The Rasslin

Last night after I walked the dog and grilled some chalky chickenbreast for dinner (it's difficult at 36 to stay lean) I settled onto the couch for an evening of a learned PBS documentary. Much to my disappointment they were playing Night at the Pops or some such nonsense, so I cruised the channels, going from an annoying (albeit chirpy) Rachel Maddow to the Food Network (God, I HATE "Iron Chef"), to the History Channel (enough with the Ice Truckers!) to the Myth Busters Network (formerly knows as the Discovery Channel). None of my regulars were working out for me so I resorted to going up the dial (do we still use that term in the age of remote controls?) through each channel when suddenly I was captivated by a beautiful and half-naked specimen of a Greek god emerging through some pyro special effects to the music of some really obnoxious grunge metal. It was WWE Monday night Raw. The Greek god, none other than Randy Orton, aka "The Legend Killer".

Now, there are many things I can find amazing about the whole wrestling concept, the most obvious being the homoerotic nature of the "sport". I mean, these guys come out in the itty bitty bikinin underwear and get so close in each other's face they might as well be kissing, the proceed to roll around half-naked grabbing and clutching each others' half-naked bodies. Not to mention that other than the hair on their heads, they are shaved completely and totally smooth. And they have fake-n-bake tans! The only reason the "sport" is not more appealing to the gay population is that other than the naked muscley men, the aesthetics are not that appealing--cheesy costumes, bad tattoos and hair, silly dialogue and even sillier plots. Plus, we gays are not that keen on sports to begin with, much less a fake sport. While no gays that I'm aware of are loyal fans of wrestling the crowd at these events probably aren't fans of any gays. The people in the audience look to me like the exact same crowd that go to those monster truck rallies at the Lamar-Dixon Expo Center, where the trucks with 20 foot diameter tires run over and crush a row of ten cars. There are ladies with bleach blond hair (of the hydrogen peroxide kind) and beer bellied men in cutoff shirts and John Deere caps holding signs that say such inane things as "Tristan 3:16" and "U Don't C Me". It is not unfair to judge by their excitement that they think the whole affair is real.

Last nigth I was especially lucky because it was the premier of Freddie Prinze, Jr. as the newest host of WWE Monday Night Raw. I've always thought that Prinze was a handsome guy, but I couldn't name one movie he was in. Judging by the delivery of his lines last night it's no surprise he's not making movies anymore and instead has this WWE gig. I'm not sure how these things work in the wrestling world but there are characters (i.e. Orton's name is "The Legend Killer" because he attacks the old champs of wrestling, shaming them into old age, or something like that) and there are plots, most of them very simplistic. Anyway, so Prinze announces that tonight he's pairing Randy Orton with John Cena in a match against Chris Jericho and The Big Show. Well, apparently Randy and Cena are blood rivals and upon hearing this news, Orton busts through the pyrotechnics and tells Prinze that he refuses to be paired with Cena. Prinze stands his ground despite the fact that the scowling and growling Orton is right in his face. Prinze demands that Orton follows his orders. Apparently, you don't mess with Legend Killer Randy Orton, even if you're some B-list dead ender movie star, because Orton picks Prinze up and bodyslams him. Pow! Prinze is on the mat, the crowd is booing, Legend Killer stands in defiance. The announcers then act like they have to cut to commercial break real fast. When WWE Monday Night Raw returns, Prinze is still on the mat with some referees attending to him. The announcers say in what is supposed to be an ad-lib-caught-on-camera whisper, "It's his neck, it's his neck." Wow, it's so much fun! There's nothing like homoerotic sillines to get a crowd going. Finally, Prinze is carried out of the ring and all the raw action commences.

I used to work with a guy named G___, who was the real deal bona fide coonass from New Iberia. This was back in my oilfield days. He was a referee at the weekend cockfights around the state. He and his wife, who he affectionately called "Well Done" because she suffered some burns on her face when a lawnmower blew up, loved The Rasslin (as they called it) and blocked off every Monday night to watch (this was in the '90's) Stone Cold Steve Austin whip some ass. Well, as it so happens, Stone Cold grew up in Edna and G___ and his wife became enamored of me just because they thought I had some sort of familiarity with Steve, even though he was several years older and had left Edna by the time I was in middle school. Anyway, Tuesdays at the office talk was nothing but The Rassling. G___ had his favorite women, who are known as the Divas and his wife loved Stone Cold. I was always amazed at how The Rasslin affected their lives, how they referenced it in many conversations even when the subject had nothing to do with it at all. Most tellingly, they'd say that the only time that they "cut" (this is a term frequently used for "sex" in New Iberia) was after The Rasslin. Something about the staged spectacle, the silly plot lines, the raucous crowds, the half-naked bodies, compelled them to have sex. "Oh, we cut good last night after The Rasslin," G___ would tell me first thing Tuesday morning. "We watched [so and so] fight it out and then I hit that thing real good!" Well, I can't say that it affects me the same way, but I can say that I found watching those guys wrestle around titillating. I'll be watching it again on Monday nights for some raw action, especially when WWE Champion Randy Orton is on the mat defending his title and killing some legends!