On Going Down the Rabbit Hole

I deleted a post from earlier today about Sting that didn’t make sense. I still think I have a point to make about how his whole gimmick is stupid, but I can’t seem to make things grok. I tried to write it again, but I ended up sucked down into a weird childhood memory vortex and had to abort the mission. I did, however, write a lovely paragraph right in the middle of that mayhem:

I wouldn’t encounter my first smark until college, but I had at a young age learned to appreciate the spectacle. Sure I was there for the cute boys (Shawn Michaels and Marty Janetty as the Rockers, OMG! Those rock star outfits!) but I also just loved watching these unique people live such an odd life. I loved letting them sell me a world full of live superheroes. I would read WWF Magazine and Pro Wrestling Illustrated and wonder how they possibly could be real. Not that wrestling was real, but that these people could possibly be doing this with their lives. I couldn’t imagine how you got into such a thing. I went to many a WWF house show with my dad and relished being right in the front row, or reaching out to high five the wrestlers across the barrier when they ran down the aisle from backstage (both of these things were totally doable back then). Oh what it was to have the Ultimate Warrior clip my hand as he ran by! And one time Tito Santana crashed his shoulder into my arm really hard, and I though, yikes, did he realize he hit me that hard? Was that weird or normal? There was just something amazing about the whole experience.

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