Counted Out – Chapter Five

This is a new experiment for me. I want to write a weekly serialized fiction project. Every Friday I plan on posting a chapter of the story. I do not know how long the story will run. As I said, this is an experiment. I hope some people find it interesting.

Here is a brief synopsis of the tale about to unfold.

“Michael Hill is a showman without a show. Once the promoter of one of the most popular live television programs on the air, he is now trying to reclaim his former glory in the aftermath of a terrible on-air tragedy. Marshall Ellis was his biggest star, and the one probably most affected by the downfall of Hill’s empire. Together the two have a plan to rebuild. They want to start something new. They want to change the business forever. They are not yet Counted Out.”

TABLE OF CONTENTS:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four

10


Chapter V

Nicki O’Neil smiled pleasantly as she posed for photos with the fans who had stood in line for what must have been hours just for the opportunity to meet her. She had always been grateful for her fans, even the ones who sometimes bordered on the creepy, simply because she knew that without them she would probably be stuck in some menial job with little to no prospect for advancement and slowly dying in a loveless relationship with some loser she found on an online dating website. You could say that Nicki was the most optimistic cynic you could ever hope to meet.

Her appearance at the Orlando CultureCon had been a last minute deal, struck in the hopes of recouping the loss of a booking at a local promotion that fell through. The payout was similar but Nicki hated to be advertised for a match that never happened. It was that sort of thing that was likely to lose her some fans and make it harder for her to get booked the next time around. She still had close to eight hundred thousand followers on social media, and she logged thousands of interactions and digital engagements per day. That meant that Nicki could still command a price but independent bookers were notoriously tight with their wallets so those able to pay the price were few and far between.

She had considered taking a contract in Japan like so many in her situation usually do but decided against it simply because she did not want to upend her entire life to make the journey to the land of the rising sun. She had enough saved from her time working in the IWPA that she wasn’t going to starve any time soon. She had been smart enough to realize that the IWPA was never going to last forever. Some of the other names on that roster would have done well to remember that.

Nicki’s reputation as one of the smarter women in the business was well established. Every write-up about her career seemed to touch on it in some regard. She had a master’s degree in Library Science and had been a national debate champion in high school; the logline for so many thinkpieces regarding her place in the industry utilized some variation on the phrase “her brain is the strongest muscle she has” or some other such tripe. Nicki hated it. She hated the very concept that you could not be viewed as simultaneously intelligent and physically strong, and that somehow it was all the more impressive because she was a woman.

She also hated when her success in the business was somehow attributed only to her looks. Calling Nicki O’Neil beautiful would be akin to calling the moon a slightly large rock. Her father was a Scottish immigrant from Glasgow who settled in the warm sunlight of San Fransisco, California and managed to live comfortably there despite his fair complexion. Her mother was a second generation Chinese immigrant whose charm and grace had knocked her father for a loop and ultimately resulted in a daughter who grew up to be considered one of the most beautiful women ever to step into the ring. Nobody else in the business looked like her, and while that was great for selling herself as a commodity, she never wanted to be reduced to being photogenic. There were very few people in the world of professional wrestling as proud of their physical accomplishments as Nicki O’Neil.

“You were always my favorite,” a young girl wearing a shirt with Nicki’s face said, holding a copy of a poster from an old IWPA magazine. “Nobody else came close.”

“That’s so sweet,” Nicki gushed.

“Do you ever miss it?” the girl asked. “Being on TV every week?”

“Sometimes,” Nicki admitted. “But I also like having the free time to do things like this. I have gotten to meet so many of my fans since I left.”

“It was so nice to meet you,” the girl said. “I’m never going to forget this.”

Nicki smiled. She wasn’t lying. She really did love doing things like this. Something she never truly was able to do while on tour with IWPA.

“If I ask to talk do you promise not to murder me?” a voice asked.

Nicki looked up to see Marshall Ellis standing in front of her in the autograph line, wearing a faded old “Darling Nicki” shirt and holding an 8×10 photograph. He had a sheepish grin on his face and to Nicki it appeared as if he had aged a decade since she had last seen him.

“Marshall?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But keep that to yourself, most of these people don’t recognize me.”

“I barely recognized you,” Nicki said.

“That bad, huh?”

“No,” Nicki said, trying her best not to appear flustered. “It’s just been so long. And there is something different about you.”

“It’s probably just months of living with guilt and anxiety eating away at me from the inside,” Marshall said in a way that the tone undermined the severity of the words. “Also I got a new haircut.”

“I don’t like it,” Nicki said. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“Nothing ever did,” Marshall replied.

 

An hour later Nicki and Marshall were sitting at a booth at the back of a pub near the convention center. Everything was a shade of brown or green and the air smelled like a pitcher of the darkest draught you could imagine. Marshall nursed a pint of Guiness while Nicki ordered herself a glass of iced water. There had been a time when neither of them would be open to drinking alcohol, but Marshall’s resolve had been tested and found wanting in the aftermath of the IWPA’s demise.

“I can see why this would be tempting for you,” Nicki said. “But I don’t think it is a good idea.”

“You are probably right,” Marshall said. “But Mike can’t do this without me.”

“You don’t owe him anything,” Nicki said, barely able to contain her disdain for Michael Hill’s name as she spoke. “And let’s be honest, if he wants the thing to work he’ll get the thing to work, with or without you.”

