A sleazy bar, the lights dim but unflickering.  The jukebox plays some lazy song while cigarette smoke hangs in the air like a southern drawl.  An old, grizzled tough has been making love to the bar for hours, holding onto a past that’s got more nails in it than a recobbled shack.  A waitress is on her break, using her phone to check up on her kids, who are at home with her boyfriend who she may or may not trust this week.  She’s young, pregnant younger, never been able to get out of this piss and shit town, and so she works hours at this bar because it’s the only way she can make halfway decent money without flashing her goodies.  A man older than her knows what she wants more than she does, and goes over to her table happy to offer it to her.  She’s used to the hardly-sly come-ons of the drunken slobs and miscreants that populate Rusty Ted’s, but she just don’t have neither the time nor the inclination to deal with Hep’s wily hands tonight.

“Try to keep them hands inside your pockets, Hep,” she mutters, her eyes not leaving her hands as they redial the number.  Dammit, Ray, pick up the goddamn phone.

Hep isn’t hearing nothing from her, and tries to be clever, but his brain has been swimming in brown sloppy juice since 4, so the closest he can come to common courtesy is a slurred compliment of her nethers.

He puts his hands on the girl, and the tough gets up from his stool faster than a flash and kicks Hep so hard that it feels like his nose punched him in the face.  Hep soars through the air like a fat faltering bird and crashes into a table.  Blood pours down the side of his cheeks as he lets out a moan, semi-conscious and still far from sober.  Hep’s friends, though…they’ve got a bit more to argue about.  The tough puts his drink down, and if these lunks can’t make him feel something, anything, he might just kill somebody.

The merging of fruit from the vine
Two breeds of citrus intertwined
Tangerine, Orange, bred in kind
Just like the Bride of Frankenstein

How does the flavor grab my tongue
With nothing natural in hand?
Some citric Never-Never Land,
Acidic songs that must be sung.

What manic scientific minds
Could spawn this tang with silky sweet?
Monstrosities one dares to eat
Defying both the pits and rinds

When nature takes the cue to call
And birth some blooming fruit to life
It takes a certain hint of strife
For Mother N to grow it all.

So why should men in bright white coats
Create what passes past our gums?
Because with science, fortune comes!
And turns our fruit to ice cream floats!

Nature’s candy, once it was
Now simply something to consume
So our busy lives can resume
Just choke it down, enjoy the buzz!

Why should you question what you eat?
The label says it’s good to go
And you know all you need to know
About these chemical sweetmeats.

So ere you bite into that plum,
Might you not wonder where it’s from?
What fingers have been in the pie
That you so happily imbibe?
And are you sure its safe to chew
Some nectarine of yellow hue?

So tangelo might have to go,
And though it rhymes with marshmellow
And has a quaint phoshoral glow,
Alas, my friends, I must say “no.”

That sentence alone sounds deadly serious, and while I didn’t discover that I had some life-threatening disease, the news I had was still a bit unpleasant.  My bad cholesterol is high, my good cholesterol is low, and I’m overweight.  I knew the last one, and feared the first two.  The doctor was going to put me on cholesterol medication (something my father, aunt, and uncle already use), but she was hesitant, and for one very large reason: no one at the age of 29 should really be in need of cholesterol medication.  I should be able to control this with diet and exercise, and I’m simply not doing a good enough job.

And so, we have an ultimatum of sorts.  I have four months before my next blood test to drop some pounds and change the direction that my cholesterol is taking me.  It means 3-5 hours of exercise every week for the rest of my life, admittedly something that’s pretty difficult for me these days.  It’s not physically difficult, exactly, but rather mentally challenging, as I don’t like exercise, and have never had very much skill at sports outside of swimming.  It also means no red meat past once a week, tops, and it means cutting out fried foods as much as possible.  It also means intense portion control, making vegetables the main ingredient in all of my meals while limiting starches and making sure that I’m consuming a good amount of protein without overdosing on meat, arguably my favorite of all the food groups.  Additionally, I’ll have to bid a fond adieu to sugary snacks like cookies, and avoid snacking so much in between meals.  When I do snack, it will have to be fruits or vegetables, avoiding unnecessary starches and fats.

Years ago, I lost 20 pounds.  I felt better and looked better.  Now, in my later years, where laziness and malaise have turned me into the lump of goo I am today, I need to lose closer to 50 in order to be at the weight that’s proper for a person of my height.

I expect this to be incredibly hard, and it will likely make me miserable until I start seeing some actual results.  Again, I don’t particularly enjoy working out, even though I like the feeling I get from it. Sweating from your labor can feel very gratifying, but knowing that I won’t see any real weight loss for awhile is going to be tough.  Likewise, watching what one eats, frankly, sucks.  Watching people devour burgers and not gain a pound has always irked me, but now, as my portions really need to be controlled and my dietary choices need to be much more carefully regulated, I imagine that the constant growling of my stomach will be less Winnie the Pooh and more starving jungle cat.

Well, fat starving jungle cat.

April 1st, I have my next blood test which will determine the success of this new plan on beating back the tidal wave of my bad cholesterol.  Of course, a potential reduction in my waistline will also give a decent picture of the potency of my new lifestyle, if I have indeed adopted one.

