IO - K Sawyer Paul

The Heart is Raw, May 20, 2013

Kyle Paul — Tue, 21 May 2013 04:35:08 +0000

So it’s warm. You’re at a bar, one of those great bars where you can sit at the entrance and drink beer with your partner, and watch the street, spending an afternoon commentating on the world, eating nachos, and generally wading through the day, stress-free. Your phone is in your pocket, and you have no desire to check it for anything; no part of you requires nervous distraction. In a few hours you’ll go home, make dinner together, clean up together, and watch a really old TV show, something that aired before your mother was born.

Two interactions with strangers happen before you leave the bar. The first, a thin man with tattoo’s and cigarettes and a rolled-up movie poster of the Godfather sits down at the same bench. He says aloud—you assume, to you—“you got a problem?” You haven’t looked at this person. You haven’t acknowledged his existence, and he’s already looking to pick a fight. You shrug. He laughs. “Thought so,” as if to say he’s won something with your indifference of a person you still haven’t looked at. When you hear him interact with the server, you take a quick look. He’s smaller than you are, wiry. He’s also belligerent to the server, asking for his pint with lazy expletives.

You hear him talking to himself. He’s on his cell phone. He talks about this big house he’s going to, how he needs to get ready. He talks about wanting to get into a fight tonight. In a few moments, he slams his fist on the bar. You get the feeling that at any moment, you could be in a situation you don’t want to be in, and you begin tooling options. You know that any passive comment will likely be met with aggression. Then, you see the server drop the bill next to him, only a few minutes after he’s arrived. This is how bars deal with people they’d like to leave. This is the first step. He pays the bill, and doesn’t take the hint. He leaves and comes back, smoking on the patio, engaging everyone in proximity. He keeps sitting back down next to you, and you’ve locked eyes and you see things going sour. Eventually, you speak to the bartender. He knows what’s happening, and your complaint is enough for him to use his thick English brawn to muscle the man outside. You hear the bartender say to him “You’re making my customers uncomfortable,” and you wonder if he’ll look over at you. He doesn’t. He leaves, threatening the air. In a moment, he’s gone.

In a few moments, another man walks up to the counter where your food and drinks and your partners’ cell phone rests. He’s gaunt and surly and possibly homeless, and you assume things because he asks for money. You refuse him. He asks again. You tell him to go away, that you’re not interested in being solicited, and that you’d like him to leave right away. You take care of this yourself. You feel tough for some reason. He tells you to go fuck yourself, but after a moment he’s gone, too.

I’m telling this to you because I’m Canadian, and a few weeks ago Rich Thomas, my podcast co-host, asked me if we have the same class-based system that the English struggle with, or if we are more like the American system, where wealth trumps heritage. I honestly don’t know the answer. As far as I can tell, Canadians don’t seem to value either in any real capacity. We are quick to mock our celebrity pool, and I wouldn’t know what any of the 118,000 millionaires in Toronto might look like. We mostly leave one another alone. But how I acted to these two men (twist! That second-person prologue was about me—this was a cribbed version of an experience this week) can only be read in a class-based way. With the angry man inside the bar, I took the polite, authority-based approach. I handled the beggar with direct, cold derision, and I did so because one was on my side of the bar, and the other was not.

Canadian politeness is something you’ve all heard of, and you generally take it to mean that we’re nice. But that’s not really true. Canadians are pretty much just like everyone else. The politeness is two-faced. The truth isn’t something we want to talk about, and what happened to me (or to you, to return it to second-person), is to realize that Canadian politeness has its problems. There are class-based shards stuck in there, just waiting to serrate. There are capitalist-based bombs, waiting for you to cut the wrong wire. And you can’t help yourself but forget that it’s a built-in, factory feature of your own personality, until it comes out raw, and makes you back up and wonder just what the hell you just did.