“I know that is true,” Marshall sighed. “But I don’t work without Mike.”

“That’s bullshit,” Nicki said.

“It is bullshit,” Marshall nodded. “It’s bullshit that my options for working boil down to Michael Hill or not working at all. So when it comes right down to it, I’ll choose Mike. I would choose Mike every goddamn time.”

“I’m sorry,” Nicki said. “I do have options. And going back to work for Michael Hill isn’t the best one for me. Not right now at least. I’m happy where I am.”

“I think this would be good for you,” Marshall said. “I think this could give you the cache to go anywhere you want for the rest of time. This lady, the one from the network, she asked for you by name. The network knows how valuable a commodity you are. I think you could ask for any number you wanted and you would get it.”

“What are you getting?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Marshall said.

“How much are you getting, Marshall?” Nicki pressed.

“Enough,” Marshall said. “Enough to pay off my backlog of medical expenses and move out of the apartment I’m co-renting with a hoard of large rats. Enough to make sure that when I die they don’t leave me in an unmarked ditch.”

Marshall sat back and let the air settle. He took a large swill from his beer and gazed across the table at Nicki. He hated that he had to be the one to ask her. He knew he had to be because Michael would have turned the whole ordeal into an argument before there was ever hope of a discussion but he did not want the responsibility of urging Nicki back into Michael Hill’s circus. He knew how Nicki felt. He knew the terms on which they had parted ways. While she and Marshall had always been very close, he did not like the idea of taking advantage of their relationship in order to push her into something she did not want to do.

“If you decide not to come in on this, I will understand. I really will. Everyone has their reasons for wanting you back. The network wants you because you’re the damn best female wrestler in the world and they know the publicity for snagging you will be worth whatever price tag they have to pay. Michael wants you back because he hopes that he can fix something that he damn well knows that he broke. He knows it probably will never be square between the two of you, but damned if he won’t at least try to make up for what happened.”

“Why do you want me to come?” Nicki asked.

“What?”

“What are your reasons?” Nicki clarified. “You said everyone has their reasons so what are yours? What dog do you have in this fight?”

Marshall hesitated. He took another drink and carefully considered his words.

“Because I miss you,” he said. “And because this is going to be hard. And most of the people walking around that locker room are going to look at me out of the corner of their eyes. I need a friendly face, Nicki. And yours is the friendliest I have ever known.”

Nicki took a sip of water. She had never seen Marshall Ellis the way he looked now; desperate, filled with a hope he did not fully believe in. She set down her drink and leaned back in the booth.

“Make the call.”

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Atypical Reality – Utilizing Technology in the Modern Classroom

tech

There is a tendency in the field of education to gravitate to the idea of “standardization.” It is determined by those in a position of power, earned or otherwise, that all things must meet an established standard. There is nothing inherently wrong with this. A baseline or a goal must be implemented in order to measure mastery, however the means in which we ascertain that mastery should never be reduced to something as rudimentary as a pre-determined standard. If a classroom is to be dynamic, that is to be fluid and adaptive to the needs of the students therein, then the means of implementing instruction on a day to day basis must be malleable to whatever degree the instructor’s specific population necessitates.

I teach senior level English Language Arts. My student population is diverse when taken as a whole and even more so when examined on a sectional basis with regard to individual class rosters. In years past I have had students coded as special ed, though this year that population group includes only a single child in a single instruction period. As such, examining the different populations, learning styles, and personality types present in a given period, it is functionally impossible to classify a “typical” day in my classroom because each individual population presents itself as an independent and wholly identifiable “type.” For example, comparing block 1A to block 2A is largely a futile venture, as instructing them in the same material necessitates entirely different teaching styles. Block 1A, coming in so early in the instructional day, requires more rigorous warm-up activity to incite their young minds to engage in what will follow. That extra time needs to be built into the lesson plan. Conversely, block 2A, having already endured a morning period arrives largely ready to engage in activity with little patience for anything they might perceive as extraneous or a diversion to the central points of the day. I have referred to them at times as “all business,” and do not use this term in a derogatory manner, simply a statement of my understanding with regard to their mindset in the classroom.

While each individual class may be hard to categorize or typify, all English classrooms essentially boil down to the same central idea; instruction in the utilization of the English language to comprehend, analyze, and communicate information. Whether a student is looking at informational text, classic literature, poetry or unclassifiable genre writing, they should be focused on understanding the central message of the text, finding the importance behind the words written, and concentrating on communicating their understanding through a written composition of their own. At any given point in a day in an English classroom, irrespective of the individual assignment at hand, the students should be engaged in an aspect of that process. Every assignment is a link in the aforementioned chain of understanding, analysis and communication. If a student is reading a text, they should be seeking understanding of said text. If they are working on a graphic organizer, seeking to structure their ideas generated while reading a given text, it should reflect the analysis they have engaged in. A submitted draft of an essay should signify mastery of a concept, showcasing their ability to communicate the learning they have processed throughout several days of learning.

