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The 7 - Guest Columns - Marking Time at No Way Out
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Wolfram J. Paulovich
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Since: 11.11.02
From: Fat City, Baby

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#1 Posted on 20.2.04 2020.39
Reposted on: 20.2.11 2020.45

Marking Time at No Way Out
February 20, 2004
by Jeb Tennyson Lund

"The light did him harm, but not as much as looking at things did; he resolved, having done it once, never to move his eyeballs again. A dusty thudding in his head made the scene before him beat like a pulse. His mouth had been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night, too, he'd somehow been on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up by secret police. He felt bad."
— Kingsley Amis, Lucky Jim

The only reason I woke up on Sunday was to watch Eddie Guerrero. Sure, if pressed, I could trundle out a bunch of more acceptable rationalizations for waking up: the glory of planet earth; I had to go to the bathroom; my wife is beautiful, loving and a treasure. But none of those reasons came to me through the ear-placed-next-to-a-civil-defense-siren wail of the alarm clock, which was vying for the honor of Supreme Pain in My Head with what I was certain was the vibration of air itself.

I had to quickly evaluate what was happening.
Me: Why am I awake, Brain?
My Brain: Because Eddie Guerrero might win the title.
Me: Is that a good reason?
My Brain: Last night you said it was.
Me: Should I be trusted?
My Brain: You set the alarm.
Me: Okay. But I reserve the right to blame you.

After I introduced the alarm clock to Mr. Fist, experienced the "hail of bullets on my head" phenomenon that was the shower and choked down some leftovers, I was feeling reasonably mobile. It turned out that I had not lied to me. Eddie was going to vie for the belt at No Way Out — a pay-per-view with a huge potential history-making factor.

The only problem was getting to see it. As I detailed in a previous column, I have to catch the pay-per-views in Tampa proper, at a restaurant and bar called the Press Box. Could I even make it there? Driving in Florida is a deadly experience under the best of circumstances. (In one Florida county, one of the top-five causes of severe accidents for one year was elderly drivers expiring behind the wheel.) Of course, all of this potential vehicular manslaughter only increases when you've got to shuttle twenty miles while suffering the sort of debilitating mental dissonance ordinarily associated with things like buying a Jennifer Love Hewitt album.

No Way Out
I get there, but not before noting that the pay-per-view title menacingly describes how I'm feeling. Sometime during the drive, a law-student pal of mine calls and chats horribly cheerfully at me. I finally get him off the phone by telling him that, if I talk any longer, "I'm going to throw up on myself or drive off a bridge." Maybe both. Anyway, I get to the bar.

I'm meeting my buddy Jon again, but this time I've cagily told him to show up unnecessarily early, and I've deliberately arrived late. That'll show him. He's there, waving to me from a booth. Immediately, I want to turn around and leave. Apart from the bar area, the booths are the best-lit parts of the Press Box, and Jon's ticking his hand back and forth and leering at me with a kind of frighteningly happy rictus grin. Everyone can see this.

Worse, he's wearing a tweed jacket — which itself isn't so bad, except for the fact that he's topped off his whole ensemble with a trim kind of driver's cap that you only see when the nightly news does a special on a retired British politician recreationally shooting small animals in the middle of Kent. He looks like the understudy for the role of "Lord Petherwick Smythe Homosexual... 'of the Northumberland Homosexuals' " in some second-rate society farce. Have I mentioned that everyone can see this?

Meanwhile, the pre-show segment is showing a montage of Jamie Noble promos, and, in my condition, his voice sounds like the noises a pig makes while getting repeatedly stabbed with pikes. In spite of it all, I make my way to the booth without collapsing face-first into someone's bucket of chicken wings. I make sure not to sit too close to Jon.

Still, I'm excited. There is something almost malevolently peculiar about the WWE serving the "smart" crowd two heaping helpings of vindication two pay-per-views in a row. I don't know whether to take delight in this bold move or wear a steel plate over my back to keep myself from having a knife buried there in the near future. Because it's possible. O, yes, it is possible. But something about me remains giddily interested in the show, regardless. Maybe it's just the lingering buzz from Benoit winning the Rumble. Or maybe I'm still too stupefied by my Saturday sottishness to recognize the warning signs.