Failure in this endeavor would mean a number of things, none of which are pleasant: a lifetime of medication, constant worry over the state of my heart and arteries, concern over the ability to run around with my children…and a personal failure of my own willpower.  If I cannot accomplish this, something that, literally, my life depends on, then what is the likelihood that I can accomplish anything that I set my mind to?  What would be the point of setting my mind to anything if I cannot do something so incredibly important and vital to my own well-being.

While my diet over the next few days will not accurately reflect this change (Christine and I are going to a New Year’s party in two days, and it will be incredibly difficult to eat well there outside of simply drinking water all night and consuming nothing else), I begin my new exercise routine tomorrow.  I’ll be at the gym for an hour and change from Monday through Thursday, spending an hour doing cardio and around 15 minutes each day doing different weight work and, occasionally, some abdominal work as well.  Friday through Sunday will be days off, but if I’m able to stick to that routine, I should be fine as far as physical activity.  Dieting, and everything already mentioned that relates to it, will start in earnest this Sunday.

I suppose that’s all for now.  Hopefully, I’ll be able to look back at this blog post as the beginning of something bigger or, rather, the beginning of me turning into something not quite so big at all.

Okay, I’ll play this game. Send a number to my inbox that represents you (i.e. 31, 942, etc.) and I’ll let you know what I think of you. For example, “31 – Your hair is pretty, and while I’ve always considered us friends, I wouldn’t let you babysit my houseplants.” They may be slightly more reverent, however.

‎7 – You know more about a particular subject than anyone else I’ve ever met, and while in some ways that might be a curse, it’s also quite a gift. If knowledge (about a variety of subjects) were worth money, you’d be a millionaire. As a writer, I admire your incredible output and work ethic, and can really only strive to hit your levels. I hope I one day know half as much as you do about this stuff.

47 – You’re a beautiful, kind(ish) person that I don’t see enough of. I know that following your passions and talents has been a long, not always direct road, but perhaps that’s because you have so many. Ultimately, I hope that you find contentment and happiness, because it’s certainly what you deserve. Oh, and the “ish?” It’s for all the “Bite me”s.

‎43 6/8 – You’re remarkably talented and driven, but that second part may be your curse. You know exactly what you want, and that’s great, but I only hope that you don’t end up with your heart broken. The business needs people with your love and dedication, and I hope that, no matter what setbacks you face, you do eventually break through, at least enough so that it makes you happy.

420 – You’re quirky and interesting, and I’d settle for having just a little bit of your talent. I know that when I see you, you’ll always be warm and funny, and I’ll always get my money’s worth watching you perform, too, which isn’t something I can say about everyone I see onstage. I respect you tremendously, and think that you’re the proverbial knees of the bees.

‎43762 – Theatrically, you’ve likely given me more opportunities than I deserve, and some of my favorite performances have been under your direction. Your love and knowledge of the arts is legitimately inspirational to me, and I only hope that I’ve never let you down in any of the chances I’ve given you.

‎82.666 – I hope you find your happiness, as you’re a good kid with a big heart and, if memory serves, incredible friends who love you to death. No matter what happens, I know that your creativity and kindness will take you to great things, even if the road is bumpy and seems to go nowhere at first. As all the kids are saying now, it gets better. Here’s hoping that things are good now.

‎331 – One of the highlights of my theatrical re-emergence of the last few years has been getting to know you and your family. For some bizarre reason, you seem to really like me, and I absolutely love talking to you about a variety of topics wherever we encounter one another. Your passion for life is really beautiful, and I’m always, always happy to run into you at whatever wacky function brings us together.

‎3.14 – Everybody loves pie. While I’ve only met you once, you seem like a nice, funny person who has personality in spades. However, I think that our mutual friend was confused about what exactly your relationship was with him, and that might be on him, or it might be on you, but it was a bit odd. I hope everything makes sense to everyone now, though.

‎345 – Last I checked, you were a sweet kid trying to find your exact path. I know that you had a few issues regarding an older sibling, and I can’t speak for them, but I know that you were really, really incredible at being you, and that was plenty good enough for everyone who knew you. I hope that school is treating you well, and as long as you don’t betray who you are, you’ll be better than fine: you’ll be great.

‎1.618 – While I wouldn’t describe us as close, if I were lost in the woods with only a pen knife and pants that I’d already peed with fear and hopelessness, you’re the one I’d trust most to McGyver our way out of there. Everyone knows that you’re smart with a wicked sense of humor, but I was surprised how much I enjoyed talking to you at a wedding not too long ago. Good to know for the future.

77 – Beautiful, conventionally and unconventionally, if such a thing as possible. You’re also a highly motivated actress, and a fine one at that. It’s a shame that our paths haven’t crossed more often in the theater, but no one knows what the future may hold. I know that you’ve had some very rough times these past few years, but whenever I see you, there’s a light that’s as bright as the first day I met you.

‎33 – When I first saw you act, I’ll admit that I was unsure, but it was incredible how you took such thankless roles and made them really memorable. Plus, your dedication and obvious love for what you were doing was nothing short of astounding, as you were just so happy to be there performing while ingrates like me bitched about my lack of lines. I wish I had half of your dedication, and a quarter of your heart.

