(Author’s note: Yes, I know, Re-Writing The Book is late. Life gets in the way of writing sometimes, and the past few weeks have been no exception. Next week, I’ll have a huge edition of RTB … I mean the biggest ever. But until next Friday, let this hold you over …)
The argument could be made that there are four different kinds of “star” in the wrestling industry: you got scrubs and curtain-jerkers, like Iron Mike Sharpe and The Gambler. Then, you have your garden variety stars, like Hugh Morrus or Test or Justin Credible; people who are known in the wrestling industry, but are not talked about with any sense of reverence or lacking any kind of special touch. Then, you got STARS, people whose names are spoken with reverence, but might not be known outside the business; people like Arn Anderson, Harley Race, Ricky Steamboat, Rey Misterio. Lastly, you have icons; people who transcend the business, and are totemic, almost untouchable. People like The Undertaker, Sting, Bret Hart, Shawn Michaels.
There is a fifth class, but the rarified air there is only breathed by a very select few. These are people who not only qualify for icon status, but through influence, notoriety, achievements or otherwise, have seen their names elevated to a god-like status, be it good or bad. Kevin Nash, Triple H, Hulk Hogan, Ric Flair, Steve Austin, The Rock …
… and the whole reason this article exists, “The American Dream” Dusty Rhodes.
Like him (there are plenty who do, believe it or not) or hate him (his detractors in the IWC alone could fill a decent-sized sports arena), Dusty Rhodes is one of wrestling’s most recognizable figures, be it for his in-ring achievements, his notorious booking runs with NWA/WCW and his current gig with TNA, the end-of-match booking that has become so synonymous with him that it now bears his name (the “Dusty” finish), or his familiar lisp and unforgettable patois. Whatever your feelings are on him, one thing can be agreed upon; his legacy can’t be ignored. Not when it spans over three decades.
Is this legacy, from his humble beginnings to his NWA Title reigns to his current job as NWA-TNA Director of Authority and chief booker, that is chronicled over 250 or so pages in his new autobiography “Dusty: Reflections Of An American Dream”. With the numerous autobiographies of wrestlers in recent years spanning from the beloved (Mick Foley, Ric Flair) to the peculiar (Hulk Hogan, The Rock) to the downright horrible and totally unnecessary (Chyna), there would seem to be a level of expectation that such a man as Dusty should be able to weave an entertaining book. In fact, with Dusty’s lengthy career, his notorious real-life differences with Vince McMahon and Ric Flair (among others), and what should be an endless library of road tales from the days of territories, one might argue the bar is set too high for anything written by Dusty. So what says I?
The review
I wrestled with myself (get your mind out of the gutter, sickos) in how to format this review. A Good/Bad/Ugly style? Talk about the components (flow, content, entertainment value)? Part of it, I think, is that, like it or not, it’s hard not to read a wrestling biography anymore without holding it up to the template for wrestler autobiographies: Mick Foley’s two books. Had it not been for the surprise success of Have A Nice Day, a lot of wrestler’s books wouldn’t have seen ink; God knows, it’s why the WWE rushed out half-baked tomes like The Rock’s book.
Eventually, I figured out that my review should mimic the format of the book: free-form. Stream of consciousness. That’s the first thing that should be known about this book: it has absolutely no format whatsoever. With Foley, sure, he rambled, but the overall book moved forward along a timeline. Dusty? Timeline? Pshaw! Dusty might as well be a LiveJournal in print form; it’s Dusty’s thoughts, Dusty’s world, in Dusty’s way; it does start with his youth and his high school years, and there is a general attempt at tracing his course through the industry, but very frequently, his course is diverted by his own road stories, or just going off on a tangent, or, on occasion, entire chapters that are devoted to something else. But we’ll get to all that soon enough.
