damnit!
Batman rules! Hanging out with Adam West.
Courtesy of the Foley family.
With the paragraph done, I looked toward West for some type of reaction. A sign, any sign, that my heartfelt words had touched him somehow. But I got nothing. Instead, West started thumbing through pages, studying photos, before turning to page one and reading the opening sentence aloud.
As I’ve already expressed, I’m trying to keep this book somewhere in the neighborhood of PG-13. Sure, the AC/DC story was kind of risqué, but I pondered the possibility of using verbiage slightly less graphic and just couldn’t substitute a more innocent euphemism in place of the real deal. Besides, it was a direct quote.
Likewise, what follows is a direct quote from Batman, reading the works of Mick Foley. Please try to hear his voice as you read it.
“I can’t believe I lost my fucking ear.”
West looked up at me. “You’ve got a very dynamic writing style,” he said. “You capture the reader right away.”
With that, West took my ten-by-fourteen glossy of the Dynamic Duo in action and, no questions asked, signed his name. Then he picked up a copy of Back to the Batcave and signed that one, too. I had a fifty in my hand, but the Crusader ignored it, saying, “No charge,” in the same definitive style in which he’d just mentioned my fucking ear.
I was stunned. I walked back to my table feeling alive, almost weightless, as if floating on a fluffy white cloud of Adam West’s making. I had been so full of doubts just minutes ago, but all those bad thoughts had been replaced by a much brighter one—Batman rules!
Then I laughed as I thought of Adam West’s voice as it praised my book’s words. And I said to myself, “Who needs a quote from John Irving when I’ve got a blurb from Batman?”
May 9, 2006
Dear Hardcore Diary,
Yesterday was Raw —live TV—always a hectic day, but particularly so yesterday, as I found myself in the unenviable position of finding out that my grand vision was about to go whistling down the drain.
I showed up early to the Pond (the arena) in Anaheim, around eleven A . M ., early enough, I thought, to sit in on the television production meeting, just to make sure that my visions of hardcore grandeur were on the same page as the writing staff. They weren’t. Not on the same page, barely even on the same book.
As it turned out, the production meeting had started nearly an hour earlier, and was drawing to a close as I sat down. However, Vince asked me to stick around, which did not immediately set off any ideas in my brain that something was amiss. But amiss it was.
There would be, I was told, no “Kiss My Ass Club” segment on the May 15 Raw from Lubbock. Doing so would infringe on Vince’s ongoing saga with Shawn Michaels, the Spirit Squad, and the imminent reformation of DX. Apparently, Terry Funk taking a chunk out of Vince’s ass would intrude on Shawn and Triple H’s sole dominion over Vince’s ass, or any other body part. Sure, I understood the importance of some Vince physicality in completing Triple H’s babyface turn, but unless I’m mistaken, both of those guys have had a little bit of TV time dedicated to them over the last decade or so. * Terry Funk would have a few short minutes to be made into a main-event attraction, and as I’ve mentioned before, to truly maximize that short time, he really needed to take a chunk out of Vince’s ass.
No chunk out of Vince’s ass meant no instant star-making, which meant no marketable match, which meant watered-down Pay-Per-View, which meant reduced buy rates, which meant crappy payoff, which meant, Why the hell am I even here?
Now, let me get back to the money issue—the whore issue. I did not volunteer for this ECW Pay-Per-View because of the payoff. Yes, in the end, I hope to be well compensated, but that compensation would be deserved due to my idea being a successful one—an idea that people would find captivating enough to plunk down
Batman rules! Hanging out with Adam West.
Courtesy of the Foley family.
With the paragraph done, I looked toward West for some type of reaction. A sign, any sign, that my heartfelt words had touched him somehow. But I got nothing. Instead, West started thumbing through pages, studying photos, before turning to page one and reading the opening sentence aloud.
As I’ve already expressed, I’m trying to keep this book somewhere in the neighborhood of PG-13. Sure, the AC/DC story was kind of risqué, but I pondered the possibility of using verbiage slightly less graphic and just couldn’t substitute a more innocent euphemism in place of the real deal. Besides, it was a direct quote.
Likewise, what follows is a direct quote from Batman, reading the works of Mick Foley. Please try to hear his voice as you read it.
“I can’t believe I lost my fucking ear.”
West looked up at me. “You’ve got a very dynamic writing style,” he said. “You capture the reader right away.”
With that, West took my ten-by-fourteen glossy of the Dynamic Duo in action and, no questions asked, signed his name. Then he picked up a copy of Back to the Batcave and signed that one, too. I had a fifty in my hand, but the Crusader ignored it, saying, “No charge,” in the same definitive style in which he’d just mentioned my fucking ear.
I was stunned. I walked back to my table feeling alive, almost weightless, as if floating on a fluffy white cloud of Adam West’s making. I had been so full of doubts just minutes ago, but all those bad thoughts had been replaced by a much brighter one—Batman rules!
Then I laughed as I thought of Adam West’s voice as it praised my book’s words. And I said to myself, “Who needs a quote from John Irving when I’ve got a blurb from Batman?”
May 9, 2006
Dear Hardcore Diary,
Yesterday was Raw —live TV—always a hectic day, but particularly so yesterday, as I found myself in the unenviable position of finding out that my grand vision was about to go whistling down the drain.
I showed up early to the Pond (the arena) in Anaheim, around eleven A . M ., early enough, I thought, to sit in on the television production meeting, just to make sure that my visions of hardcore grandeur were on the same page as the writing staff. They weren’t. Not on the same page, barely even on the same book.
As it turned out, the production meeting had started nearly an hour earlier, and was drawing to a close as I sat down. However, Vince asked me to stick around, which did not immediately set off any ideas in my brain that something was amiss. But amiss it was.
There would be, I was told, no “Kiss My Ass Club” segment on the May 15 Raw from Lubbock. Doing so would infringe on Vince’s ongoing saga with Shawn Michaels, the Spirit Squad, and the imminent reformation of DX. Apparently, Terry Funk taking a chunk out of Vince’s ass would intrude on Shawn and Triple H’s sole dominion over Vince’s ass, or any other body part. Sure, I understood the importance of some Vince physicality in completing Triple H’s babyface turn, but unless I’m mistaken, both of those guys have had a little bit of TV time dedicated to them over the last decade or so. * Terry Funk would have a few short minutes to be made into a main-event attraction, and as I’ve mentioned before, to truly maximize that short time, he really needed to take a chunk out of Vince’s ass.
No chunk out of Vince’s ass meant no instant star-making, which meant no marketable match, which meant watered-down Pay-Per-View, which meant reduced buy rates, which meant crappy payoff, which meant, Why the hell am I even here?
Now, let me get back to the money issue—the whore issue. I did not volunteer for this ECW Pay-Per-View because of the payoff. Yes, in the end, I hope to be well compensated, but that compensation would be deserved due to my idea being a successful one—an idea that people would find captivating enough to plunk down
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