As such, technology should serve as an essential tool in facilitating this process. According to  experts at Edutopia, “effective tech integration must happen across the curriculum in ways that research shows deepen and enhance the learning process. In particular, it must support four key components of learning: active engagement, participation in groups, frequent interaction and feedback, and connection to real-world experts.” When used effectively, technology allows students to begin a self-sufficient journey of knowledge discovery. When a student is unsure about a concept, it is not enough for an instructor to supply a response that fulfills the query. Instead, the teacher can provide an opportunity for further learning opportunities by initiating a process that allows the student to research the solution to their problems for themselves. Technology should not be a crutch for students, instead it should be a valuable resource that enhances the learning experience itself. For example, if a student has an issue with the definition of a particular term, an instructor could utilize a resource such as Vocabulary.Com to teach not only the meaning of the word in the context that the student is requesting, but alternative uses that could be of value to the student at a later date. Essentially, technology helps to turn learning into a true process for the student. Studies show that “mastery of learning is also important. Children need an opportunity to redo assignments until they learn the material. Some people take longer than others to learn, but that does not mean that they are inferior or cannot learn” (Wadhwa). At the end of the day, technology should be utilized to build bridges over gaps for students, not serve as a detour from the expectations set forth by the instructor.

A typical classroom should not be able to be categorized. When appraising a classroom, observers should be quick to understand that no two classrooms are the same; not within a single school, nor a single department or even a single instructor. Instructors in modern education understand that flexibility is key and that the utilization of available resources allows for a vibrant, diverse teaching environment across multiple class periods and populations. All instructors should know the truth, only the strong survive; nise forte vivere.

Works Cited

Edutopia. “Why Integrate Technology into the Curriculum?: The Reasons Are Many.” Edutopia. N.p., 17 Mar. 2008. Web. 20 Feb. 2017.

Wadhwa, Vivek. “Here’s How We Can Reinvent the Classroom for the Digital Age.” The Huffington Post. TheHuffingtonPost.com, 09 Apr. 2015. Web. 20 Feb. 2017.

Media Analysis Monday – When The Audience Fights The Narrative; WrestleMania 33 and Audience Expectations Versus Creative Intent

undertaker1

Professional wrestling, also affectionately or derisively referred to as sports entertainment, is a narrative endeavor. The athleticism, the ring-work, the production value; all of it is, ultimately, in service to narrative function. The play is the thing. It is for this reason that many people refer to the product as a type of soap opera, the hybrid blending of legitimate fisticuffs and Young and the Restless. One need only look to the bleed between the weekly programming of WWE and the storylines presented on E!’s Total Divas, a bleed that has become so muddled that the climax to one of the marquee matches at WrestleMania XXXIII featured the resolution of a years-long plot point from the aforementioned reality show. Wrestling is very seldom about the actual craft in the ring. There are legions of fans who would balk at such a thesis but looking at the product as it is presented currently, whether one is speaking of WWE, Lucha Underground, or even New Japan Professional Wrestling, the action happening in the ring only ever works if the narrative placing the performers between the ropes has cohesion and connects with the audience.

But what happens when it doesn’t?

WrestleMania XXXIII’s final bout featured a confrontation between Roman Reigns, a young superstar on an upward trajectory whose meteoric ascension has largely been attributed to preferential treatment from the ownership of the company, and The Undertaker, a performer whose legacy spans over two decades and who to many fans represents the essence of a bygone era. It was billed and sold as a clash of two dominant forces jockeying for the title of ultimate alpha dog, but what seems to have happened is that the narrative surrounding the match eclipsed the narrative that propelled the confrontation. The time of enjoying professional wrestling as a product in earnest seems to be long past. In the bygone era to which Undertaker largely belonged, “kayfabe,” or the veil that separated our reality from the one presented in the ring was opaque. Currently, you would be hard pressed to find any superstar without an Instagram or Twitter profile. The audience understands that these wrestlers are, first and foremost, performers inhabiting the space of a character. These characters are working within the frame of a narrative devised by writers and the spectacle that follows is no different from watching a stage production of Hamlet. As a result of the emerging transparency that the modern era has provided, the audience is acutely aware of things that happen off-stage. As such, much as a film can be rejected because of audience perception of the writer, director, or actors involved, so too can the same be said for modern angles in professional wrestling.

This creates an interesting dilemma for those tasked with weaving the narrative threads within the greater context of the product they are trying to create. In the case of Roman Reigns taking on The Undertaker, the company clearly wanted to sell an epic clash where the torch was passed between generations. It is a moving narrative when done correctly, and there are very few characters in the pantheon of professional wrestling who bring as much presence as The Undertaker. The issue arising from this particular pairing stems from the fact that the creative powers that be want to push Roman Reigns as being emblematic and representative of the modern era while the crowds largely do not want to accept him as such. While he is a talented performer in most regards, fans have often pointed to his less than charismatic delivery of scripted material and his lack of versatility within the ring as proof that he does not deserve the preferential treatment he has received.

At WrestleMania XXXII in 2016, Roman Reigns was crowned champion in the main event and the boos were so resounding that the audio levels had to be adjusted in order to sell the narrative that this was meant to be a moment of triumph. The audience rejection of Roman Reigns as the figurehead of modern WWE had begun long before and yet the narrative never shifted; never evolved to meet the desires of the audience. This raises an interesting point of contention among fans; are creative writers of ongoing narrative such as professional wrestling beholden to the whims of the audience they ostensibly serve? A comparable situation would be an enterprise such as serialized comic books. Writers have been known to roll initiatives back or alter plans based on critical and commercial reception from time to time, so why does professional wrestling seem to eschew this mindset?

