretching my legs out and savoring the softness of his voice. “It's almost like I like you best when you're three thousand miles away.”

“My band needs to make it big and start touring aggressively, then. Just think how likeable I’ll be from Australia.”

“Better yet, I oughta launch you to the moon, you’ll be irresistible.”

“There’s a thought,” he murmurs. “Want me to hang the stars back up while I'm up there? It's no trouble, it's on my way.”

“Yes, please.”

“You got it, baby.”

Silence is definitely the safest policy because I have no idea what might come out of my mouth in response to his sleepy, affectionate whisper. I decide instead to focus on restoring my breathing, which has gotten a little too fast, a little too uneven, like we’ve been running from something. Or towards something. I don't even know which way we're running. How did a phone call become so reckless?

Thankfully, Stone doesn't seem to have much to say either. His breathing comes more evenly over the phone than mine feels, so I try to follow along with it. Soon he starts to breathe deeper, and slower, and I wonder if maybe he's falling asleep. I open my mouth to ask if he's still there, but the image of him asleep in bed with the phone to his ear is so sweet that I can't bear to disturb him, although don't want to hang up on him either, because the thought of him waking up later to nothing but a dial tone is even worse. The textbook I was studying from earlier is still on the floor, so I decide to read a few pages, but it feels more like mindless word recognition when my mind's so far away.

Consider the case of an initial excess hydrostatic pore water that is constant with depth…

How is it that a person can feel such a potent mix of relief and anxiety at the same time? Relief, because even if we haven't come out and said it all yet, there's the feeling that we no longer have to. We both know where we stand. All of a sudden, there's this sense of security, out of nowhere on a quiet, sleepy phone call, which somehow feels so much more intimate than swapping dirty penguin jokes. Flirting can be pretty impersonal, almost war-like, where you're both trying to gain the upper hand. But it's not everyone you want to fall asleep with, wake up with, and tell all your dreams to.

...shows plots of the friction angle θ vs. plasticity index PI of several clays as compiled by…

And anxiety, because this is all going too far, too fast… like being trapped in a speeding car, except we’re both flooring the gas pedal, and no one is keeping their eyes on the road. What are we going to hit? Or whom? Someone's bound to get hurt. There's an undeniable violence to falling this quickly. So who's it going to be? Me? Him? Alex? Shit, Alex… how did I let this get so far away from me? Not like Alex seems to care how I spend my time anymore. Alex, who didn’t even come home Friday night, who stumbled in yesterday morning, hungover as shit, saying he’d fallen asleep at Brian’s place. I don’t even know who he is anymore...

... Comprehensive failure conditions or yield criteria were first developed for metals, rocks, and concrete…

“Ow, shit!”

“Cora? Wh-what's wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say around my finger, which I’ve got in my mouth to stop the bleeding. “just a paper cut.”

“Aww.”

“Sorry to wake you.”

“Mmm? I wasn't asleep. Is it bad?”

“Nah, just a flesh wound. You were awake all that time?”

“Well, maybe I dozed off a little…” his voice gets gravelly as he stretches himself out, making the image of him in bed even harder to resist. I don't want to hang up, it's pretty much the last thing I want right now, but I know it's essential that I do.

“I should let you go, you need to sleep.”

“I do not.”

“Go to bed, Stone.”

“Waaaay ahead of you,” he chuckles. “I'm awake, though, I’m good.”

“Go get some sleep.”

“Nooo,” he whines, “you were gonna tell me another dream! Please?”

His indignation makes me giggle. “Okay, just a short one. Or even better, what if I tell you just the first few minutes, and then you can dream about it tonight and we'll compare when you get home to see whose version is better?”

“I already told you, I don't remember my dreams.”

“I know, idiot, that's why I'm gonna loan you one of mine.”

“Okay, yeah,” he chuckles, sounding drowsier by the second, “hit me.”

“Okay, just, leave it the way you found it, okay? It's one of my favorites.”

