Bam Bam Jay Coccaro

Ugh.  This is tough to write, but I wanted to memorialize my boy in some way.  Earlier today, we had to put down Bam Bam, my dog of roughly fifteen years (that's him to the right).  I'm not even sure what to type.  I'm still in the dumps, honestly.  But I know that's okay.  This is life.  These events occur.  Actually, I handled it better than I thought I would.  Many pet owners don't realize that they can euthanize their fur kids at home (with the help of a professional, that is).  That's the option I chose, and I'm glad that I did.

He was cozy in bed with me.  My room was his room, so he was super comfortable.  There was no sense in traumatizing him with a vet visit.  Without the euthanization, he would have passed on his own in a few weeks (cancer), but I didn't want him to continue to waste away.  He had already lost so much weight.  On the bright side, he was still happy and he wasn't feeling any debilitating pain (ironically, because of the cancer).  This was the perfect way to "send off" the BEST DOG EVER.

I mean, as pet owners, we all believe our pet is the best ever in the history of pets.  And none of us are wrong.  I wish that everyone reading could have met Bam Bam.  So sweet, so friendly, surprisingly gentle for a Shepherd mix (he hardly ever barked)...I'm fortunate to have rescued him.  I vividly recall the day I met him.  We had been wanting to adopt a Shepherd, so we notified a local shelter to let us know if they chanced upon one.  One day, they called to tell us that a little boy brought in a puppy that we might be interested in.  By the way, I'm sorry if this isn't written well.  I'm not on my game.

Anyway, it was love at first sight.  I knew he was our dog.  He immediately licked my nose.  We've been asked about his name quite a few times over the years.  To tell you the truth, he came equipped with his name.  The little boy named him Bam Bam and I could tell that it was a fitting name.  What a wild puppy!  He never truly outgrew his puppy phase, not 100%.  Even in his last year, I could still see that playful glimmer in his eyes.  I can't tell you how glad I am that I was able to be his hooman.  My mom feels the same way, and I know my dad loved him just as much.

Towards the end of the week, we'll receive his ashes.  We could sprinkle them in the backyard, but he wasn't an inside dog.  If you were to ask him, he would have told you that he was a person.  He wasn't much for the outdoors.  He didn't play fetch, and no matter how many times we tried, he didn't care about chewtoys.  Not a single toy stuck!  That was just Bam Bam.  I'll be keeping him in my - wait, scratch that - our room in the corner where his bed resided.

Not sure how to end this thing.  I'll simply add one of my favorite picture of Bammy.  Yeah, the Wolfie doll didn't last very long.  I think Bam was appeasing us.


Rassle Inn #15

Originally, this wasn't going to be an edition of Rassle Inn.  After all, I just wrote one.  But since this post will have everything to do with wrestling, why not?  I know that there are 1,500 of you who rate Rassle Inn as your favorite column, give or take 1,499.  It's your lucky day!  There are a few things that spurred me to rhapsodize on the industry.  The headmost thing?  Last night, I acted as the announcer for what Jim Cornette would call an "outlaw" wrestling show.  It was my virgin gig at a wrestling event, and yes, this has been a dream of mine for a seriously long time.

Around 2010, I started watching WWE (and eventually, TNA...God help me) out of morbid curiosity.  That was the first time I had thrown myself into the product since my early teens.  Strangely, when I began to realize that professional wrestling was a work, I felt betrayed.  I dropped it like a bad habit (i.e. smoking) or even a good habit (i.e. heroin).  I say "strangely" because most fans don't share my reaction.  I've found that being smartened to the business isn't a big deal for the lion's share of kids/teenagers.  Maybe I'm a dainty, finespun milksop.  Shut the fuck up.

Anyway, it didn't take long to catch the bug.  I wanted to be a wrestler.  Of course, I can never be a wrestler.  That sucks.  I compromised with myself and decided that I would be content near the ring if I couldn't be inside of it.  Announcer, commentator, manager...ideally, I'd be a heel manager in the same vein as a Cornette or a Heenan.  You have to start somewhere, though.  I landed the one-time announcing spot through a friend, but if wiggle room exists, I hope to turn it into a more meaningful position.  By the way, the promotion is XCW.  The link takes you to their Facebook page.  It's a tiny company, but it's also an open door.

Speaking of Bandito (???), Ring of Honor recently held its 19th anniversary show on PPV.  I wish I could watch ROH's flagship series on a regular basis, but that would cost money.  I'm already paying to watch New Japan and WWE (well, we'll see).  Oh, right.  Bandido!  If you get the chance, check out the triple threat involving former trio partners Bandido, Flamita, and Rey Horus.  Lucha is an acquired taste, but holy shit.  Those three banditos never downshifted, and I mean that in a positive way.  If it were three American greenhorns, the psychology would have felt aimless and disjointed.  Here, the breakneck pace worked.

I mentioned that I'm paying for New Japan, and brother, I'm glad.  Otherwise, I would have missed the New Japan Cup final between Will Ospreay and Shingo Takagi.  Early contender for Match of the Year.  Both gentlemen are in their prime, and if you ask me, Ospreay - The Aerial Assassin himself - is currently the best wrestler in the world.  And that is all, friends.  To recap, I'm fixing to be a top manager, ROH is flippin' awesome, and NJPW is fuckin' awesome.