The long and short of it seems to be a difference in the size of the audience and a lack of mainstream competition. While there are numerous professional wrestling organizations putting on quality entertainment on a weekly basis, nobody can touch the production value or entrenched popular culture cache of WWE. In return, the writers of their product largely do not tell stories that bend to the whim of their audience.

But is that entirely a negative? Does it not speak to a more concentrated form of narrative purity? There are no easy answers in this regard, however it does serve a central purpose that very little else could manage to provoke and that is engagement and discussion. It generates speculative creativity on the part of the audience with regard to how the story could have played out in another universe. It sparks arguments whether the narrative climax cohesively serves the story being told. It makes the fans talk.

And, for better or worse, people are talking.

Counted Out – Chapter Four

This is a new experiment for me. I want to write a weekly serialized fiction project. Every Friday I plan on posting a chapter of the story. I do not know how long the story will run. As I said, this is an experiment. I hope some people find it interesting.

Here is a brief synopsis of the tale about to unfold.

“Michael Hill is a showman without a show. Once the promoter of one of the most popular live television programs on the air, he is now trying to reclaim his former glory in the aftermath of a terrible on-air tragedy. Marshall Ellis was his biggest star, and the one probably most affected by the downfall of Hill’s empire. Together the two have a plan to rebuild. They want to start something new. They want to change the business forever. They are not yet Counted Out.”

TABLE OF CONTENTS:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three

10

Chapter IV

“You looked larger on TV,” Ms Green said as she shook Marshall Ellis’ hand, maintaining the sort of unbroken eye contact that causes killers to confess to heinous crimes.

“Yeah,” Marshall said. “I haven’t exactly kept up with my regimen.”

“We’ll have to change that,” Ms. Green said. “The audience expects to see ‘Marshall the Mechanic’ in all his glory. Such as it may be.”

Michael Hill sat sipping from a mug of herbal tea on a black leather couch near the open window of Ms. Green’s office in Boston. The decor was modern and industrial and cold, the ambiance matching the aura of Green herself. She was young but had presence, an aura not dissimilar to a jungle predator or a bird of prey. Her hair was darker than obsidian and her eyes were a vibrant shade of her namesake. Michael Hill admired the steel of her resolve. Marshall found himself slightly unnerved by it.

“Marshall will be back to his prime by the time we host our first televised event,” Michael said. “His body is a machine and ‘the mechanic’ knows how to fine tune a machine.”

Marshall stifled a chuckle. Mike was always in promoter mode. He didn’t fault him for it because that was what made him so successful. If Michael Hill weren’t a consummate showman, Marshall ‘The Mechanic’ Ellis would never have been a household name. It was also that showmanship and charisma that kept Ellis out of prison when everything went to hell. Marshall knew that. He wasn’t sure if Ms. Green did.

“Some of our investors are concerned,” Ms. Green said. “That your recruitment for this new endeavor seems to skew in a particular direction.”

“What direction might that be?” Michael asked.

“Male,” Ms. Green said. “Analysis shows that the popularity of females in combat sports is at an all time high and yet there is nothing in your treatment that mentions a female contingent to your roster.”

“My focus is on telling a very particular story,” Michael said. “And so my focus has been on touching base with my guys from IWPA.”

“Are you looking for longevity here, Mr. Hill?”

“Of course,” Michael replied.

“Then let me paint a picture for you,” Ms. Green said. “Imagine the headlines the day after your first show reading ‘Michael Hill Tries To Regain Former Glory With Same Old Bag Of Tricks Semi-Colon Fails Spectacularly And Embarrasses Own Self Yet Again’ because you think that controversy will be enough to keep you on the air.”

Michael set his tea down and tented his fingers, his eyes displaying the tenacity of a cornered animal. “What I am building here,” he said. “Cannot be subject to the whim of fads, trends, focus-group second-guessing or the personal agendas of suits sitting back and collecting checks.”

“And what about the whims of a man too stubborn to let the past stay buried or too afraid to try something new?”

Hill and Green stared at each other in silence, the tension between them lingering in the air like the dying echoes of a sustained power chord. Marshall watched them the way an anthropologist might watch an unfamiliar tribe; with caution and just a modicum of suppressed excitement.

“This show will be unlike anything that has come before,” Michael said. “I know we’re talking about a damned professional wrestling program, but there are always expectations. Some people try to shake things up by using a hexagonal ring. Some people go for celebrity cameos. We are here to tell a story. The story of men, and women mind you, affected by the death of IWPA. Ultimately, this is a show about grief. About reconciling the process of mourning with personal growth. And I will not compromise that by using my time to fill a quota because the network doesn’t think I have enough female athletes.”

Ms. Green took a seat behind her desk and pulled a folder from the drawer to her left.

“Nicki O’Neil,” she said. “Why isn’t she part of your plan.”

Marshall and Michael exchanged hesitant looks.

“Nicki is a complicated matter,” Michael said.

“No she’s not,” Marshall said. “She’s just a headache.”

“A complicated headache,” Michael said.

“She was one of your top stars,” Ms. Green interjected. “Why are you so hesitant to bring her on board?”

“Because he wanted to fuck her and she shot him down,” Marshall said.

“That’s enough Marshall,” Michael snapped back.

