Suspension of Disbelief: That’s All For Paul (Paul Bearer, The Undertaker, Hulk Hogan, WWE)

Columns, Top Story

Before I get started…

My left ear has been ringing constantly since last Sunday. It’s stuffy. It’s annoying. It’s not getting better. I’m hoping it doesn’t get worse, and to aid that I have a doctor appointment tomorrow morning at eleven. Hopefully they’ll be able to fix this thing because it’s kind of scary.

Also, I’ve got a belly full of pay day chicken wings and I’m settling in for a quiet night here at The Castle O’ Rey. My father (henceforth known as “Papa”) and my dog, F.R.E.D. (which stands for Fabulous Rico the Educated Doggie), are around doing their doings, and I’ve decided to put m’writer hat on.

Overall, I’m in good spirits. Work was good. Friends are good. Family is good. I’m hopelessly in the Friend Zone with virtually every girl I know, but I did have a dream about Jennifer Lawrence the other night where we cuddled and acted all boyfriend and girlfriend-like, so I’m counting that.

(yes, i’m even a hopeless romantic in my dreams.)

Anyway, since I’ve gotten into the habit of plugging a couple of my social media outfits, I’ll remind you that you can follow me on twitter and instagram by hunting down @ElKatook. I’m a giant mush, a big dork, and probably a little more racist than I would care to admit. At the very least I am not boring.

All right, enough of that.

Suspension of Disbelief begins… Now!

I remember the debut of The Undertaker.

He walked in as Kane The Undertaker, the Million Dollar Man’s secret weapon at Survivor Series… Mmm… 1990? He beat the crap out of everybody, you couldn’t hurt him, and even though I remembered him from NWA/WCW as “Mean Mark Callous,” I fully accepted that he was ghoul that was impervious to pain.

Yep, I bought into The Undertaker. I remember him being managed by Brother Love, and I remember being petrified that one day he would fight Hulk Hogan. The Hulkster was my hero and even though I loved the guy, you just plain couldn’t hurt The Undertaker, nobody could. Eventually I was proven right. Hulk Hogan lost to The Undertaker and that was that.

In a way, it’s how I feel about my Knicks this year and the probable showdown with the Miami Heat. My Knicks are the Hulkster. The Undertaker is LeBron James. Damn it all.

Anyway, sometime around there, an odd looking man named Paul Bearer began managing ‘Taker. He spoke in a high pitched, warbling voice, and the rotund spectre always correctly prognosticated (“Not in here, pal. This is a mercedes!”) a victory by The Dead Man.

I dug Paul Bearer enough, did the same bad impression everyone else did of him. I remember thinking, “Gosh, he sure is fat,” but never thought that one day that weight and the lifestyle that lead to it would cause his demise. Paul, aka William Moody, is gone now. He’s gone forever, lost to the ether. If there’s an afterlife, I hope he’s in the good one with the rest of the wrestlers that were gone before their average lifespan was met.

(“Macho! You and Perfect are working a 30 minute Broadway. Owen! You and the Bulldog are teaming up against J.Y.D. and Andre. Eddie! You’ve drawn Test. Make him look good out there.”)

The thing is…

Lately I’ve been thinking about death quite a bit. I’ve thought about my death, the passing of loved ones, the losses other people have suffered and my observations on their new life without the person they no longer have in corporeal form.

I thought about the musicians and actors I miss. I miss Biggie Smalls quite a bit. I miss Michael Clarke Duncan quite a bit now that I’m reading “The Green Mile.”

I thought about how my friend Briana has coped with the loss of her cousin. He was in the army and he lost his life over in Afghanistan back in 2004. It was this month, around the 17th or 18th, I believe. I met the guy but we were never friends — our last interaction came when our respective groups didn’t really mesh, even though we are all good now. I think about how a couple of years ago Briana decided to commemorate the anniversary of her cousin’s passing by celebrating his life rather than mourning his passing. She would post a different memory every day as a Facebook status and I know it made her happy to recall those happy times.

I thought about her celebrating her cousin. I thought about how for years, on March 9th, I would play The Notorious B.I.G.’s catalog from his earliest music to his recordings just before his died. I noted that even though I was taking the journey and reliving those moments — “Juicy,” “Big Poppa,” “One More Chance,” all the way until “Hypnotize,” they all had the same conclusion — that sudden stop at the end where there was no more Biggie.

We reached the end, just like Bree reached the end. All the happy memories lead to the most difficult memory she has. All of that reminiscing and music lead to the end — a sad end.

***

So now we mourn William “Percy Pringle/Paul Bearer” Moody.

We recall his moments in the spotlight, whether as the ghoulish go-fer of the gothic grappler Mark, or the matronly man managing Mankind, or the conniving cryptkeeper co-opting controlled chaos Kane.

(Alliteration! GET SOME!)

We will have the image of him by the side of the formerly heart-punching man “Mean Mark.” We have the image of him holding the urn. We have his high pitched warbling voice. We have the endearing knowledge that his affectionate nickname for Mick Foley was “Mommy.” We have his last few appearances as the father of Kane and being a good sport by letting Edge torture him to further his feud with The Big Red Machine.

We have these memories, and these well-wishes for him to be in the better place I think all of us hope (some more vocally than others) is out there.

We have these powerful feelings for the lives and legacies of those who have entertained us, enlightened us, inspired us. The people who we grew up with, who we learned with, who we ran to for counsel and consolation. We let the emotions and the feelings overtake us, and the veil gets lifted just a bit, and we see the finite and the? infinite together, ultimately powerless to coerce or cajole either.

We get to live on and tell the stories of these men and women who came into our lives through our televisions.

We get to live on and tell the stories of these men and women who helped us live out those moments in our backyards with us as children with imaginations running wild or as teens emulating our sports and sports entertainment heroes.

We say goodbye and Rest in Peace and hope that we will get the opportunity to live our lives in ways that honor the fallen.

Mr. Moody, your passing has stirred up an appreciation for what I’ve had and what I have. For that alone I thank you, but for tonight I also thank you for inspiring me to take a closer look at the veil between our world and yours.

Now while I do that, you stand by the curtain. You cut your promo introducing Macho in 60 seconds.

This has been Suspension of Disbelief.

Rey Mundo hopes the doctor can fix his ear.