We used to watch it a lot in the mid 80's. Typically there was Verne Gagne's AWA out of Minnesota on local television that my Dad introduced me to, and when we eventually got cable, TBS brought us NWA on the weekends.
I could take it or leave it, but was often entertained when I watched it with others. Including my brother.
Out of all things, however, my sister came running into the living room on a Saturday telling us to switch the TV to a UHF Chicago station. That channel was carrying WCCW out of Dallas. There we were introduced to the legendary and tragic Von Erichs. Click on the image below for some video history.
When we moved from Wisconsin to Texas in 1985, wrestling became more frequently viewed by my brother and I. Wrestling was almost as common in North Texas as football. This was back in the days where the wrestling organizations were regional territories. Long before Vince McMahon Jr. broke that "stay in your back yard rule" and began siphoning talent into his own organization, eventually killing the regional game and giving America the monolithic nationwide WWF, and along with it Sgt. Slaughter, Randy "Macho Man" Savage, and of course Hulk Hogan.
My Buddy Bill and I (also from Wisconsin), had many choices. Between the burgeoning WWF, the short-lived but explosive UWF, NWA on Atlanta's Superstation WTBS, and the Von Erich's WCCW, there was almost around the clock wrestling options for bored kids during the spring and summer of 1986. Wrestling at this time was almost as much "Texas" as football, biscuits and gravy, shit-ass weather, and country music.
So on Sunday, April 6, 1986, my brother, his friend Greg and I went to the Waco Convention center to see WCCW wrestling. The main event was Kevin Von Erich and his late great brother Kerry versus "The Fabulous Freebirds". I was massively entertained, but watching closely, I saw the magicians' tricks. These were great athletes, no doubt, whose bodies had to take massive poundings over the years, but they were not really punching or kicking one another, and assisted their "opponents" into safe landings. The results of the matches were pre-figured.
As I walked away, fully entertained but stating these facts, my brother looked at me in shocked disbelief.
"No, no, man. I've never been more convinced. This shit is real!"
To try to prove it at home, shortly after holding up his four non-thumb fingers in the sign that signified "the Four Horseman" (Ric Flair, Tully Blanchard, Arn Anderson, and by this point in time, Barry Windham), Tim suplexed me violently into my bed, cracking its frame.
It didn't hurt. We laughed for hours while covering the damage.
Furthermore, Bill was a junior high traditional wrestler. He eventually adapted into an amateur "pro style" wrestler for fun while in Texas, with the ability to apply a flawless Ric Flair "Figure Four" leglock submission hold. He did this to me dozens of times.
It didn't hurt. Not once. This proves the point as well, because on TV, victims of this hold looked like they were going to die, and almost always submitted, tapping the mat with agonized cries, sweat flying from their bleached locks.
So, 8 years older than me, and I had to be the one to try to explain to Tim, in his infinite enthusiasm, that the science that would be so eloquently described by Bret Hart in his autobiograpy Hitman (Highly recommended)was a work, and the game itself was predilected on making it look real.Somehow I was able to pick up on that by using the powers of observation. I admired it more for this. It was athletic story telling.
Selling it.
I sadly lost my brother years later too damn young, after pro wrestling's "kayfabe" or "the fact or convention of presenting staged performances as genuine or authentic." became known to the general public.
The audience was in on it now, but it didn't affect ticket sales or television ratings. I never did get to know Tim's reaction to this revealed truth.
Now back in Texas, I'm sure that the contact was what Hart described as "stiff" or the use ofexcessive force causing the opponent increased legitimate pain. And I'm sure itwas the norm in Texas rasslin'. To me that's dangerous and irresponsible, especially when so many others make the effort to tell the physical story with little to no pain caused to their ring partner. Hart was the master of this. Often called the "Excellence of Execution", he prided himself on never hurting his opponent, and often guiding matches to make his ring partner look better than him. It's a source of great pride for Hart.
Kevin Von Erich and British legend "Gentleman" Chris Adams took turns in the hospital after legitimate blows from wooden chairs to each other on separate occasions. Wooden, not the standard aluminum. That's stiff by any definition.
By the way, "The Gentleman's" Superkick preceded and was superior to Shawn Michaels'.
Maybe the combination of those two elements was why my brother believed it was real. Texas' stiff showings live and in person, and those on television's skill at presentation combined with top flight television production, camerawork and editing.
I haven't watched wrestling in 30 years, because it has been horrible, godawful really for so long, but to a degree I'm fascinated by the business and those behind it back in the day who made it work, and others who eventually destroyed what it was all about. But most of all, I'll remember the fun it was for my brother and I back in 1986.