But there aren't any, are there? The undercard is only five or six matches deep, and only two of those matches hold much promise. I know that Angle v. Cena v. Show will be at least decent and perhaps even verge on great. But rudimentary horse sense tells me that Angle wins. For one, he's the only proven main-eventer. For another, it seems right to continue the Cena-Show feud and have Cena win the U.S. title at WrestleMania for at least one certain feel-good victory. No matter how great it is, you can sort of see the end coming anyway. Basic horse sense also tells me Chavo beats Rey, too. Again, people like the good guys to win eventually at WrestleMania. And Rey's had that Cruiserweight title so much anyway. Again, you can sort of see all this coming. Does that lessen the show's worth? Not really: not unless you're a rabid internet wrestling mutant. All the same, the undercard is dulled in a tiny way.

If anything, there are no warning signs. The undercard is so tepid and seemingly predictable that you and I and everyone else gets the sense that Eddie has to win. The show would sink into nothing otherwise — like a ship burning to the waterline and being claimed by the ocean. If Brock goes over at No Way Out 2004, the show gets logged in the books next to Bad Blood 2003 as one of the least essential and most undynamic of all time. When it comes right down to it, the undercard is so potentially boring that the only thing that can rescue it is the novelty of an Eddie win.

So now I start thinking about the bookers. I can't be the only one who's noticed that they can usually only manage to do one exciting thing at a time. (That's one of the things I like about the brand split: at least there's now two teams of single-minded writers working on one story, per show, at the expense of others.) Maybe they only have the collective intelligence of a hamster stapled to a pocket calculator; but if the undercard is sucking wind, it's because they've been laboring on Project Eddie, right? Right?

I tell Jon these faint reasonings of mine in between finding a nice groove to sit in, in the booth, and asking him why he dressed himself like Lord Fauntleroy ready to play Duck Hunt. I don't think he notices the jab, because he's telling me, importantly, that he did not order Michelob. I guess he read my previous Press Box column.

Instead, he's ordered a pitcher of Killian's, and soon after I get situated, the waitress brings me a chilled mug. All is set and ready, except for me, because I want to rebel against this poor-man's aristocratic and house-proud presentation of everything I don't want in booze. We have all the tools and utensils and none of the quality. It's like trundling out the Holy Grail and putting Hi-C in it. There is no way any sane man can embrace this offering, but I fake it for the sake of friendship. Shortly after I shove the mug into my pasty mug and sip the Killian's Death, my throat closes up in hungover revulsion. I remember what did terrible things to me last night: what that was, was beer. Except it had taste. All I have now is a glass tube filled with the smell of my own iniquity and the menacing bubbliness of plain, brewed Semi-Bad. The only thing that soothes my gag-reflex is a saintly vision of a pint of ice-water sitting between a sweating and ice-cold Bert Grant's Perfect Porter and a similarly sweating Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.

In my mind I sip and roll the porter in luxuriant hop-and-caramel-loaded dryness around my tongue, swallow, sip the water to cleanse — and then reach for the icy hoppiness that is the Sierra Nevada, charging it down my gullet in a flavoricious exultation of all that is right and thirst-quenching about American beer. This is what I should (and need) to be drinking, but this idyllic vision bleeds down my eyeballs like so many wavy TV end-of-flashback effects, and I find myself still looking at Jon, who's holding a mug of chilled and carbonated "brown." His smile and hoisting of the mug is the gesture of the Devil, and for a moment I'm convinced that I can see him, me and the booth all being consumed by red-and-orange flames.

I decide then and there that I will find a way to stick Jon with the tab. I don't care if I have to run screaming from the bar like a little girl to do it.

Finally, the show starts. I have no idea what's happening. The sound is kicking in and out, from deafening to garbled — like cranking your stereo and playing a loop of the quadraphonic-to-transistor-radio effect from the end of Pink Floyd's "Have a Cigar." When the sound kicks in for what feels like the last time, the bar is flooded with thundering and rapid-fire Spanish commentary. At least I think that's what it is. Frankly, I can't tell you, because blood and solid matter is seeping out of my head like the earwig thing emerging from Chekhov's ears in Wrath of Khan.

The only reason why I guess it's Spanish commentary is because of the excitement and applause that greets it from the now-apparent large Hispanic contingent at the bar. I can't believe I didn't notice this when I walked in. There is a Hispanic family of ten sharing a big table; a couple of guys at the bar; some more guys by a machine that I can only guess is Golden Tee (they're blocking the name); another group at a table.

