ThinkAttack.com

What is Drama?

Drama to me is when my empty beer bottles collect to the point where they are blocking my speakers.

Drama is running out of pot.

Drama is when the pizza delivery dude knocks on the door and I haven't written out the check yet.

Drama is the zit on my forehead that won't pop.

Drama is when the cable signal becomes so weak during the afternoon that I have to choose between the Internet and television.

Drama is when two shows I really want to watch are airing at the same time on different channels.

Drama is watching the water slowly rise to the rim of a clogged toilet hoping it doesn't overflow.

Drama is trying to make it to the store before 2am to pick up a twelve pack.

Drama is realizing that it's Sunday and they stopped selling at midnight.

Drama is running out of my medication.

Drama is a late period...

What is drama to you?

Something I hate about the way we are.

There are many things that I hate about this place.

No, not think attack - I have nothing but praise for this place where we can vent our frustrations on what is a relatively captive audience. I mean the things that make this world less than enjoyable.

When I think about the person that I am, I would say that I am a very positive person. I would also say that I am a very trusting person - sometimes possibly a bit too trusting, and would also say that I am a likeable person.

I trained as a teacher - before I decided that it wasn't really what I wanted to do anyway. Being a man (or boy; whatever) it was unusual for me to be training as a primary school teacher. There were only three others on the course, and two of those dropped out in the second year anyway. There was a ratio of girls:boys that stood at 50:1. Pretty awesome really.

But I digress. What really annoyed me, and affected me deeply because of the line of work that I considered undertaking, was the way that people judge others based on what has appeared in the news. I am talking about Paedophiles. Possibly not a subject that appears on here very often, but one that pisses me off greatly!

I am not denying that they exist, and their crime is one that sickens me to the core. What I am suggesting is that not everyone is a paedophile. Is this such a sweeping statement to make? People would have you believe that is the case.

Maybe the media has far too great an influence on us. I think that the worries about paedophiles makes life less fun.

Take this as an example. Think about the question and give yourself an honest answer.

A 35 year old man walks through a park, where he sees a young boy kicking a football (soccer ball) against the wall. The kid is by himself and there is no one else in the park. The man has never met the boy before and vice-versa. The man decides to have a kick around with the boy, and they both kick the ball against the wall. The man is enjoying himself, and is smiling, and so is the boy. How would you view this situation?

Unfortunately, I think I already know how you have viewed this situation. Here is my proposal. Instead of thinking the worst of this man, can't we just immediately view him as just being a nice person? At least until we see undeniable evidence to the contrary.

That is what this society is missing right now.

When I was training as teacher, we had to learn the appropriate way to hug a child. As I worked with children as young as 5, we also had to deal with the occasional child who wet themselves. As a male teacher, I had to be accompanied by a female whenever I helped the child change their wet clothes, yet this wasn't necessary the other way round.

Should this really be the case? Does me being male make me more likely to be a sexual deviant? Why can't I - as a male - be trusted? Can't I just be seen as a nice person?

I am a trustworthy person, an honest person, and a person who would never wish harm or discomfort to anyone.

People, please, can we all be a little more trusting? Should we deny ourselves the opportunity to bring happiness to others because we are worried about what people my think of us?

No. Definitely not.

Cheers for reading :)

Ironic?

I just read the following article: Does She Look Like a Music Pirate?

Early on in the article I said to myself "the daughter did it". Towards the end, additional facts were mentioned that made my assumption all the more plausible to me.

I am no fan of the RIAA nor their practices by any means. Nevertheless, after reading this article it really seems to me the RIAA is getting hosed. From what I know of networking, the assigned IP addresses are not some numbers jotted down on a post-it note... They are logged by the server with no conceivable means of recording erroneous data. Couple that with the fact she admitted to having Kazaa installed, her daughter is a Dragon Ball Z fan, and her daughter listens to the same music cited, I really see a cut-and-dry case here...

And yet, she's winning. Not only did she hold off the corporate attack, but now she is bringing the fight to them. She is the veritable William Wallace of the digital age... As long as you set aside the fact that she is guilty, that is.

Writer's block

I haven't been able to think of anything to write. Is that writer's block? I suppose so.

I asked loads of my mates to tell me what I should write about, and none of them really inspired me. One of my mates, Nudge, told me to write certain things that would probably get me banned from ThinkAttack.

Big Easel told me to write about the time that we were in Blackpool in the bar with the glass dance floor on the second floor. I dont think that would make a very long post though. It goes something like this:

"We went into a bar in Blackpool. There were loads of promiscuous women dancing in short skirts on the second floor. There were also lots of men with pints of lager looking at the ceiling on the ground floor."

I don't think it needs any more elaboration than that.

I still wasn't convinced that people would be interested in what I had to say.

Trousers. Well he said that I should write about stuff that I know about. Trousers is secretly one of the smartest of my mates (well, the ones with nicknames anyway) and he would hate it if people found out he was a closet intellectual! Strange man.

So here we go. I shall write about what I know.

There we go. Finished!

A Simulacrum of a Society

This essay is based upon my own observations, which I admit, may be completely subjective. Never the less, they are my observations.

After all of my travels, I find myself in perhaps the friendliest country I have ever visited -- Taiwan. It is a place whose people it must be nearly impossible not to like. Yet I could never love these people or their country for I find their immediate openness and hospitality to be the depth of things. As well as being the most welcoming people, they are the most shallow, materialistic and spiritually bereft people I have ever met.

The Taiwanese approach life with a tremendous energy completely lacking in spirit. In my daily life, I am simultaneously astonished at the sheer ability of both children and adults to learn great slabs of vocabulary and sentence patterns, yet their complete inability to combine them in even the most basic of novel ways. Asking any of my students not to look at the textbook or to think on the spot (as opposed to recalling something they've memorised and repeated dozens of times before) is tantamount to pedagogical suicide. Forget about critical thinking.

The running joke here is that when asked, "How are you?" every Taiwanese person can, and does, respond with, "I('m) fine sanks, and you?". (The m is always optional in words here, as is any s on the end of a word. Don't even ask for a th sound!) Yet ask them, "How's it going?" or "What's happening?" or any other variation thereof, and you are met with blank stares. Yet so long as the English schools are telling the parents their kids are doing really well, and keep passing them up to the next level, everyone is happy, and everyone believes everyone else can speak English.

I have been told time and again that Taiwanese learn English for business or promotions only. Yet the whole point to fluency is a deeper understanding of a language, including an appreciation of its nuances for their own sake, on its terms.

With every cover band I see (and I'm yet to encounter an original band, which is again, indicative), I am simultaneously amazed at the ability of guitarists to play any song or solo note perfect, all the while managing to do so with absolutely no soul. Actually, it's perhaps telling that I'm yet to encounter a soul band!

Again, in music, fashion or anything else, I see a society driven by trends and marketing, by what everyone else is told. This is true probably anywhere on the planet, yet I'm constantly astounded at how it is not so much the normal thing here as just about the only thing here. Because, after all, if you have a multi-million dollar contract and advertising deals, then you have made it, as opposed to the artist who struggles for his passions and to say something of note.

I am surrounded by beautiful women, none of them sexy or alluring above and beyond the base level that women naturally appear to men. Then again, I suppose that's hard when the national psyche hovers somewhere around the pre-pubescent, what with the obsession well into the twenties and even beyond for Elmo, Winnie the Pooh, Snoopy and the like. Don't even get me started on Hello Kitty or people putting ribbons on their little, fluffy dogs' ears. Much like they learn English, women make love like robots, and their notion of romance is seemingly lifted right from the latest Drew Barrymore or Hugh Grant film. There's some level of cognitive dissonance then that so many of them aspire to loveless marriages where they live trapped in their new SUVs (decked out with Hello Kitty, of course) and never see their doctor husbands.

Whilst on the topics of families, I have heard time and again that Taiwanese culture is family oriented, yet it seems infinitely more dysfunctional than anything out of Western sit-coms. Children are constantly pawned off onto grandparents or de facto babysitters (ie. English language schools) so their parents can work stupid hours to buy more useless crap. Time and again, in lieu of real discipline, I have seen kids handed food or toys. Time and again. Time and again. Or they're occasionally beaten. Any illusions I had about Asian kids being well behaved have well and truly disappeared.

Whilst I'm on the topic, children here are surprisingly fat. Then again, what can one expect when the national cultural pursuits for anyone under the age of fifty are seemingly karaoke and online video games, and where walking anywhere (aside from inside a shopping mall) is regarded first with confusion, and secondly with outright suspicion of insanity? What can one expect with the national equation of fast food with status?

In every situation I encounter, whether it's talk of politics or ugly urban landscapes (that seem to mar even the most picturesque natural settings whenever possible), I see and hear only the national race for a bigger, stronger economy.

In twenty years, when all the old-timers, those crusty old dudes you actually see climbing the mountains or hanging out at temples, have passed on, what will be left of this society? What will distinguish it from some sort of surreal hybrid between a game of Monopoly and a Jerry Bruckheimer movie? Yet the older generation must somehow be implicated in all of this, for they have created this monstrosity.

On one final note, I would like to say that I thought perhaps I was viewing this purely in terms of how they react to Western culture, yet what inspired me to write this was perhaps the most illuminating conversation I have ever had in my life tonight. Taiwanese are great kendo players. They're fast, super fast in fact. As with everything, they're relentlessly robotic to the point of perfection when considering kendo as a sport. In Japanese, the characters "ken" and "do" mean sword, and way, respectively. Many of the Japanese martial arts are also modern sports, yet the character "do" reminds us that they are in fact, ways, paths towards something intangible that is not measured by speed or points, but is a deeply personal journey. In kendo, there is a saying, "kendo begins and ends with a bow". That in itself could be an entire essay, but never the less, it's illustrative that none of the normal rituals of etiquette present in other dojos around the world are practised. Everyone is seemingly more concerned with hitting time. To get to my point though, I thought this might be a young person's problem, as it's often claimed of Japanese kendo players (who grow out of kendo as a sport). Tonight, I asked my sensei if I could practise kata, the pre-arranged forms that demonstrate the technical and intellectual/spiritual essence of any martial art. It is often said that if you want to know how good someone's kendo is, look at their kata. Now, it is often true that kata is given a cursory respect (at least amongst young kendoka), even in Japan, and certainly throughout the West, but all around the world, the old timers are pretty hard core about its value, as are a fair number of younger martial artists. I was told that my sensei couldn't practise kata with me because people in Taiwan don't do kata. I was somewhat incredulous.

What can be said of someone's kendo that has no kata?

What can be said of a society that observes no essence in anything?

Chinese New Year:

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Old Taiwan: praying

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New Taiwan: playing

You want to hit me with WHAT?!?

(The following is a VERY long story about a "hardcore" wrestling match I participated in years ago. Grab a cup of Joe, sit back, read the story, and marvel at the fact that there are people stupid enough to do the shit in this story.

