Fingers greasy with chicken wings, and cheap beer burrowing a hole in my throat, I hunkered down one fine Thursday evening to experience the phenomena that, for the last 20-odd years has boasted millions of fans, several lines of dolls, and corny catch phrases that linger longer than recovering alcoholics around a coffee urn. Not too long ago, I looked down my nose at wrestling and fans of it. Sure, my little brother watched it when we were kids, and I vaguely remember both the Saturday Morning Cartoon and those Cyndi Lauper videos with Captain Lou Albano, but I have long associated the world of wrestling with balding Klan members in big pickup trucks, swigging Natty Lite and beating their pregnant girlfriends. But they are only a small percentage of the wrasslequation. I have it on good authority that there is much more to the WWE phenom than I and my elitist friends had thought, and that if one were to objectively observe this absurd form of entertainment, one would find a deeply intelligent sociological summary of the United States today.

Tonight, I will view something called “Smackdown,” which is apparently the Thursday night “league” of WWF. Tonight’s episode, sandwiched between ads for penile enlargement pills and used cars (apparently, beer ads are too high-falootin’ for UPN), is a continuation – much in the style of a soap opera – of previous episodes. As in the Bible, Star Wars and The Iliad, there are bad guys and good guys whose evils or virtues are made as black and white as is necessary to properly instruct the largely diploma-challenged audience when to cheer and when to jeer. They are, in effect, like baited animals, snapping and leaping at the raw meat paraded out before them.  This mostly white and unruly audience is as much a part of the production as the wrestlers are.  It’s basically “Jerry Springer” with commentary and a light show.

After a special effects-laden intro that recaps last week’s plot points, the voice over teases the viewer with the highlight match of the evening (which is of course always saved for last), part of an ongoing battle for the title of The Undisputed Champion. This fight will be between Kurt Angle and Brock Lesner, two guys I couldn’t tell apart on the street, from their ghoul-faced square heads to their distinct lack of necks.

image The stage is engulfed in a strobing laser-light show that makes that time I spent in Vegas on acid look like a trip through a CAT scan.  Music wails throughout the auditorium and competes with screams and cheers and whistles from poster-waving fans.

Enter the first wrestlers of the evening, through a cloud of dense fog – the banner of any good dramatic entrance: Rey Misterio, who looks like he sewed his costume out of Christmas wrapping paper, wears a mask over his whole head and does a lot of backflips.  Billy Kidman looks like George of the Jungle and runs into the turnbuckles a lot. His pained grimacing and grasping desperately at the air for his partner to tag him out would be heartbreaking if not for the melange of flying and leaping to distract me. They fight two red, white and blue-clad fellows known only as Team Angle. These two form a sort of multiracial trapeze set for Rey Misterio to swing and flip all over. THERE IS A REMARKABLE AMOUNT OF GUYS’ FACES IN GUYS’ CROTCHES FOR A SUPPOSEDLY MASCULINE SPORT. They also remind me a lot of those people I hated in high school who were the captains of the volleyball team and got 4.3 GPAs. Much to my amusement, I found that my disdain for these two (saved from Ubermensch/Aryan Race associations by the inclusion of one African-American) was shared by an audience far too earthy and hapless to appreciate the narcissism of perfection. The evil nameless duo, however, pummel Rey and Kidman, who proceed to kick the ropes sulkily and hold their sides while the audience denounces the grossly egomaniacal victors with cries of “U Suck!”

“To the beat of the music!”  my wrassle-guide Hazzard proudly points out.

image There is some subplot involving two women whose sole purpose seems to be to fill in the missing Boob Factor in the lives of wrestling fans everywhere. I use this embarrassing attempt at titillating drama to denounce fake breasts and tanning salons, as well as assuring myself that these women have no real future and will probably end up stripping outside of Vegas somewhere.

Rikishi, who boasts both the largest ass ever seen on a man, and a skirt, is Samoan and therefore not at all to be blamed for his sizeable rump.  In fact, he seems rather proud of it. Judging from the fans’ posters of crudely drawn asses, I ascertain that this is in fact his super-power, and feel better about my own formidable derriere because of it.  Chuck Palumbo,  whose M.O. is ….  being Italian, enters with leather-jacketed mob goons and his banana safely secured in a black vinyl hammock. They are called FBI – Full Blooded Italian. I wonder if they had to do background checks on these guys to declare such a thing. Nobody is full-blooded anything in this country, and I feel that perhaps the accuracy of WWE’s reflection of American society may have its flaw here. But then, perhaps that is why no one likes FBI …. They are full of shit.  There will be no cool flying moves in this match, however – I doubt Rikishi could catch air jumping out of a plane. WWE should consider making a tag team out of Rikishi and his ass.  Hell, they should just have his ass cheeks wrestle each other.

