Post by doc on Jun 4, 2011 5:14:29 GMT -6
It's sad how many hours of life we waste. Time, the most precious commodity on the earth.. no more than a concept about as understood as our own origins , nothing but the rotating of the earth and the position of the sun, simply a system breaking up the continuum of existence in to smaller, more manageable chunks. And why?
An attempt to better make sense of what we cannot.
"Life is not full of easy choices, Mr Docherty. But it is full of choices. And when we face them.. sometimes we succeed in ways that we would never have imagined. And yes, other times we look back with regret at the wrong turnings we have made on the crossroads of life. But for better or worse, we learn something knew about ourselves every time we face up to the choice in front of us and act with sureness, deciciveness, and determination. You cannot think of life as a game to be played, Mr Docherty. This is not a sport. It is not boxing. It is not - with all due respect - professional wrestling . There are no winners, and no losers... only participants. Never fear losing in life, because then you have already lost. Keep that in mind, Mr Docherty, and good luck in the future. I'm sure you'll do well."
And with that, Dr. Rubarczeck scribbled away with his Parker pen for the last time on the pink slip he used to prescribe my regular dose of Prozac. Not only the last antidepressant I will be taking for the rest of my life, and not only the last pill, but the last drug of any kind. The sobering thing about finally getting sober is remembering just how f*cking sh*t life always was back on planet reality.
"Thank you Doctor. Keep well now."
I dusted off my trousers, stood up from the chair to meet a handshake from Dr. Rubarczeck and walked through those sullen double doors for one final time. But he didn't need my wishes to stay well. Dr. Rubarczeck goes home from work every night to a beautiful wife and two young kids who think he's the best thing since Pokemon. That's why he sits on the other side of the room, the happy side. For 6 months I've allowed him to patronize me because of his privileged upbringing and silver spoon start in life. But that ends today.
Not thank you, Doctor - but good riddance.
The thing that most worries me about going back to work, in so far as my health is concerned, isn't what might happen to me in the ring. It's these f*cking paparazzi that follow you around, waiting for that split second of weakness in which your eyes rest up a cool, condensing bottle of lager for a few seconds too many, so that they can go back to their cramped office desk and overbearing editors spreading rumour and accusation in equal degree to put food on the table for their own families. It's the people in the street, who hear about your tough guy image and your gang-riddled upbringing on the streets of Glasgow and want to test you, to show their goading circle of friends that their masculinity outstrips your own.
But even worse than trying to avoid peacock-strutting with a group of bright tailed idiots is the swarm of wrestling addicts and groupie sluts who follow you around like mosquitoes, desperate for a superman, a Moses who can offer them escape from the wilderness of their own unsatisfied lives.
"Doc! Doc! Hold on a second!"
A goofy looking thirty something with curly locks and square spectacles approached me, holding out his hand to shake my own, greeting me as if I were some kind of long lost brother.
"Pleasure to meet you ! I'm Jeff Goldman, I run the local gazette for this town. I was wondering, Doc, if you could give me any comment on your rumored return to nCw?"
It's amazing. I had not even opened my mouth to reply to this man once, and there he was, standing with a tape recorder in front of my chin, commanding me to speak like I'm his f*cking pet Labrador. But this is the life I've chosen to return to. The best mental health professionals on the planet have agreed and disagreed twice over on my exact condition, suggesting everything from manic depression to bipolar disorder. To be honest, I don't know what's wrong with me. And unless I'm very much mistaken, neither does anybody else. I just know that something is wrong, and the only thing that's going to drive me more insane than being an object of fascination for the Jeff Goldman's in every town I visit is sitting at home all day at the tender age of 27 wondering how the hell I could have destroyed a lifetime of hard work in the wrestling business when most of my peers hadn't even entered their prime yet.
"Em, yeah. I guess it's true. I singed my contract a couple of days ago, so I'm just looking forward to going back to work. But if you don't mind, I'm really late for-"
"And what about the Young Guns?" he said in a machine-gun like flow of words, barely pausing for breath. "You seem to be coming back at a time when the influence of Velez and Venom seems to be waning, are you planning a stake for control of the group?"
"Venom and Mr Velez are both men I admire very much, Mr Goldman, but unfortunately I haven't had contact with either one for many months now. Please, Mr Goldman, if you would be so kind - make one thing clear in your 'gazette'. I am not coming back to help the Young Guns, to stake control of any group, to win any title, or to get revenge on any specific individual. I'm here quite simply because I need to go back to work to keep myself sane, and this is the only job I've ever had in my life that I've even been half-way good at. I want to find the love of wrestling I had when I was just a bleary eyed kid, looking up at the giants of an extinct generation. The boss will put me in whatever match he likes, and I will go out there and do my best. I hope that isn't too complicated a message for you to convey to your audience, Mr Goldman. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a flight to catch."
I could tell from the split second of eye-contact we made before I turned my back on him that 'Jeff Goldman' was a little struck by my attitude. But buying myself that split second - that was all I needed to get away from this guy before he hounded me with more questions about my past in nCw, my rehabilitation as a clean cut citizen and the state of my mental health. Those are concepts so abstract to me that I barely understand them myself, let alone have the will or way to explain to some lie-weaving stranger with a voice recorder. The only thing that I really ever understood was what to do in that ring, man against man.
And maybe understanding that, is the key to understanding myself.
An attempt to better make sense of what we cannot.
