pop-culture for the people

It’s been a rough a rough couple of weeks to be a celebrity!  Who’s next?  Tony Danza?  Paris Hilton?  Yolanda Vega?!  Nobody is safe!

First we’ve got David Carradine who was apparently into some seriously kinky kungfuckery.  Turns out it was his own Five Fingers of Death that done him in.  Unless of course you believe the nonsense his family claims he was trying to uncover some deadly undercover kung fu assassins (no I’m not making this shit up!).

Then Ed McMahon (who now rests peacefully in a hermetically sealed mayonnaise jar, never before seen by human eyes, sealed by Funk and Wagnall’s on their porch since noon today) cashed in his oversized price check a few days ago.  Hopefully he’s playing second fiddle to God these days:

Farrah Fawcett, who lets face it, was famous more for her ability to create many an awkward teenage-boy violation-of-personal-privacy when bedroom doors were opened without knocking, than her ability to fight crime.  I can think of worse ways to go but jeeze, anal cancer?  That’s seriously right up there.

Michael Jackson moon walked off stage and was Gone Too Soon.

And to wrap it all up BILLY MAYS died today too.  I get a sneaking suspicion that heaven is fairly squeaky clean (no nead for Orange Glo, OxiClean or Zorbeez) so I hope he finds a hobby for eternity.  If anything I would have thought Vince “Sham Wow” would have slapchopped his way into the hereafter first (rather than slapchopping hookers).  I guess we’ll be seeing fewer of these great parody videos:

I really hope that’s it for now.  A little too much celebrity death for my liking.  May they all rest in peace.

I hear this over and over again: Wrestling is sexist Wrestling is racist Wrestling encourages homophobia. There are protesters, parents’ groups, religious groups, and feminists who would tell you the same things. All would agree that pro-wrestling is morally wrong, but I don’t believe this is entirely true. I believe that it is, in fact, a time-tested gauge for the values of its audience. No, that doesn’t mean that I believe the audience is essentially racist, sexist, or anti-gay. I do believe, however, that fan response to wrestling gimmicks speaks volumes about what levels of sexism, racism, and homophobia will be tolerated by the audience.

Wrestling gimmicks have often pushed the boundaries of what is tolerable by the public, and the public response, more than the gimmicks themselves, reveals the values of the audience. Gimmicks, however crude and demeaning in concept, are all intended to elicit a crowd response. They are aimed at a target, sometimes utterly foul, often striking a chord nonetheless.

Still, there’s no amount of sugar-coating that could excuse some of the following stuff I wish to discuss in this quick and very painful look at wrestling as it relates to racism. Whether you believe that the fans fuel these atrocities or that the writers behind pro-wrestling are or were abhorrently ignorant, these things are utterly terrible. At best, they are in poor taste, and at worst, they make me really ashamed for all mankind (and I don’t mean the guy in the leather mask).

Let’s start with an easy one to stomach. In the mid-80s, there was a character called the Million Dollar Man: Ted Dibiosi. As you might have guessed, the fellow was “rich” and so proceeded to buy his way to success in the world of wrestling by tempting other wrestlers to join his stable, including the late, great Andre The Giant. Dibiosi would challenge kids from the audience to do stupid tasks for money, and he’d always end up screwing them over somehow. All the while, dressed in a tuxedo ripped off from Chippendales, Virgil, his black manservant obeyed Ted’s every command.

For years, we watched poor Virgil kiss Ted’s feet and suffer constant verbal abuse while Ted rubbed money in his face. Now, I’m no sociology major, but I can say with a fair amount of certainty that this character did not serve as a quality role model for African Americans. And there were few, if any, in wrestling at the time. Basically, you could choose from Junkyard Dog, who was part Sanford and part actual dog, or The Birdman KooKoo BeWare, a perpetual loser who dressed up like and danced with a parrot. Virgil’s saving grace may have been that he was the only African American wrestler of the times that did not have an apparent mental disorder or an unhealthy animal fixation. Virgil rebelled from his bonds, but failed to catch on with the fans afterward, since his humiliating beginnings forever marked him as a loser.

Poor Virgil.

Those were sad times, truly, but at least Virgil acted somewhat human. Prior to his time, many wrestlers were portrayed as sub-human, which had more than a little to do with their race. Take, for example, renowned wrestling legend, Abdullah The Butcher who hailed from somewhere in the jungles of Africa (according to ring announcers). His “gimmick” was to be as untamed as possible, scaring crowds by biting his opponents and actually drawing blood. People were shocked and amazed, and yet something about it (besides brutality) must have been appealing to audiences.