At the very least, I hope to change the way some of you non-wrestling fans view wrestling, hardcore wrestling especially. For as Mick Foley says in his book, some parts of wrestling are more real than anyone thinks.)

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"What the fuck? You stole the God-damned shopping cart, too?", I laughed as Draven and Mad Dog rolled back into the locker room.

We were in Wakefield, Massachusetts, in the basement of the armory which was doubling as the locker room for the Eastern Wrestling Alliance.

"Hell, we weren't gonna carry all the loot across the street,", Draven explained with a chuckle. "Besides, we'll bring it back when the show is done."

I walked over to see exactly what the fuck was in the cart, and what was in store for the ten of us involved in the main event of the evening. It was just about time for the opening bell, and I was curtain jerking the first match with Frankie "Mr. Muscles" Armadillo against "Extreme" Adam Hastey.

I knew I had to go through a table in the first match, and a few of the other things that Frankie and Hastey were thinking of trying, but Mad Dog and Draven had been VERY quiet about what they had planned for the main event of the evening.

I looked in the cart. There were wooden crutches, a few cookie sheets, a rope, a chain, a frying pan, a cheese shredder, and of course a bag of thumb tacks. The general store across the street had indeed been very accomidating in providing for the weapons of our impending destruction.

I heard the music opening the show, and went to the stairwell with Frankie and Hastey. We made sure we were on the same page on a few final spots we had planned, and when "Wait and Bleed" came over the sound system, Frankie and I headed through the door, hurled insults at the 250 plus fans, and started the show.

About seventeen minutes later I came back down into the locker room, no longer limping as no fans could see me, and was bitching Hastey out for going overboard on the chair shots he gave me. After venting, I decided to focus on what lay ahead of me in about an hour and a half.

I was going to take part in my first "clusterfuck" match.

Now, I had already done several hardcore matches, and in fact had already come into the ring the hard way (somersault over the top rope into the ring), taken a Van Daminator (chair kicked into my face), been hit in the head a dozen or so times with both a chair and a cookie sheet, AND gone through a table on the outside of the ring in the first match that night.

This "clusterfuck" match was different though, in that it was going to be as close to an honest to God rumble/street fight as I would ever get into.

And it turned out to be even more wild, violent, and over the top than I ever thought.

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(Mad Dog, Dr. Payne, Draven left to right)

In the main event of the evening, I was going to be managing my feared tag team, "The DAMNED", Mad Dog and Draven, against the face painted "Revelations" Apocalypse and Kildevil.

However, "Revelations" were going to be assisted by their former partner, Armageddon, and the HCI (our side) was going to have the three members of "The HCI Marketing Dept" at ringside with me. These three trainees were too young to have their own matches in the EWA at this point, so we dressed them up like Jahovah's witnesses, and they handed out pamphlets at ringside trying to convert fans into joining our cult, "The HCI".

It was a good way to get them comfortable with performing out front of an audience, and get in some smaller spots in matches.

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(Gabrielle, Dr. Payne, Jonathan left to right)

As an aside, the one on the right, Jonathan, is now in the WWE developmental fed in Florida as Johnny Curtis, and is set to appear on Smackdown sometime in the next month or so. He doesn't look QUITE like he does in this pic anymore.

Now, as for the match, with the three members of "Revelations", the two members of "The Damned", the four of us outside the ring in the "HCI", and the ref there would be ten people involved in this match.

Which was set to be a "Hardcore Streetfight".

Which equaled "clusterfuck", hence my calling it as such.

So over the next hour plus, the nine of us discussed a couple of things we'd like to try at some point out there, and some things we didn't want to try.

One by one, weapons were pulled from the cart, and we'd all say if we were willing to take a hit from it out there.

"Cookie sheets?". Yeah, no one had an issue there.

"Stop sign?". Everyone was cool with that.

"Wooden crutches?" Eh, if need be, on the back I responded.

"Cheese grater?". Fuck off, all but Kildevil and the Damned said.

"Thumb tacks?" Well, we already had an idea for three of us to fall onto the hundreds of thumbtacks.

"Frying pan?" I grabbed the frying pan. This was a full size skillet with a hard black plastic handle. I smacked the bottom of it and it thudded dully.

"Any of you fuckers even THINK of hitting me with that and I'll kill you when we get back here," I said half jokingly, but REALLY seriously.

"How many tables do we have for the match?" Apocalypse asked.

"Two", the promoter told us.

Well, there was one for the three of us and the thumbtacks, and someone else could have "fun" with the other one.

A few minutes later I was talking with Draven alone in a corner of the locker room as he applied some paint to his eye and cheek.

"Hey Payne, just keep your fucking eye open out there,", Draven said seriously.

"Well, of course. I mean, what the fuck is gonna happen out there anyway?", I asked more than slightly nervously.

"We're gonna show these fans, and Revelations what hardcore really is,", Draven said in the way only he can.

You know those guys that sometimes say things as if they are crazy, and you start to womder if they really are crazy? Yeah, like that.

Now, I knew The Damned could fuck shit up. They were tag champs in five promotions on the east coast simultaneously, and had a reputation for being tough mother fuckers. God I was glad I was on their side.

Besides their finisher, "Total Damnation" (Powerbomb/Frog Splash combo), they each had their own specialty moves. Mad Dog was known for doing a "Flaming Leg Drop". Now, that's not just a cute name. No,no,no. It's called that because he literally fucking lights his leg on fire, and does a leg drop from the top rope. This, by the way, is a near three hundred pound man.

Draven meanwhile electrified fans with his double jump suicide dive. He would set a chair up in the ring, hit the ropes for momentum, jump onto the chair, and then jump over the top rop onto his opponent outside the ring while doing a somersualt in the air.

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"Oh yeah, Payne. Make sure you catch me on the suicide dive,", Draven requested.

"No problem brother, I always do,", I assured him. "So, like, what else do you guys have planned out there?", I asked him.

"You'll see brother. You'll see."

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The ten of us were standing on the stairs, waiting for the Damned's music ("Pictures of Matchstick Men" cover by Type O Negative), and then the ref went out to the ring.

Other wrestlers were mulling around, telling us all to "be safe" out there.

Right.

Suddenly, Mad Dog tapped me on the shoulder. "Hold this till I ask for it," he said handing me a fork.

"What the fuck is this thing for?", I asked amused.

"To gig Kildevil," he answered plainly.

"Gigging" means to cut to cause blood to flow. Despite popular belief, in wrestling we do NOT use blood packets. When you see blood, there are two possible causes. First is someone got busted open "the hard way", which means legitmately, usually through a series of punches to the forehead and brow area till it splits the skin. The other is to "gig" yourself, which is to pop some asperin and beers before the match to increase blood flow, and then cut yourself, usually with a mini-razor on the forehead.

"Mad Dog, you're gonna gig Kildevil with a damned fork? Isn't that kinda rough?", I asked.

"Nah, I sharpened it."

Sure enough, upon further inspection the fork tines had been sharpened to a knife-like edge. What the fuck were they going to do out there, I wondered.

Just before heading out, I was looking around at everyone's faces. Mad Dog and Draven were the only two that seemed non-plussed by what was about to happen. I looked at the Marketing Department and started what had become my pre-match ritual at this point.

I started reciting Paul E's speech from "Beyond the Mat" about this being the dance, and that we were going to give these fans their god-damned money's worth, and don't leave anything behind out there, and blah,blah,blah.

Our music hit.

With a final round of good luck, be safe, don't fucking get killed out there handshakes and fist bumps, the six of us on the "HCI" side went out into the auditorium, and the "clusterfuck" began.

The sheer size of our clique, combined with the non-traditional looks, and the silent rage that Mad Dog and Draven exuded got the crowd pumped up. They only got louder when the "good guys" came out next.

Only Kildevil and Apocalypse came out next.
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(Kildevil of Revelations)

The two of them entered the ring, and we had a good old fashioned nose to nose stand off in the middle fo the ring. Then, Revelations's music played again. Apocalypse silently pointed towards the entryway, and Armageddon came out. All of us on the HCI side , minus the Damned, started freaking out and protesting.

"What's HE doing back here?", I yelled at the ref.

Armageddon slowly climbed into the ring with an evil grin on his face. He walked right to the center of the ring, the other members of Revelations flanking him. I stood in the center, nose to nose with Armageddon now, as my team flanked me.

I raised my sunglasses for effect (and as a cue for him) and began telling Armageddon how he was nothing but a washed up loser that couldn't even.....

At this point Armageddon spit green "Muta mist" (water and green food coloring, kept in his mouth since the locker room, which makes it smell horribly) into my face, and punched me. Instantly the other eight men went at each other as I crumbled blindly to the mat, and the match began.

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Now, to be honest what I am about to relate to you, gentle reader, is simply what I witnessed over the next twenty or so minutes. Because of the fact that there was such a level of chaos out there, and the fact that I was busy getting my ass handed to me by various wrestlers, I missed many things from the match. But onto what I did see.

After falling blindly to the floor, I slowly picked myself up and began looking around. On the other side of the ring, I could see one of my Marketing Department being hip tossed through a table on the floor. Well, there goes the extra table awful early I thought. I went around the ring to check on the kid.

As I was making my way around, I noticed guys from both teams brawling towards the center of that side of the ring. I knew what this meant, and looked into the ring. Sure enough, Draven was setting up a chair in the ring, so I hurried to the brawl area, ready to catch him.

I approached Mad Dog who was trading punches with Apocalypse, while Kildevil and Armageddon were squaring off with the two Marketing Kids that hadn't gone through the table. I was yelling at all of them, while watching the ring. When I saw Draven pull back towards the ropes I whispered to the guys, "Get ready".

Draven hit the ropes, jumped off the chair, somersaulted in the air, and landed right on Mad Dog and me. Mad Dog got about 75% of Draven's 220 pound frame, I, luckily, only got the rest. Even though he only made full contact with the two of us, the whole group collapsed like bowling pins.

I rolled and crawled away from the mess, around to another side of the ring to "sell" (act hurt) for a bit. Meanwhile, the rest of the combatants were battling in the ring, outside the ring, in the crowd, friggin EVERYwhere.

While I was taking all of this in, I noticed Armageddon slowly circling the ring with a wooden crutch in his hand. Oh man, he's gonna fuck someone up, I thought to myself. Hmmmmm. Wait. Why's he still going around the ring? There's no one on that side. I mean, I'm the next one......

Fuck.

It was at this point that Armageddon was now coming up behind me, and was about ten feet away.

"Please not in the head, please not in the head, please not in the head,", I chanted to myself. I stood, back to him, anticipating a shitstorm coming down on me.

There was a tap on my shoulder.

Ah, fuck I thought as I slowly turned.

Boom, kick to my gut. I bent in half and did a quarter turn to the left, "feeding" my back to Armageddon.

CRACK!