"Life is not full of easy choices, Mr Docherty. But it is full of choices. And when we face them.. sometimes we succeed in ways that we would never have imagined. And yes, other times we look back with regret at the wrong turnings we have made on the crossroads of life. But for better or worse, we learn something knew about ourselves every time we face up to the choice in front of us and act with sureness, deciciveness, and determination. You cannot think of life as a game to be played, Mr Docherty. This is not a sport. It is not boxing. It is not - with all due respect - professional wrestling . There are no winners, and no losers... only participants. Never fear losing in life, because then you have already lost. Keep that in mind, Mr Docherty, and good luck in the future. I'm sure you'll do well."
And with that, Dr. Rubarczeck scribbled away with his Parker pen for the last time on the pink slip he used to prescribe my regular dose of Prozac. Not only the last antidepressant I will be taking for the rest of my life, and not only the last pill, but the last drug of any kind. The sobering thing about finally getting sober is remembering just how f*cking sh*t life always was back on planet reality.
"Thank you Doctor. Keep well now."
I dusted off my trousers, stood up from the chair to meet a handshake from Dr. Rubarczeck and walked through those sullen double doors for one final time. But he didn't need my wishes to stay well. Dr. Rubarczeck goes home from work every night to a beautiful wife and two young kids who think he's the best thing since Pokemon. That's why he sits on the other side of the room, the happy side. For 6 months I've allowed him to patronize me because of his privileged upbringing and silver spoon start in life. But that ends today.
Not thank you, Doctor - but good riddance.
DOC COMING BACK TO JOIN YOUNG GUNS?
Rumors are circulating around nCw Front Office that the return of former Young Gun member Doc is imminent. The 27 year-old Scot, who held the tag-team championship with Venom in his previous stint in the company, is expected to form an association with his former colleagues. More on this story as it breaks.
Rumors are circulating around nCw Front Office that the return of former Young Gun member Doc is imminent. The 27 year-old Scot, who held the tag-team championship with Venom in his previous stint in the company, is expected to form an association with his former colleagues. More on this story as it breaks.
The thing that most worries me about going back to work, in so far as my health is concerned, isn't what might happen to me in the ring. It's these f*cking paparazzi that follow you around, waiting for that split second of weakness in which your eyes rest up a cool, condensing bottle of lager for a few seconds too many, so that they can go back to their cramped office desk and overbearing editors spreading rumour and accusation in equal degree to put food on the table for their own families. It's the people in the street, who hear about your tough guy image and your gang-riddled upbringing on the streets of Glasgow and want to test you, to show their goading circle of friends that their masculinity outstrips your own.
But even worse than trying to avoid peacock-strutting with a group of bright tailed idiots is the swarm of wrestling addicts and groupie sluts who follow you around like mosquitoes, desperate for a superman, a Moses who can offer them escape from the wilderness of their own unsatisfied lives.
"Doc! Doc! Hold on a second!"
A goofy looking thirty something with curly locks and square spectacles approached me, holding out his hand to shake my own, greeting me as if I were some kind of long lost brother.
"Pleasure to meet you ! I'm Jeff Goldman, I run the local gazette for this town. I was wondering, Doc, if you could give me any comment on your rumored return to nCw?"
It's amazing. I had not even opened my mouth to reply to this man once, and there he was, standing with a tape recorder in front of my chin, commanding me to speak like I'm his f*cking pet Labrador. But this is the life I've chosen to return to. The best mental health professionals on the planet have agreed and disagreed twice over on my exact condition, suggesting everything from manic depression to bipolar disorder. To be honest, I don't know what's wrong with me. And unless I'm very much mistaken, neither does anybody else. I just know that something is wrong, and the only thing that's going to drive me more insane than being an object of fascination for the Jeff Goldman's in every town I visit is sitting at home all day at the tender age of 27 wondering how the hell I could have destroyed a lifetime of hard work in the wrestling business when most of my peers hadn't even entered their prime yet.
"Em, yeah. I guess it's true. I singed my contract a couple of days ago, so I'm just looking forward to going back to work. But if you don't mind, I'm really late for-"
"And what about the Young Guns?" he said in a machine-gun like flow of words, barely pausing for breath. "You seem to be coming back at a time when the influence of Velez and Venom seems to be waning, are you planning a stake for control of the group?"
"Venom and Mr Velez are both men I admire very much, Mr Goldman, but unfortunately I haven't had contact with either one for many months now. Please, Mr Goldman, if you would be so kind - make one thing clear in your 'gazette'. I am not coming back to help the Young Guns, to stake control of any group, to win any title, or to get revenge on any specific individual. I'm here quite simply because I need to go back to work to keep myself sane, and this is the only job I've ever had in my life that I've even been half-way good at. I want to find the love of wrestling I had when I was just a bleary eyed kid, looking up at the giants of an extinct generation. The boss will put me in whatever match he likes, and I will go out there and do my best. I hope that isn't too complicated a message for you to convey to your audience, Mr Goldman. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a flight to catch."
I could tell from the split second of eye-contact we made before I turned my back on him that 'Jeff Goldman' was a little struck by my attitude. But buying myself that split second - that was all I needed to get away from this guy before he hounded me with more questions about my past in nCw, my rehabilitation as a clean cut citizen and the state of my mental health. Those are concepts so abstract to me that I barely understand them myself, let alone have the will or way to explain to some lie-weaving stranger with a voice recorder. The only thing that I really ever understood was what to do in that ring, man against man.
And maybe understanding that, is the key to understanding myself.