Suddenly, these Mexicans called Los Guerreros jump in on the action, “because they hate Italians,” says Hazzard. “Like in West Side Story?” I ask. “Those were Puerto Ricans and Irish, I think,” he says. “Whatever. It was gay.” I shrug.

No one seems to care it wasn’t their turn to fight.  It’s nice to see Affirmative Action alive and well in wrestling.

image Interspersed between matches is a heartwarming pep talk in the locker room between tag team wrestlers, Australian ex-convict Nathan Jones and his partner The Undertaker, as they tease viewers with talk of the big match on Pay-Per-View. I actually think Jones may cry when he laments about being in solitary…..where he learned to appreciate the “quiet” and “solitude.” Undertaker gives him the verbal equivalent of playful chuck under the chin: “Buck up, lil’ guy! We’re gonna kick some ass….”  Clearly, the WWE’s view on prison terms is a liberal one, which is fitting, since most of their audience has spent half their lives behind bars. Or should.

image They go out to watch their future Pay-Per-View opponents fight, to study their moves. This would be an impressive and almost academic commitment to excellence if it weren’t for the fact that their opponents’ only “moves” seem to be grunting and lumbering. This would be the team of Big Train and A-Show – or vice versa -  it really doesn’t matter because both are fat and hairy and mean-looking.  One fellow looks like he fell asleep in the sun with chocolate bars on his back. They are fighting two svelte Japanese guys who amuse the whites with their heavy accents and karate-chops.  They are Tijiri, who is famous for kicking people in the face really hard, and Funaki, which I think I ordered at sushi last weekend. Like planes circling Kong’s mighty head, they slap and kick and run around while A-Train flails around and pounds them. Godzilla also comes to mind, though I’d rather sleep with Godzilla than A-Train or Big Show. But the futility of the fight is what bothers me until Hazzard explains that the audience favors those who take on challenges they can’t possibly win. This makes sense when, in all great literature, man has been pitted against a seemingly unconquerable force. We love the underdog, the brave and perhaps slightly stupid individual who trudges against the odds towards some elevated state of being that we all aspire to. The audience hoots and yells for the acrobatic Nihons to win a fight they know damned well they are supposed to lose. And in doing so, they are coming to terms with the inevitability of their own failures.  Or something.

The aftermath is sad though not at all surprising, two squashed Japanese guys at the very fat and hairy feet of A-Train and Big Show, who barely have the agility to look proud.

There’s a little shit-talk intermission here from some Vanilla Ice wannabe whose only superpower seems to be his ability to rhyme “ornament” with “masturbation tournament.”

image To determine the #1 contenders for Tag Team Wrestling, enter again (and this time legitimately) The Guerreros, who,  like the Japanese duo,  don’t mind subjugating themselves to a set of Anglo-imposed characteristics – in this case as sleazy Latino criminals. Fans hold up pictures of them proudly displaying greasy mullets, and they enter to a raucous song entitled “Lie, Cheat and Steal.”  The ethnically harmonious environment created by WWE is just as easily and frequently dismantled by hilarious and practically immoral stereotyping.  However, the image imposed on The Guerreros is not nearly as humiliating as the image unintentionally projected by their “Good Guy” opponents, Chris Benoit and Rhyno. Benoit is like a short, angry dog. It looks like someone stole his shins. Rhyno is greasy and big and crazy.  All in all this match ends up being pretty boring. Headlocks.  Lots of headlocks. A headlock that never seems to end. Lots of grimacing and staring. Rhyno running into people with his head. Hence, the name. Thankfully, Team Angle interfered and put both teams out of our misery. Then some chick who has more money poured into her boobs and face than Fort Knox announced that Team Angle, as punishment for interfering, has to fight both teams at Wrestlemania. Team Angle pissed and moaned like seven year-olds, which is a bad-guy thing to do. Hell, it’s a guy-guy thing to do.

image Now for the most important sub-plot of the evening: The Feud that’s been 20 years in the making, between WWE show pony Hulk Hogan and its slime-suited owner. There’s a nice, long video montage celebrating 2 decades of Hulkamania, whose origins even I remember. All-American, touching music plays over scenes from our childhood: Hulk whooping ass, taunting other wrestlers, tearing off his shirt – hundreds of shirts – before ecstatic throngs. The shreds of yellow and red cotton falling to the floor, like his relationship with Vince McMahon.