“Would she be uncomfortable coming back?” Ms. Green asked.

“No,” Marshall said. “Because Nicki is a professional.”

“I’m a professional,” Michael protested.

“Yes,” Marshall said. “But you’re also emotionally vulnerable, no matter what sort of ‘all-business’ personal you want to adopt. Nicki isn’t like that.”

“Yeah, she’s a heartless bitch.”

“You see what I mean?”

Ms. Green threw her hands up. “Gentlemen,” she said. “I think it would be worth exploring the possibility of contacting her. I can’t help but feel that there is a hole in your narrative without her.”

“Yeah Mike,” Marshall said. “We need to fill Nicki’s hole.”

Ms. Green actually smiled. Michael didn’t see it.

Counted Out – Chapter Three

This is a new experiment for me. I want to write a weekly serialized fiction project. Every Friday I plan on posting a chapter of the story. I do not know how long the story will run. As I said, this is an experiment. I hope some people find it interesting.

Here is a brief synopsis of the tale about to unfold.

“Michael Hill is a showman without a show. Once the promoter of one of the most popular live television programs on the air, he is now trying to reclaim his former glory in the aftermath of a terrible on-air tragedy. Marshall Ellis was his biggest star, and the one probably most affected by the downfall of Hill’s empire. Together the two have a plan to rebuild. They want to start something new. They want to change the business forever. They are not yet Counted Out.

Click Here for Chapter One

Click Here For Chapter Two

10

Chapter Three

“Welcome back to ‘Ace in the Hole,’ the pro wrestling podcast that takes you deep inside the world of wrestling in ways you never thought possible. I am your host Trenton ‘Ace’ Travers and I am here speaking with someone who I have known practically my entire career, you probably remember him from our time as tag-team champions in the IWPA, may it rest in peace. He is the one, the only, Jack Van Jones. It’s good to see you again Jack.”
Jack Van Jones smiled. There was something inherently funny about “Ace” Travers recording a podcast out of his home office in Austin, Texas. The man had been an A-list talent before everything went to shit and now he was running a glorified talk show with other washed up wrestlers from a middle-class neighborhood and living off of whatever profit he made selling merch in his webstore. Things certainly had changed.
“It’s good to see you too, Ace,” Jack said, lying through his teeth. Ace and Jack had indeed been good friends once but the fallout from the death of the IWPA had taken its toll on the personal and professional relationships of anyone who had previously worked for Michael Hill. Nobody wanted to talk about what had happened. Most of the roster had managed to stay afloat, grabbing bookings where they could but a choice few never really recovered. Nobody else had fallen quite as hard as Marshall, he thought, but that was to be expected.
“What have you been up to lately?” Ace asked, taking a sip of his coffee and checking the level on his mix-board. He had gotten pretty good at this podcast game in the last six months. He had sponsors and did live shows at conventions. It was enough to pay the bills and that was enough for him. He took the occasional indy booking to put a little extra scratch in the savings account but he knew there was more longevity for him outside the ring.
“Traveling,” Jack replied. “Did a tour of the UK last month.”
“Good fans in the UK,” Ace said. “Different type of people than here.”
“Yeah,” Jack agreed. “Vocal. Passionate.”
“But a different kind of passionate,” Ace said. “You and I both did work in Japan and those people are passionate, but it’s a different sort of vibe.”
“I think it comes down to the product they’re used to,” Jack said. “UK wrestling still feels very underground to me, you dig? Japan is this whole other thing. It’s culture there, where you look at England and Ireland and whatever and it’s just something else.”
“You’re right there,” Ace said. “In Japan I had people offering to buy me dinner every night. It was surreal. They just looked at me different.”
“Every scene is different,” Jack said. “In the IWPA days, that was something else.”
“You ever miss it?”
“Yeah,” Jack replied. “Don’t you?”
“Honestly,” Ace said. “Most days I don’t. It was too big for itself, you know?”
“You mean it was too big for Mike?”
“I didn’t say that,” Ace said.
“But you did, kinda, I mean, Mike was that company in a lot of ways, right?”
“No denying that,” Ace admitted. “But he handled the business fine. If things hadn’t happened the way they did, and it was no fault of Michael Hill’s by the way, I want to say that clearly, then we would probably be on a whole different level, but some things just happen the way they do and you’ve got to roll with it.”
“Then what do you mean by ‘too big for itself’?”
“Who is interviewing who here?” Ace joked.
“Hey,” Jack said. “I’m just intrigued. Because I don’t necessarily disagree with you, actually. I just want your perspective because, let’s be honest, you were the bigger draw and so you had a different experience than me.”
“Well,” Ace said. “I mean that the bubble was going to burst, right? That even if things hadn’t gone tits up the way they did, they would have gone tits up some other way.”
“But you said Mike handled the business well.”
“I did,” Ace said. “And I stand by that. This isn’t about Michael Hill. Mike was was Mike, and Mike would continue to have been Mike and kept things going as long as he could. I’m saying that culturally speaking, it was too big for itself. We were a part of a very particular zeitgeist and I just don’t think it was sustainable. And hey, it wasn’t perfect. There were tons of guys that got brought in who got zero screen time because the roster was so stuffed. A lot of people resented Mike for that. Because they could have gone somewhere else; Japan, Britain, one of the other feds, you know? But Mike built a damned leviathan of a company and they wanted their chance to grab the brass ring. I know some guys are still bitter about what happened because they feel their time at IWPA was wasted. They didn’t get over enough on that stage to justify the booking fees they would like now that they don’t have Mike signing their checks.”
“It doesn’t do anybody any good to be bitter though, does it?” Jack asked. “I wasn’t exactly at the top of the card when things went down but I turned out okay.”
“Yeah,” Ace said. “But you made your name. People remember us. We were tag champions, after all.”
“I get that,” Jack said. “But afterwards, I wasn’t exactly a hot commodity. I didn’t do well in mid-card. I had always been a tag guy, even before we hooked up.”
“I remember seeing you do tag stuff in a couple of indy promotions before you came on board,” Ace said. “There’s an art form there. It’s all chemistry and timing and really being able to tell a story. I was never really much of a tag guy, but then when you came to me and pitched the idea to tag together, something made sense because our styles work so well together.”
“I agree,” Jack said. “Which is why I’ve stayed mostly solo on the indies, because people tie my name so heavily to our time as a team that it is hard to really sell the storytelling element of it with any other partner. I’ve done appearances and tagged with some of the old timers, you know, to sell an event as truly unique or whatever but I haven’t returned to that style full time.”
“So you’ve found that direction you think you were lacking as a solo worker in IWPA?”
“I think so,” Jack said. “Yeah.”
“So what’s next for Jack Van Jones?”
“I really don’t know, man,” Jack said. “Always working. There’s still some places I haven’t been. I want to work in Mexico. That’s always been a dream.”
“I’ve done a stint down there,” Ace said.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Ace replied. “It’s a whole different world. Different culture. Lucha libre is unlike anything else in the world, and working that style is intense.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “I want that challenge.”
“I’m sure you’re up to it,” Ace said. “We’ve gotta take a break, plug some sponsors, and we’ll be right back.”