‎1192.2 – You’re one of my best friends, and while seven or eight years ago that would have been bizarre to me, I can’t imagine not knowing you anymore. We chat so often that my wife thinks I’m having an affair with you, and I know that every conversation with you is going to be fascinating and likely hilarious. Seeing you blossom into your field has been a joy to watch, and, ofttimes, it is an honor to know you.

i – Don’t tell anyone, but you may well be the favorite amongst her friends. Sure, you’re smart, but our conversations are an absolute blast, as I learn something new about the universe just about every time we meet up. You also have a wacky enough sense of humor that you find my jokes funny, which automatically bumps you up a few points, anyway.

‎23 – As you pointed out, I haven’t seen you in at least ten years, but I can still appreciate the fact that you make music, and release albums; as far as I’m concerned, that makes you a rockstar. It’s more than I’ve done, and it’s pretty amazing. Not every relationship from elementary school survives, but if you ever want to catch up when you’re in Central Jersey, give me a holler and we’ll meet up for a cup.

‎68 – All those years ago, I would have never predicted that you would be the writer and film buff that you are today. I love writing, but the way that you love movies is the way that I only wish I could love something (besides my wife, of course), and the delicate hand you take with writing about them is beautiful. I know you’re capable of incredible things, and I can’t wait to read them.

‎56 – Honestly, I admire you. You’re great at all of the important things that I want to do, and, from what I can tell, manage to be a great guy and an incredible father while doing so. If I see your name attached to something, I know that it will be excellent. The only downside is that you’re so goddamn humble about everything, and are incredibly easy to talk to about a variety of subjects. Jerk.

‎609 – You’re one of my best friends, and I’m honored that you value my input and opinion. You are one of the only people in the world that I feel completely comfortable speaking to. You’re impossible to offend, but I’m glad we’re not really trying to offend each other anymore with shock humor. Above all, you’re a good man; a really good man that handles responsibility like a swordsman handles his blade.

123 – You once went out of your way to be as unlikeable as possible to people like me. From what you’ve told me as of late, that’s changed, and I assume it’s because you feel like you’re in a happier place now. I hope that you’re happier, and that you have a solid idea of how you’d like to make your way in the world. You have the potential to be great, and I hope that you fulfill every drop of that potential.

‎64 – You’ve done something that I’ve always wanted to do, and that’s live in a foreign country for an extended period of time. I’m jealous. You’re remarkably funny and dedicated to whatever you set your mind to, and while we’re perhaps not terribly close, I’ve always had a ton of respect for you.

724 – I’m incredibly proud of you, if a bit jealous. You’ve accomplished more than I’ve been able to in less time in essentially the same field, and you should be lauded for those accomplishments, but it is slightly hard for me to admit such things. Still, my failings should not override your successes, and you should be proud as well. Also, I’m exceedingly happy with our relationship these days

‎128 – You’re a really, really good person who deserves incredible things to happen to her. You also have one of my favorite names, but that’s neither here nor there. If you had the time or the inclination, I would absolutely love to catch up, because I’ve always found you interesting and fun, and it’s a shame that we didn’t develop more of a friendship than we did.

88 – I hope the music thing works out for you, as you just seem to be so head over heels in love with it. You’re a good guy with a quirky sense of humor and a ton of drive to succeed, so it would be tragic for you not to, at least in that particular arena. If nothing else, I hope you keep writing stuff that makes you happy, regardless of who ends up liking your music or not.

‎3.145 – While you’re responsible for some of the more…interesting days from high school, I’m glad that you’re following your passion, even if it’s just something for the weekends. I know that the last year or so has been rough, but here’s hoping that your quasi-new relationship and the love of your daughter will keep you going when the weather is cold and the reflections sit heavy on your brow.

271828 – You’re more talented than you initially let on: you set design, you direct, you act, and you teach a subject I can barely wrap my head around. It sometimes troubles me that I’m not working with people of your caliber on a daily basis anymore, but such is life. I know that whatever endeavors you’ll strive towards, you’ll succeed, simply because you’re just that good.

4 – You’re one of the smartest, hardest-working people I know, and you let your geek flag fly in the most glorious ways that I know of. You’re also one of those people that I desperately wish I was closer with, and hope to foster a stronger friendship than what we have now. If I have any criticism, it may be that you’re not quite sure what you want.  You’ve had some jobs, and they’ve worked or haven’t worked to varying degrees, and now you, like me, are in flux. Hopefully, we can work on something together, as it might give us both some level of focus, but you might need to figure out exactly what it is that you want.

‎4521 – You’re one of the good ones, and if I only had students like you, my teaching career, or what there is of it, would be an absolute dream. You’re driven, passionate, and, above all, good. That word may seem generic, but it’s one of the greatest compliments I can give to anyone. I expect great things from you; I doubt you’ll disappoint.

‎999,998 – I don’t know what to make of you sometimes, to be honest. Sometimes, I think that you’re a sane person in a sea of fools, and other times I wonder who let you out of the asylum. You have an odd sense of humor, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing, as it may actually take you far. That being said, I don’t know if I can ever wrap my head around everything you are, and I think I’m okay with that.

112 – I haven’t seen you somewhere around 10 years, but based on the few conversations we’ve had since, it seems that you haven’t changed at all, which is great, because you’ve always been pretty great. I know that you’re going through some rough times right now, but know that when you find the guy you want, he’ll be all yours, as you’re remarkably beautiful, both inside and out.

