GQ — In the 1980s, pro wrestling was basically an Old Country Buffet of ethnic stereotypes that today reads like a Steve Bannon doodle book: The Iron Sheik (sported twisty handlebar mustache, like everyone in Iran)! Akeem (wore a red-and-green muumuu and will go down as wrestling’s most evil 400 lb. white African)! Nikolai Volkoff (Cold War holdover cursed with Russian background but blessed with solid singing voice)! The Bushwhackers (prior to two weeks ago, the only Australians we ever feuded with)! And the breathtaking manager Slick, whose intro music was entitled, and I cannot stress how much this is real, “Jive Soul Bro.”
For All Mankind (AP)
Indy Star — In our 20-minute interview, wrestling legend-turned-comic Mick Foley spot-named the starting lineup of IU’s 1976 championship team, recalled discussing “the gentler sides of his personality” with the lead singer of Twisted Sister, confirmed that he wrote his New York Times best-selling memoir (yeah) longhand and said he literally cannot be around quiche.
If you’re not familiar with Foley, who appears March 13 at Crackers in what he says will be his last comedy/storytelling appearance “for the foreseeable future,” there are many ways to introduce yourself to his work. But you should probably start with his 1998 “Hell in the Cell” match vs. the Undertaker, a legendarily brutal bout in which he (as Mankind) gets thrown off a 16-foot-high steel cage through a ringside table, is wheeled out on a stretcher, lumbers off the stretcher, returns to the cage, climbs to the top again, gets choke-slammed through the cage onto the mat and is briefly shown with a tooth poking out of his nostril. There’s also a body slam onto a pile of thumbtacks.
More Foley at the Indy Star.
Pictures of Linda McMahon are not funny, so please enjoy this promotional photo of the Bushwhackers.
GateHouse — On Sunday nights, I like to do two things: watch Dallas successfully jam five million people into a football stadium and, after that, flip through my news scrapbook from the past few weeks. There’s mouthy/shellshocked/contrite/peppy chucklehead Joe Wilson hollering things in prime time and succeeding in finding a way to make South Carolina look like the nation’s biggest boat full of bunglemuffins without incurring the exorbitant cost of several flights to Argentina; there’s the anti-Obamacare marchers in Washington (if you believe the left, 38 of them, if you believe the right, 85 million) waving rudimentary Nazi and Joker signs and threatening to bring guns places and doing other things elderly Caucasians do when they’re upset; there’s Sen. Max Baucus releasing his health-care reform proposal, causing everyone to wave their hands over their heads and run around in circles screaming for 10 minutes; there’s some animatronic news anchor in New York suffering undue shame and scorn for publicizing his stance on poultry; there’s Pavement reuniting, which doesn’t fit in this paragraph but I’m looking for blog hits, people and there’s something about prostitutes caught on tape storing acorns for the winter.
As Thomas Friedman wrote in his most recent column, it’s a totally a party in the U.S.A.
But hold onto your purple feather boas, readers, because if you’re a fan of watching the unwatchable evolve into nearly indigestible lunacy and you’ve bored with Rod Blagojevich (which you are, like everyone), bring your tray to the lunch buffet in Connecticut, because this month is about to rock your face off, or more accurately smash you in the back with a folding chair before putting your head between its knees and dropping straight down on the canvas with you.
Island Packet – When I was young, in the seventh and eighth grades, I established a fantasy wrestling league with my brother and two friends, an equally violent set of brothers named Jon and Matt.
Establishing a fantasy wrestling league is, of course, an exceedingly geeky thing to do, geekier even than establishing a fantasy baseball league (actually, probably the only thing geekier than establishing a fantasy baseball league). It’s accepted — well, it used to be accepted — that at least some percentage of baseball is real, while pro wrestling is, of course, a big fake programmed trick featuring drugged-up men, fire and frequently thumbtacks (oh, sorry: SPOILER ALERT). As such, establishing a fantasy league around a sport that’s fictional to begin with is sort of a meta train wreck, like when you hold a mirror up to another mirror and can see into other dimensions. It’s certainly not something you bring up at the junior high lunch table much.