If you follow me on Twitter, you might have noticed I’ve undergone a rather dramatic heel turn as of late. It started as a Kevin Steen, had it up to here with El Generico, mental breakdown sort of heel turn. I was all like this on Twitter:
https://twitter.com/AndreaGregovich/status/723762256303923200
You might have caught me tweeting mean comments about puppies, but my inner circle of DM hooligans witnessed a gif and swear word spectacle of Attitude Era proportions. Holy cow, did I lose my goddamn mind, people. I went through a brief Tyler Breeze too cool for you stint after that and then a Luke Harper falling in line behind my greasy messiah phase, and now I’m hoping to level off into a King Barrett sort of vibe. You know, mostly jolly and delightful, but ultimately still a sardonic and untrustworthy ne’er-do-well.
I have a hard time keeping my word when I say I’m going to write something, and I’ve been promising this essay about Vince McMahon and my criminal grandfather for the better part of a year now. It’s one of those files I open and stare at, and go round and round about in my head, and yet never make any progress on. The thing is, I have to follow the creative flow where it takes me, and I have had so much other stuff going on, important stuff like this sometimes ends up permanently stalled because I’m being so productive elsewhere. (I’m only a couple months off of truly frying my brain and my eyes translating a 400 page novel in four months. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I can only do so much.) But anyway, I have a feeling my heel run here will be a time for me to finally really pull that pivotal essay together. It’s something I have to write before I can write other very important things.
So that’s where I am right now, and that’s where I’ve been hiding. Such huge thanks to Ryan Boyd for joining me on the blog to help keep the dream of wrestling theory alive, and thanks also to Tim Kail, Scarlett Harris, Barry Hess, and Sawyer Paul, who have offered up their excellent guest posts during my period of intense translation and subsequent burn out. I think I’m be over the bad patch andam ready to get back into the thick of it with critique of this long-awaited new era. Ambrose Asylum as absurdist theatre. The surrealist pairing of the Vaudevillains and SAWFT on the main roster. The beautiful, organically grown narrative of Kevin Owens vs. Sami Zayn. My sudden markish sentiments for Baron Corbin. This whole Shane and Stephanie thing. Don’t let your cynicism get the best of you friends, this is a sublime time to be watching wrestling.
One more thing: I want to make it clear that my John Cena hat is ironic. Except for in the ways in which it isn’t. Have a nice day.
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