‎729 – You’ll be joining some distinguished company in a year and change, and I couldn’t be happier. You’re a talented artist whose future just keeps getting brighter, and it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. If nothing else, I look forward to all of the various holiday shenanigans, as I’ll have someone else to talk to that isn’t part of the wacky Lederman horde. Plus, always good to have another quasi-nerd around.

That’s all.  It’s far more writing than I certainly intended on doing yesterday, but I hope a few of you enjoyed them.

The title of this post is a reference to one of my favorite musicals, Pippin, an older work of Wicked composer Stephen Schwartz and made famous by the direction and choreography of the legendary Bob Fosse.  The show has style and charisma to spare, and I’ve enjoyed it even more since I directed it back in the fall of 2003.  Essentially, the plot revolves around a young man’s quest to live an extraordinary life, as he refuses to settle for anything less.  He tries his hands at a number of lifestyles, such as being a great warrior or a great lover, but everything seems to fall far short of his expectations.  Ultimately, he realizes that he may have to settle, but that doing so is not necessarily the disaster he imagined it to be.  Still, “when you’re extraordinary, you have to do extraordinary things.”

The desire to be amazing and do amazing things throughout an incomparable life, accomplishing amazing tasks across an amazing world, is something that nearly every child experiences growing up.  From the day we are born, many of us are told we are special, or that we are smart, or that we can be anything we want to be, as long as we set our minds to it.  Of course, this is nonsense; no matter how much I focus, I’m never going to be able to fly without the aid of an airplane or helicopter, and I’m still waiting for my Green Lantern ring to come floating down from the planet Oa.

If the Green Lantern reference is lost on you, congratulations; you were likely somewhat popular in high school.

Perhaps we’re all special, but we’re not all special enough, it seems.  While some may travel the world, exploring the plains of the Serengeti only before spiritual trips to India while on sabbatical from their high-paying jobs as French wine-tasters or German racecar drivers, most will probably spend the majority of their lives in a single town, living essentially average lives doing average jobs that need to be done, and there’s nothing wrong with that.  The world turns on such people.  When I was an English teacher, I like to think I made a difference in the daily lives of my students, giving them reason to think and question in between their inevitable bouts of teenage lunacy.  I teach, while others drive buses or pick up garbage or deliver packages or manage the restaurants where I spend what little disposable income I have.

We can’t all be special, but we all wanted to be, and, in a sense, it’s a shame that so many people find themselves beaten down by adulthood and the inevitable responsibilities that come with it.  I know a number of people who have tried to push away growing up with a strength not unlike that of Hercules, and all it has done is make them seem sad.  Time is the one thing in the universe that is inescapable, other than a black hole and, likely, velociraptors.  As the carpe’ diem poets so succinctly pointed out, time is our enemy, as it takes away our looks, our speed, our strength and, sometimes, our dreams.

All of that being said, it’s good to want.  It’s healthy to want to escape from whatever town we’re in, as we find in ourselves the will to explore that pushed men and women to walk across the Bering Straight millenia ago.  We should push ourselves to get uncomfortable before we settle into the endless days of work, paying bills, and sleeping.  I’m 29 years old, and I’ve been to a few foreign countries, namely England, Australia, New Zealand and Jamaica, and I have on intention of going quietly into the night before I’ve set foot on every continent with the exception of Antarctica, as “ice” isn’t among my normally stated interests.

We should adventure, and even if our wildest dreams are unattainable, it doesn’t mean that we can’t leap into otherwise strange waters in the hopes of creating new dreams and finding new journeys, physical or otherwise.  Thus, regardless of age, I urge you, dear reader, to work in a way that makes you happy, and to realize that life is only the trap you make of it.  Some parts of reality are impossible to avoid, but it doesn’t mean that our dreams have to die, and it certainly doesn’t mean that everything needs to be accomplished by the time we turn 25.  Health permitting, life is long, and the only adventure that we cannot explore is the one that we refuse to.

“Look, mommy!  A black guy.”

When I was four or five years old, I was walking down a path at a local park when I said this to my mother, who quickly shushed me, telling me that it was wrong to point such things out.  To be fair, yes, the man passing us was, indeed, a black guy, but they wanted to let me know that, despite the truth of my statement, it wasn’t appropriate to announce the obvious fact of people’s skin color.

They were right, of course.  It was rude, and, to my credit, I haven’t pointed out random people of color since.  I consider it a major accomplishment, as should all of you.

I remember the political correctness movement coming to prominence, if such a word is correct, in the early 1990s.  I was entering my teen years, and it was then that phrases such as “African-American” replaced “Black,” “Asian-American” took over from the admittedly strange “Oriental,” and so on and so forth.

Generally, these things felt right; there was no real reason to doubt the powers that be that informed the world of such things, and we certainly didn’t want to offend anyone.  So, we said Native American, and Little People, and used the word “person” at the end of “fire” and “police” instead of the more masculine term that had been a part of American society since there were men to do those jobs.

As a side note, maybe it’s good that the occupation of Milk Man is essentially extinct, as calling someone a “Milk Woman” may have been impossible to do with a straight face.  Try it.  I tested it out on my stepsister, and she seemed to get a kick out of it.