I dropped to one knee, the area between my shoulder blades was on fire. Well, at least that was over now so I can.....

"Didn't break, once more," Armageddon whispered.

Before the entire thought of "FUCK" could cross my mind, the area between my shoulder blades once again was struck with the wooden crutch. Thankfully, this time it did break.

For the record, the crutch wasn't "gimmicked", either. "Gimmicked" means pre-broken. No, this crutch, like every other weapon in this match was as it appeared. So keep this in mind for future parts of this match as well.

Armageddon chuckled and walked off as I lay on the ringside floor cursing him to hell in my mind. Fuck it, I had work to do, so I got back up, and began walking around the ring, seeing what was going on.

On the other side of the ring, Apocalypse and Kildevil were fighting with the Damned. As I approached, Apocalypse dropped Draven, and I check on Draven.

"Draven, Draven, you all right?", I asked cartoonishly. "Vin, you OK brother?", I asked under my breath.

"Yeah, no sweat", he repsonded.

Then there was another tap on my shoulder.

Oh, what the fuck NOW?

I slowly turned and saw all three hundred pounds of Apocalypse standing there with his arms raised, something in his hands. Instinctively, I lowered my head, "feeding" him the top of my head for a cookie sheet shot.

BLAM!

"That sure as fuck wasn't a cookie sheet", was the first thing that went through my mind a few seconds later when I came to on the floor. Everything was white for a few seconds, but I was able to shake it off.

Years later, Apocalypse still loves talking about that spot with me.

"Dr. Payne, you gotta look at it my way. I've got a Stop Sign in my hand, I just layed out Draven, and then I see you back to me. Come on, like I wouldn't take that shot. But man, I fucken nailed you with it, huh? Shit man, that was LOUD", he taunts to this day. Good times, good times.

So I finally get my senses back, and Mad Dog comes up to me. "Hand me the fork, bro", he says.

Oh shit. Ah well, at least it's not me. So I reach into my jacket pocket, and hand him the fork. He punches Kildevil a few more times just for good measure and then proceeds to cut Kildevil's forehead open with a sharpened fucking fork. A fan screams out, "That's disgusting!", while thirty other fans applaud the bloodletting.

I decide to move on a little. I spend the next couple of minutes trying to stay out of harm's way, watching punches, chairs, kicks, and chains rain down on other people's heads, proud of my ability to disappear in the midst of this.

Then I could tell it was "go time".

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Mad Dog and Kildevil were battling in one corner inside the ring. Mad Dog laid out Kildevil, and began setting up a table near the corner. He yeleld to me, as I knew he would, to get in the ring.

Mad Dog had placed Kildevil on the top rop in the corner, and was standing on the second rope, setting up a super-plex through the table. But that wouldn't be good enough for this match. Oh no.

"Payne, bring out the thumbtacks!", Mad Dog roared.

I reached into my other jacket pocket, and pulled out a sack, while dropping my jacket to the side. The audience began to murmur. I opened the sack and slowly spread one handful of thumbtacks on the table. The crowd started going wild with blood lust. I spilled the rest of the bag, about 1,000 thumbtacks, on the table, and all over the ring behind the table as Mad Dog had instructed before the match began.

When I turned around, Mad Dog refocused on Kildevil. Kildevil responded by punching Mad Dog a few times, and shoved him hard enough that Mad Dog sailed backwards through the air, and through the thumbtack covered table.

"Ooooohhhhhhh," said the crowd, as Mad Dog screamed out in pain.

I rushed over to Mad Dog, threw the broken pieces of table out of the way, and started helping Mad Dog up off the pile of thumbtacks he was laying in. As I helped him up, we both slowly turned into.......

Kildevil was flying off of the top rope towards us, and connected with a double clothesline, sending all three of us back down onto the pile of thumbtacks.

Before the show I had been told that,"With the adrenaline flowing, the tacks won't hurt that badly. In fact, it sorta feels like rolling around in kitty litter."

Well, that may be pretty close to the feeling, but multiply that by about ten and you're close. I laid there rolling around, screaming in agony, which provoked one fan to oh so politely yell out,"Hey retard, stop rolling in the tacks and it won't hurt that badly!"

I slowly rolled out of the ring, and made sure the fans could see the thumbtacks sticking out from my back through my shirt. If you're going to do something this stupid, you gotta make it count, ya know?

One of my marketing department ran over to me. "Dr. Payne! Dr. Payne! Are you all right?"

"Am I all right? I have thumbtacks stuck in my back, Jonathon, how the hell do you think I feel?!?", I bellowed. "How's it look?", I whispered.

"Looks like a hundred or so,", he whispered back. "I'll help you Dr. Payne!", he announced.

With that, he grabbed the bottom of my shirt, and like a band-aid ripped the shirt upward, pulling all of the tumbtacks out at once. I screamed out in faux pain, as this part really didn't hurt at all.

I stood there selling for a minute or two more, and then I saw the absolute worst thing I had ever seen in a match up till thsi point in my career.

In the ring, Kildevil was now limply sitting in the shopping cart which the Damned had placed inside the ring. Mad Dog was behind him, and began to push him across the ring. Meanwhile, Draven was on the other side of the ring, holding the frying pan in his hand.

SLAM!!!!!!

Draven hit Kildevil square in the forehead with the frying pan, which then sailed in the air, about three rows deep.

But Draven was still holding the handle.

Now, I'm certain that any fan in attendance thought that the handle of the frying pan had been "gimmicked", which is what caused the skillet to snap.

But I knew differently.

What all of us in the match knew, and that the fans didn't, was that Draven had just hit Kildevil in the head heard enough to legitimately, honest-to-God, pinky-swear snap the fucking handle of said frying pan.

Think about that for a moment. Think about how hard you would have to swing a brand new frying pan to break the god-damned handle. I sure as hell thought about that at the time, and really thought about it as Draven then proceeded to literally hang Kildevil over the top rope with a noose for about thirty seconds.

When Kildevil finally dropped to the floor outside the ring, I sent the Marketing Kids over to him to "beat him up", and to actually check if he was conscious or not.

The only other problem was I knew time was up. When the frying pan shot happened, that was the cue for the all the boys from locker room to spill out into the ring and ringside area.

See, ten guys beating the fuck out of each other like this is chaotic, but not quite chaotic enough. So why not make it thirty guys?

For the next three minutes there were about 30 guys simply fighting and hitting each other with whatever they could find. Meanwhile, the ring announcer informed us all that due to the "outside interference" of the entire roster, the match was a "no decision." I didn't really hear any of this, as I was dodging punches, and taking some punches, while trying to get some shots in on guys with my cane when I could.

I had finally worked my way to the entryway, and thought I was safe, FINALLY.

Nope.

At this point, I turned around and saw Hastey standing there with a broom in his hand. Oh well, one more shot to the gut can't hurt, can it?

Hastey reached back, swung the broom, and let it sail right into my fucking thigh.

Yeah, my fucking thigh.

Through all of this violence, chaos, and mayhem, I had never broken character, until now.

"OOOOWWWWW!! Are you fucking kidding me? In the fucking thigh? You fucking asshole!!!", I began my rant. Hastey just laughed and ran off, as I stood there rubbing my thigh which was on fire now.

I saw Mad Dog standing there, and the two of us limped to the back, half "selling", half-serious in our injuries. The match was over.

============================== ===================

<pic>

Once in the locker room, the immediate attention was given to Kildevil. After talking to him for a few minutes, and being checked out by an EMT, it was determined he had obtained a slight concussion, but was otherwise all right. It amazed me that he didn't suffer a worse head trauma from the frying pan, but over the next few years he proved multiple times he was a tough mother fucker.

He wouldn't need stitches for the cut Mad Dog had caused with the fork, and other than some bruises was more or less OK. Same went for everyone else. Mad Dog and I had some small cuts from the thumbtacks, I had a bump from the Stop Sign, and a welt on my thigh from that sheep- fucker Hastey, which I proceeded to bitch him out for for the second time that evening.

The "No Decision" decision by the ref was tolead to a re-match two months later in Wakefield.

But that's a story for a different day.

Instead of worrying about our rematch, the HCI went out, and as we always did, we work hard, and we party hard.

After all, there's no amount of thumbtacks, chairs, or tables that a few Margaritas can't soothe.

<pic>

Airborne

My final video from Iraq. Hope you all enjoy... Happy Holidays!

The size of things

If you could take the Earth (diameter of 7,926.41miles/ 12,756Km) and shrink it down to 0.5 in(1.28cm). How big would the Solar System be?

Today Ichi and I decided to find out. In one of the City of Eugene's many parks. There is a scale model of the solar system laid out to a scale of 1:1billionth. The scale was chosen so that the Earth would measure 0.5in(1.28cm).
It started out as a father - son project to show how the relative smallness of the planets and the great distances between them.
The Sun, located in Alton Baker Park, is our starting point. Since it is the center, all references are made from here. Our total walking distance from the Sun, around the inner planets, out to Pluto and back to the Sun was 8 miles(12.87km).

On this scale the Sun is:
http://i21.photobucket.com/alb ums/b288/ltdunltd/solar_system /Sun.jpg
4.5 ft(139cm) in diameter and it's light travels at 1ft(30.48cm)/sec.

The Inner Planets.
http://i21.photobucket.com/alb ums/b288/ltdunltd/solar_system /inner_planets.jpg
Since the inner planets are not laid out in a straight line, we walked from the Sun to Mercury, to the Earth, to Mars then to Venus.