Years and years later, the same type of gimmick was tried, this time with a more comedic twist. His name was Camala, the Ugandan Giant. He was also from the deepest, darkest jungles of Africa. Led to the ring by his “handler” Kimchee, Camala would crush other wrestlers, but often get confused and neglect to pin his opponent’s shoulders to the mat. This would prompt Kimchee to threaten poor Camala with beatings. I don’t think I even need to mention that Kimchee had a big white mask or that several years later, Camala would rebel against his master. It was yet another master-slave relationship, which seemed to be a prevalent theme in wrestling. Very seldom did a non-white wrestler enter into the public eye without first appearing subservient and/or under-developed.

Some were lucky enough to enter the fold with managers at their side. Managers, if not abusive, were often even worse stereotypes than the wrestlers they escorted to the ring. The most horrid example is the Reverend Slick, a jive-talking preacher man who ran his stable of wrestlers like a cracked-out pimp pushing his hos. Slick wasn’t mean or demeaning, but any question about whether or not his gimmick was racist should be put to rest by his music video for a song entitled “Jive Soul Bro” recorded for the second WWF album. The Doctor of Soul’s lips are seen in extreme closeup as he wolfs down a bucket of fried chicken. I remember as a kid I didn’t quite understand what was wrong with Slick or why he seemed to act so stupid or why the giant guys in his wrestling stable didn’t just break him in half and go solo. Now, looking back, it’s a wonder that between 80’s wrestling and my having gone to an almost entirely white school in the backwoods country of upstate New York, I don’t have the prevailing opinion that all black people are crazy pimps or rabid bushmen.

I can’t even begin to explain some gimmicks. Akeem The African Dream, a fat white guy, was some kind of parody of something or other. I know I’m supposed to be talking about the sociological implications of what I’ve seen, but when I close my eyes and see Akeem, that colorfully-clothed bearded monstrosity, I lose all semblance of coherent thought. I’ve been searching for a metaphor to describe the experience and the best I could come up with is being forced to eat an uncut Spam and Avocado roll. It’s too big and it’s just too damned wrong.

There’s a happy ending to this story, though. A few short years down the road, social progress caught up to wrestling. Years after black athletes began demanding respect, wrestling responded the way they usually do to real life conflict. They exploited it for ratings. A new group of wrestlers calling themselves The Nation of Domination were a hated group of evil black supremacists who vowed to beat the hell out of anyone who stood in their way.

What’s interesting about this group is how it fit in with a new and surprising trend in wrestling’s brief 90’s return to popularity. While wrestling had long relied on an easily definable line between good and evil, these new factions of wrestlers were appealing to select groups. They were booed by some crowds and applauded by others. The Nation was one of the first wrestling groups to divide the fan base and successfully drive intriguing conflict. Out of this new conflict-based, uncertain climate, fans discovered a more exciting product, the perfect backdrop for exciting talents to elicit mass hatred and appeal. And thus, the Rock, now known worldwide to wrestling fans and non-fans, eventually emerged from The Nation to become an international success. Something that would have never happened for poor Virgil, Camala, or the Junkyard Dog. When tolerance increases in America, expect wrestling to catch up at least two to three years later.

Wrestling continues to rely on racial tension to make for interesting gimmicks and storylines, and the sensitivity level waxes and wanes, but overall, things have progressed in a good direction. There may be periodic lapses in taste, and these are either checked by a lukewarm crowd response or reinforced by the fans who ultimately have the say in what is and is not acceptable. Currently, WWE is trying a gimmick in which evil Arab-American wrestlers are yelling at the crowd telling them they refuse to be stereotyped and profiled by ignorant Americans. By the taking this real conflict and choosing to tweak it in a way that portrays the Arabs (the only Arabs on the show) as enraged hate-mongers, wrestling has once again tried to exploit real fears and play upon the strengths of widely held stereotypes to evoke mass hatred for their villains. And it works. It has always worked. And that’s why it will continue to be done.

As long as there’s real hatred to feed the fake conflict, the conflict will often take these absurd shapes complete with appalling exaggerations. That’s what wrestling characters are, essentially: exaggerations -  larger-than-life creations used to pit the core values of the audience against the objects of its hatred and fear.

Until crowds find the gimmicks themselves offensive, you can bet that whatever race is currently getting the short end of the stick in America will be twisted into wrestling’s newest distasteful comedic character, or irresponsibly villified stereotype.

I love beer and pro-wrestling. What can I say? I tried getting behind heros like Walt Whitman and William Wordsworth, but really, can those guys do a rolling German suplex? I doubt it! Samuel Taylour Coleridge on all the laudanum in England couldn’t take as many chair-shots to the face as Mick Foley. I understand that it’s apples and oranges, but I am not willing to label pro-wrestling as a right-brain-only pleasure. In fact, a study of pro-wrestling gimmicks yields a wealth of information on what it takes to engage a live audience.