This is, no matter how you look at it, very cool. Previous shows at the Press Box have seen very little representation from the Hispanic community. That's a tall order, especially when you consider the large Cuban population that's been in Tampa for over 100 years. So I'm excited to see their interest in this show, and now I really hope Eddie will win. Not only because his doing so would thrill a large group of hitherto ill-acknowledged fans, but because their sustained interest might be noticed by the WWE. If it is, that might mean that Eddie would remain a more viable contender and champion for years to come, but also that other Hispanic wrestlers would see more (and better) opportunities in the future.

Regardless, the upshot of the sound problems is that no one can understand anything Torrie Wilson or Sable says. I'll give that ***1/2. I mention to Jon that they were in Playboy together, and that they both posed separately at one point. Since Jon has a working brain stem and the ability to use the internet to find pornography, all he says is, "Whatever, man." I'm tempted to say, "If it ain't Nun Porn, it just doesn't do it for you, huh?" I don't. You have to save the Nun Porn jokes for special occasions.

Next up is the Bashams and Shaniqua v. Scotty Too Hotty and Rikishi. I relate my crackpot "Shaniqua accidentally gets the pin" theory. Actually, it's not mine; I stole it. But it's the only reason I can see for this match being on the card. Come on, think of the possibilities! The intergender tag-team wreaks havoc on the traditional tag structure and annoys everyone. It causes dissension in the Basham ranks. (If there was ever a sentence that inspired the least fear about politics and passions, it's that last one.) Either way, it gives us a reason to watch this match.

The people in the Press Box eat up all the familiar spots. Rikishi's ass is a comrade in this room. People love every asstacular assault. Much love for the ass. Cheers for the teased Stinkface. Cheers for the Banzai Drop. There are huge cheers for The Worm as well, but they don't match the claps and "Oooooooohhhhhh!" sounds that accompany Rikishi's moves. Every time you ask yourself why Rikishi is still on TV (and you shouldn't, because he's got amazingly underutilized speed and moves for a man of his girth), go to a bar for a pay-per-view and squelch those inquiries like so many wrestlers' lips smothered by Samoan ass-flesh.

Rikishi picks up the win with the Banzai Drop. Once again, my first match prediction, for Jon, has ended with me being way off-base. He sneers at me and yells, "WROOOONNNNNNNG!" I tell him to wait and see. (After this misstep, I wind up calling everything right.) Also, since lack of Guinness is making me irascible, I insult his beer. I'm rescued by Tazz telling everyone that Jamie Noble will "wrestle blindfolded at WrestleMania!" Jon says, "Did you hear that?" I guess Tazz forgot which show he was shilling. Booze crisis averted.

Noble v. Nidia is up next. Jon's first reaction on seeing Nidia?—"Oh, yeah, those look real." I'm beginning to wonder if Vince McMahon is the only person on the planet turned on by breasts so improbably shaped that even Salvador Dali would have said, "Shit, no one will believe these." It doesn't matter, though, because the match is a slam-dunk with the audience — including us.

I know it's horrible, insofar as wrestling is concerned. I'm frustrated enough that I actually yell at the screen, "Dammit, Nidia, we know you can wrestle a bit! Stop kickin' him in the butt!" All that ire gets washed away by the gags. Men, women and children (especially a seven- or eight-year-old girl near us) are in hysterics at Noble's zombie-like hands-outstretched lurch toward Nidia's igloo-chest. The little girl adores this match.

The laughter, as laughter tends to be, is contagious. I am probably the least disposed to enjoy this match, and I spend the last half of it grinning and excited. Even though I came to see Eddie, I'm now glad that I came here because I got to see this match. If I'd read about it online or seen it at home, I'd have loathed it. Instead, the bar's fun sucks me in. Most of all, it's the little girl who does it. She shrieks and giggles in anticipation. When Noble gets too close to Nidia, she yanks her feet up off the floor and tucks them under her legs — as if she herself is vulnerable, within Noble's reach. Or maybe she thinks that her hiding can help Nidia.

