12 September 2010
I cut my teeth on Pro Wrestling. Wrasslin' actually, of the Stampede variety. I liked the Luchadors the most, them and the hicks who just went for it. Smaller guys loaded up on fame and balls the size of grapefruits (pre-steroid, presumably) putting on a stage show with all the pomp and circumstance barns, bars and high school gyms can muster.
This is the place where Carnival and Competition and Scripted Drama meet and bite and claw and hit each other over the heads with folding chairs, and then they bleed and die and are covered in saw dust so the next show can roll in with a fresh crop of Sports Entertainers.
These days there is a fog covering the glow of the industry. The fallen stars are piling large in the recent past. Mixed Martial Arts is feeding the vicarious lust for violence and TV formats are changing to deal with new media and the Internet. It won't ever go away, but it's now a relic and diminishing. It's doing a moonsault off a fat guy, and look, he's with child.