Marcus said
(or, at least, he might have said):
"I know what it is to be sad;
You should have seen what I once had."
-- Sloan, "Marcus Said" (1992)

DANGER, DANGER WILL ROBINSON: This is going to get a wee bit freeform, here. Namely because I've had something approximate to a shitty day, I'm pissed off in full fiber, and I've got only one bottle left in this six of black and tan -- yes, I know it's cheating to get 'em premixed in bottles, but give a girl a break, ho-kay? Oh, and I only got home from work about 45 minutes ago. So that's how many ounces in how many... uh... hmm... um, I'll leave the math up to SOMEONE ELSE.

Hey, did you notice something up there? Holy smack and fuck yeah, I'M ACTUALLY WRITING ABOUT *MYSELF.* (That's kind of like, "They're actually talking to each other!" only different.) I know that's what my neighbors rely upon and by gum and by golly, they couldn't possibly SURVIVE without doing so, for ooh, from whence wouldst they earnest their HEAT, forsooth? But since I am completely bereft of inspiration -- though the driving force of sheer venom and sick and grrr and disgust makes for a PRETTY GOOD FUCKING SUBSTITUTE, mind -- well, it's what's going to get me through this here writing-type thing that you are reading right now, if you haven't become completely BORED and YAWN-GIDDY and clicked on the back button so you can read the latest about somebody's tiresome fucking tits. (I'm talking about Terri Runnels', of course. I don't see any others around here worth mentioning, do you?)

See? See what that is? It's petty bullshit. It's all petty fucking bullshit. That stuff up there? Petty bullshit. That's what this whole fucking thing -- that stuff you're reading here and over there and in that place and over there and maybe over there and definitely over at that place... eew! You don't actually read THAT shit over THERE, do you? Don't you have a life? Remember what a life is? A REAL life? Anyone? Anyone? I do. I've managed to remember what a real life is, and it's making me get all existential and shit. (I know that's an oxymoron, but bear with me.)

So, like, I'm sitting here in my nice shiny brand new apartment (reason #1 why I haven't been writing... which many of you were kind enough to notice, thank you), and I'm waiting for "Thunder" to start. Isn't it on Wednesdays? Instead I'm getting "Ripley's Believe It Or Not." It's hosted by Dean "Where The Fuck Am I Now?" Cain, and so far I've seen some guy stick a camera through his eye socket, I've watched dogs playing pool (no, not a velvet painting of said apocryphal event, but REAL LIVE DOGS PLAYING POOL), and, of course, I've taken a gander at the cheaply produced fetish jack-off segment featuring a young Asian woman (of course, she has to be young and she has to be Asian, otherwise it WOULDN'T WORK... for some) demonstrating foot-binding. Here are close-ups of her binding her bare feet! Here's footage of her CRAWLING around on all fours, all subservient and shit, because ooh, she is Asian and it hurts to walk on her TENDER BOUND FEET! Here she is describing how PAINFUL it is to bind her TENDER YOUNG FEET! Here's the erotic excitement of her UNWRAPPING her TENDER YOUNG BOUND ASIAN OLLY-YENTL FEET! In response to the segment, Dean Cain says, "Ouch!"

(I know I've gone off about the culturacial sexual stereotyping of Asian women before. Give me a brief furlough to explain that I am a quarter Asian and therefore have a REALLY HARD FUCKING TIME stomaching that shit. Oh, and I also really don't look all that Asian, so I have a REALLY *FUN* FUCKING TIME *catching* people who get off on that shit. I can't help it if I get a little Zach De La Rocha about "my people" [whoever the fuck they may be] every once in a while. It happens.)

So anyway, I'm wondering where "Thunder" is, and I'm thinking, "Well, honestly, I'm downright amused by these here dogs playing pool, and I'm getting pissed off by this footbinding segment, and on top of that I really *hate* Justin's new girlfriend on 'Party of Five,' and oh by the way, what the fuck am I doing with my life?"

Ever since "the shit" went down, and you know what shit I'm talking about, I've been asking myself that same question. And after a brief period of deliberation I've come to the conclusion that you know what? I DON'T CARE. I can't care. I can't muster up the energy or the interest or the intellectual resources to care. I've given up. I don't give a shit about "the shit."

