I love Pro Wrestling.
I've had people ask me "How can someone who loves Hamlet and Moby-Dick appreciate wrestling?" To which I say "Eat a big back of fetid cat testicles."
But if I'm being polite I'll say "have you ever read Hamlet and Moby-Dick?"
They're rabid, frothing, lunacy.
They're examples of mad scientists throwing whatever they can into the pot just to see what has a chemical reaction. And they celebrate storytelling above everything else.
Pro wrestling is the same.
I've spent most of my life utterly enthralled by the weird and the bizarre. From Godzilla to horror movies, theatre of the absurd, slow-burn thoughtful art pieces, musicals, experimental narrative, spooky science books, role-playing games, philosophy, mythology, comic books, crazy martial arts and action films, heavy metal music, over the top animation and of course wrestling. I see these interests existing on a spectrum. You just gotta step-back to appreciate the pattern.
So of course I love to read autobiographies by wrestlers.
A lot of fans are very critical of professional wrestling autobiographies. They want just the facts. They say that due to the nature of the sport you never really know how much of what you're reading is real and how much of it is performance. You gotta accept that it's probably a little bit of both or else you're a dreaded 'mark' (which is carnie talk for someone who's not on the inside).
I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. Get close and I'll whisper it in your ear ASMR style.
"I. Don't. Care."
I don't want to be 'on the inside'. I don't want to be 'one of the boys'. I want to believe in pro wrestling. All of it. Not just the action, but the characters, everything. I love the drama. I love the magic. I love the show. I love how it blurs the lines between what is real and what isn't. And I love storytelling.
All the best wrestlers are great storytellers. All of them. In very different ways.
And Jon Moxley is a born storyteller.
He might disagree with that.
He says he's shy in a lot of circumstances. And I bet he is. He says he likes to listen more than talk. And I bet that's true too.
But great storytellers aren't the same as extroverts.
Storytelling isn't about being social. It's about expressing yourself. And a lot of introverts and people who are shy make great storytellers because they spend a lot of time in self-reflection. They study everything around them and their own reactions to it. From their circumstances to their own identity and their own character and their own emotions.
They feel everything deeply and differently.
Not just love, pain or grief, but time and nature. They try to figure it all out and often fail or get overwhelmed. It's part of what keeps them introverted. The sheer enormity of the task of existing.
For some people the world can be too much to handle in the moment. Too large. Too loud. Too busy. It can take time for them to digest. So when people like that are pushed too fast to make snap-decisions socially they can come off as distant, awkward, weird, stand-off-ish, anti-social or even offensive.
But when they have time, when they have a little quiet and reflection they become poets.
Moxley isn't quite a poet, but when he's talking about Point Break and creating the perfect sandwich he gets so damn close to a Herman Melville or an Irving Layton, that I say "eh, fuck it, good enough".
MOX is an autobiography written by Jon Moxley, regarding his love affair and struggles with his creative passion: Pro Wrestling. Moxley takes you on a whirlwind tour of his psyche, dumping everything from romance tips to insights on developing as a talent, to training in MMA, creative differences with Vince McMahon, going to Japan, and blood-curdling tales of intense performances.
One part of this book talks about being driven to a 'tournament of death'. It sounds like a set-up to a horror movie or a Mortal Kombat game more than a wrestling event.
The tournament of death is a series of matches held on a private property away from the rules and regulations of civility. Y'know that stuff that keeps you from getting killed (and FYI somebody does die, for real).
On this property away from the prying regulations of modern society the wrestlers and promoters involved create a sort of carnival freak show of blood and violence. They get so close to the edge several of the performers leave the ring looking like they belong on the cover of an 1980s GOREZONE magazine.
Some people write Splatterpunk, these guys lived it.
Chas. Balun would be proud.
Once Moxley gets to this tournament he's snorting lines of cocaine and then getting in the ring with a six foot, four inch, 271 pound "sweetheart" named Brain Damage who hits so hard that he can turn your face into a Jackson Pollock painting.
To say this match goes over the top is understating it quite a deal. After listening to the audio-book (which is read by Moxley himself and I highly recommend it) I had to look up the actual fight and watch it. And sure enough half-way through the carnage Brain Damage decides to attack Moxley with what looks like a cordless drywall cutter.
I knew exactly what was coming next and my jaw was still on the floor. I could only imagine what everybody at the show was thinking when it actually happened.
Moxley assures us that he wasn't in real danger (because if he was, well, he'd be DEAD), but I'd have some serious creative differences with anybody trying to stick an electric knife into my face. I don't care how much of a sweetheart or a cuddle-dumping they were in real life.
Meanwhile in previous chapters of this book, Moxley has a sweet and hilarious moment where he talks about wanting to surprise his wife by giving her a motor-scooter.
Moxley is a man of emotional and artistic extremes, and if he's not pushing himself to those extremes I think he feels like he's not sincerely expressing himself. And that is true in the ring, and it is equally true in this book. Where the disjointed narrative and timeline (and tangents into favourite movies and music) crafts a sort of hallucinogenic roller-coaster. The twists and turns are so harsh and surreal, it feels like you're having an out of body experience. You're not reading about a guy's life, so much as you're being dumped through his memories. You're falling through the floors, going from watching him getting attacked by bullies as a kid to attacking other wrestlers with a fork while wearing a scary old man mask to helping deliver boxes of cereal to a family in need.
It's like something that you'd expect from reading Naked Lunch more than a sports autobiography.
But that's why I love this book.
Moxley has taken his character and personality and put it down here in a story that blends together mediums, styles, journals, thoughts and performances into a bloody bowl of mashed potatoes.
He starts the whole book questioning his own identity. The rest of the book is dedicated to answering that question, or at least understanding that question. He does this by struggling with and celebrating the art he enjoys. And the love and the life he's made for himself. And the philosophy of his father, acts of kindness, cruelty and charity. And mourning friends that passed away far too soon.
Mox is about a man staring into the extremes of his own identity, the creative side, the destructive side, the villainous side, the vulnerable side. And not blinking.
Never blinking.
The sheer tenacity of this performance is either crazy, inspiring or delusional. Or all of the above.
One thing is for certain, even if he's not real, I believe in Jon Moxley.