I've read statements akin to it before, but watching wrestling really is like watching comedy. Great stuff will always be great, even in solitude. Maybe not as wonderful, but undeniable in terms of quality. Good or fair stuff is more elusive for the solitary viewer. Good times feed off of other good times. I've just laughed and smiled at this match because people around me won't let me get away with being a self-important, over-informed and demanding ass. At that moment, I resolve to watch WrestleMania and any other pay-per-view I care a whit about in this bar. Forget paying for the show, taping it and always having a copy. I need the laughter.

Now the show goes backstage. Josh Matthews is interviewing Angle. Jon, leaning over to peer more at Matthews, says this:
Jon: Is that a girl?
(I look at Matthews' baby-blue turtleneck shirt. Even though I'm pretty sure he's a guy, I prefer not to say. I tell Jon, "I think so." Before we can get into a "does the turtleneck hide an Adam's Apple" discussion, Cena interrupts Angle's promo.)
Jon: Who's this loser?

I've forgotten that the rest of the world doesn't read wrestling columns, and that, for all intents and purposes, John Cena must seem like Prince Choad to outsiders. Think about it: he raps... slowly... in couplets. Not a cool rhyme scheme in sight. And the only thing really entertaining about "Thuganomics" is that I bet you can major in it at Hampshire College. I start running down Cena's history to Jon, giving him the hard-sell, but he's not buying. Frankly, I'm starting to wonder why I bought. Really, what is this Cena thing?

Girl Power continues with the next match, as The World's Greatest Tag Team comes out.
Jon: It's the Ambiguously Gay Duo!
Me: Huh?
Jon: Look at them! It's Ace and Gary! "Hey, Ace." "Yeah, Gary, what's up?" "There's NO WAY OUT!"
Me: Explain.
Jon: Look at their tights. Blue and gold and tight. What part of that doesn't say, "We're the Ambiguously Gay Duo"?
(I have no answer. I can't help but laugh at this and wonder why no one else has noticed this theme. Then the APA comes out.)
Jon: Now look at those guys. Look at 'em. It doesn't MATTER if they lose. They're obviously not gay.

I wonder if this is the nicest thing anyone has said about the APA in months. I don't think about it too much because I'm trying to scribble all this in a notebook. I got a nice leatherbound notebook for Christmas, and I'm trying to put it to good use. The problem is, it's too big for pants pockets, but it's too small for me to write fast and large in it. As a result, it's gotten little use. So now I'm writing carefully and patiently in it. I look like I'm taking down precise notes, and I suddenly realize something: I look like a bookie.

I'm hungover, in yesterday's clothes; I have a small leather notebook and a nice pen; I'm writing more precisely than a stamp collector making a table of contents.... And, of course, I've been braying at Jon about the sort of odds I'd put on each match. No fucking wonder why I'm getting looks from this guy at the bar. If you wanted him to look any more like a gambler stereotype, you'd have to jam a pork-pie hat and a guayabera shirt on him, spin him around ten times, then reel him loose in the MGM Grand and tell him his wife is looking for him. I probably remind him of his debts or his competition. I don't want to think about this. It's because of accidental shit like this that I don't go to dive bars anymore.

Anyway, The World's Greatest Tag Team wins.

Jon: Now they must ride off in their Penis-Mobile!

Now we get the incredible Goldberg Seating Sequence. I'm pissing on this, in my mind, but everyone in the Press Box loves it. His entrance music gets a "Goldberg" chant. When Heyman comes out, the place goes silent, waiting. When Goldberg hugs a toddler who comes to his seat, moms and dads in the bar clap or say, "Awwww." As soon as Lesnar comes to the ring, the hush falls again. When Goldberg gets up and goes to the ring, whoops, whistles and "Goldberg" chants break out again. His Jackhammer on Lesnar gets a huge round of applause, as well as scattered standing ovations. More "Goldberg" chants. All of this serves to remind me that we who pay attention to the internet are not in control. Given the fun had by those in the bar during "bad workrate" matches, we don't deserve to be.

When Rhyno v. Holly starts, we are officially marking time during this pay-per-view, tolerantly counting off the minutes until the real conflict. Neither of us wants to see this match, but we watch and maintain the polite fiction that what comes before the main event is worth equal consideration. Even so, after a few minutes, the polite fiction breaks down.
Jon: I just don't like Rhyno. I think he totally sucks.
Me: This crowd is totally dead. That isn't helping.
Jon: Man, that's what I mean. No. Wait. It isn't. I just think he sucks.