Anyway, I generally don’t have a problem with the concept of political correctness, as it all stems from a desire to be kind and fair to all people.  Admittedly, it’s likely also a mechanism for a dominant culture or skin color to mollify themselves about being dominant in the first place, but those less than honorable origins doesn’t mean that addressing the issue is unnecessary, and I’m personally glad that we have a few new terms to play with in the hopes of keeping people happy.

After all, I’m a man of words.  I love their taste and sound, and love the way that they curl off of the tongue.  As George Carlin said, there are no bad words, only bad meanings.

And, in a sense, that’s the problem.

Words that are effectively neutered by the hammer of political correctness lose some of that meaning in the process, and that’s not always for the best.  Again, the word “Oriental” certainly needed to go, and replacing “midget” and “dwarf” with “Little People” is a huge improvement, as it makes them, as the name suggests, people, as opposed to sideshow attractions or fictional beings who live in the mountains of Middle Earth.  These were necessary steps.

Still, I hate that the word “black” has almost become a dirty word, as there’s nothing wrong with it.  ”White” is still acceptable, because “Caucasian” sounds funny, and not everyone considers themselves a “European American.”  After all, a number of black people have their origins in the Caribbean, and calling them African-American is, if not an insult, exceptionally wrong at best.

Some of those words were, and are, fine.  They’re ways that we distinguish people, not judge them.  If I know two men named John Carver, one white and one black, and I’m asked to tell someone which one just had a kid, is it wrong of me to say “White John” or “Black John?”  I don’t want to be incendiary, and I suppose I could say “the one with red hair,” or some other physical characteristic, but making note of one’s skin color does not a racist make.

But that’s not what necessarily bothers me.  Maybe the words, ultimately, are fine.

Maybe it’s the hyphen.

AfricanhyphenAmerican suggests an asterisk, something to explain that this isn’t a normal American, but someone who’s American and something else.  The hyphen is, in this sense, a bit insidious: AsianhyphenAmerican, NativehyphenAmerican, LatinhyphenAmerican, and all of the rest exist to make minorities stand out as others, nonstandards…differents.

I don’t want to upset anyone, but, while using politically correct language can assist in such goals, to embrace politically correct language as it has been created is to do what I did when I was five years old; to point out the differences in our society is, ultimately, rude, and creating subsets of people in an otherwise inclusive society is offensive.

I suppose that what it comes down to is that there shouldn’t be African-Americans or Jewish-Americans or Indian-Americans or any other subset of Americans.  We’re all Americans, equally and wonderfully.  Some of us are Jewish, some of us are of Indian descent, and some are of African descent.  Simple as that.

We’re not hyphens.  We’re Americans.  That’s correct enough for me.

I haven’t written a standard, non-NXT-related column since December of 2009, when I was ruminating over the death of Eddie Fatu. Over the last eleven months, there have certainly been enough interesting things to talk about that I could have carved a column out of one of them, whether it was the rise and fall and rise of Bryan Danielson in the WWE, or the NXT invasion, or Bischoff and Hogan’s activities in TNA, or the retirement of Shawn Michaels. But, for some reason, nothing has really inspired me to analyze and explore. I suppose that I was content with being, along with Logan, the “NXT guy,” even though the job has now turned from a curiosity to an abomination. In fact, with the new online-only NXT, I haven’t seen the full show in three weeks. I hope to get back to it, even if it involves having to watch it on Hulu a few days later, out of an odd sense of duty if nothing else.

Regardless, that’s not why I’m here. That’s not why I’m writing this column.

WWE’s recent “Stand Up for WWE” campaign has not so much piqued my interest as it has raised my ire. It bothers me. I’m offended by it. I wanted to talk about why.

Everyone understands the “why” of the campaign’s existence: WWE has had its image besmirched, allegedly without any basis in facts, by politicians who have been using the product as fodder for attacks on the image of Linda McMahon, senatorial candidate. Thus, WWE is defending itself, and is asking the fans to raise their voices in passionate rebuttal against the invading hordes.

In other words, WWE is trying to send its blindly-following idiot army into the trenches to shout down those who would dare to express factual information regarding the behavior of the company during Linda McMahon’s tenure there. Politics is a dirty business, an unfortunate truth that isn’t news to anyone, and it should have always been expected that Linda McMahon’s senatorial run would turn the spotlight onto some of the less pleasant aspects of the business and the company.

Full disclosure: I don’t live in Connecticut, and I’m a moderate to liberal Democrat. My views don’t exactly sync up with Mrs. McMahon or her opponent, Dick Blumenthal, but that’s fairly immaterial. Ultimately, my interest isn’t in a political debate regarding the two of them but, again in the spirit of full disclosure, I am hoping that Mr. Blumenthal manages to defeat Linda McMahon this November.

That being said, WWE, in a video that boots up immediately upon accessing the company’s main website, asks its fans to come out with, and I quote, “the real facts regarding WWE. And we ask you to join us in responding to these malicious attacks against the company and you, our viewers.”

First of all, the fans are the least likely source of factual information regarding the product that anyone would be likely to find. Keep in mind that a few fans probably still believe that wrestling is real, that Santino Marella is actually from Italy, and that Jeff Hardy has never had a drug problem. WWE does their best to actively hide information from the WWE Universe, so requesting that they defend the company with “the real facts” is perhaps the most absurd statement that they can make. Kayfabe isn’t what it used to be, but it’s not completely dead to every die-hard fan out there.