You know where I'm supposed to be right now? I'm supposed to be at the opening of WWF New York right now. Yeah. I should be off in some shadowy corner getting it on with Chris Jericho when his fiancee's not looking, and dammit, because I was laid up all last week with the fucking FLU (reason #2 why I haven't been writing, for those keeping track at home) and didn't RSVP like an idiot, I'm sitting here, alone, in my (still nice shiny brand new) apartment, bitching and moaning to what feels like it's tantamount to NOBODY. (I know that's not true, since I get plenty of lovely feedback whenever I feel like writing -- it's just that I don't reprint my letters because I don't feel like I must reprint them in order to justify my fucking existence to anybody, thanks.)

God, I'm in a pissy mood.

But anyway, I realized today at work that the WWF restaurant opening was tonight and I hadn't RSVP'd. I got a little furious at myself for about five seconds, and then an amazing thing happened. I let it slide. Why? Because it doesn't fucking matter. And I didn't write it off as "it's better this way" because I couldn't find my favorite sweater this morning, or because my eight-year-old Fluevog platforms were KILLING my feet, or because recent developments in my day job are severely limiting my spare time. So what if I'm not there? Is anyone missing me? No. Am I going to get fired for not going? Hell no. Was somebody going to hand me a giant prop check for $100,000 if I showed up? Good Lord, that'd be nice, but no. It's business. It's a machine. It keeps running regardless.

WCW, on the other hand...

I have a strange emotional attachment to WCW. I can't adequately explain it. Suffice it to say that when I came back to the p-w fan fold, it was because of WCW. And it was with WCW that I attempted to formulate a publishing program, the details of which you can read elsewhere on this here site. It was the first thing I wrote for the [slash], as a matter of. Feel free to go find it once you've finished with this crap (and if you've read this far, I commend you). Look for it yourself, it won't kill you. Sift through the shit and you'll find it eventually. (Here, use this link instead - it's okay - it will ALL be okay - CRZ)

From the demotion of one employee to the reported defection of another (and possibly more), I was first intrigued; and then very quickly, I grew disgusted. Then I thought to myself, "Christ, thank GOD those publishing plans didn't go through. I'd be in fresh-roasted HELL right now."

The whole reason they didn't go through was because, well, frankly, people in the industry thought I was crazy. And considering what's happening now, they're right, if only in retrospect. And fuck, I HATE being proven wrong. But that's really not what's got me so upset.

I had an interesting conversation with a coworker today, which was basically inspired by The Rock's hosting gig on MTV's "Total Request Live." I called my good compatriot John about something work-related, and we ended up talking about The Rock and then the whole p-w thing, 'cause he knows I'm into that shit. After a spirited discussion of the heyday and subsequent demise of the AWA (well, I did most of the talking), eventually it came to this:

John: Yeah, well, I went to see the WWF when I was a kid, at the Spectrum. There was this boot camp match with, uh...
Kim: Sgt. Slaughter?
John: Yeah, yeah! What, were you there?
Kim: Ha, no, I just guessed.
John: And there was this one guy... this really muscular guy who always wore these tiny little pants and kept jumping all over the place...
Kim: Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka?
John: Right!
Kim: Did he make you question your masculinity?
John: No. I was questioning his, though.
Kim: I see.
John: So what do you think about The Rock's book being #1 on the New York Times list? That's pretty weird.
Kim: God, no, it's not. You've got a biography that appeals to adult wrestling fans, and the younger fans are gonna wanna get a copy of it anyway because it's got The Rock on the cover, and that's JUST what I was trying to tell them back when... ah, shit, John, you just went and got me pissed off.

Then I started groaning about the current shambles of WCW and the fact that all my well-meaning, gold-mine plans would have ultimately been for shit, and how I couldn't even bear to watch what happened because of this or that or the other variable and all these fucking backstage politics do nothing but damage both real lives and final product.

Product.

Why the fuck to I care about "product?" Why do I even know about all this backstage shit? Why am I even paying attention to it? All it does is cause all logic to implode and, in the end, make me furiously angry, wishing that... what?

Can't I just enjoy it anymore? Can't I just sit back and have fun and not care about what's going on where I'm not looking?

This goes back to that lyric up top. It was running in my head all weekend, and not just 'cause I went to see Sloan on Saturday (opening for the woefully deteriorated -- live, anyway -- Guided By Voices). They only played for a half- hour, and shit, they didn't even PLAY "Marcus Said." But somehow the verse worked its way into my brain and wouldn't get out. I'll reprint it for your convenience:

Marcus said
(or, at least, he might have said):
"I know what it is to be sad;
You should have seen what I once had."

Anyway, as the song continues on:

'83,
Man, that's where I'd like to be;
God help me.

Exactly.