Vince McMahon – if skin cancer had a face that would be it. After the touching retrospective, a soliloquy deeply rooted in histrionics is delivered by McMahon in which he denounces Hulk’s alleged betrayal and general disgustingness.  Jesus, how melodramatic. I half expected him to say “Et tu Brute?” and break down in tears. The audience isn’t buying it, however. They boo like it’s going out of style and it’s terribly obvious they’re being led by the nose to that match.

Which will only cost around $35 to watch.

Carrot. Horse. Pay-Per-View.

image

Now for the little guys: Matt Hardy v1.0,  whose modus operandi is Being Software, challenges “any cruiser weight” person to come fight him. A side note: Hazzard giggles like a little girl when the weekly Matt Fact comes popping up on the screen, cleverly made to look like a website.  Today its something like “Matt doesn’t like orange juice with pulp.” Good to know. Hazz tells me Matt used to be “a little bit tubby” but has lost weight to make it into the Cruiser Weight class. I can see the reminiscent fatness bulging out of his angry, psycho face. Or maybe it’s just his immense Mattitude.

Yes, it’s a word.

Some bloke in a penguin mask and pajama bottoms comes out and proclaims himself the Pittsburgh Penguin (the match is held in Pittsburgh tonight). Obviously the audience is screaming in support of the flightless bird, since it represents their sorry-ass town for the night.  The penguin’s nose looks phallic – did I already mention the homoeroticism prevalent in this sport?  This Matt v1.0 fellow is a dirty cheater. After a jerktastic ass-whooping, Birdboy is humiliated and then unmasked – surprise! It’s that dorky blonde lad who had a suspiciously pointless scene earlier in the evening in which he flirted with the skanky Stephanie McMahon (daughter of Skin Cancer).  I knew we’d see him again; this plot is about as predictable as my dog’s reaction to bacon.  Suddenly, the unmasked upstart can wrestle pretty good. He bounces around the ring like a coked-up juggernaut and actually gives Matt a run for his money. Literally! Matt takes off running out of the ring! I point, “Hey, where’s he going?” Hazzard says he is bolting to avoid a humiliating defeat.

So much for going down in a blaze of glory. But then, that’s why he’s the “bad guy.” Apparently, wussing out is not on the American Agenda.

I take a moment to reflect on the Bush Administration.

image In my reflection, I doze off and miss a thrilling fight between Kurt Angle and Brock Lesner, who are competing for the title at Wrestlemania (see Carrot). Something about Angle using a body-double … despite this blatant cheatery, Brock manages to get the upper hand. But before he can deliver a proper beating, Angle takes off running. What the hell is this? I’ve seen better sportsmanship at a cockfight.

And then – just as quickly as it began - the carnage, the drama, the tears - it was over. “What, no denouement??” I shouted, hurling my chicken bone at the screen. Nothing was resolved, nothing wrapped up into a nice little package with a theme and an understanding that we’ll all come away better people for having watched. No. Just a warning to tune in again next Thursday, or risk missing the BEST most EXCITING Smackdown EVER.

Oh! The Bastards!
Oh, the Geniuses.

But I learned something terribly important tonight – about America. About people. About the qualities of humanity that we value and those we disdain. About blood, sweat, and tears. I admire – I have to say it – I admire the acting abilities of these lugs. After even 12 years of acting experience, I would take one look into the eyes of Kurt Angle delivering some exorbitant monologue about pummeling me, two inches from my face, and laugh my goddamned ass off right there on live TV.  And after two years of stage combat training, I understand how much skill it takes to make something look that real with little more editing than a cut-away. Yes, I understand why WWE has survived these last two decades, where Garbage Pail Kid cards, Atari and Duran Duran have not. Because it’s our blood being pumped up there on screen with Herculean shows of effort and attitude. They’ve got their finger on our collective pulse, America. They have our number. And all I have to say is, Whatcha gonna do, Brother, when it’s time to say good-bye to the last bastion of true and ugly human behaviour on television?

Oh, yes. Reality TV shows.

image
For More Information consult wwe.com.