Most fans of anything are casual fans, and WWE is no different in this regard. Most fans know that the company puts on a product that they enjoy more than they don’t, and so tune in to most of the television shows that the company puts out. That’s about the extent of their knowledge. Certainly, they know what WWE tells them: that the Divas are smart, sexy, and powerful, even though nobody quite knows what that means, especially when the most successful and well-pushed Divas on the roster are emaciatingly skinny mean girls who call well-proportioned women like Natalya and Mickie James fat, ruining body images of any young female fan foolish enough to watch. Subsequently, they know that the women on NXT are jokes, and are there primarily to be mocked by the exclusively-male hosts of the show.

The company’s treatment and perception of women aside, fans also know that WWE does a lot of charity work. John Cena spends a great deal of time working with Make-A-Wish Foundation, as do many other WWE Superstars. Fans also know that the company has done a tour of Iraq for nearly every year of the war, entertaining the troops until they all come home. It goes without saying that these acts are noble and admirable, even if they can be attributed to being little more than good public relations.

But what else? WWE is quick to point out that their television product is rated PG, making it more or less safe for families and children. However, it should be noted that the PG rating was not the case during most of Mrs. McMahon’s tenure there, as she left the company only a few years after this programming decision was made.

In fact, that’s the part of this that is strangest to me: all of WWE’s most controversial storylines and programming were during a time when Mrs. McMahon was heavily involved in the day-to-day productions. WWE is more than welcome to make its case that they’re a responsible company in terms of their programming, but it’s widely recognized by everyone that they weren’t during their boom period, their “Attitude Era,” where Steve Austin was flipping everyone off, and HHH was saying the word “shit” on pay-per-view, and Mick Foley was cutting people with barbed wire while Stacy “The Kat” Carter flashed the audience and Sable wore a bikini top made out of paint. When WWE was crucifying Steve Austin on television, and Stephanie McMahon was being called a brutal, bottom-feeding slut every week, and HHH was pretending to have sex with a dead body, and Vince McMahon was making Trish Stratus bark like a dog, Linda McMahon was working for the company every single day. True, she wasn’t writing the storylines, and likely could not have cared less about what was happening on television, but the fact remains that she had no problem putting financial gain far ahead of moral choices or any level of social responsibility.

That’s the point that Linda McMahon’s opponents are making, and that point is valid and fair. Those are the attacks being made on WWE. There are questions about the legality of certain elements as well, but I’ll leave it to better men than me to quibble about those.

In fact, here’s one of those better men analyzing a number of the allegations made about WWE and Linda McMahon.

And this all brings us back to Vince McMahon’s request for the WWE Universe to step forward and defend the company from these “vile” and “inaccurate” attacks. Ultimately, it is this ludicrous action that I find to be reprehensible, trying to goad fans into shouting their support in an effort to drown out any dissent. Linda’s WWE career was bound to be fair game when she decided to run for the U.S. Senate, and this feeble attempt to save face is both pathetic and ill-advised. If WWE really wishes for their masses to speak up, which they will across Facebook, Twitter, and other social media, it may well end up being one of the worst things that they could have asked for. After all, a few bright writers aside, professional wrestling fans are not known for moments of well-thought out statements or blinding eloquence. Many can barely spell the names of the wrestlers that they claim to adore, and have never met a piece of punctuation that couldn’t be ignored, aside from the exclamation point, which will be added frivolously to the end of every sentence.

WWE fans are an interesting breed, to say the least, and we “Internet Smart Marks,” we members of the “IWC”, are little different. Despite the excesses and insanity of the Attitude Era, it was that time that millions of current fans, including us, were drawn to the product, and it was then that many of us felt that the company was hitting its creative stride. We hated some of it, naturally, but Steve Austin is arguably the biggest draw in wrestling history, and he was guzzling beer and stunning women, all at the same time that The Rock made an abundance of references to female genitalia under the guise of “pie” and we loved every second of it. That’s kind of my point.

Just because you like something doesn’t mean that what you like is always right. I can watch WWE knowing that they treat their workers like cattle, forcing them to purchase their own health coverage at exorbitant costs, or calling them independent contractors when they are told where to work, when to work, who they are working with and that they can’t work anywhere else. I watch it, and I love it, even when it’s bad. I’m a WWE fan. I’m a hypocrite and a contradiction. And, sad to say it, I’m probably one of the smarter ones.

Am I really what you want on the front lines?

Her skin was olive, with a glow like warm, dark honey, and curly brown hair the color of maple syrup cascaded and waved down to her shoulders, bouncing contentedly as she walked.  Despite the serious nature of her movements, a slight smile lay across her face like a curled-up cat.

Arriving at Room C-108, she went to knock on the door only to find it open.  She looked at the nameplate next to the door, white and clean in its newness, but just a few solid attempts away from being peeled off the wall and left on the floor like so much detritus.  Still, for the moment, there it read:

Dr. Nathan Reed – Physics

She casually entered the classroom, an unmistakably brown place with rows of empty desks, far too many of which seemed used to being empty.  At the front of the room, next to a blackboard littered with formulae and definitions, an unshaven, middle-aged white man in a lab coat spoke slowly, and disdainfully, to a scruffy nineteen-year old boy with a green and white skateboard, and watched his words bounce off the protective bubble of stupid that protected the boy from such pointed barbs.

