Luchas Libres remind me of the advice I got on my first roller coaster ride: “You have to scream the whole time. It’s only fun if you scream.”
The simplicity and certainty of the game was precisely what I needed. Who was I to refuse the guarantee of a certain reality?
When your youth is marked so clearly, by a crisp sailor collar and the deep pleats of your skirt, everyone feels like they deserve a piece of it, of you.
For my generation of fans, Naito embodies our time and our struggles. The closest thing he has to a superpower is survival.
Guy Fieri allowed me to ask: who do I fear noise and brightness for? Who do I fear food for? And he gave me the answer: I fear it for myself.
Wrestling never stops, so I couldn’t stop, and thus I am still here.
The violence of the moment, conveyed in shades of melancholy purple, is bleak even for a cartoon. But it’s also honest.
“Manson’s magical proximity to massacres of gun violence is, we know, not magical. His practice is prismatic, his lyrics a sieve.”
As an autistic child, I scrambled to figure out when my passions became too overbearing, too ‘me’ for other people.