So, anyway, here we are with this 250 page book, a collection of thoughts, memories, stories, reflecti- wait, 250 pages?!? What the hell? I couldn’t believe it when I opened the envelope and saw a book only slightly thicker then an issue TV Guide. For a guy who’s had a 30+ year career, that’s less then 100 pages a decade. Did I get a cliffnotes version of the book? I don’t think so; it would be awfully silly of the publisher to provide me with an incomplete review copy. So, I’m left with the assumption that, for once, Dusty doesn’t have a lot to say … either that, or the book utilizes REALLY small print. A quick check of the print shows, nope, normal size. So, with this disconcerting beginning (I was hoping to see 600 pages or so, honestly), I venture into the thicket of DustyLand.
Humble beginnings? Check; in fact, it turns out Vince wasn’t lying when he said Dusty was the son of a plumber. Stories of dues paying in the business? Oh yeah. Them and road stories are sprinkled in almost every chapter, and there ain’t an old school fan on earth who doesn’t love a hilarious road story (especially when they involve drunk rednecks and/or Terry Funk … and yes, I realize that’s redundant). The occasional comment from family/co-workers/friends? Plenty of that. From Gart Hart to Terry Funk to Jim Ross, Stone Cold Steve Austin, Steve Corino, his kids, his wife, his pastor … everyone’s got something to say about StarDust.
But three things you won’t find in the book? One of them is a lot fo details about the height of his career; his three NWA Titles, his runs against the Horsemen, the Super-Powers tag team, none of that. Sure, he mentioned that he won the NWA Title, but unlike Mick’s book, there is no dissection of the angles and matches, no discussion about the behind the scenes stuff that led to his title victories versus someone else. I found this to be a crushing disappointment (and probably the reason for the book’s brevity); I wanted to read about that stuff, man! Everyone does! The only angle that really gets a lot of discusison (and really, just a couple pages) is the infamous angle with Baby Doll, Tully Blanchard and the envelope of eternal mystery. Dusty keeps fairly tight-lipped about the contents of the envelope, and where that angle was supposed to go, but luckily, Nickla Roberts (Baby Doll) is on hand to spill the beans. But beyond that, if you’re looking for some behind-the-curtain stuff on any of the other angles, you’re barking up the wrong tree, junior.
Another thing you won’t find is apologies. Dusty absolves himself of blame for almost anything he’s ever been accused of, aside from his tiff with his son. The NWA going out of business? That’s entirely on Jim Crockett and the bean counters for over-extending themselves and bankrupting JCP with bad business decisions. Never mind that bad booking that drove people from arenas and their TVs means a loss of money, but that’s beside the point; if they’d just balanced their checkbooks, JCP would’ve survived (that, and if Magnum TA hadn’t had his crash … Dusty is resolute in that being the downfall of JCP). Hey, how about the Dusty Finish (which he misidentified as when a face gets an unseen three-count on a heel because the ref is disposed/KO’ed, only to end up losing)? He had no hand in making it so prevelant that it got named after him. Why would it be so? Could it be for its overuse during his reign as booker? Nope, not in Dusty’s world … in his mind, it just, somehow, occured spontaneously. Like The Big Bang. It’s things like that that undermine Dusty’s credibility when he’s telling tall tales (like how Kip Frey became WCW’s president, a truly unbelievable story if there ever was one … except that WCW was so damned cockamamie, it might’ve really happened); NOBODY could be as above reproach as he is.
But the third thing you won’t find in Dusty: ROAAD is the most surprising, and makes it hard to say a bad word about the book: he flat out declares in it, and sticks to the declaration, that the book contains NO burials of anybody. His lifelong difference of opinion with Ric Flair? Ric Flair’s a great performer, but Dusty wishes Ric could’ve had more confidence in his booking. Hogan? Charismatic performer, helped usher in the “yellow finger” era (don’t ask) we’re currently in. Vince McMahon? A cunning businessman with a knack for promotion and a brilliant mind. For a man who’s had his pecadillos with so many people in the business, seeing Dusty hold back is almost touching, and reinforces a recurring theme in his book about having respect for the business and the people in it. The only time he violates his own edict is for the scourge of WCW’s legacy, Jim Herd, and Dusty rationalizes it by saying he doesn’t count since he wasn’t really in the wrestling business anyway. Damn Pizza Hut executives.