Mercury:
http://i21.photobucket.com/alb ums/b288/ltdunltd/solar_system /Mecury.jpg
0.187in(0.5cm) diameter
190ft(60m) from the Sun
5.5in(13.97cm)/hr orbital speed
3.5 minutes for sunlight to reach it
88 days for 1 orbit around the Sun

Venus:
http://i21.photobucket.com/alb ums/b288/ltdunltd/solar_system /Venus1.jpg
0.48(1.2cm) diameter
345ft(108m) from the Sun
5in(12.7cm)/hr orbital speed
6 minutes for sunlight to reach it.
224.7 days for 1 orbit

Earth:
http://i21.photobucket.com/alb ums/b288/ltdunltd/solar_system /Earth.jpg
Earth with the moon
http://i21.photobucket.com/alb ums/b288/ltdunltd/solar_system /Earth_Moon.jpg
0.5(1.28cm) diameter
492ft(150m) from the Sun
4.5in(11.43cm)/ hr orbital speed
8.3 minutes for sunlight to reach it.
365.25 days for 1 orbit

Mars:
http://i21.photobucket.com/alb ums/b288/ltdunltd/solar_system /Mars.jpg
0.25in(0.67cm) diameter
744ft(227m) from the Sun
3.25in(8.25cm)/hr orbital speed
12.6 minutes for sunlight to reach it
1.9 years for 1 orbit

The Outer Planets:
http://i21.photobucket.com/alb ums/b288/ltdunltd/solar_system /outer_planets.jpg

Jupiter:
http://i21.photobucket.com/alb ums/b288/ltdunltd/solar_system /Jupiter1.jpg
http://i21.photobucket.com/alb ums/b288/ltdunltd/solar_system /Jupiter2.jpg
5.625(14.3cm) diameter
0.48 miles(778m) from the Sun
1.87in(4.75cm)/hr orbital speed
43 minutes for sunlight to reach it
11.9 years for 1 orbit

Saturn:
http://i21.photobucket.com/alb ums/b288/ltdunltd/solar_system /Saturn.jpg
7.75in(12cm) diameter
0.89miles(1.4km) from the Sun
1.4in(3.56cm)/hr orbital speed
79 minutes for sunlight to reach it
29.5 years for 1 orbit

Uranus: [was vandalized [probably the Centaurians[B-5]]]
http://i21.photobucket.com/alb ums/b288/ltdunltd/solar_system /Uranus.jpg
2.0in(5.1cm) diameter
1.79 miles(2.9km) from the Sun
1.0in(2.54cm)/hr orbital speed
2hr39min for sunlight to reach it
84.2 years for 1 orbit

Neptune: [was stolen [probably the Centaurians too[B-5]]]
http://i21.photobucket.com/alb ums/b288/ltdunltd/solar_system /Neptune1.jpg
1.94in(4.9cm) diameter
2.79miles(4.5km) from the Sun
0.75in(1.9cm)/hr orbital speed
4hr09min for sunlight to reach it
164.79 years for 1 orbit

Pluto:
http://i21.photobucket.com/alb ums/b288/ltdunltd/solar_system /Pluto1.jpg
http://i21.photobucket.com/alb ums/b288/ltdunltd/solar_system /Pluto2.jpg
0.1in(0.24cm) diameter
3.66miles(5.9km) from the Sun
0.697in(1.74cm)/hr orbital speed
6hr27min for sunlight to reach it
248.54 years for 1 orbit

Negligence Schmegligence, Part I

This post was inspired by and draws heavily from a lecture delivered recently by my torts professor, who is one of the nation's foremost experts on Internet law and a frequent performer of the "Crank Dat" dance, and who is in many other ways the Soulja Boy of the legal academic world. So credit where credit is due; in the unlikely and disastrous case that he finds this site and reads all of the things I've ever posted, he'll only think less of me as a person, and not also have cause of action against me for theft of his intellectual property.

We were talking about LeRoy Fibre Co. v. Chicago, Milwaukee, & St. Paul Ry., a Supreme Court case from 1914. Like many court cases from that era of American history, this case involved a major regional railroad operator. The railroad company was sued by a flax farmer whose farm was next to the company's railroad tracks. The farmer stacked his harvested flax on his property next to the railroad, about 70 feet away from the tracks.

<pic>
I guess linen has to come from somewhere.

Trains back then were these hulking coal-fired steam-powered beasts, and it was a pretty common occurrence for sparks to fly off their engines.

<pic>
NO RAW TEXTILE MATERIAL IS SAFE

Hopefully, you see where this is going. One day, an errant spark flies off a train engine onto this farmer's neatly stacked flax, and the flax goes up in billowing flames. The next morning, the farmer steps outside, sees his livelihood in ruin, falls to his knees, and curses the deep blue sky. Then, he gets in touch with a lawyer and sues the fuck out of the railroad company, claiming that they were negligent in allowing sparks to fly off their engines into places where they should have known that people would stack flax. Therefore, the farmer argued, the railroad company was responsible for making a bonfire out of this year's harvest, and those bastards owe him the market price of the flax.

The railroad company defended itself by claiming that the farmer was contributorily negligent by stacking his flax close enough to the rails so that an errant spark could burn it down to a smoldering pile of ash. Basically, the railroad company was saying that the farmer himself was responsible for the loss of his flax because he stacked it where he should have known sparks would be flying all the over place because trains run on those tracks all the time. The railroad company was essentially arguing that they shouldn't be held responsible for the farmer's stupidity in stacking his flax within sparks-length of a busy railway.

To me, at least, it seems like both of these arguments have something to them. Neither really has any obvious flaws, and neither can be readily dismissed out-of-hand. So this case seems to present an interesting, nontrivial legal question about how far we as a society are willing to take the idea of contributory negligence. The case was appealed and appealed and appealed until eventually it worked its way all the way up the Supreme Court.

The Supreme Court's opinion on the case was delivered by Justice Joseph McKenna, and a partial dissent was delivered by Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.

<pic>
The US Supreme Court circa 1914 that ruled on this case.
McKenna is seated second from left; Holmes is seated second from right.
Sadly, the court never had to rule on Beard v. Moustache.

For those of you who aren't familiar with the careers of these two justices and the respect and weight given to their legal reasoning, this is like if 50 Cent and Kanye West did a rap battle at the Grammys. It's a clash of two brilliant legal minds, and huge nerds like me get really excited about stuff like that.

Before I tell you guys what McKenna and Holmes each said, I want you to post in the comments section how you think the case should be decided. Don't look up the actual decision on Google, don't do any outside research of any kind, and don't try to figure out "the right answer" based on anything I've said or intimated in this post. Just rely on your own intuitive notions of justice and tell me how you think our society should deal with this case. I'll post up Part II after we reach a critical mass of thoughtful comments and discussion.

Got Myself a Gun

After several attempts, and given my whopping 9kb/s upstream, this is about the best compromise I could reach between file size and quality...

Download and watch. (30.8 MB)

How I learned to love metal

I began playing guitar at age 13. It was my own idea. I just thought it would be really cool to learn it. I asked my dad one day if I could take guitar lessons. I told him I knew of a teacher through a friend at school and he okayed it. For the first 3 to 4 months I used a guitar that I rented from my teacher. If the action on that thing had been any higher the strings would have been on the other side of the guitar. But I didn't know any better or care... I was just happy to be playing a D chord and learning Here Comes The Sun.

I practiced every day and after a few weeks I could play some songs all the way through without stopping or looking at a chord sheet. I went up to my dad and played and sang 'I've Been Working on the Railroad'. I guess he was impressed by my progress because a day or two later he came home and surprised me with my very own guitar. It was a Yamaha SJ-180 and although it wasn't all that great of a guitar it was a damn site better than that rental. It had it's own case and everything. I was in heaven.

My teacher's name was Myron Zajack. He was a very mellow guy who came to the house once a week in his little Dodge Pacer and taught me how to play. He had a ponytail but was balding on top... he wore leather vests, leather boots and had tinted perscription glasses. He looked like he belonged in the band America... like he was meant to be traveling down the Ventura Highway in his Pacer. The 1st week he taught me Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones, the second week he taught me to solo in E and by the end of a month we were working on Blackbird by The Beatles... he was the man. Myron taught like 8 or 10 of my friends, too... we all knew who he was and funnily enough, his band played my senior prom. Good old Myron.

I started practicing all the time, staying up late, neglecting my friends and other passtimes. I just couldn't get enough of making sounds with my guitar.

Truth be told my guitar hero at 13 was Jerry Garcia, although in the end he doesn't end up in the top 20... top 30, probably... but I had to draw the line somewhere and I didn't know about most of these guys yet at 13. I was into the pot and psychedelic drugs pretty early and as a consequence I was a bit of a deadhead. That brought me into things like Cream, the Allman Brothers, Santana, Pink Floyd, The Who, Led Zeppelin, and of course Jimi Hendrix. What I was most enamored of was the idea of improvisatory music. Psychedelic music that took you on a journey and brought you back again. I loved the idea of the lead guitarist being like a painter and the underpinning of the band and the open spaces in between being like the canvas... Jerry was painting notes and colors in the air. Doing lots of strong LSD and going to see the Dead a bunch of times reinforced this perception.

By 16 I had basically learned how to play. I could copy a lot of my favorite rock tunes and I spent a lot of time hanging out with a few of my buddies who also played guitar, jamming on blues and just experimenting.

Christmas of my Junior year my dad got me an electric guitar and an amp. Soon I was up in the garage wailing away every afternoon... and still having my weeklies with Myron... most of the time we just jammed out for an hour but he was also still teaching me new chords and scales all the time. That spring I formed my first band, Anaxagoras and started playing backyard parties and shows at school.

Throughout high school I listened to mostly "classic rock" and most of that guitar based... a lot of Hendrix, Clapton, Grateful Dead, The Who, Jeff Beck, Rolling Stones, Dire Straits, and Led Zeppelin. I still held on to my love of the music of the 60's and 70's and I shunned the heavy metal of the time... Judas Priest, AC/DC, Motley Crue, Dokken, Ratt, Ozzy... etc... I just could NOT get into that music.

Thing was though... I was already playing stuff that sounded like metal up in the garage. Soon as I got that Crate G-60 amp it was a natural to just start chugging away on big power chords, ripping off dive bombs and just basically trying to shred it up. I still eschewed "heavy metal" but my own playing was turning more sharply toward the dark side with every passing week. Still, in my mind I held on to my hippy roots.

Until one fateful evening.

I had gone to see the Grateful Dead cover band Max Creek play at the Agora Ballroom in Hartford, CT. I was with one of my best buddies and as soon as we got to the parking lot we dropped like 3 tabs of acid each. The show wasn't starting for like an hour so we hung out in my car, smoking pot and butts and listening to the radio. For some reason we ended up at one point on WAAF... a total hard rock station out of Worcester, MA and just at that moment Van Halen's 'Hot For Teacher' started up. There I was tripping my balls off and not really expecting anything but to pass some time till the show started and suddenly my whole musical world was turned upside down. First the drum intro starts... my buddy is immediately, "oh turn this off". I'm like, "hang on, that sounds cool"

Then the tapped guitar intro starts up... I exclaim, "whoa!" and turn up the volume.

My friend is definintely getting bummed... "Duuude, this is Van Halen... aaack turn it off!"

I motion him to silence as I sit listening carefully. The words and stuff are stupid but the guitar playing is awesome!

Then the solo hits... my eyes pop out of my head, "HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!hfgjhd;fs'lkf'skdj;ls!!! !!!!!!"

My friend is like, "Dude, this sucks so bad... you're killing me over here... I'm dying!!! I'm on acid and you're making me listen to metal! Ack Ack Ack".

To which I respond, "SHUT UP, I DON'T CARE... YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND... IT'S, IT'S... AWESOME!!!"

After it was over, Panama came on and despite his protestations I made him listen to that too.

I went in to the show and watched the band and enjoyed the night and all... but the very next day I went out and bought every Van Halen album and brought them home and listened to them all.

I was completely floored!

I had no idea music... guitar playing... could be this incredible... could be pulled off with so much virtuosity and attitude.

Pretty much immediately I had to admit to myself that I liked heavy music.

I not only liked it... I loved it.

In fact... I wanted to play it.