For example, American foreign policy has had a tremendous effect on pro-wrestling throughout the years. Anti-French, anti-Japanese, and anti-Saddam sentiment have all fanned the flames of wrestling’s feuds. The greatest example of this was when whole World Wrestling Federation pay-per-view events were staged in conjunction with US operation in Iraq.
Way back in time, when Sgt. Slaughter turn, not only against his pal Hulk Hogan, the “Real American”, but against America, itself. Sgt. Slaughter became a member of Saddam Hussein’s Iraqi army and vowed to vanquish the USA by taking out their number one wrestler, the Hulkster.

The story was basic: good vs. evil, Hulk vs. Slaughter, US vs. Iraq. This particular storyline was probably the most well-known use of the USA vs. “Insert Foreign People We’re Supposed to Hate Here” model. However, it was far from a new idea. Nationalistic characters stretched back to the beginnings of pro-wrestling. None of this is surprising, but once fans started to tire of pro-USA characters, things got really interesting.

All-American characters had just about run their course by the late 80s. Hacksaw Jim Duggan was known for shouting “Hi-O!”, carrying a 2x4, and waving old glory. For some reason, people got tired of all three. Being just Pro-America wasn’t enough, there always needed to be a bad guy. When the Cold War was on an even simmer, the WWF included such fun Russian stereotypes as Nicoli Volkoff and Boris Zukof. Nicoli was especially hated for requesting to sing the Russian national anthem before his matches. As the Cold War faded, so did the characters.
Less successful attempts to piggie-back on nationalism include, Finland’s Ludvig Borga who claimed America was environmentally irresponsible. Thus, he vowed to break America in half by giving back-breakers to American wrestlers like Kerry Von Erik, the Texas Tornado. The iron wasn’t even remotely hot. Fans didn’t care enough about Finland or the environment to flock to areas to see a foreign environmentalist get his comeuppance.

Kurt Angle, Olympic gold medalist, was one of the strangest and most successful characters in pro-wrestling. Angle started out in a time when being Pro-America was officially played out and hokey. The 90’s were edgier times, and with the whole Clinton-Monica witchhunt, there wasn’t a lot of energy to be captured from waving the flag at a crowd. People were sick of American icons, and perhaps, a little sick of America. Angle touted his three I’s, Intesity, Integrity, and Inteligence baring obvious likeness to Hulk Hogan’s Training, Saying Prayers, and Eating Your Vitamins. Arrogant and preachy, Angle was the perfect heel character to enrage teens who were sick of authority figures. People loved to hate Angle, who boasted being an American Hero. The juicy fan-hatred was locked in by the searing fact that before “turning pro” Kurt Angle actually did win Olympic gold.

Of course, things changed, and nationalism had its return, not surprisingly because of another Bush and another Iraqi war. No matter what your view on the second Iraq conflict and the scapegoating of the French, it’s impossible to overlook the widespread hatred that engulfed of the country. World Wrestling Entertainment was quick to release three French stereotypes whose ticket to a hearty ass-whoopin’ was their questioning of American foreign policy. Facing off against these folks, any wrestler could appear an American hero just by showing up to the ring with an American flag. Hulk Hogan even came back to WWE television under the guise of Mr. America, a masked hero dressed in red, white, and blue.

As public support for the Iraq conflict got more uncertain, WWE unveiled a new character, John Bradshaw Leifield, the American Success Story. Wearing a ten-gallon hat, driving to the wrestling ring in a limo with bull horns on the hood, Bradshaw calls to mind a smarmy Texas billionaire who’s lost touch with his good ol’ boy roots. Bradshaw’s cowboy exterior houses nothing more than a billionaire bully. And no one wants to listen a rich man talk about being successful in America. Though this character is kind of teetering on the edge of failure, it’s not hard to identify the hot-bed of anger it’s trying to tap into. While he may not be a direct take off president Bush, he embodies certain the qualities that Americans hate about other Americans and perhaps, even their own president.

This stuff always fascinates me, not because of the ways in which the industry capitalizes on national sentiments, but because the audience ultimately decides how they will respond. It’s like audience participation allegory with all the social pertinence you could ask for an art medium. Throw in the amazing and sometimes freakish athleticism, and you’ve got yourself one hell of a good time. That’s if, of course, the majority rules crowd-pleasing has pushed below humorously distasteful into being downright offensive. The best part is that pro-wrestling has crossed the line, will cross the line, and in fact, doesn’t understand the concept of the line, and so they will always be forgiven by true fans who really just want to see one guy beat the hell out of another guy and be reasonably sure no one gets killed. Wrestling can be just as challenging as good literature, and yeah sometimes, it does get hard to sit through.