There’s a class structure in WWE, but it’s pallid. There aren’t really limits on who can fight who, at least not the type you’d normally associate. There is no weight limit in WWE, and the gender limit is purely contextual. There are no brackets or qualifications, as much as most wrestling websites would like to think these exist. But, if you watch the show for a long time, you come to realize that there are quiet, polite systems at play that keep characters from one another. John Cena and Kofi Kingston almost never appear together, for instance. You could say that it’s because they aren’t fighting one another, or that they aren’t on-screen friends (though, really, nobody is on-screen friends with Cena anymore). But it really has everything to do with the fact that Kofi isn’t in Cena’s league. Cena only interacts with characters who have made it to his level, or people WWE would like to reach it. Kofi is situated at a certain station, incapable of moving forward without strapping some kind of metaphorical rocket to his back. Maybe he should kick someone through a window.

Daniel Bryan has lost to the Shield every time they’ve been in the ring together. When it’s two on three, or three on three, they’ve never pinned his partner. Okay, they pinned Cena that one time, but they mostly just pin Bryan. This time they pinned Kane, but it doesn’t matter. Bryan got all the taunting. We forget that this is only Bryan’s fourth year in WWE, because he’s changed so much since NXT Season 1. He’s no longer the indie veteran hoping to prove himself in the big leagues. He’s not even his second character, the delusional world champion who used the DENNIS system on AJ Lee. He’s this third thing, and he’s perhaps about to become a fourth. Maybe this new version will be the one to propel him past his current class, that fat roster of former World Champions with years left on their career.

It’s tough to see these lines as fans, but it’s even more difficult to break through them as performers. What the hell are you supposed to do? Change your name? Change it again? Try out half a dozen different character types? Pretend Kofi Kingston is a “pro” compared to you? Disappear for years, only to return out of nowhere? Surely, some part of this had to set sparks. Did it, Curtis? Did it, Michael? Did it, Joe?

The “Curtis” in “Curtis Axel” is great. The “Axel” is not, because it’s supposed to be referencing an axe but it makes me think of a tool. It’s not a good idea to make me think of tools when looking at fresh pro wrestlers. Hey, why not just go with “Curtis Hennig”? The intro was solid, but nothing compared to Lesnar’s original introduction. But of course this isn’t an introduction. We know who this guy is. We’ve seen him flounder. This is a repackaging, and a pitch, where the interesting angle is not the product itself but what it’s up against. Axel’s first opponent is HHH. That’s a different class.

The character of “Curtis Axel,” is simply Michael McGillicutty with added Paul Heyman. Heyman has made a career as a kingmaker, but his secret is seeing greatness and pushing for it. Heyman has never done much with guys of meagre charisma. The idea here is that Joe Perfect is phenomenal, but only Heyman can really see it right now. If you look into his tired, dead eyes, do you see anything? I guess we’re supposed to have faith that Heyman does.

I’d like to think I see the best in people, but I can’t help but give into context. I once had to listen to a man berate a cashier at a Kinko’s, accusing her of treating him poorly because he wasn’t wearing a suit. I interjected, telling the man that he’s being treated like everyone else, and she was doing her best with his irrational requests (he was asking for items Kinko’s would never sell). He was insane, so it didn’t end rationally. I don’t know if they appreciated me chiming in. I never know when that’s the right thing to do. I have too many life choices where I could go either way on charm or aggression, and it’s never clear which way is right. Do you do what’s polite? Or do you do what you feel is right? Well, do you, cowboy?

You’re not supposed to solve problems with aggression, because sometimes you wear yourself out more than your opponent. You think you’re winning, but then you’re on the floor, gassed out, old, out of touch, distrusting the help around you. But what choice do you have? The last guy you tried to reason with broke your arm.

Rob Ford, the World's Greatest Mayor, Smokes Crack

Kyle Paul — Fri, 17 May 2013 16:48:30 +0000

Those people over at Gawker who are trying to make this into such a big deal don’t know what they’re talking about. Because they’re American. Canadians have much different standards for education, humor, and acceptable crack use in the political arena.

VICE is right. Even if it is true, there's still a good chance he won't resign over it, and an even better chance the majority of people who voted for him won't resent the fact.

IO - K Sawyer Paul

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