The Titans of Turquoise
Craig, Barry and I were all high school wrestlers. Craig, however, was more accomplished in athletics than Barry and I. While we both placed third in the state competition, Craig was twice champion. So, it should come as no surprise that over the years Barry has developed a fondness for the World Wrestling Federation. I am confident he knows the matches are staged and the wrestlers nothing more than actors on steroids, but he does not seem to care.
|Steve @ Twin Rocks|
In his library are priceless collections of Hulk Hogan, Andre the Giant, The Sheik and Sensational Sherri memorabilia. You can imagine the celebration Barry held when Jesse Ventura was elected governor of Minnesota. He had a heavyweight hangover for months.
Navajo baskets and rugs aside, if eBay had a special category for WWF high rollers, Barry would be a charter member. When Big Show and Hornswoggle are “wrestling”, we always know right where to find him. It is a sure bet he will be in his Barcalounger with his feet up, an extra large bag of low fat pork rinds and a super-size jug of diet root beer close at hand. Barry explains that he has long since given up the hard stuff (Pepsi), because it was either that or start wearing sweatpants.
Having recently turned 56, however, I was confident our wrestling days were over. As a result, Barry’s latest proposition caught me off guard. When he showed up at the trading post in Sleeping Beauty blue tights, a red coral muscle shirt, Bruce Eckhardt variscite beads, a squash blossom necklace and more turquoise and silver bracelets than I could count, I knew something was up.
“I have it”, he said, “you and I are going to be the next WWF tag team champions. If the Valiant Brothers and the Wild Samoans did it, why can’t we? We’ll go all the way! Oh, not to bruise your ego or anything, I initially wanted Craig as my partner, but he won’t fit into the rig. Here, put this on!” Boy, was I amazed when he held up what looked like a miniature Speedo swimsuit, lace-up wrestling boots and nothing more. “They’re Morenci blue,” he said. “We’ll be the Titans of Turquoise. Twin Rocks Trading Post can be our sponsor, maybe Polygamy Porter too. You know, the Utah connection.” He was obviously rambling.
Staring at that g-string thing, and beginning to feel faint, I remembered the first time our friend Karen Tweedy-Holmes suggested we take a family photograph, in the nude. “Jana will never let me go out in that thing,” I protested. “ And what will Kira and Grange say?” “Come on,” he said. “Just think, once we win the championship, we can maul all those guys who have ever challenged us for dominance of the turquoise business. “Tony Cotner, The Duke of Damale; Ernie Montoya, The Count of Carico Lake; and even Dean and Danny Otteson, The Royston Royals, they don’t stand a chance.”
Taking into account our mutually protruding stomachs, saggy butts and receding hairlines, the only consolation I could imagine was that Barry was not promoting a syringe full of muscle making magic. As he stood there holding the costume, my mind began to race uncontrollably, “The Titans of Turquoise, The Titans of Turquoise . . . THE TITANS OF TURQUOISE!” I had to admit, it has a certain ring, and I do need to get back into shape. “Okay,” I blurted out, “I’m in, but I want matching suits and equal access to jewelry. No bikinis for me.”
In 1938 Harry Goulding packed up his wife “Mike” and drove west to see legendary filmmaker John Ford about making movies in Monument Valley. When Harry threatened to camp out in Ford’s office until he got an interview, Ford finally gave in and agreed to a meeting. The rest, as they say, is history. With that in mind, I have dispatched Barry to see Pini Zahavi, the great sports agent. I packed Barry a large picnic basket full of chips, salsa and soda; gave him a history lesson and a blowup sleeping mat (the blowup doll stayed at home) and instructed him not to come home without a contract.
As Barry always says, “If you do, you can.” I have never been sure what that means, but I am confident we can do. In preparation for our debut, yesterday I lifted two 20 pound sacks of Blue Bird flour and jogged next door to Twin Rocks Cafe for a mug of coffee. I can already feel the burn. Surely it won’t be long before Bluff is known as the home of the terrible, the tumultuous, the tremendous Titans of Turquoise. Look out Big Show and Chris Jerico, here . . . come . . . the . . . Titans.
With warm regards Steve Simpson and the team;
Barry, Priscilla and Danny.