Later, after the tape stopped Ace and Jack sat on the well broken in couches in Ace’s living room, each with a beer in hand as they watched a tape of one of their old matches on the giant TV that took up most of the real estate in the modest living area.
“I heard a rumor,” Jack said, gingerly sipping his beer. “You heard it?”
“I hear lots of rumors,” Ace said. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Don’t shit with me,” Jack said. “About Mike.”
“Again,” Ace said. “Specificity is key. Mike is a damn rumor magnet. Which one is this one? Jail time? That he’s running for the senate? What?”
“He’s getting back in,” Jack said. “Hooked himself up with a network contract and plans to get the gang back together.”
“No fucking way,” Ace said, putting his beer down on the coffee table. “Nobody would be stupid enough to hand that man the money he would need.”
“Someone did,” Jack said.
“Who is your source?”
“Pete.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, shit,” Jack said. “It is going to put a lot of eyes back on us.”
“I know,” Ace said.
“Things have been hard Trent,” Jack said. “I’ve had to do some real shit to scrape by. That UK tour saved my ass, but before that…”
“I know,” Ace said. “We all fell pretty hard.”
“So what are you going to say if the phone rings?”
“I don’t know if I can go full time again,” Ace said. “I’ve gotten pretty complacent.”
“Here’s another question,” Jack said picking his beer back up. “What are you going to do if the phone doesn’t ring?”
Ace took a long drink.
It was a good question

 

Media Analysis Mondays – Examining Disney’s Live Action Adaptations

beautyandthebeast

Remakes and reboots are an established phenomenon at this juncture. As much as film can be an artistic medium, so too is it largely beholden to the whims of capitalism and the quest for box office success. When patterns begin to form, sometimes they are easily recognizable; such as every studio’s desire to create a “shared universe” in the wake of 2012’s The Avengers. Other patterns develop with a degree of subtlety, creating a lens with which to view a certain era of time. Patterns may also develop within a sort of microcosm, in an isolated environment divorced from the whole. Disney has of late taken to adapting their animated classics into live-action films, an initiative that can be traced back to 2010’s Alice in Wonderland directed by Tim Burton.

Since that time, we have seen adaptations of Sleeping Beauty in the revisionist Maleficent, Cinderella in 2015, with The Jungle book and Pete’s Dragon rounding out 2016. Spring of this year sees the release of Beauty and the Beast, whose original animated counterpart marked a turning point in the history of animation and of Disney as a company. The train is still rolling as casting has just begun for Aladdin, news recently broke that Mulan is moving forward but will not be a musical and it has been reported that James Earl Jones will reprise his role as the voice of Mufasa in a live action version of The Lion King.

While these adaptations have hitherto been moderate to extreme box office heavyweights, the lingering critical question upon the release of each subsequent film has been whether the studio is doing anything with the new versions of the film to justify their existence beyond the revenue they generate. Does translating these classic animated films into a live action film bring anything to the table that wasn’t there in the original version?

Focusing solely on the latest film in the lineup, it feels as if Disney has for the first time put an emphasis on injecting something new into the narrative for the sake of justifying its own existence. The script’s portrayal of Belle, here portrayed as the creative/inventive genius in her father’s workshop, seems hell-bent on making strides to correct the perception that the character is simply a bookworm suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. The script moves a few steps further by feeling the need to give Belle her own “tragic backstory,” perhaps to put her in the same company as Lily James’ Cinderella. This would not be obtrusive, had the script not felt the need to do the same for Beast, giving a kind of justification for his decision to turn away the enchantress that places the curse upon his home.