“Promise.”

“Something tells me you'll like it too, there's ice cream involved.”

“Now we're talking.”

“Okay. There's this ice cream parlor, but it's not down here on Earth, it's floating up in space.”

“Are we still in the jar?”

“No, that's a totally different dream. Anyway, there’s air, you can breathe normally, but you're out in the night sky, among the stars. And the parlor is an old converted train car, still has all the old booths and the sliding windows and everything. And on the very back stoop, where the train car would have been connected to another one once upon a time, there's a rickety old wooden chair. Just one. It’s hot up there, so close to the sun, but there's a good solar breeze. You're sitting in the chair, leaning back, your feet up on the railing, eating an ice cream cone --”

“What flavor?” his voice is thick with sleep.

“Dealer’s choice. You're listening to the music on the radio, and watching the vastness of space, and that's where your dream starts.”

“Mmhmm, got it,” he murmurs. “Are you gonna be there?”

“No, dumbass, I’m lending it to you, I’ll be in another one.”

“We’ll see about that. G'night.”

“Goodnight, Stone.”

With reluctance I hang up, set my work down in a haphazard pile on the floor and stretch out on the couch, staring at the ceiling with no intention of falling asleep. Why do I miss him so much already?

***

Her voice is still sounding my name in my ears as I drift down further and further, or is it up, higher and higher? until another sound replaces it, followed by another, and another, as I acquaint myself with my new surroundings. The creaking of the chair underneath me. The drip of ice cream in my lap, prompting me to hold the melting cone out to the side where it drips onto the floor instead, sizzling as it lands. Elton John’s Rocket Man playing through crackly speakers. The gentle rocking of the train car, like a boat on idle water. I take a taste of the ice cream. Blueberry. Weird. I like it. Why’s it so hot up here?

As if to answer, the roar of the sun’s fire rises in my ears. It’s right there in front of me, how’d I miss it? I shield my eyes reflexively but end up whacking the bridge of my nose with the sunglasses I didn’t know I was wearing. Huh, I can stare right at it, they must be protecting my eyes somehow. Can’t say the same for the soles of my feet, which are gonna have blisters tomorrow from being propped up on the railing facing the sun. Time for a change. I balance the ice cream cone precariously between my knees and grab the railing on either side of me with sweaty hands, trying to rock the train car and steer it away from the sun. Inch by inch, the damn thing eventually lurches away from the blazing star, and now I’ve got a beautiful nebula to look at. Much better.

Swirls of gases, some purple, some orange, some red, some colors I don’t even understand, are entwining gracefully before me, shielding the stars with their dance. I crane my neck to keep watching it as the train car continues to gradually float around its central axis, turning me toward the blackness of space. One of the red plumes curls sinuously towards me, seeming to follow me, and I regret turning away from it... how do I stop this damn train from turning, shit, come back...

Grumbling in disappointment after I’ve lost sight of it, I frown at the vastness of space in front of me. The longer I stare, the less it seems like a dark vacuum filled with stars and the more it seems like a thick blanket covering an immense light, which peeks out through holes in the fabric. As the train car finally turns fully opposite the sun, the blanket of space folds in on itself, clothing a figure, and suddenly the stars are freckles and the nebula swirls back into view as a cascade of red hair, and Cora’s smiling enigmatically at me as I watch her step onto the train. I don’t dare make a sound as she climbs into my lap, nuzzling my neck and tugging at my shirt… I’ve never been seduced by a space goddess before, I’m not sure of the etiquette, should I say hi? Before I can think of something witty to say, a solar flare blinds me.

“Oh hey man, sorry, didn’t know you were asleep,” Jeff says, switching off the hotel room light he’d just turned on.