“I assure you, Mr. Faraday, that despite the existence of subatomic particles in the realm of particle physics, and despite subatomic particles being the result of cosmic rays, the result of your exposure to said rays would likely be cancer and painful death, not the ability to turn invisible, burst into harmless flame, or stretch parts of your body for reasons I can’t begin to fathom your interest in.”

Mr. Faraday, for his part, started at the professor with half open eyes with a mouth to match.  The bits of fuzz on his cheek stood in stark contrast to the mange-filled mop atop his head.  As far as the woman could tell, his was a mind virgin to abstract thought.  The professor sighed, defeated.

“My apologies, Mr. Faraday.  I forgot who I was talking to.  By all means, strap yourself to a jet engine and enjoy your up and coming career as a masked crime fighter.”  A smile appeared across the young man’s face, along with a bobbing head undoubtedly filled with delusions of superheroics and tights-loving groupies, and with that, leapt on his board and rolled out the door.  The woman, almost absentmindedly, stepped slightly to the side, just missing Mr. Faraday as he coasted past.

Reed  shambled over to the large teachers desk in the front of the room, turned, and lay on it in a heap, flopping down upon the creaking oak like a pile of laundry.  He seemed to hardly notice the beautiful woman standing in the room less than 10 feet away from him.  She approached, slow but unphased.

“Dr. Reed?”

Her voice was soft as silk but firm as steel, like a sharp edge wrapped in velvet.  Reed acknowledged her with a half-hearted wave of his hand.

“Office hours are over for the day, honey.  If you could close the door on your way out so that no one hears me crushing my head between two desks, that would be a little slice of heaven.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Reed, but I’m not a student,” said the woman.  Reed lifted his head and looked up, one eye half open as if he’d been hoping to catch a quick nap.  Groaning, he lifted himself up and to his feet, half leaning against the desk.

“So you’re not.  You’re dressed too well to be a board member or one of the faculty in this purgatory, so I’m going to assume that you’re a member of the press, even though I have yet to grant a single interview after what happened-“

“You mean what didn’t happen.”

Reed stopped talking and stared hard at the woman.  Obviously, a nerve had been touched.  “Who are you,” he said, firing icicles, “and what do you want?”

The woman pulled out a card from her inside pocket and held it out, unfazed by his sudden turn.  He snatched it out of her hands, looking it over hungrily for some level of credential.  He found it almost immediately.

“Deena Dryden, of the Central Intelligence Agency.”  Her voice was confident and steady, as if she’d said it a thousand times.  “And I know all about you.”

He stared up from the card, his eyes tired.  “What department of the C.I.A. are you from, exactly?”  She didn’t answer.  “A lot of people know about me, Ms. Dryden,” he said, looking back at the card and flicking it absentmindedly with his middle finger.  “How do you think I ended up here?”

Dryden started to walk towards the large window on the other side of the class that looked out at the campus’ main courtyard.  “Dr. Nathan Reed, considered one of the brightest North American minds in the field of particle physics, finds himself teaching America’s most unmotivated students in, of all places, Beck County College in, naturally, Beck County, Wisconsin.  Ultimately, after betting everything he had on his work with the Hadron Collider, and after turning on the largest particle accelerator in history resulted in nothing but a loud whirring noise-“

“My funding was cut.”  Reed kept staring at the card, focusing on something, anything, looking for a place to put frustration that had been lying quietly within him, dormant for months like a clandestine volcano.  “I know the story, and I don’t need you to tell me that I’m in the middle of nowhere trying to teach physics to morons and, if I’m lucky, sycophants.  What do you want?”

Turning from the window, Dryden held up a smartphone that was unlike any that Reed had never seen before.  Images transitioned from one to another like leaves changing in autumn: first, a series of images of a street increasingly covered in broken glass; then, strange lines in the air among small suburban houses that rippled like waves , as if someone had painted them across the photo; finally, a moving blur in the sky at dusk, an odd mark of black and dark blue in an orange sky.

“Dr. Reed, I would like to offer you the opportunity to make arguably the greatest scientific discovery in human history since the steam engine.  All I require is a bit of your time and a suspension of disbelief.”

Since I was a little kid, I always imagined the girl that I would marry.  I thought about her name, the color of her hair, her smile, the way she laughed…everything.  I’d try and see her in my mind, but she was never quite there.  She was a name that I imagined I would end up falling in love with, all this at an age where I didn’t quite know what love was, or what I really wanted out of anyone.  When you’re a kid, you don’t think about these things, as they’re kind of on the side; really, it’s just that you’re a boy, and she’s a girl, and you’re going to love her and marry her.

