Wading in the Velvet Sea

I had loved pro wrestling growing up---ordered Wrestlemanias, watched every Saturday morning, the works. Loved Hogan, hated Rowdy Roddy Piper, thought the Junkyard Dog rocked. Had no idea it was fake…hell, I was 11, I was just getting over the fact that Santa didn’t exist. I didn’t wanna believe Superfly Snuka’s fights were fixed.

The low-budget wrestling I knew was long gone when I tuned back in this year. Pyro, club lighting, huge production values, and some seriously athletic guys doing some sick things to their bodies. Yes, it’s ‘fake’ in as much as it’s ‘fixed’, but really, I don’t want to have a 7’ guy slap me as hard as he can against the chest anytime soon. And you can’t convince me that throwing your body off a 15’ ladder through a table doesn’t utterly hurt. Now, you can talk all you watch about how it’s gratuitous violence, how it appeals to the lowest common denominator, that anyone who enjoys this is sick, but let me reiterate---the guy went through a frickin' table after falling fifteen feet off of a ladder.

These guys, in addition, could by and large actually act, inasmuch as they have to for the storylines involved. No one ever spoke when I grew up---most fights were 3 minute fests where the superstar would beat the living snot out of some guy who worked the night shift at Blimpie when he wasn’t getting schmucked by Tito Santana. The shows were structured round mutli-month storylines which were advanced each show.

Plus, every once in a while they wrestled. Hey, give women their Lifetime Movie of the Week, gimmee RAW and Smackdown!

So when I had a chance to see it when it came to Boston last night, I jumped at the chance, not only because I was really curious to see how they pull off a 2 hour live TV show every week (seriously, it’s a techie’s dream to examine the rig for this show) and also to be surrounded by a mix of people that I knew would keep me entertained even if the wrestling didn’t.

I’ll spare you most of the details about the wrestling itself, most of you could care less and that’s all good.

The show started off with a few ‘dark matches’, which are the guys who have replaced the old-school Blimpie boys. The crowd could have cared less. At this point it’s all about people watching---the guy in the Hogan regalia, people dressed as their favorite wrestlers. Far be it for me to dump on anyone’s passion, but when you see a 13 year old boy who weighs about 300 pounds dressed up as The Hurricane, well, you just feel bad, man.

The announcers came out a few minutes before the show went live. Jim Ross has one of the best announcer voices ever. The guy is unfailingly quotable. The Sports Guy constantly references him, with good reason. The problem, is, of course, that none of you probably know what he sounds like. OK, there was a point in this paragraph, but I obviously just lost it. Pretend this never happened.

The show proper went live at 9, so some completely insane pyrotechnics. I was a good 100 yards from the entrance stage and I could feel the heat. Crowd was insanely into the first match (after 3 not so great ones), with 2 Samoans as the heels (bad guys) versus a 300 pounder and a guy who’s specialty is to throw his body into as many things as possible and make you wonder how he hasn’t died yet.

We get a short woman’s match, which was ended when one woman threw the only headfirst into the steel stage. Having seen how piss-poor some of the dark wrestlers were, it makes you appreciate how the real stars don’t absolutely kill each other night after night. Yes, I sound like a tool, but coming from a guy who sent his brother upstairs crying once a week after a mishap during a suplex, believe me, I appreciate it.

For those of you who don’t watch, every star gets his/her own entrance music and video (and if you’re really big, you generally get pyro). It’s Pavlovian, the response these entrances get. People within 8 milliseconds are cheering or booing when these things hit. Midway through the show they break out the big guns, bringing 4 of the best talents out one by one. Just some insanely funny stuff. Sadly, they follow this up with a Test/Hurricane match, which is a little like following ‘Losing My Religion’ with ‘A Moment Like This’. Kinda deflates the energy.

Now, this match leads into Reason #2 why my girlfriend hates wrestling (#1 is that whole gratuitous violence mumbo jumbo): the rampant sexism. Now, I’m not here to defend the myriad of Bra-and-Panties, Paddle-on-a-Pole, or Pudding in a Pool matches. Not gonna do it. However, I will say that when Stacy Keibler went into the ring with Test, bending over and showing a thong atop her 41 inch legs, well, um, yea. That didn’t suck in the least. No sirree.

Course, then my moment of pure lust was eradicated when the man next to me shouted, ‘Hey Stacy, I dropped my pencil!’ It was reversed when his 4 year old son repeated the phrase. And turned into horror when the father berated the son’.for stealing his line.

Point is, the life-size Keibler cutout is going on the Amazon wish list shortly.

Not much else to report, other than the one heel who is actually Harvard Class of 2000. This is the guy here:

Now, a lot of wrestlers in their life in wrestling go from heel to face (good guy) and back again, basically whenever the writers tell them too (these are the same writers who decided that Test’s fans should be dubbed ‘Testicles’. Yea, OK, that’s #3 on the girl’s hate list, under the broad category ‘Ok, That’s Just Frickin’ Sad’) This Harvard guy will never, ever turn face. People hate him that much. And not in that fun, ‘we love to hate this guy’ way, but pure and utter contempt. It didn’t help that he went and pissed on Ted Williams and Nomar Garciaparra in his little speech before a can of fake whoop-ass was laid down on him. He came on about 10:45 pm, when most people were on Beer 16, and there was some serious venom his way. I thanked myself for not wearing any Harvard gear to the show; it would have been akin to wearing an ‘I Love Al Qaeda’ shirt.

Point is, it’s hard enough to have people not hate the fact that you went to Harvard. This guy ain’t helping me in the least.