We fall silent and stare at the screen, chins resting on our hands. Jon keeps tapping both his feet on the floor, keeping a standard rock beat. It's vibrating the booth and annoying me. We keep staring for minutes.
Me: Have you ever slept with a woman with a tongue ring?
Jon: You know, I don't think I have. (More staring. He's thinking. A minute passes.) Now, I've seen pretty much every other type of piercing on a girl I've been with. But I think I missed out on the tongue-ring thing.
Me: Yeah. Me too.
(More minutes pass.)
Jon: Who the fuck is Bob Holly, and why is he wrestling?
(If I hadn't been hypnotized by the enervating display of restholds during the match, I might have come up with something witty like, "Bob Holly is a churlish old asshole wrestler who punks the shit out of rookies, gets a failed push every couple of years and is on the Karmic short-list for a savage cock-punching any day now." But I don't.)
Me: It doesn't matter.
(More minutes pass, along with more staring.)
Jon: Dude, did they make Rhyno's costume look like that so that eighth graders could make their own Rhyno costume for Halloween and have it look authentic? How lame is that costume?

Somewhere during all this, Holly wins with the Alabama Slam — a move that still sounds to me like a kind of breakfast platter in a truck-stop diner.

Right after the match, Captain Replica Belt makes his third pass by our table. I don't know how old he is. He could be 18 or 27, but I can't tell. All I do know is: he's barely over five feet tall; he looks like a skinny, oily midget version of Tommy Dreamer; he has the bladder fortitude of a six-year-old drinking a Double Gulp; and I always want to trip him.

Normally, I wouldn't bear any ill-will for the guy, but he's at every pay-per-view at the Press Box, and he absolutely must pee between every match. This itself wouldn't be so bad if he had any friends with him. But he doesn't. Thus, he can't leave his replica belt at his table, and his every trip becomes very noticeable. Each foray to the bathroom involves him hunching his way around the tables — with a big-ass WWF Championship belt slung over his right shoulder and his left hand patting it as if he were taunting an opponent during a promo. I have yet to see a single person express the slightest interest in his belt.

Chavo and Rey come out for the Cruiserweight title match, and after I manage a "this oughtta be real good" comment, the bell rings. Silence. Not bad silence, though: good silence. Everyone knows that good stuff is going to happen. As soon as any high spot happens, people clap and cheer. Suddenly we don't feel as if we're marking time anymore. This is engrossing stuff. Well, it is to people who aren't Jon.
Jon: Why aren't they doing more of the flippy-floppy stuff?
Me: (sighing) Because just doing that wears out the audience. If that's all you see, the moves lose their impact. If they do some submissions and more mat-wrestling stuff, it adds to the psychology and makes you really excited to see the flippy-floppy stuff when it happens.
Jon: Okay. But I thought you said this Rey guy was nuts.
Me: He was. He still sort of is. But he toned it down a while ago. Probably at the same time he got injured enough to become one of the few athletes on the planet that I don't want to trade knees with.

Chavo and Rey again command a reverential silence, until Chavo's sweet top-rope backbreaker makes me lean forward and almost yell, "BAH GAWD." He hits a backbreaker again, and suddenly my mind races with Dean Rasmussen-esque lines like, "He brings the SWEET offensive goodness that DESTROYS Rey and makes you BELIEVE IN GODDAMNED WRESTLING AGAIN while you toast a fecund glutinous load of MAN-LOVE as your teenage tribute to GREATNESS. You LOVE CHAVO. Yes you do." I don't say these things out loud, because there are families in this sports bar. And because everyone knows it already.

People are enthusiastically cheering for Rey, and aggrieved cries meet Chavo's win. But there isn't time to dwell, as goodness continues apace with the Triple-Threat Number-One Contender's match.

It's obvious even during the entrances that the whole place is pulling for Cena. Except Jon. Two minutes into the match, though — following Cena cockily observing Angle and Show brutalize each other — Jon is won over. The bar is now as one. Cena's Reebok-pump move elicits laughs and claps. But the biggest laugh goes to Angle trying to German Suplex Show while on the ring apron — tugging at Show's backside while Show grips the ropes and grimaces in fear, awkwardness, irritation and maybe a blossoming curiosity about what things men can share with men. Laughter and applause signal the bar's appreciation of Angle's antic thrusting and heaving and implied vigorous man-love.

