I just recently put the finishing touches on the text for my upcoming book, "Tuesday Night At The Gardens--Pro Wrestling in Louisville", and was ready to hand it off to my coauthor Mark James for the prodigious task of adding the hundreds of illustrations, when I realized it was missing something.
"In my mind I'm goin' to Carolina,
Can't you see the sunshine,
Can't you feel the moonshine,
Ain't it just like a friend of mine
to hit me from behind,
Yes, I'm goin' to Carolina in my mind"
That philosophy was drummed into my head by veterans from my first weeks as a rookie manager. Of course, back then it had very different implications. In the simpler times of the Seventies and Eighties, it meant that if the wrestlers got a great rate at a nice hotel, somebody would end up trashing the place and ruin it for everybody. Or if they found a fan who ran a restaurant, and you could eat free if you tipped the server, somebody would stiff the server. Or if a promoter agreed to ease up on some draconian rule the talent had to follow, within weeks some fuckup would abuse that so bad it would go back in place even stronger. Part of life's aggravations, sure, but nothing lifechanging.