JustMattHenry.com: gossip, life and humor

There are many things I think, I know, I will do in my lifetime.  One day I will conquer my fear of heights and dive out of the sky.  I have longed to explore that other world beneath the sea, weaving in and out of the reefs of The Great Barrier, fulfilling childhood dreams.  I know that sometime, hopefully sooner rather than later, I will publish my first book.  I will one day bake the perfect potato. 

So I’m wondering then, why, of all these things on my great To Do list, why I’m sitting here in the rafters of the Verizon Center in downtown DC, looking out upon, to quote my friend Abercrombie Mike, “Everything that is wrong with America”?   Down in the middle of the arena, amid blazing lights, fog machines, jumbotron screens the size of any of DC’s historic row houses, pyrotechnics to make the Fireworks on the Mall just a little bit jealous, is a ring, a simple four cornered ring.  How on earth did I end up at a WWE Raw professional wrestling event? 

I was never a huge wrestling fan.  I mean, I’m not a dummy and as a child, I watched the WWF Wrestlemania stuff with all my friends…but I was kid.  The golden age of professional wrestling:  Hulk Hogan body slamming Andre the Giant, Cyndi Lauper running around the ring like a banshee during bouts with Capt. Lou Albano, Junkyard Dog, Rowdy Roddy Piper, Bam Bam Bigelow and who would’ve thought what the future held for Jesse “the Body” Ventura?  These were our heroes; we were 10 year old Hulkamaniacs.  Over the years, various wrestlers have broken free of the confines of their “sport” and into popular culture…Hogan, Stone Cold Steve Austin, The Rock, Triple H (which I assume means Hot, Hard, and Horny)  and the current reigning king Jon Cena…who is my age.  And weighs only 14 pounds more than me.  As much as I work out, it depresses me that I don’t look like him.  Close.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’m pretty close.  My theory is he’s actually only four feet tall.  In order to weigh that much and look like that (and I don’t), he’s obviously short. 

The world of professional wrestling is obviously fake, horribly homophobic, completely racist (the black wrestlers look like background fodder in a 50 Cent video, with names like Cryme Tyme), degrading to both women (oh, we’ll get to these ladies in a minute) and the mentally disabled, but if you can get past all that, the show is a fuckin’ blast. 

I had received free tickets for the upper rafter poor section and, not knowing anyone who actually likes wrestling, invited my friend Abercrombie Mike along very casually one night.  You’d think he just won the lottery.  It turns out that many gay guys are into the sport, and not for the obvious reasons of a lot of skin and muscles, and I know this because I can’t tell you the number of jealous faces I encountered when I mentioned my weekend plans.  My seats sucked.  Mike was on one side of me and on the other a four year old latino kid who kept poking me with his finger.  Our section was mostly filled with teenagers; tickets way up here are very affordable.  There was also the unmistakable stench of death up in our section.  It could happen.  Someone dies up there, no one finds the poor soul, and he goes on to rot in an empty row. 

After a while, I could bear it no longer and turn to Mike, “What the hell is that smell?!”

“It’s the guy-next-to-me’s breath.”  I look to Mike’s right and well, saw a homeless man sitting there.  At least he looked homeless.  Like I said, we were in the poor section.  Maybe he saved up all his coins for one twenty dollar ticket.  His breath. 

And so it was.  Unfortunately, he was very vocal throughout each bout in the ring.

We witnessed four matches, but being filmed live for the USA Network, there were many slow moments, time spent hyping future grudge matches, Wrestlemania twenty-whatever, and stupid time wasters (Kevin Federline was there!  Apparently he’s taking on Jon Cena next month.  I’m so there.).  There was even a spoof of President Bush with a real live impersonator…getting pick pocketed by one of the guys in Cryme Time.  Of course.  The first match was a twenty man dog pile of all the wrestlers taking on each other until there’s only one left in the ring—except the star of the show Cena.  I’m sure he was backstage doing pushups or something.  Getting his nails done, being tended to by a fluffer.  Wait, wrong industry.  It was hard to distinguish who each individual wrestler was, being so far way, the whole time I was like, oh, some muscular dude just got his ass tossed out of the ring by that other muscular dude.  Now those two muscular dudes are ganging up on that muscular dude with the long greasy hair.  Wait, who’s that guy?  Is that?  Mike, who is that one?  With the green Lycra with the flames on the sides?  OH!  Body slam!  The rules are, once out of the ring, you’re out of the match…and unfortunately even in fake wrestling there is cheating.  The guy, who should have won, while raising his beefy arms in a celebratory stance, is suddenly grabbed by a guy who got tossed out earlier who re-enters the ring (cheater!)…and is declared the winner!  ARGH!!!!  No shame! 

I remember back in the day Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling (or GLOW), a sort of lesbian-ish, trashier, poorly funded sister branch of the WWF.  The ladies who wrestled in a featured match this night (Mickie James and Victoria—again, porn anyone?) are no where close to the ugly butchness of the GLOW girls.  These bitches were like Playboy centerfolds, with their glossy hair, airbrushed skin and big breasts.  I suppose there is a target audience out there and these ladies certainly hit the mark.  However, looks aside, I have never seen two women try to kill each other with their vaginas.  These girls were flipping each other, twisting each other, body slamming each other…all with their vaginas.  If I had a vagina, that’s how I would choose to use mine too.  Make some money beatin’ bitches up with my cooter.  It’s a wonderful world, isn’t it?

The big match of the evening, the one everyone was there to see was Cena vs. some dude named Edge (who I actually thought was a member of the band U2).  I was mistaken, that would be The Edge in U2.  The introduction of each wrestler was long and loud, full of lights and screaming girls, sparks shot up and over the stage with loud booms.  So Edge is like the bad guy, at least according to the soap opera like storylines of the sport, and Cena is…well, he’s God to these people, and when he came out, the crowd just ate it up, hell, they were louder than 30,000 queers at a Madonna concert.  I have never seen such pandemonium and of course, I just joined right in.  I had to; it was infectious; it was fantastic, bordering on life changing. 

The match between Edge and Cena was obviously scripted to go a certain way, stashed with suspense and perfectly timed heroics.  Just when you thought Cena was out for the count (much to Death Breath’s pleasure), he bumps Edge off his chest, jumps up and pounds away.  And so it went, back and forth for a bit, then some other wrestlers run out and help (I learned, just as in the olden days of Hogan, alliances remain in tact) until Cena pins Edge.  Once again the crowd just laps that shit up, goes ballistic…it was like Oprah was there giving away her favorite things to a bunch of white women. 

For all the smoke and mirrors, all the overly cheesy plot lines, all the big tits both male and female, all the hoopla and hype, you have to give these guys (and gals) credit.  Yes, they are very much athletes, actors, and acrobats, but looking around the venue and down into the center of the ring, I couldn’t help but think maybe this isn’t “everything that’s wrong with America”.  People of all ages, sexes, races, income brackets, all kinds of families, together, poking fun at ourselves, our stereotypes, our belief in the battle between good and evil…even if it is fake.  I’m not saying I’m going to set my Tivo to record this every week, or order Wrestlemania on Pay-per-view, but I would go again, to sit and see sweat and tears and (fake) blood and cheer on the good guys and boo the bad guys.  Only this time I want a seat up close, so I can see the mat tremble under the blow of a pile driver, or squirm at the sight of a figure four leg lock, and hold my breath when someone gets wrapped in a sleeper hold, and jump to my feet after a double clothesline.  Oh, and since I’m so positive these guys are like four feet tall, sitting a bit closer would confirm that.