Following that, the match becomes a little predictable, with repeated sequences of finishers and pin attempts. Feeling slightly bored, I pick up Jon's cell phone and start toggling through its phone book.
Me: Do you realize you have about 50 people in here, and only 10 of them are guys, and about five are family?
Jon: Yeah. So?
Me: All the rest are women.
Jon: Yeah?
Me: Do you let your girlfriend actually see this?
Jon: I guess so.
Me: You know you're a stupid man, right?

But before we can get into a heady conversation about what constitutes ammunition for a histrionic explosion of she-jealousy, the match goes into the obvious final stages. Angle guts out the win. Even though he's only weeks removed from being a 100% good guy, people are furious. Boos compete with several patron's chants of "You Suck" in unison with Angle's music. The most vocal chanter?—the eight-year-old girl sitting near us. Sixty minutes ago, she was flinching in her chair out of worry for and devotion to Nidia. Now she wants Angle's head. The little girl is officially the coolest person in the bar, and I dream a little dream of giving her a twenty to go beat the shit out of Captain Replica Belt. Somehow I restrain myself, despite the fact that pitchers of beer have come and gone, and I'm now in the right frame of mind for encouraging this sort of thing.

But now... now is the time for Eddie v. Lesnar. Some people have been waiting over two hours for this, but I know there are countless more who've been waiting two years, three years, even a decade. Some of the Hispanic fans in the bar have probably been waiting for a chance like this since Pedro Morales lost the belt twenty some-odd years ago. And in spite of the tension and dread and potential for something terrible, as soon as we hear "Latino Heat" play, we are suddenly going nuts.

I have never in my life heard a group of people so happy to see someone lock in an STF. Moves that in any other match might be dull ground work, cause for indifference or distraction, are instead the impetus for applause and growls of, "ComeonEDDIE! COMEONEDDIE!" Grown men and women are rhythmically clapping — as if their goodwill can be beamed through the television, across the thousands of miles, into the arena, and into Eddie's will to resist pain. It's just like people clapping to provide Hogan with the surge needed to Hulk Up. Except it's done from such a remove that it strikes me as much more engaged, more fun, even more natural. They aren't part of the arena groupthink, that communal sense of obligation. They're doing this because it means something to them.

By the time Goldberg runs in for the spear on Lesnar, a good quarter of the place is on it's feet. A man screams, "PIN HIM!" A full "Edd-ie! Edd-ie! Edd-ie" chant has taken over the bar, me included. When Eddie doesn't get the pin, two or three people scream, "Nooooo! NO!" When Lesnar looks as if he might steal the win, more "NOs" take over. But, when Eddie finally climbs to the top rope, I and several others shriek, "COME ON! COME ON!"

He hits the Frog Splash. He gets the pinfall. And at this point I'm actually screaming "YESSSSSS! YESSSSSS!" Jon looks at me as if I just tripped his mother for no reason. Clearly I'm someone he doesn't know or understand anymore. I'm unconcerned. Scads of people are on their feet, yelling, and applauding. Michael Cole shouts his final pronouncements about the match. And, as the screen fades to black, everyone gives the show another round of applause. I realize that, even outside the internet, people really love Eddie; and their affection and that one match was enough to make their evening memorable.

Not bad for a pay-per-view with a thin undercard.

And the thing is, years from now people will probably not care much about this show. Except for the last match, there will be no strong or fond memories of any of it. That match will wind up on a compilation DVD, rendering the rest of the show virtually unnecessary. With the moment's sentiment gone, critique and review will rush in to fill its void. Which is fine, in its own way. Even I, as soon as I walk away from it, return to being cynical. I thank Jon for coming and — in lieu of a goodbye — give him my wish that he die in a hell of crushed and burning metal on his way home. It's tradition.

Still, sometimes one match is enough: it defines a show and makes weeks happily fly by. And, if nothing else, even if this joy is ultimately sabotaged, I did wind up sticking Jon with the tab.

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Potato korv
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#2 Posted on 20.2.04 2034.23
Reposted on: 20.2.11 2035.16
I usually read all of your columns, Jeb, they're very entertaining even if you've got too much bitter smark in you. But insulting Killian's?