Story tomorrow!


Rassle Inn #14

It has been a sugary while since I penned a wrestling column.  What's new?  Boy, I tell you.  I was watching that one program - the one with the evocative title - and fuck howdy, the maneuvers!  The way that the muscular wrestler grappled with his game opponent, why, I nearly spilled my expired Tab cola directly into my vaginal cavity.  Okay, okay...enough malarkey.  I have yet to watch this week's episode of NXT, but I did measure out my weekly dose of Dynamite.  And?  It was supreme.  In fact, it was one of the best episodes in recent memory.

An individual show's quality isn't reflected in the ratings until the following week.  I expect the number to rise, preferably above 900,000.  This week's ratings?  A meager 757,000.  Dynamite wasn't that bad last Wednesday, was it?  Contrariwise!  If anything, AEW should have generated buzz coming off of a blistering main event that saw Thunder Rosa and Britt Baker tear the roof off the place in an unsanctioned match bereft (bereft, I say) of rules.  It was even a double juicer.  If pro-wrestling doesn't start to bring in new viewers, I'm genuinely concerned about the future of the business.  In America, that is.

We can't look to WWE for inspiration.  For every step they take forward, they take two steps back with either nonsensical Charles Band flummery or basic, everyday plot holes.  At least we have Rhea Ripley and Io Shirai.  Mind you, my penis isn't playing favorites.  I'm just as psyched to see fucking WALTER battle Tommaso Ciampa.  Going back to the ladies for a moment, could I comment on the pros and cons of a bloody unsanctioned match?  No?  Oh.

I will anyway, but I'll try to keep it short.  The garbage match.  The backyard match.  The Light Tube Texas Shit Death match.  Should men or women be having these contests on a regular basis?  Because they are, and I can see both sides of the argument.  If a match is cool, it's cool.  Rosa/Baker was effin' sweet.  My only request would be to hold off on the next ultra-violent main event.  These gushers should be held for special occasions (like to blow off a feud, for instance).  Goddamn, at a certain point, that level of hard-hitting frenzy won't mean anything.

The focus of a fight shouldn't be the presentation of weapons and the careful arrangement of furniture.  Personally, if I was sparring with someone I hated, I wouldn't grandstand.  However, I would definitely try to use the tombstone piledriver.


Psycho Goreman

I'm still working on the fictional slice of creative writing that I referenced fourteen epochs ago, but I'm at a place where I'd like to try t juggle both endeavors.  Simply put, I missed this bizarro cubbyhole that I built for myself.  It's my playhouse.  Be careful when you visit, as you could step on a number of geeky widgets.  I'm talking gimmicks ranging from a teal plastic jack-o-lantern, a VHS copy of The Guyver (alongside its sequel), and a loose Goatwhore compact disc.  What the hell did I do with the inner sleeve?  Maybe I'll find it lounging next to my broken heart.  Aww...kidding!  My heart committed suicide, a vitiated, unusually violent suicide.

I wrote that inductive paragraph to illustrate why last year's Psycho Goreman is tailored to fit my palate.  Yes, it's an 80's/90's throwback, but it doesn't have a lordly, supercilious bone in its figurative body.  What do I mean?  I sense a current of cold patronage in most of the "retro" cult flicks that have been released in the past 5-10 years.  They are "retro" because it's cool.  Fans are bound to fork duckets over to check out, say, Chainsaw Whore: The Bleeding of Bouncing Teenagers (I need to copywrite that title) if it's produced to emulate their Vestron favorites.  PG is just fun.  What's more, the unique storyline warrants drippy nostalgia.

You have likely heard of the film by now, but if not, I'll set the scene.  A brother and his domineering sister find a glowing orb buried in their backyard.  This orb gives its possessor the power to control Psycho Goreman (an appellation brainstormed by the kids), an interdimensional mutant bent on destroying everything in sight.  We are told that he has already destroyed several planets.  Well, he is now controlled by Mimi, the brattiest of brats.  You can tell that the basic premise holds untold potential for amusing scenarios, and for the most part, I'd say that PG fulfills that potential.

While the film does cater to my age group, it should appeal to any lover of camp cinema.  Naturally, the budget is on the skimpy side, but the special effects are fantastically charming.  A handful of the aliens (or ghouls or whatever the fuck) are lifted straight out of Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers.  This writer went through a Power Ranger phase, so you can bet I was cheesing when those creatures were on display.  If I'm making it sound like a kiddie show, unbolt your haunches.  Collect yourself!  The gore is poured on thick.  Granted, PG is tonally lightweight (if it were rated, it would be a PG-13...no pun intended), but in terms of brutality, I was reminded of Turbo Kid.

A majority of the naysayers have directed bilge at Nita-Josee Hanna, the wee actress who plays Mimi.  "She's too annoying!"  No shit?  That's the whole point.  Her performance is over-the-top because the plot calls for her character to be over-the-top.  The acting is fine.  I did have a problem with the protracted ending and goddamn monologues being delivered while the climactic action played out.  There are similar moments throughout Psycho Goreman where it tries to be a little too cute.  But hey, I wasn't expecting a flawless masterpiece.  I'm late to the game in reviewing it, but if you haven't peeped this b-snack, you deserve a warrior's death.