In fact... it was all I wanted to play.

In fact... it was all I wanted to DO.

An Influx of New Users?

Conversational, stream of conciousness post approaching:

Hello you few loyal TA people that still visit on a regular basis.

You know, when I closed the School of Ass and opened this site it got LOTS of traffic.

I was so tied into the "E/N" community back then. I remember when SOA hit the top of the Stileproject referrer's list. I was so floored.

But when the bandwidth reaper came a callin I couldn't afford to pay.

I had to close it.

Nowadays bandwidth is so cheap I could probably start SOA up again and make it kick ass.

Or something like it... I let the domain lapse and some doucheheart in china bought it. Although now that I do another whois lookup I see that some douchesack in canada has now snapped it up and monetized it.

Back then I had no idea about such things. But today I know more and more about them. I work for a very large web hosting company now.

And I keep thinking lately about ThinkAttack and also about the old School of Ass and thinking that the time is drawing nigh to do some moonlight-style web work again.

I really have no idea if this site gets any traffic these days... I haven't checked the stats in YEARS.

WHOA... Secret Asian Man is 21

THAT IS INCREDIBLE!

Congrats to making it to your majority (or whatever they call it), SAM... you know I love you, baby... you so money!

Anyway, now that I'm where I am and have access to the resources I have I could probably promote this site into getting some new users.

The thing is though... it's become a pretty insular little community.

Do you people even wants that to occur?

New people in SlowChat spewing all sorts of nonsense... that is inevitable.

Hey fatty mc fatterson dude that's not really fat.... and Dean... if/when you read this send me an IM with a brief update on your status.

I'm not even sure where it's hosted anymore! I'd have to ask or do a whois to find out.

THAT is funny.

So vote in the comments... new users or let sleeping dogs lie?

The Subject Was London

Hey guys and girls,

I noticed new posts were getting a bit few and far between so I thought I'd give you all a small slice of life in my favorite city...

Capitalised

London pulls me under,
vibrating my entire.
I said my goodbyes
but it still extends
two steel arms to me.

London's never done
with me. Never short
of conversation. Never
exhausted of unseen
destinations. It loves me.

London lets me slip
across electric metal,
over and under
its epic self.
It wants me.

Yet London's so aloof.
others (so I overhear)
talk as if it loves them too.
Did those poor corpses
coursing through the Thames
once believe that London loved them?

------------------------------ -------------------------

And there you have it. Should any of you want to see the ongoing chronicles of me trying to sweat it out and be a proper poet, please check out 'http://blogs.warwick.ac.uk/pb rown'. Hope you're all doing well and such,

Phil

NY OR BUST

Listen. I could sit here and tell you stories all day. I could once upon a time you to death, but I don't have the time for that.

Ultimately, I guess I have to go to New York to see about a girl. I know that sounds....stupid.

And I have to New York to forgive, and to be forgiven. And to receive closure.

And I have to go New York to believe, in anything, maybe for the first time in my entire life. And I may fail, and I may just return with nothing to show for it.

But I need to get there soon, or I will have missed the opportunity I have been given, and I have been given many such opportunities in the past. And I have squandered all of them. And I have been a confused, rotten, horrible person.

But this is real. This is something different. This is something pure. I have faith that I must go.

Ironic that when we come to it, the words fail me.

And you wouldn't believe if I told you.

For once upon a time the was a little boy. And one day it came time for that little boy to grow up. And now is that time.

Because I must go.

Maybe you can't see the signs, but I see them, and fate and the universe and God Almighty have conspired to put this task before me.

I must go to New York.

I mustn't do anything. I am a free man among free people. But this thing, if I do not do it, I will regret it for the rest of my life.

So I ask for any help you can give, though I do not deserve it.

This is about redemption. This is about purity. And hope.

seanmorivapaypal@gmail.com

An Excercise in Human Relation

I haven't posted up in here in a while. Just poking around and digging what I see. This is something I did recently, hope you enjoy.

An Exercise in Human Relation

He could taste the tears through the blood, or maybe it was the other way around. He reared back and let out another shot. Her head shook, seconds after the impact of his fist in her sternum. She gasped and he promised not to hurt her, he did, but at this point, hurt was relative to his feeling, not hers, and from where he stood everything was livable. He loved her after all, and she'd soon understand his means.

He bit that chicken wing feverishly, pulled on his Cutty and plunged the remaining chunks of meat and bone into blue cheese salvation. They tasted real good, the chicken wings; an exceptional blend of honey BBQ glaze and habanero haze. His brow was sweating and his fingers were outlined with hot sauce, slowly crusting over the nooks where finger and nail come together. He glanced at the score of the game and moved along through the plate.

Four times already he'd tried to leave, but something kept him firm. It was probably the beauty of the night, the fantastic weather that surfaced after what had been forecasted for shit; the faux-bar at which he sat, the perfect height for a man of his stature, or the well-manicured landscape that shaped the surrounding golf course. He managed the fifth attempt quite easily after a 65-dollar bar tab landed upside his head. He moved swiftly from his seat, meandered to the bathroom, unloaded.

45 minutes later, he was sloppily plunging dollar bills into the privacy of a sad, wayward stripper. He watched her wince slightly as the hot sauce from his fingernails made brief contact with her labia. He spent some time, watching, staring, and breathing a briny mesh of scotch and cigarettes on the wrinkles of each passing vagina. A lot of them were hesitant to approach. He was visibly wrong, a man who exuded desperation and sorrow, punctuated with a spot of raw, delicate wit; a strippers worst nightmare. He made eye contact and stunk. He piled money into creative stacks and spoke of them contextually in between songs. If it wasn't for the seemingly endless flow of cash from his pocket, he'd most certainly been asked to leave - odds are - forcibly.

Alexis.

Yasmeen.

Chastity and Simone.

He built little confident houses out of singles and worked on the better half of a bottle of Dewars. While the little houses were built sturdy in the face of strobe lights and smoke machines, each one them ultimately proved vulnerable. He fell in love 4 times that night, but the fifth. She was special. Her name was Rose, or at least that's what the DJ called her.

He built a 2-story duplex, and she thrashed upon it, writhing along to some inconsequential dance track. He looked to her eyes, licked his lips and locked on, sneaking the occasional glance at her pantry when she adjusted her hair. She danced around, Rose did, she squatted on his money and off she went to work the remaining scum. He instantly filled with emotion, 2 parts jealousy, 1 part rage and 1 part slight reservation. He quickly piled out another handful of ones and soon she returned. She draped her legs over his shoulder and thrust her happiness in his direction. He closed his mouth and breathed deeply, the scent of that woman. An indelibly sweet confluence of shared dressing room perfumes.

She eventually left the stage and strode off into the darkness. He followed, refilling his drink on the way. He eyed her from across the bar, she looked back; coy, innocent, interested. She approached the bar, and positioned herself next to him. She offered a lap dance and he made no hesitation.

Pour some

Sugar on me.

She danced a hell of a dance. Sold the idea so well, that he didn't think twice about it - she raked her fingers through his hair and mashed her ass into the nacho stain on his shorts. All the while, his mouth closed, accepting her scent. He handed her another 20, and she continued her grind. She danced and he enjoyed. She'd whisper occasional nothings underneath the cacophony of r. kelly tunes and he'd sit back and lap up her odor.

He offered, presumptuously, to 'take her away from this life,' promising island retreats and a multitude of successive, mind-bending orgasms. She declined the lavish life of cheerio breakfasts and far off destinations. He insisted, persisted. She resisted. He leaned in, enjoyed her balm once more, and desisted. She moved into the light and undulated back into darkness.

She left the dressing room, bundled up for the summer to fall transition. It was getting chilly at night, and after an evening spent prancing around in such scant garb, it gave her the inclination to cover up. She hugged the others and made for her car, hand bag slung over her shoulder, she opened the door and got in. She turned the ignition and there he was, leaning in, peering into her. He assured her that there was no reason for alarm, convincingly explaining his presence in her aft. She stood firm in her reasoning that he should 'really go' but he, at this time inebriated just enough to make life seem elastic, reasoned back.

Negotiation.

Acceptable terms.

Dotted line.

She was on the younger end of the spectrum, but walked with an air of experience. Her voice was weathered, much like every other 20 something femme who grew up in central CT, but despite her seemingly elder affectations she echoed youthful exuberance. Growing up she led a normal life; she phased in and out from excellent GPA and debate squads to smoking white owls behind the local burger king. She watched shitty television shows and even though she read every Burrough's novel she could find, she just didn't get it. Her back and forth forays from the dark and light sides destined her for state university. She fit in well in this out of the way college town, a coupling of campus life and small city sensibilities that took the best of her personality and amplified them against the taco bell backdrop. She did well and thrived, as was the consummate expectation. She shed the high school longing for acceptance, and found herself as a deans list student, fascinated by law, with her mind-mode set on achieve. She epitomized the ideal daughter from 7am - 5pm, what with all her successes in school and associated campus activity. It was, however, her less than savory means of funding this college experience that many disapproved of. She worked the local gentlemen's club to facilitate her education, nourishment and general entertainment expenses. Most thought it out of character considering what was known of her, but her gentle demeanor and want for collegiate success was no indication of her lustful way around a single dollar bill.

She worked 4 nights a week and peddled her sweetness to and fro on that stage, grinding out a normal man's weekly wage in a matter of hours. The men cycled through, watched her innocent cuteness, romanticized and fantasized, only to leave a few dollars lighter.

He had grown up in a small town that desperately wanted to wear manhattan's hand me downs. He was fairly intelligent. Never a good student and never very comfortable in his own right, but something about his outwardly accessible introversion piqued people's interests. He fudged his way through post-adolescence and managed to find himself with a decent career and woman he loved. His thinking more than bordered on cynical, and the existential questions he posed of himself and his actions were enough to set him into a frenzy before realizing it was only his noodle getting the best of him. His life was exemplary in the eyes of your average American up until a few months prior. His love was lost, and there was little he could do about it; little to do considering his capacity for analysis and speculation, that is.

He transitioned his life into a direction. Not necessarily the wrong or right direction as it were, just a direction. He was familiar with love and longed for it. He dabbled in the decadent and specialized in excess, and for this he could potentially forge his life's regrets.

Beginnings.

Are just like ends.

“Want some more wine??” he asked. Rose obliged, tilted her glass and accepted the juice. He flooded her glass, and then his, while he crushed up one of his sister's Dexedrine that he stole from her last weekend. They worked on the orange dust, both left wanting more. “You know you're the most stunning women I've seen in a while?” he said. She more or less gave the typical, cliché giggle; coy but wanting and terribly irritating all at once. “Thanks” she returned, “you're not so bad yourself. You know, I never do this with guys from the club. Most of the guys that come in, totally skeeve me out, but you just seem different.” “Well dear,” he reasoned, “you are dealing with quite possibly, the raddest man on the planet. Cheers??” They clinked their glasses, and each chuckled at the sheer impossibility he implied.