[spdk1]

Another Day, another foray into my stack of wrestling comics I’ve obtained in the past few years but woefully neglected to read for some reason. In the past, and especially in the days when I was a really heavy comic reader, I never really got into wrestling comics simply because they would usually take things far too seriously or end up like the infamous Ultimate Warrior comic book where he ….emmm….does something to Santa Claus. Nowadays, it seems like wrestling comics are thankfully way more fun, much like today’s topic.

Today, we’ll be looking at a comic that came from one of my boxes from Pro Wrestling crate, although I think it was originally produced by Chido comics as a follow up to their successful line of Lucha Underground comics via Kickstarter. You might remember Chido comics was also the company behind the Rey Mysterio comic I’ve done on here in the past.

For those completely unfamiliar with the rise of Joey Ryan’s unique brand of comedy wrestling, I’ll try my best to fill you in a bit. Ryan has had something of a sleazy 70’s pornstar gimmick for a while – he comes to the ring rubbing oil allover his hairy chest while sucking on a lollipop in a suggestive way showing that in his mind at least – he’s a sexy guy that all of the women in the crowd all going to swoon over. But since he’s actually presented like the anti-Rick Rude, it’s mostly people cringing at how creepy he can be.

A few years back, a short clip surfaced online of Ryan using his penis (not really, wrestling’s silly) to flip someone over after they attempted to harm his downstairs neighbor. This, of course, went incredibly viral due to the silliness and absurdity of the “move” and basically changed Ryan’s entire career. Now, he’s managed to even land a sponsorship from a popular online porn company.

Here’s the move in action:

In this post-Kayfabe world of pro wrestling, where despite heckling by diehard MMA guys (You know it’s fake right brah!) – everyone knows exactly what wrestling is, and a gimmick such as this can flourish. In fact, lately it seems like wrestling things that go viral are almost always something intentionally ridiculous, and make somebody what I assume is a pretty good living. they might even get popular enough to appear on National TV wrestling brands such as Impact Wrestling and Lucha Underground, or even get their own comic book!

“Joey Ryan was pro wrestling’s king of sleaze – until five years ago, when a match gone wrong left his tag team partner crippled and one of his opponents dead. Now he spends his days looking for answers at the bottom of bottles in Tokyo bars. But when he hears that his old nemesis is back in town, he decides it’s time to get back in the ring.”

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This comic is basically a Dark Knight Returns sort of alternate future affair for Mr. Ryan as it’s not a tale of him at his prime vanquishing evil-doers, but a story of a washed up and grizzled Ryan who has abandoned the business due to a horrible tragedy and how he gets back into the ring. It seems that five years prior to this comic, Joey Ryan and his tag partner Candice LeRae (who is not named) were involved in some sort of match where a wrestler was killed and LeRae was horribly injured, Ryan obviously blames himself and has turned into a miserable drunk.

Joey runs into an old friend that has news of his arch nemesis, a huge guy called Butch Satan, and that he has issued an open challenge – Ryan initially refuses to even contemplate wrestling again since the last time, his penis killed a man, but is swayed by promising to do a serious match with no silly gimmicks. Ryan tries to fight a clean fight, but soon realizes that he must use Dong Style one more time to win…

This comic is pretty silly, it both takes itself almost too seriously at times, and veers into absurdity at others. it’s because of this that the comic actually reminds me a LOT of a Deadpool book, especially some of the more serious ones before folks thought his catchphrase was “Chimichanga!” which it isn’t you guys. I mean when you have a guy getting advice from a sentient Gummy Bear, which is something that happens in this book, you know it’s a crazy comic. Jamie Jones provides a solid art style and coloring for the book, and you can follow the action very easily.

My only quibble is that it’s a bit too short, if this only exists as a one shot it’s a shame as I’d love to see more comics like this. Thankfully Chido Comics will be masking a series of Lucha Libre comics soon, but they are all looking like one-shots as well – fingers crossed that changes.

Joey Ryan: Big in Japan (2017) Another Day, another foray into my stack of wrestling comics I've obtained in the past few years but woefully neglected to read for some reason.