This video below illustrates a lot on how in-ring safety was a matter of respect and due diligence for many.
Sometimes it's not things you see, or things you have happen to you, but an anecdote passed on.
Back in 1984, my friend Jon's parents took me to my first major league baseball game. It was my Milwaukee Brewers against a weak Oakland Athletics team. You'll read later on in the future about how the Swingin' A's were among my favorite Non-Home teams.
But while sitting in the glory of Milwaukee County Stadium, Jon's dad (Not the Crayon Death album, but boy, do I recommend it) regaled me with the legend of baseball's Kong. Apparently on a road trip out west, Jon and his family attended an A's game in Oakland. I guess the area where your feet rested in that former home stadium of the Athletics, is of a metallic design. When Dave Kingman (nicknamed Kong due to his home run prowess and the word KING being present in his last name) approached the plate, the fans would pound their shoes against the metal floor in rhythm causing a resonant banging sound, to which they'd follow with "KONG!, KONG!"
I'd become somewhat fascinated by Kingman at this point. He wasn't the prototype home run hitter, definitely not physically. He was 6'6 and lanky as hell. He wasn't a compact guy with quick wrists like your Henry Aarons and Mickey Mantles. He wasn't your "big strong dude" like George Scott or Richie Allen, and he definitely wasn't your steroid infused versions that came later like Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire, Jose Canseco, Ken Caminiti, and Sammy Sooser. ( I mean Sosa ).
Jon's dad's "KONG" description drew chills and goosebumps from me as the 1976 King Kong was among my favorite films, and the sound Jon's dad was describing was more than a little reminiscent of the chants and stomping roared out by the natives upon the approach of the great beast to attend to the sacrifices they had laid out for him. Oakland wanted their powerful beast to approach home plate, and launch a sacrifice into the seats.
I often wondered if Kingman was touched by this mass-fan gesture. Looking at the history of the man, it'd be doubtful. After all, he is known for social issues. Like dislike of female reporters and sending a purchased dead rat to Susan Fornoff of the Sacramento Bee in the mail to protest appearances in the clubhouse (this led to his dismissal from the A's). And a general disdain for talking to the press overall.
However, he is among the first noticeable practitioners of 3TO, or the "three true outcomes; you walk, you strike out, or you jack one over the fence." Read more about that here.
The first handful of years of his career consisted of him shifting. He had injuries, he was traded, and in 1977, he was traded and waived 3 times in the same season, and released at the end of it. (Sports Illustrated: More Sports: Joe Posnaski). There had to be some attitude issues for management to give up that bat repeatedly.
In the Summer of 1978 however, with his arrival in Chicago's Wrigley Field, the proverbial bandbox, anticipation was that he would break the seasonal home run record. (Baseball Quarterly, 1978, Summer).
This did not happen. But Kingman did crush a ton of dingers while he was playing in the North Shore.
After some serious baseball mashing around that time in Chicago, it appears, for a while, his career went back to the inconsistency it happened to be previously.
When it comes to the end of Dave's career, I have a conspiracy theory. Despite the dead rat issue. Bear with me here.
The final year of his career, he hit 35 bombs and drove in 94. No one has ever hit that many homers in the final year of their career. Kong's roar was still as powerful as ever.
Why did no one want to pick him up after that season??
He had reached 442 home runs. Most (myself included) feel that 500 home runs is automatic entry into
the Hall of Fame. To me, it goes without saying. As I had mentioned, Kingman had a pretty bad relationship with the press in his career and those folks are responsible for voting people into the Hall...
Kingman was a mere 58 home runs away from that vaunted 500 number. And the way he was raking, (He had hit 100 in his previous 3 seasons), 500 was pretty good odds. Was there something among the baseball writers and management doing a bit of collusion to keep Kong out of the Hall?? I'm not being an apologist for his issues with the postal service dirty tricks, but I'm ready to argue there are folks in the Hall who have done worse.
Well. If it's about personality, and I know there is no comparison between the long-time all time hits leader, Ty Cobb (before Pete Rose came along, broke the record, then kept himself out of the hall by getting caught gambling on baseball) and a guy who's career average is .236 in Kingman. It's well known that Ty Cobb was a racist, misogynist, asshole whose character traits were probably infinitely worse than a guy who was seemingly just known as a chronic crab-ass.
As readers know, I grew up a baseball nut.
And a dedicated, homery fan of the local Milwaukee Brewers.
It's been pointed out here on Last Will than when my teams fail, be it the Brew Crew or the Packers, I was self-allowed to pick up a team outside their conferences, (The Cubs for the former, the Chargers for the latter) to root for.