The night progressed much in the same fashion as it had been conceived. Fueled by mid-shelf bourbons (the shiraz was long gone) and mild mannered deviance, they pushed through the night. They were both taken aback by each others personalities, and seemingly genuine interest in one another.

They spoke of life's intricacies and went in an out of an old episode of Growing Pains. It had been a few hours that they spent, and Rose didn't seem to mind. They spoke fondly of hobbies and musical tastes, trading playful banter, each one landing sarcastic verbal hooks when called for. On more than one occasion that night he caught himself thinking that he just might be falling for a stripper. That's a question no man wants to ever have to reason against with himself, especially this slight neurotic, with a deeply rooted potential for self-doubt. She complimented his person in many ways, enjoyed many of the same things, loved to see old women fall down, would wear nothing but jeans and flip flops if the opportunity ever arose, but each endearing trait was ultimately met with the same rebuttal.

Rose was a stripper.

Everyone on this planet has to make decisions. Big and small. 2 sugars or one?? Do I even use sugar, I know its bad for me, but that equal shit tastes like someone's poisoning me in an 'ever-so nice way.' Do I buy high and sell higher?? Peanut butter or jelly?? Long sleeves, or t-shirt?? Rubber or raw?? Most of these things we are faced with on daily basis, are wholly inconsequential, the stuff that fills our days, the fluff on the surface. Others, though, other decisions carry more weight. Its an obvious thing really, but sometimes you don't realize that by taking home a sexy young stripper for what you expect to be a meaningless drunken plunge, culminating hours later, in you praying to god you're not too hammered to bust; that you just may fall in love with her.

Fondness.

Makes the heart.

Grow wrong.

“I had an excellent night. Thanks for the coffee,” she mused. The parking lot at the club was empty, just Rose's old jetta, backpack and red bull cans strewn about the back seat. A strip club looks fucking eerie during the day, the spirits of bare vaginas and half-hard cocks are nearly overpowering.

“Anytime… It was my pleasure. I'd love to do it again sometime. Why don't you take down my number and maybe we can get together for a bite one night??” he proffered as he leaned in the driver side window of the jetta. She leaned in, kissed him gently on his lips, and stuck 1st gear. “You know where to find me. I hope I see you soon.”

Rose sped off, and down the street. He didn't know what to feel. His attempts at making his relationship with this woman resemble something stereotypically normal were complete failures. Almost as if she felt his thoughts the night before, she was going to make him understand, and accept her profession. He'd have to come to grips with his stripper girlfriend, or risk lost love trying to change that.

An 'oh fuck,' escaped as he dumped his ashtray over on his bed. The product of trying to light a joint with matches and trying to hold place in his book at the same time. He sort of smooshed the ashes into the gray sheets, and enjoyed a roast. He read on and on; eventually spending the evening nose down in his book, and masturbating to a video that people were too embarrassed to buy in the store before the internet came along. After his hand was adequately fucked, he rolled over, lit the remainder of that joint and turned out the light. He thought about Rose, what she was doing, if she was thinking about him. He pondered his existence with her in it, and it felt like sunshine. He wondered if she'd appreciate and love the slight nuances of his personality. His penchant for deviant pornography, the way he usually shit with the bathroom door open, and his general distaste for most things. He played out story after story, in storybook fashion. His return form a long days work, and her ready with meatloaf and potatoes. Her belly swollen with his seed, a life created on every scale. Saturdays spent washing the Volvo, pot luck dinners with the neighbors and trips to parks, zoos, and carnivals. He grew nauseous at the thought of pot luck dinners, but, “sacrifice and compromise” he reminded himself.

“Sacrifice and compromise,” he screamed, oh how he fucking screamed. Her jaw was so swollen shut at this point, she couldn't muster an explanation even if she wanted to.

“I loved you,” he whimpered.

He eventually made it back to the nudey. He had waited 2 days, a respectable amount of time, just enough to let the freshly planted seed of intrigue begin its blossom. He entered the club, peered and surveyed, and noticed Rose behind the curtains on the main stage. The bartender arrived and poured him a Dewars, double. He smoked a camel, and watched the stage.

There she was. Fuck, she was sexy. He thought of her mindful ways around the stage, and understood her movements. She hadn't seen him yet, and he kind of liked that. He made sure she couldn't see him, she'd move from the various stage parts and he'd duck down, to avoid her eyes. He didn't exactly like the idea of all these chucklehead's ogling his love, but he simultaneously got off on the exclusivity he felt. Like she was his, and his only and nothing would fuck that up.

“You had to fuck this up, didn't you?” Her body was lifeless, and purple from the fierce pummeling. He cried, and attempted to understand it all.

She eventually spotted him and casually strode over. She greeted him with a warm embrace and a deep kiss. She was excited to see him again, and if he wasn't feeling that ownership before, that exclusivity we spoke of, he was feeling it now. The envy of all the schoolboys, each and every half hard cock in that place looked him up, down and sideways, trying to figure exactly what a slouch like that did to make it with rose.

This carried on for the next few weeks, he'd show up at the club, drink quickly, and watch Rose do her dance. She'd spot him after the typically brief game of hide and go seek, he'd fill with great pride as his lover would run to him. He loved her. It was apparent to all.

“I love you, Rose,” he whispered through his sobs, as he caressed her now bloating corpse.

High as fuck.

Acetaminophen.

Absolut, tonic, shit, we're all out of ice.

He took a handful of the oxycodone, he was prescribed when his wisdom teeth were removed, that morning. His knee was killing him, and he had nothing else to do that day, why not? It was a mild Saturday, and he gobbled up 4 of them with his cereal, and smoked a bong and planned for a nice, rubbery Saturday morning. He recreationally enjoyed the remainder of the half-dozen or so pills that were leftover.

Fellatio.

Sounds the same no matter where you go.

He left his house and made for the club. His princess awaited and he was ready for his. He entered, cut his visual swath through the crowd and ordered a bourbon. He thought he saw a Rose a few times, but she wasn't there. He went outside, and smoked a cigarette, Her car was there. His neurosis and self doubt began to mount. He steamed that cigarette with fury, went back inside and ordered another bourbon. He waited, reasoning that she was in the dressing room. He found himself again, just like that first night. Fistfuls of dollars, just another half hard cock on a bar stool. He ordered bourbon after bourbon, and went to the bathroom.
He was filled with rage, he knew that gentle moan. That fake, moan. That insulting cunt's moan. He opened the stall door, and saw what he expected too see, but never wanted to see. Rose, half hard cock in hand, lips glimmering with saliva.

He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her out of the toilet. With a quick hand he slapped her across the face and sent her flying to the ground. He rushed the john's head directly into one of the urinals and repeated that motion a couple of times. He left him keeled over face in the cake, unconscious and bleeding.

Rage.

Will always be the dominant.

Feeling.

He looked at Rose and felt a sinking feeling. He felt loss, and regret, and excitement all at once. He picked her up by her neck and pulled her to the door. She began to cry as he locked the door to the bathroom and held her head against the mirror with both hands on her head, thumbs on her temples. He promised not to hurt her, and he wanted to show her how he felt. He held her head tight and broke her nose with his forehead. She wailed and with each yelp, he would land another shot, and with each punch, each bludgeoning display of force, he told her he loved her.

As the club bouncers kicked the door in, he held her tight in his bosom. He wept and deliberated. He heard the slamming on the door, the 'open this door,' the 'this aint funny.'

“Not at all,” he thought.

“Nope… This is about as far from funny as you can get.”

My Room

The Plug

The plug sat snug
in its three-prong socket,
fused and approved
and ready for use.

The Desk

A lacquer of scattered paper
and dusty pennies
and half-finished poems
for semi-serious women.

The Sink

The gangrenous drip-faucet
erodes a river
through the growing forest
of un-flushed stubble.

The Door

Through its own volition,
the door-bang wakes my neighbour angry.
My ever-ready
fireproof protector.

The Sandwich

Unsightly, malodorous
and toxic,
the snack has sat on my floor
for weeks.

I resolve to remove it. Next time I leave.

Yet I hesitate.
It is repulsive,
unhygienic,
hideous.

But I brought it here

and it has as much right to the room
as a plug or a sink
or a door or a desk
or me.

"FREE" Speech

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.
- The First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution

I would like, if I may, to take a few moments to discuss what is argueably the very foundation of our nation, the freedom of speech granted to every man woman and child who resides within this great land of ours.

Now, I don't want to get bogged down in particular examples (though I will be citing some) , nor legal interpretations (there will undoubtedly be some of those as well) of what the "true" intent of those wise old men that crafted our Bill of Rights "actually" meant.

Instead, I'd like to discuss our collective freedom of speech, and what that truly means, by definition.

Recently, both Don Imus and Opie and Anthony have been receiving a fair amount of attention, and publicity, due to freedom of speech issues. Also, largely led by Media Matters many conservative pundits from Ann Coulter to Michael (Weiner) Savage have been in the crosshairs, and receiving unwanted attention from more of the "mainstream media".

In the interest of full disclosure, let me state my feelings on the above people.

First, I absolutley HATE morning radio. I find listening to "O & A", or "Stern", or "Imus" to be exactly the same as being the designated driver and riding home listening to the moronic, rude, childish ramblings of drunken friends, while I am annoyingly sober. Except for Imus (et al), it's in the morning and how I start my day, so I thereby become incredibly pissed all day.

As for the conservative pundits, anyone that knows me knows that I am an unabashed liberal, and have the dream of someday getting to be on O'Reilly simply to verbally beat him down like the bully he is, leaving him lying in the fetal position in a puddle of his own piss and tears.

AND....we're back.......

So now back to my thesis on freedom of speech.

Imus was fired for using racially derogatory speech, or so every single talking head on television would tell you.

Opie and Anthony are currently under fire for a piece last week involving a homeless man saying things along the lines of wanting to donkey punch Secretary of State Condelleza Rice while he violently bangs her.

Ann Coulter has been losing papers that carry her columns due to efforts by media matters to bring attention to her inflammatory scribblings, such as advocating bombing every single civilian in the middle east, and simply converting the rest to christianity.

Here's the problem with the conventional wisdom on this matter.

Imus wasn't fired for what he said, for he's said WAY worse in the past, AND, he wasn't fired the day he said it, he was fired weeks later.

"O & A" laughed about the incident, and griped about how it wasn't a big deal the day after the piece with the homeless man ran, but profusely apologized two days after it aired.

Ann Coulter has ALWAYS used verbal bomb throwing tactics to get attention. Her 9-11 widow rant, and calling John Edwards a "fag" is nothing new. Yet now she is starting to tone down, and get many less appearances on Fox.

These examples of firings/near firings/loss of exposure are NOT censorship, or a curbing of the first amendment.

Keep in mind, we ALL have the right to freedom of speech.