Wanting to provide depth to a character is not usually a tick mark in the negative column. However, this adaptation does not provide enough attention to this subplot for it to carry enough weight. In the end, it feels like padding; largely unnecessary in most regards. Some minor additions to the script actually do work, such as the addition of Beast’s third-act solo following Belle’s departure or LeFou’s eventual about-face in his relationship with Gaston.

The 2017 Beauty and the Beast is a good film, though it is not a great one. Part of the reason for this is simply that the original on which it is based succeeds in just about every regard where the remake falters. It is somewhat disappointing, but if you look at the patterns, it is not all that unsurprising.

Counted Out – Chapter Two

This is a new experiment for me. I want to write a weekly serialized fiction project. Every Friday I plan on posting a chapter of the story. I do not know how long the story will run. As I said, this is an experiment. I hope some people find it interesting.

Here is a brief synopsis of the tale about to unfold.

“Michael Hill is a showman without a show. Once the promoter of one of the most popular live television programs on the air, he is now trying to reclaim his former glory in the aftermath of a terrible on-air tragedy. Marshall Ellis was his biggest star, and the one probably most affected by the downfall of Hill’s empire. Together the two have a plan to rebuild. They want to start something new. They want to change the business forever. They are not yet Counted Out.”

TABLE OF CONTENTS:
Chapter One


10

Chapter II.

Marshall Ellis leaned his forehead against the tile of the shower and let the hot water cascade down his back. He hurt. Bad. He knew how to take a hit. He had trained. He knew how to “bump.” That was the problem with all of it; the world wanted to prove that he didn’t really know shit.

After the incident Marshall Ellis had to find a new line of work. Promoters figured it wasn’t worth the headache that employing him would bring. He wasn’t famous anymore; he was notorious. The distinction was a small one but one that resulted in a large difference in insurance premiums and media coverage. Most found it difficult to justify the cost of having Marshall Ellis around. It irked him; that something so unfathomably out of his own control now seemed to control every facet of his living situation.

He had recently taken up a job working the door at a hole in the wall tavern in Dallas, Texas. It seemed like every night someone wanted to make a run at him. They wanted to know if “The Mechanic” was as big a tough guy as he claimed to be. Everyone had the same old lines; “it’s all fake,” or  “he can’t really fight.” Nevermind the fact that Marshall Ellis had been a champion collegiate wrestler and was a black-belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu, they simply had to learn things the hard way.

That morning as he stood in the shower letting the hot water sooth the emerging bruises and blemishes that marred his body. The previous evening had seen a cadre of rednecks rush him as a group and try to deliver him a swift and severe beating. Things had not worked out well in those men’s favor however, as Marshall ended up breaking the arm of one of his attackers and shattering the orbital socket of another. The end result of the brawl had been his dismissal from duty and the discolored flesh that throbbed under the stream of hot water.

After willing himself out of the shower and into a fresh set of clothes Marshall took a seat at the cheap Swedish made table in the dining area of his ramshackle one-bedroom apartment and tepidly began to eat his breakfast, a bowl of stale cheerios and skim milk which he choked down with an absent minded sense of purpose. He tried to tune out the headache that pounded on his skull like a timpani drum and had mostly succeeded when there came a rapping at the door.

“What now?” Marshall asked himself, amazed at life’s ability to pile on in such frustrating ways.

He made his way to the door and peered through the peephole. He couldn’t make out the face of whoever was standing on the other side. The maintenance men on staff at his apartment complex had haphazardly repainted his door and rendered the tiny window entirely useless.

“What do you want?” he shouted through the door.

“To talk,” a familiar voice answered back.

Marshall had to fight the urge to vomit. He hadn’t spoken to Michael Hill in close to a year and yet here he stood, plain as day on the bird shit stained patio of his apartment.

“I don’t think there’s much for us to discuss Mike,” Marshall yelled. “I think it best you be on your way.”

“Don’t be like that Marsh,” Michael replied. “I’m sorry things have gone the way they have for you but I’m here to make things right.

Marshall opened the door,

“You don’t have the power to make things right,” Marshall said. “God his own damn self would have trouble putting the pieces of this shitshow back together.”

“Then start singing glory hallelujah because your divine providence is here,” Michael said with a grin. “In all seriousness, invite me inside so we can talk like a couple of civilized adults.”

“You haven’t ever been much in the way of civilized,” Marshall said returning to the kitchen table, leaving the door open for Michael behind him. “Not much of an adult by my reckoning either. You’ve always just been a little boy, playing in his toybox.”

He sat and took another bite of cereal. “Only difference is most little boys care when their favorite toys get broken.”

Michael closed the door behind him as he entered the room. He glanced around the dimly lit apartment at the meager decor adorning the walls. A few framed photographs of Marshall in his prime hung sloppily here and there. Beyond that, little if anything to indicate the apartment had a permanent resident.

“That’s not fair at all,” Michael said. “I did everything I could to help us. To help you.”

“For all the good it did.”