For some reason I was also interested in the Oakland A's as far as baseball was concerned. I'm pretty sure it began in my card collecting days as I was fond the of the coloration and design of the 1980 Topps Baseball Oakland A's set. See Above, the 1980 players I selected for the photo were Tony Armas, Mitchell Page, and Dwayne Murphy. (There's a Green Bay Packers aesthetic there as well). I loved the history of the A's 70's dynasty as depicted in Jason Turow's book, and even more recently with Billy Beane's dip into building teams with analytics as described in the book and even more interesting film Moneyball.
Besides their colors, the 70's A's always had cool uniforms, renegade players (first team to have ownership demand facial hair) and eventually hugely public wage battles. The best and worst of that team came from it's ownership, Charles Finley. It all fell apart sooner that it had to, as that team was stacked with the likes of Reggie Jackson, Joe Rudi, Gene Tenace, "Catfish" Hunter, Rollie Fingers and on and on. They could have won more than 3 World Series, in my opinion.
But Finley was cheap. And it all dissolved. Dynamic, Bombastic, Fantastic is a great documenting of the rise and fall of the 70's Oakland A's.
Why does everything have to have a rise and a fall anyways?
The A's had a connection with my Brewers too, as Sal Bando went on to play third base for the Brewers for several seasons and became a controversial and unsuccessful GM for the team. Rollie Fingers became a hero relief pitcher for the World Series team of 1982, Cy Young Winner, as well as MVP, and the locals loved him and his handlebar moustache. I became fascinated with a future A's power hitter named Dave Kingman as you can see here. (I'm uncertain of why that is, despite my written self-exploration).
The first and last Milwaukee Brewers games I saw at old County Stadium were against the Oakland A's. I got to see Reggie on his farewell tour when my brother took me to see a game in the final year of his career.
But I still think it came down to the color and design of those 1980 Topps cards. I'd go out of my way in the 6th grade to trade for their players from my classmates (most of them, commons, in the nomenclature of card collecting) and that would draw weird looks from my friends and co-traders who were more than glad to trade these no-names for better players from me.
1980 Topps is my favorite card year design-wise, in general anyway. I often told my friends (and still tell people) that the 1980 Topps Sixto Lezcano, due to the photo selection and the colors is my favorite card of all time. The "flag" portions containing the team name and player position as well as the simple border just cry out to me: baseball imagery. Add those Green Bay Packer colors in regards to the A's, and I was just drawn to the damn things.
1980 was also the year of the Rickey Henderson rookie. A card craved by all card collectors in my childhood. I had one once, but it would have been worth nothing in terms of cash values as the corners were rounded like wheels and there was a staticky wear to the colors that made the photograph look like a fading television image. This was Mostly from being carried around in my back pocket, held together with other cards by a rubber band. We were kids, not prospectors. We loved the game and the cards before prospecting adults came along to ruin the hobby like they would eventually also do with record collecting.
So did I ever actually root for the A's? No, not really. Until recently when I see how hard Beane has to work to build playoff teams with no money. But not even Oakland seems to root for them, as evidenced by the fact that their attendance has never been fantastic, even in those glory years. And now, circa 2023, it looks like they may soon be removed from their home city due to that attendance fact. It's probably long overdue, as they've been saying for years that Oakland isn't a baseball city.
But in today's sports economics, which may soon apply to my Brewers, being a "baseball city" may not even matter.
For some reason, vintage electronics fascinate me.
There's a lot of hobbyists who collect antique radios, including ones that date back to the 40's. I have an RCA Victor, this is the one, but mine looks nowhere near this good:
It belonged to my Dad, and still picks up a signal, is loud as hell, but the dial window is busted up. It's going nowhere due to its sentimental value, and is kind of an arguably attainable dream to get the window area renovated.
I also have a couple 1960's solid state radios that still work, including a Telefunken that blasts major tube volume, and a solid state Panasonic that's on the cover of a certain Wilco album.
But that's it. I'm not really a hobbyist in that department. I tried some repair work in the 90's but was unsuccessful in making it all work. Pretty hard to be an electronics hobbyist without some knowledge of repair and schematics. I tried, read several books, took some units apart, but as simple as the old ones are in theory, to the layman, monkeying around in that wiring isn't necessarily as easy as all that.
But old radios are gorgeous and I guess that matters for something. They don't make them like that anymore unless they're style replicas, and those are an inexpensive way for people dipping their toes into vinyl to get started listening to the records. Most of the others besides the ones mentioned that I myself had are now gone.
I'm off subject a bit, though.
Antique radios are a popular hobby and examples of them litter the internet, and often refurbished ones are available for purchase at mercantiles all over the country.