We just don't have the right to get PAID for that speech.

See, Imus wasn't fired because of what he said, directly. He was fired because this time, the advertisers actually paid attention to what their ad revenues were paying for, and they got scared.

Imus was fired, because simply, he was losing his radio station, and MSNBC money.

"O & A" apologized, after laughing about the incident, because their sponsors took a day to notice how pissed off listeners were getting.

Ann Coulter is losing readership and papers, because media matters is alerting her papers sponsors of the inflammatory things she writes.

Any of the above can still say the things they've said on any street corner in any city in our country. THAT'S their right.

Making millions off of intentionally spiteful speech ISN'T covered by the first amendment.

"But Dr. Payne, isn't media matters infringing on their speech?", you may ask.

Nope.

See, go up to the top, and read the first amendment again.

"....or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

That's exactly what media matters, and it's readers, are doing. They are peacefully assembling, signing petitions, and addressing corporations (instead of our government) with their grievances.

Media Matters has learned that trying to use the government to stop speech they disagree with will not work, nor should it, for THAT would be an affront to the first amendment. Instead, they are using corporations, or rather corporations love of profit and fear of loss of revenue due to boycotts to keep these people in check.

I do believe that the above statement brings me to the beauty of this whole issue, as I see it.

Typically, the same people that would so staunchly defend Imus's right to call college students what he did, tasteless as it is, are also the same folks that so staunchly defend capitalism and a free market.

"Let the market decide!", they cry.

Well, in the case of Imus, and possibly many, many more in the coming months, the market HAS decided.

If someone could pass this onto Mr. Imus, I have a message for him.

Mr. Imus, fret not. I know a wonderfully dapper man that lives down at Monument Square screaming at the clouds that would make an excellent co-host for your new free podcast.

The Art of Condolence Part 1

I'm kind of surprised when I see people show genuine sympathy.
It is very rare. It is a complex thing. Unless you have actually been a recipient of this misunderstood and small gift, it would be hard to know the difference between genuineness and mere condolence.
Ah, the art of condolence.

What do you say to your niece when their Dad just died of throat cancer?
What do you say to your sister when you Mother just died from Pancreatic cancer?
What do you say to your neighbor who just spent a month 1, 0000 miles away watching her Mom die?
What do you say to you dear friend whose 18 year old cat and closest friend died suddenly?
What do you say to yourself, or anyone else for that matter, when you've accepted the fact that you are dying?
What do people say to you?

What do you say to someone who is recovering from having a bowling ball dropped on her head?

What do you say to your Father who has his larynx removed only to find out that the cancer's gonna kill him anyway? What do you say to him when he stares at you with terror in his eyes? Not of death, but instead of the fear of desertion. The fear of disappointing you. Believing somehow that he had failed.
This stare, this expression, gave way to an expression of shock.

I believe that he was in a state of shock.
The only effortless means of communication taken.
In a state of shock and heavily medicated.
Reduced to a form of human being that even he couldn't accept.
Yet he possessed this resolve that martyred…could be revered among saints…
Could die with no physical ability to show dignity or the desire to remain and fight.
The fight he was willing to put up against the unfairness surprise ending
Dastardly astounding frightening thankless cruel horrific fucking… fruitless tortuous heartbreaking fiendish depriving unjust unbelievable terrifying unfair bile-tasting MORTIFYING unjustifiable unforgivable
It was unacceptable.
To him and to me.
He fought.
For three weeks on saline and morphine alone.
He wasn't ready, he didn't know what to do about this one though..

Coming from an almost classic case co-dependent family, this was devastating. Our whole system was thrown… off. The crutches and defenses and…were not there to cope with a problem like this.
My rock. My touchstone, wasn't there, I was floundering in a weightless black void. When my feet t touched the ground I ran
I couldn't see

This

Look at him…
If I looked at him.
If I did see I would be forced to see this, look at him and be forced to accept it; be forced to believe it; be forced to feel it.

I ran.

For this I am sorry, but I can forgive myself, even if others don't. I won't relive it. I forgive myself because my heart tells me every day how much I loved him.

And I know how much he really, really loved me.
Thanks Dad.

He showed me his whole life with him.

Sometimes I think that his untimely death is my punishment, my ultimate consequence for my mistakes.
Kind of like,
“Who's gonna save you now?”
Sadistically the thing I'll need saving from is the death of my father the death of my safety childhood

When that didn't work?
I was given the gift of gravity.
I gave birth.

I was forced to take responsibility. I could no longer throw chance to the wind or continue to blind myself with dangerous and destructive choices.
I gave birth.

I thought I just be OK. My Dad never met his Grandbaby…he would've been so proud. Missed each other by about a year.

My Mother enjoyed my son so much. He enjoyed her too.
We spent as much time as we could. Michigan…NH…to Michigan TO CALIFORNIA…to Seattle to Michigan (we ditched the dad) to NH…to Mom.

Mom kept us busy. She missed Dad. All the Holidays.

Dad's absence was like a hole in time. A peripheral rip in the walls of time where I'd think he was there and everything was normal. But when I would look, the spot would be vacant. So many times I turned to ask him a question or to tell him something inconsequential, or to see just what he was doing. My touchstone was gone.
My Mom forgave me…for my freak out
She helped me as much as she could from NH. She gave me a house in Michigan. She gave me enough and more.

We continued our co-dependent tendencies on a different level. Meanwhile I was relieved to hear that the father had, never mind-
My Mother had saved me, again… my son was safe, and beautiful.
My Mother's reward was cancer.

She died 6 months later.

Where is my small wall of denial now?
Where is my co-dependent family?
Where are my parents because I wasn't ready for this

My son is five, they would both be so proud...I can actually do it...

I am still not ready

The Wrong Side of Suicide

I found out today that an acquaintance I hadn't seen for about a year committed suicide a few days ago.

It's strange trying to make sense of the details I know. When I found out today, my friend (who knew Erick better than I did and received e-mails not long before Erick died) said you can't make sense of it. Still, I can't sleep. I can't stop crying. I can't help but think it didn't have to be this way.

I met Erick a few years ago through a sporting club at university. At the time, he was studying pharmacology. However, he didn't like that, so he transferred to archaeology and classics. His parents, who are Taiwanese, weren't at all happy with that and basically disowned him. For a while, Erick seemed to float in and out of my consciousness. He changed to studying part time so he could work and support himself while he studied, and I rarely saw him anymore.

Although he was only an acquaintance, he seemed to be extremely intelligent and he seemed to have a natural openness and curiosity towards life, which makes this all the more tragic. He seemed naturally easy going, yet carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. He was athletic and very handsome. Ladies swooned over him. He was young and had a lifetime ahead of himself. In short, he had everything going for him.

Except Erick simply couldn't be Erick. Maybe he just wasn't allowed to be Erick. Or maybe the fundamental problem was Erick himself. I don't know. I can't stop thinking about how and why, at some cosmological level, this whole situation is so fundamentally wrong.

The last time I saw him, about a year ago, was at someone's party. I hadn't seen him for a while and we were catching up. He told me he was going to study Medicine in New Zealand because he could get into a programme there (because he'd sort of burnt all his bridges here). He said that his heart wasn't in it, but that he had to be a good son. I wished him luck. Afterwards, I couldn't help but think that it was a bad decision, yet one which was out of his hands in many ways.

I just can't come at Asian culture and the concept of filial piety. I could witness its material successes or have it explained to me one thousand times, yet I'll still never grasp it. The cost is too much to bear. Every Erick is too much to bear.

I did not bow down to you, I bowed down to all the suffering of humanity.

Crime and Punishment,
Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky

Dr. Payne's most funnest match ever!!!!

February 2002, Stevens Avenue Armory, Portland Maine.

Eastern Wrestling Alliance presents it's main event of the evening, for the EWA Hardcore Championship....

Challenger = Standing 5'10" and weighing in at 180 pounds, hailing from Boise, Idaho.....
Frankie "Mr. Muscles" Armadillo (with Dr. Everette Payne)

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vs.

Champion = Standing 6'4" and weighing 250 pounds, hailing from Bangor, Maine........
"The Trendsetter" Adam Booker (with Pristine Kristine)

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Attendence = 400 +

Match Stipulation = Ladder Match (Only way to victory is to use the provided ladder to climb up high enough to retrieve the belt which is suspended twenty feet above the ring. No pinfalls, submissions, or disqualifications)

*(please note: pictures in this story are not necessarily from this match, and are purely for illustrative purposes. Thank you.)

Let's pick up halfway through the matchup.....

============================== ======================

As I picked Booker up by his sweat drenched hair, I yelled to Frankie, " Get up there and finish this big bastard off, NOW!"

Frankie was still reeling from the previous ten minutes of punishment, so he slowly climbed the turnbuckles, planning on finishing off the champion with a moonsault (backflip). I was doing my part, picking up a stunned Booker, and preparing him to lay on the table I had just set up near the corner of the ring. Frankie moonsaulting Booker's big ass through a table would guarantee not just the win, but the championship for Frankie.

More important than the gold and leather belt, would be the pride. Frankie and Booker had been feuding for over six months, and this was to be the climax. It all started when we kidnapped his girlfriend, Prisitine Kristine. That kidnapping led to us being reprimanded afterwards for making it too "scary" for the kids in attendance.

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Apparently, the combination of Kristine's tears and screams of terror as Frankie carried her off, my repeated warnings that if Booker crossed us, I'd make Frankie "snap her neck clean", and Booker and Frankie's willingness to truly beat the living shit out of each other, freaked some rugrats out.

This intense feud, along with the caliber of performances from the rest of the "boys" in the locker room, had led to the EWA drawing over 400 loyal fans each and every month to the enormous Stevens Ave Armory, looking for their monthly fix of action and story-telling.

So as I picked Booker up, I heard these 400 plus fans start to scream. I turned my attention away from Frankie to face Booker, whom was no longer out, and was in fact well enough to punch me in my damned face. Frankie of course saw none of this, as he had just reached the top rope, and thought he was about to moonsault Booker into oblivion.

Booker shoved Frankie's legs off of the top rope, causing him to crush his sack on the top turnbuckle, and fall backwards on his head to the mat with a painful thump. Nope, no moonsault for Frankie.

Booker turned back to me, and after a few more shots, layed my semi-conscious body out on the table which I had meant for him.

Oh, the irony.

Booker than climbed the outside of the ropes to the top turnbuckle, ready for one of his finishers, the "frog splash".

There I lay on the table, fully aware that 250 pounds of Booker was about to leap out ten feet, smashing his way through thetable and me. This was going to hurt.

I closed my eyes, and prepared for the pain. I tightened my midsection (helps avoid broken ribs) and felt a surreal sense of peace and Zen.

I heard 400 people all scream in unison, and knew he was airborne.

About one second later, all that is and ever will be Booker nailed me dead center on my torso, breaking the table, and sending both our bodies crashing to the mat, Booker on top of me.