“Yes,” Michael said, rolling his eyes. “I wasn’t successful. Not then, at least. What did you expect? We needed a damned miracle to save us. The footage was everywhere. It was national news. It was everything anybody ever wanted to shut us down with handed to them on a silver platter and you were the suckling pig with an apple shoved in its mouth. It wasn’t fair to you. I’m sorry. But things happened the way they happened.”

“I was a star, Mike,” Marshall said. “A goddamn shooting star and it all went away overnight. You see how I live?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” Marshall asked, his voice tinged with a barely contained rage. “Because you show up here out of the blue wearing a suit that costs more than my rent and I wonder how sorry you really are. Or how hard you really tried to make things right.”

“You unbelievable bastard,” Michael said, shaking his head. “Do you understand the gravity of what happened that night? Do you?”

“Are you seriously asking me that question right now, Michael?”

“Yes,” Michael said. “Because you act like it was something that could be brushed under the rug, which, surprise Marsh, it can’t. I’ve tried. I have spent immeasurable stacks of cash to try to erase the memory of that night from the general consciousness of the world at large, and yet I cannot. Do you know why?”

“Why, Michael?”

“Because had it been planned it would have been the most memorable night in the history of live broadcast entertainment! Don’t act like it wouldn’t have been. If we had scripted it, if it had been part of the show, we would never be able to top it.”

“But it wasn’t scripted,” Marshall said. “It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t trickery. It wasn’t a show. It was–”

“It was a tragedy,” Michael interrupted. “A wholly unavoidable one. That’s what the court said. We are not, were not culpable. Not for any of it.”

“That is so easy for you to say,” Marshall said. “You weren’t in the ring.”

“I know,” Michael said. “It is so different for you than it is for the rest of us.”

“People still book Johnny,” Marshall said. “Ace and Peter. All the guys. They still get booked. You know who doesn’t?”

Michael stood silently, looking at Marshall with a knowing sense of empathy.

“I don’t,” Marshall continued. “I don’t get booked. Because I am the world’s biggest liability. And I don’t know how to do anything else Michael, I really don’t. This is all I’ve ever done and all I will ever be good at. Until the day they throw me in the dirt, I will only ever be good at that one thing, and I can’t do it anymore.”

“What if you could?”

“And who would sign me?”

“I would,” Michael said.

Marshall Ellis looked at Michael Hill the way that most people look at a scratch-off lottery ticket that’s one match away from a jackpot. Michael looked at Marshall with the pleading look that one might give a child struggling to reach the edge of a pool in their first swim class. It was a depressing tableau enough to make an existential nihilist rigid in the pants.

“What the hell are you talking about Michael?” Marshall finally asked.

“I have a contract,” Michael said. “A new program. Cable. Never been done before. First out of the gate. But I can’t do it without you.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Marshall asked.

“Does it matter?”

“Not really.”

“Then shut up and listen,” Michael said. “The International Professional Wrestling Alliance was one of the crowning achievements of televised sports-centric entertainment. We cornered the market because we did things differently. We cared about fidelity to the stories we told in that ring and people gave a damn about those characters. They cared about you.”

“And it’s never coming back,” Marshall said. “Not the way it was before. Not after how it ended.”

“Which is why we don’t even try,” Michael said. “Have you been to the movies lately?”

Marshall shook his head. “I don’t have a lot of disposable income these days,” he said.

“Continuity is meaningless,” Michael said. “Reboots and sequels and nobody pays attention to whether any of it makes any sense. It’s all about hooking an audience with something they recognize and squeezing every last dollar out of them that is physically possible. I don’t want to bring back the IPWA, I just want to use it to open a new door for something else. What I’ve got lined up isn’t a sequel, it’s a goddamn spinoff. Like when the cop from Family Matters showed up in Die Hard.”

“That’s not actually the same character–”

“I don’t care,” Michael said. “And the world doesn’t care either. We’re going to sell the world on a lie Marshall, and I cannot do it without you. You are the goddamn key to the whole goddamn assing thing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re going to call it the Outlaw Wrestling Coalition,” Michael said. “We’re going to sell the narrative that this whole thing is an underground enterprise. We’re going to sell it on danger. We’re going to sell it on taboo. We’re going to sell it on being the most exciting thing ever to hit cable programming and it is going to be centered around your return to the ring and your search for redemption.”

“I don’t need redemption, Michael.”

“Maybe not personally,” Michael said. “But your character does.”

“I am my character, Michael,” Marshall said. “Always have been.”

“I am offering you a chance to get back to doing what you have always been great at,” Michael said. “Or you can continue to let shitkickers take a run at you for two hundred bucks a night. But those guys you mentioned? Johnny, Ace, Pete? They’re all in. And I’ll build my show around one of them if I have to, but that’s not what I want. That isn’t what the viewing public wants. They want Marshall the goddamn shitassing Mechanic Ellis taking the spot that was unjustly taken from him. That is what they want to see! That is what I want to see!”

“The last time I was in a ring someone died, Michael.”

Michael Hill took two steps back and sighed deeply.

“And it wasn’t your fault,” Michael said. “You probably saved some lives that night. Is that what you want to be remembered for, though? Or would you rather be remembered as part of the greatest comeback story in the history of televised entertainment?”

Marshall looked at his stale cereal and then back to the promoter who for years had pushed him to the top of the professional wrestling world; the man who had made him a star. He closed his eyes and said a little prayer. Then he looked back at Michael.

“When do we start?”