It's the stuff that's forgotten, lost to time, and maybe even out of place that fascinates me. Like this Polish auto shop using an old Commodore computer that probably has next to no storage.
But what about Cartrivision? For some reason this dinosaur fascinates me. It's even the focus of a documentary about the 1973 NBA finals where the only footage of game 5 was found on one of these cartridges, which actually popped into the back of your television.
Fascinating right? Some guy put himself through the wringer attempting to free the images of Game 5 from the clutches of this ancient media format. Oddly, this documentary doesn't appear to exist on the internet. I would love to see the whole thing. Maybe one day, as I'll keep trying streaming.
Isn't it ironic that a documentary about technological wizard trying to get a basketball game off of a dinosaur tape becomes somehow lost in the ether?
At one time, somewhere in Wisconsin, an intact television with a Cartrivision unit was sold on eBay in Wisconsin:
You could also get pre-recorded movies on Cartrivision, but I have no idea what they would cost, especially in relevance to today's dollar, but I've read they weren't cheap. They were big clunky tapes that had two levels inside that the tape rolled on, but it looked like a singular unit. If you want to go deep, check this out. I warn you, though. There's 3 lengthy parts, and it goes into several deep directions, so you'd have to spend some time with it.
To summarize, though, I didn't even know this format existed until I read about the basketball game's documentary. A 2013 New York Times article (April 5) brought it to my attention. Cartrivision has a cult following now, but it's really fringe on the edge of vintage electronic buffs and for good reason. The players are big and clunky, they're not necessarily inexpensive, and require some handiwork and elbow grease to reach functionality.
But, I guess my point is still that I'm just fascinated by what gets left in the dust of time as the clock ticks along.
Here's a link to a very informative and detailed Cartrivision site that looks pretty vintage itself, after all, it's host is Angelfire. Cartrivision.
And another site steeped in technological information: Cartrivision Info.
I'm not the only one interested, I just don't have the know-how or the access, but I can still be fascinated.
He's always been there, since my childhood. One of the great character actors. I have clear memories of my mom telling me who he was, how good he was. One of my earliest film memories was his pairing with the late great James Caan (who he shared a birthday with incidentally) Freebie & The Bean, a film Arkin disliked.It was an early 70's action film often considered racist in certain circles, but has a cult following to this day that seems to be growing in increments, probably due to the lightning-quick dialogue and ahead of their time vehicular shenanigans. It was also probably the first buddy-cop-action comedy.
In recent years, he appeared in a remake of Going in Style with Michael Caine and Morgan Freeman, the criminally underrated Stand up Guys with Al Pacino and Christopher Walken, and two seasons of tour de force support in Michael Douglas' series The Kominsky Method. He's brilliant in all of it. He drew belly laughs and poignant heartfelt reactions all the way through.
My wife and I recently watched the 1967 tension machine Wait Until Dark, one of his earliest film appearances. As nice as Arkin is noted for being, he was the personification of evil in this film. When you consider the beauty of his performance as "Unca Lou" in Mike Binder's hellishly underappreciated Indian Summer, it's clear and apparent howhe was the ultimate character actor. He could run the gamut from awful to wonderful, and sell them both with just his eyes, if so required.
I can still hear him say, as he's bringing a spoonful of cereal to his mouth, "They're just a bunch of old cabins." in one of Indian Summer's most important lines. It didn't seem like he was saying much.
But He was saying everything.
His memoir, An Improvised Life, is a beautiful book that functions as an examination of his art, his skill. He doesn't share stories of a long career in Hollywood, dishing out the humorous or salacious, instead he paints a picture of how he developed what he held such pride in. Giving and taking with others on the stage first, and then the screen.
Also, he was a striking image of my father. From the physical to the aural. When Alan Arkin laughed, I heard my dad. His scoff and grin, so similar. And that deep tone that his voice developed into as he aged was a sound mirror of dad's. His commonalities with Pop are not what make me a member of the Arkin cult, (because I was a member decades before they grew towards each other in likeness) but just a nice addition.
A warm one.
I wept this morning when I got the news, Alan. I did. I still have Freebie, Inspector Closeau, Thin Ice, Catch-22, The Russians are Coming, Glengarry Glenn Ross, Little Miss Sunshine, (for which he won an Oscar)those small but perfect parts in Grosse Pointe Blank, Argo, Grudge Match, and countless others.
But knowing more are not coming makes me sad. And knowing both you and my dad are no longer here makes me even sadder.
This blog contains essays, prose, poetry, reviews, and some general whining blather.
I do not review records or movies I don't like because I don't believe in hurting the feelings of another should their art not appeal to me.......I mean, who the fuck am I?