In a way, I’ve always looked at life as a movie, with supporting characters, guests, and co-stars, with acts of rising action and dramatic tension, where events play out in ways spectacular and mundane, and, hopefully, always with meaning.  In the story that I lived, I, naturally the great hero, as I’ve always wished myself to be, searched looking for the girl that would give me that meaning, who would pull that dangling cord and show the wizard behind the curtain, revealing everything to me.  Life, of course, is never that simple, and rarely that exciting, but the point here is in the journey or, more than that, the quest.  In my mind, and in my life, I searched for her, trying to find those eyes that I imagined, and that name I couldn’t quite know.  She was always just around the corner, sitting in the same café, exiting out the back door as I was arriving through the front.  She was elusive, but wonderful, and if it took my whole life to find her, so be it.

I searched, in my way, for years, thinking some would be the one, sometimes just wanting them to be the one.  I wouldn’t say that I ever gave up, per se, but I was discouraged.  For years, I tried to figure out what I wanted and who I was and what was important and what wasn’t…and when I learned who I was, and what I wanted, and what was right, it all became so astonishingly clear.

It was always you.  Yours was the face behind veil-like curtains and closing doors, and it was your amazing smile coming through the smoke and fog, and it was your laugh that was always going to be there, laughing at my sometimes-charming, sometimes-obnoxious sense of humor.   It was always you, not only accepting my eccentricities and downright silliness, but embracing them as some of the best parts of who I am.   With you, I am the best of who I am supposed to be, creative and funny, but also stronger and, frankly, better because I have you next to me.

Who else could it be?  What other girl not only tolerates my impressions of different Muppets, but requests and adores them?  Who else would ask a guy to stop washing dishes so that he can have cake with her?  Who else can find a remarkable rush of unbridled joy in a video of a bunny eating a dandelion, and loves my reaction to her reaction just as much?  What other girl knows that, while there’s a lot of fine looking women in this world, most of them won’t bring you lasagna at work.

But mostly, it had to be you because I push your limits while you make sure that I don’t overstep my boundaries.  Because we laugh at nearly everything the other one says, whether it’s a sarcastic comment by me or one of your ten thousand noises you make up every day that I can’t get out of my head for months or, in some cases, years.  Because I can say anything that pops into my goofy little head, and not only will you accept it, but there’s a decent chance that you’ll think  it may just be the best thing ever.  Because I’m willing to bend to your absurdity as much as you’re willing to bend to mine.  Because everything that I am and everything that you are fits together so seamlessly, like the scattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle taking shape to make a picture that should have been clear as day all along.

In the end, what it all comes down to is that I love you not in spite of your quirks, but because of them.  I will never, ever tire of who you are and what you give to me, and I promise, with all of who I am, that I will always be the man that you fell in love with, and will always work to make your most challenging and most spectacular days better because I am with you.  As a man who was once a boy who yearned to be the hero, I will be yours every day, making sure you are safe and warm and, most of all, happy, for as long as I am able.

I know that I haven’t written anything here in a dog’s age. I’m not going to promise to write more, as when I do, I just end up looking like a maroon for breaking those promises.

That being said, I did begin writing a second chapter for Fly, but it seems to have been lost in the ether. That’s alright; it’s not like it was all that good, and I can now write a better second chapter. It’s interesting to me how much Fly has changed in terms of it’s major characters; while the concept has remained the same, I find myself far more interested in writing who are, in the grand scheme of things, relatively unimportant characters as far as the major events of the story are concerned. They’re simply more fun to write, even if they’re not quite as deep as the “main” characters as of yet. So, I will hopefully write more of Fly over the summer, although it’s one of those scenarios where the ending is as clear as day, while the getting there part is a little trickier. Still, I kind of like that, as it allows me to experiment and put the puzzle together as I go along, all the while knowing what it looks like when it’s finished. I know that one of my writing heroes, Christopher Moore, does it this way, so I suppose I’m in good company in that sense.

Okay, enough about Fly for now. Other news!

While I haven’t been writing here, I’ve been doing an absolute TON of writing at Pulse Wrestling, which can be found at wrestling.insidepulse.com. Yes, I’m writing about wrestling, but people have really been enjoying my recaps of WWE NXT, a show that’s all about introducing television audiences to relative newcomers, bringing the new guys up from Florida Championship Wrestling, their developmental territory, and putting them in the “national spotlight.” I say those words in quotes because, if the ratings are any indication, the show is watched by me and about 175 other wrestling nerds. Still, it’s fun, and if you have any interest, you can look up my name at the site and find recaps and discussions regarding EVERY episode except for one.

Regarding teaching, it’s going…well, bad. I’ve substitute taught a few times in Highland Park, and in it’s own weird way, it’s good to be back in the classroom. Still looking for that fulltime gig, and have met with essentially zero success. I will, however, be teaching three hours a day, four days a week in Edison at a new learning center called “Powerstudy.” It’s something, and the pay is good, and it’s three hours a day, which means…well, twelve hours a week, which isn’t great, but hey, it’s getting me back in the groove of teaching classes. It’s in the mornings, too, so all of my afternoons and nights are free for summer fun. And by summer fun, I mean falling asleep at 9:30 PM watching nature documentaries with the wife.

Oh, and quick side note: since we started watching the amazing nature series Life on blu-ray, Christine has yet to make it through an episode without conking out, at the latest, halfway through. Okay, well maybe the first one, but episodes 2-4 are a sleepy blur to her.

That’s all for now. Nothing mega substantial…but it’s good to be writing again. I love the feeling of the keys clattering beneath my fingers.

Ta-ta.