As I lay there, Booker whispered,"You OK?"

"Yep", I said, feeling surprisingly good, all things considered.

With no serious damage done,I knew I could continue contributing for the second half of the match.
============================== ======================

Now while the fans loved the feud between the athletic hero, Adam Booker, and the smaller, devious, but resiliant Frankie, they never knew the reason the feud was able to feel so intense and "real" to those in attendance.

It was actually quite simple.

Frankie and Booker were roomates. Pristine Kristine was also Booker's real life (since high school) girlfriend. I was Frankie's best friend, and lived two blocks from the three of them.

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Besides the closeness, the simply fact was that we lived this shit. When not performing, Frankie and Booker were at the gym. When not at the gym, all of us were watching wrestling tapes of classic matches, current stars, and our own performances, looking for what works, and what doesn't, and always striving for improvement.

This striving for constant improvement had become the mantra of the EWA during it's run of Portland, Maine.

In independent wrestling many rosters are made up of a few regular locals, a few bigger nationally known names, and an ever revolving series of guests. EWA went about things differently.

The roster for that period consisted of absolutley no names, and had very few guests on any show. Instead, every show was built around the same 20 or so guys from throughout New England. The storylines stretched over months, and the fans in Portland knew every story arc going.

Of the 20 local guys that made up the EWA, about six or seven went on to sign deals with WWE. Pretty fucking good ratio, which was a testament to the quality of workers in the EWA in those days.

How did the workers all get so good? Simple. Besides the incredible amount of talent everyone brought to the table when beginning in EWA, there evolved a post-show routine for many of the wrestlers.

After a show, we'd all go out to eat together, discuss the show, and then head to Frankie and Booker's to watch a tape of the night's show. Now while many people will watch tapes of themselves out of arrogance or vanity, the purpose of our doing this was to have a round table "critiquing session". While no one was ever rude, there was nothing but honesty allowed, and if you had a bad match that night, everyone would know it, and you'd hear it from everyone in that living room.

In that era, the EWA was more like a team sport than anything I've ever experienced in wrestling. While a single's sport, all of us wanted everyone on the roster to improve, so the next show everyone had a shot at having match of the night.

That February night in Portland, Frankie and Booker were having the match of the night, and we were only half way home.

============================== =====================

After laying there for a minute, I rolled out of the ring and fell to the cement floor. Sweet, I could "sell dead" for the next couple of minutes.

"Selling Dead" means though I'm not badly hurt, I have to act like I'm barely conscious. If I were to pop right back up after having Booker crush me like he just had, the drama would be gone. So instead, I got to have a little nap, and think about things.

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As I lay there, ignoring the taunts of "get up ya fucking pussy", "that's what you get you cheater", and "I hope you're dead" (wrestling fans tend not to be too sympathetic when you refer to them as "white trash, government cheese eating, sacks of dog crap") I thought about the events from earlier in the evening.

I'm asked quite often if wrestling is choreographed or not.

Well, depends on who's wrestling. Some guys like to plan out every move, every reverse, every damned punch. Then, some guys like to figure out what the ending is, and just ad lib the rest in the ring.

Booker and Frankie were gonna call most of the match in the ring. Kristine and I each had several spots in the match, so that had to be planned ahead of time, as we obviously couldn't talk to them in the ring. Other than the four or five things I had to do, I was watching the match like the rest of the fans, just along for the ride.

And the fans knew they were in for a great match when Frankie and I gave them a little something extra earlier in the evening.

Booker and Kristine were in the ring doing polaroids during intermission. They were also signing autographs, and glad-handing the fans. Well, in the midst of this, Frankie and I rushed the ring, and Frankie broke my wooden cane across Booker's ribs, sending half the cane flying into the fifth row, inches from a fan's head.

We laughed over Booker's crumbled body, yelled at the shocked fans, and ran back to the locker room. NOW the odds were evened for my boy Frankie.

"Try climbing with busted ribs now, Booker."

So when the match began, Booker limped to the ring, ribs wrapped under his tights.

The two men circled each other in the ring, feeling each other out. When Booker would grab for Frankie, Frankie would duck out of his reach, and try to get an advantage on Booker.

After about one minute of this cat and mouse game, Frankie ad-libbed a move of pure genius.

He simply dove out of the ring, and ran full speed to retrieve the ladder. Hell, a cheap win is still a win, right? I laughed out loud, and went to help Frankie, as Booker had chased him to the ladder.

The next few minutes consisted of mainly the two of them beating the living shit out of each other with the ladder. They threw it on each other. Swung it at each other. Dropped each other onto it. Frankie was even hip tossed onto it.

The two of them even spent a good deal of time fighting on the top of the ladder. Trading punches, throwing each other off, and even fighting so hard the ladder tipped, sending both men balls first onto the top rope of the ring.

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As I lay there, still "selling dead", I could tell from the crowd's enthused reactions that Kristine was getting ready for her next spot. I slowly pulled myself up, acting as if waking from a bad dream. I leaned against the ring apron on one knee, head down, looking in the ring to see how Kristine would do.

While I had been down, Frankie had begun taking advantage of Booker after putting me through the table. Well, after a couple of minutes of watching her man get beaten down, she had enough.

She climbed into the ring while Frankie had his back turned, busy trash talking the semi-conscious Booker. Frankie turned to taunt the entire auditorium, and as he turned around, Kristine ran across the ring, leaped into the air, and took Frankie down with a spinning head scissors.

The crowd erupted as Frankie was flung down to the ring, and Kristine rose, rushing to check on her injured man.

Unfortunately, while she was playing Nurse Nightengale, Frankie was getting up, and he wasn't happy. He stormed across the ring, picked Kristine up, and punched her square in the jaw. Now, I'm not talking some fancy martial arts shot, nope, this was nothing more than a big right hook, and Kristine's 95 pound frame slumped to the mat, and out of the ring.

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The crowd was PISSED at this point. Frankie responded by laughing maniacally, and yelling at the crowd. Meanwhile, all of this time had allowed Booker to regain some composure, and he began rising to his feet.

This fight wasn't over quite yet.

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It was time to "take it home" (begin the finish of the match), so I reached into my pocket and made sure I could get the powder out easily. Yep, one bag of flour, check. I have to admit, I'm not looking forward to the day a cop pulls me over, and I have to convince him the weapons and bag of white powder in my van are for wrestling, officer.

While I was checking on the powder, Frankie was flying off of the top rope, hoping to finish Booker off with a beautiful leg scissor take down, much like Kristine had nailed him with earlier.

Uh-uh.

Booker foiled THAT plan by catching Frankie, and using his size advantage to power Frankie into his finisher, the "Bookdaddy Flapjack".

BOOM!!!!

The crowd went nuts. By this time there wasn't a person sitting, and the crowd got louder as Booker grabbed the ladder, and placed it directly underneath the belt. He slowly began the climb to glory.

Meanwhile, on the mat, Frankie was slowly getting up, determination overriding comon sense, and he began climbing the other side of the ladder.

Now it was time for our plan.

I climbed into the ring, on the side behind Booker. Once in the ring, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a half pound bag of powder (flour), spilling quite a bit (so the fans in the back could see what I was doing) as I filled my hand with it.

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As I stood behind Booker, hand filled with powder, the crowd was screaming at him to look down the ladder and behind him. Just in case he didn't hear them, I made sure.

"Hey Booker ya fat bitch, it's OVER!", I yelled.

Booker turned quickly and I threw the powder up the ladder.

Unfortunately, Booker leaped from the ladder out of the way. And just to cap the situation, the white powder sailed into the eyes of my poor Frankie who was perched at the top on the opposite side of the ladder.

"FRANKIE!", I cried, as Frankie fell from the top of the ladder, thudding his back on the mat.

I stood over Frankie, and the heat of the moment got the best of me. I began throwing a tantrum.

I stood over Frankie, jumping up and down, stomping my feet screaming,"No!" every time I hit the mat. I continued with this childish action, spinning slowly in place, until I eventually spun right into a "gore" (full force waist tackle) from Booker as I was in mid-air.

I was thrown several feet back, hitting my head on the bottom rope. I rolled under the rope, and flopped to the floor for about the third time this match. I lay there "selling dead" again, and got VERY nervous about what came next.

As I lay there, Booker replaced the ladder, and began climbing it. The crowd went apeshit for the inevitable victory of the virtuous Booker winning out over the devious Frankie. I was taken out. Frankie was taken out. All that was left was to climb the ladder, and grab that belt.

"Where's Heresy?" I wondered.

Just then, Dr. Reginald Heresy, another of Booker's evil foes, ran through the crowd, slid under the bottom rope, ran across the ring, and pushed the ladder Booker was on over, sending Booker from the top of the ladder in the ring, to floor, after going through the time keeper's table outside the ring.

Quick math here.

16' tall ladder. Check.

3' high ring. Check.

One 250 pound man. Check.

250 pounds falling 19 feet down, and about twenty feet out.

Needless to say, the table never stood a chance, and Booker hit the concrete floor HARD. He even cut his leg as it went through the table.

The crowd was stunned into silence.

Dr. Heresy then began placing the ladder under the belt, which Booker had literally been inches away from one moment ago, and helped pick Frankie up.

I was getting to my feet, and crawled under the ladder to help stabilize it, as Frankie, torn and tattered, began the ascent.

"BULLSHIT!"

"FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING CHEATERS!"

"YOU FUCKING SUCK!"

These were a select few amongst the many vulgarities hurled at Frankie, Heresy, and I as Frankie climbed to the top of the ladder.

With the last bit of his strength, Frankie reached up, and unstrapped the belt, finally ending the match. Frankie then fell from the ladder, and Heresy and I lifted his arm, and the belt, in victory as we were spit at, sworn at, and had shit thrown at us.

It didn't matter, because love us or hate us, now the fans HAD to respect us.

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Since that match, quite a bit has changed.

Booker now lives in Nevada with his wife, Pristine Kristine, and their newborn baby.

EWA now operates out of Orange, Massachusetts and still continues to draw 300-400 loyal fans per show.

But some things never change.

I still manage Frankie, though I've "turned" on him (jumped him with other wrestlers) about five times in the last four years. We play it off like we're brothers, though we fight, we still love each other.

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Frankie moved. He now lives four blocks away in the other direction from me.

I still see quite a few of the boys from that era of EWA, and we quite often reminice about "the good ol' days" back at Stevens Ave Armory.

I still manage in Maine, though not as often as I used to. It's a whole new group of guys around here, and they're all younger, with a different style and idea of what wrestling should be.

But about a year ago, I was in a locker room in northern Maine, and a young guy came up to me.

"Hey Dr. Payne. It's awesome to meet you. I used to go to the EWA shows in Portland all the time when I was in high school. That ladder match between Frankie and Booker made me wanna do this man, so thanks."

Ah, the circle of life continues.

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