So what will I find in this book, you might be asking? Well, even if you’re not, I’m gonna tell you, so there. Road stories. Lots of road stories. LOTS OF ROAD STORIES. Seriously, it’s a lot of the book. Every chapter, just about, comes back to a road story in some way. It’s amazing how he can link almost everything, like some strange Six Degrees Of Kevin Bacon game, to a road story.
Beyond that, there’s actual biographical chapters (I know, shock of shocks, autobiographical material in a autobiography), which, when he sticks to topic, are an intriguing read. Say what you will about Dusty, but the man knows how to talk, and can spin a yarn damn fine, if it do please ya. And, I suppose for a lark, he also includes some … oh, let’s call it “bonus material”. There’s a chapter where he introduces us to his four kids, a chapter where he tries to show you the reader the sinide of the booking mind by booking “Starrcade Prime”, and a chapter with 10 of his biggest fans writing testimonials about how The American Dream has impacted their lives. The last of those I just mentioned is more then a little self-serving (done in conjunction with his website, so I assume it was a contest of sorts), with tear-jerking soliloquies about Dusty teaching strength and determination and how to be a man, all by merely watching him on Mid-South or CWF back in the day. It’s all a bit much to swallow, but maybe that’s a personal thing; these people obviously saw something they needed in Dusty, so, if it fulfills them, fine. The inclusion of the chapter just reeks of some Barry Horowitz-style back-patting.
We’ve sat through your long-winded crap for long enough, poindexter; what’s your opinion of the book?
I didn’t watch the NWA as a kid. Not by choice, mind you, because, had I the choice, I woulda been NWA all the way. It simply wasn’t available; all I had was Vince’s product. So, mainly, my exposure to Dusty was through the Apter mags and his limited run in the WWE, until I got cable in ’95 and watched Nitro and got to hear his colorful commentary. I don’t have the blood hatred most people in the IWC have for him; my opinion is untainted by history. So, my expectations of the book were pretty big; I was looking for a comprehensive autobiography with plenty of history for both on- and off-screen stuff, road stories, and some dirt on his legendary rows with certain people. In that respect, I was very let down; I came away from this book knowing a lot about Virgil Runnels Jr. THE MAN, but very little about Dusty Rhodes or his stories career. Sure, the target audience might be people who grew up with StarDust. Ya work with what ya got, and what I got is squat. But I still can’t help feeling that, given another 100, 150 pages with some more of wrestling content, this book would go from good to great. Because, honestly, it’s a fun read. I laughed my ass off at some of Dusty’s tales from the road, and was geniunely intrigued by his improbable rise from rookie to 3-time World Champ in an industry where Adonis-bodies and either rough-and-tumble or boy-toy good looks ruled the roost; the story of a somewhat chubby kid with a speech impediment (and a southern drawl to boot) making it big in a business built on looks and talking is kinda cool to read. And despite the fluff of such material as Dusty’s opinions on fellow workers, or his Starrcade Prime card, it’s his way of showing respect for the business and for his fellow performers; a tip of the hat to the living, and a eulogy for the dead. You just have to have the proper expectations about this book; it’s not a thorough dissection of a life like Mick Foley. It’s not (at least, I don’t think it is) a total ret-con snowjob like Hogan’s book. Like I said before, it reads like a Dusty LiveJournal; 17 not-necessarily connected or sequential glimpses (chapters, if you weeeel … sorry, I’ve been waiting to use that) into the mind of Dusty Rhodes. If you can accept that caveat, you will find yourself in the possession of an entertaining book.
Besides, you need to read the donkey story.
I would be remiss if I did not let you know that Dusty: Reflections Of An American Dream is available for $24.95, at your major bookstores, online at Sports Publishing LLC’s website, and by calling (toll-free, cheapskates!) 1-877-424-BOOK (2665).