I had to stop there, my friend. Nobody insults Killian's around this midget! :p
Wolfram J. Paulovich
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#3 Posted on 21.2.04 1827.44
Reposted on: 21.2.11 1827.56
Ouch. I knew as soon as I typed that stuff about Killian's that something like this might happen. I'm sorry it bothered you that much; but I can't, I can't take back what I said. Maybe if you just had a couple of Killian's and got feeling all laid back and unbothered, you could finish the column without it getting on your nerves. I swear, I don't say anything else about your beer.
Big Bad
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#4 Posted on 22.2.04 0334.38
Reposted on: 22.2.11 0334.59
"Who loves you, and who do you love?"
Santa Sangre
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#5 Posted on 22.2.04 0938.17
Reposted on: 22.2.11 0940.07
Another great column, Jeb. I live in Orlando and went to Hooters with my boy Neil cause I'm pretty sure it's the only place in Otown that shows ppv's plus I cant get ppv's at home (stupid collge apts).

Except for there not being a lot of latino's in attendance, I had a similar expirience to yours. Everyone popped huge for Rikishi and Scotty, people chanted for Goldberg, and there were massive lines for the pisser during the Holly/Rhyno match.

We had to sit with some strangers cause the place was packed and I told the two strangers that Eddie was going to win. They were unconvinced mainly noting that Vince would never make a hispanic the World Champ. They did give me my props when Eddie won though. I can't wait to go back for WM.

/edited 4 times cause i went to gasparilla last night, am tired as hell, but cant fall asleep...all of which is contribuiting to my horrible grammer/spelling skills

(edited by Santa Sangre on 22.2.04 1038)

(edited by Santa Sangre on 22.2.04 1039)

(edited by Santa Sangre on 22.2.04 1040)

(edited by Santa Sangre on 22.2.04 1044)
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#6 Posted on 23.2.04 0852.34
Reposted on: 23.2.11 0853.12
Great column as always, Jeb. Once again, you managed to capture the true spirit and feelings of watching a wrestling event.

I go to a movie theater every month in Toronto to watch PPV's (it's relatively cheap and it can be fun when you have the right cast of characters in the seats). There's this couple in their early-fifties (easily the oldest ones there) who attend religiously every month, lugging a half-dozen shopping bags to the events with them.

They yell at children who are too loud (which is kind of the POINT of going). They yell at the wrestlers they don't like, as if Big Show could hear them and would respond -- then again my grandmother used to do the same thing well into her eighties. The difference being, she yelled at the TELEVISION, not out in the general public. Though she probably would have done that, too, if the movie theater-PPV's were around back in the day.

The funniest thing, though, is whenever any form of T & A is on the event. The woman in particular starts screaming at the top of their lungs about how this isn't appropriate. So, of course, my gang of friends at the event make sure to whistle, holler and catcall whenever Sable is on, just to anger her.

At the conclusion of every event, my brother and some of friends stage a wrestling match in the front row as people are leaving. Nothing too serious, though they did attempt a Cactus Jack-esque clothesline over the front row of seats. Anyways, that famous couple decided to stay this time and watch the 'match' in its entirety. We have fans now!!!

My point was... your column, Jeb, had a great depiction of the unwashed masses that show up for PPV's. Good show!
Wolfram J. Paulovich
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#7 Posted on 26.2.04 1558.10
Reposted on: 26.2.11 1558.32
    Originally posted by Santa Sangre
    I told the two strangers that Eddie was going to win. They were unconvinced mainly noting that Vince would never make a hispanic the World Champ. They did give me my props when Eddie won though. I can't wait to go back for WM.

You really should try to get people to bet with you. I've tried, but so far no one has bitten. Of course, I've had a notebook with me and have had the look of someone who probably knows too much in advance. But if you're just hanging out, try to snooker someone into a bet. It's the reward for being a terrible Smark person.

I don't think I can make WrestleMania at the Press Box, so I wish you the best at Hooters. The show's going to be 5 hours supposedly. With getting there early for a good seat and sobering up post-show, that's over 6 hours in one bar. Six hours at the Press Box seems like punishment.

Bulldog: that sounds like fun. But you have to try to get a giant bag of popcorn from the theater people and do a popcorn spot and then make Corn Angels. If you offer to clean it up yourself, I bet they'll let you.
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#8 Posted on 26.2.04 1638.52
Reposted on: 26.2.11 1639.15
    Originally posted by Jeb Tennyson Lund
    Bulldog: that sounds like fun. But you have to try to get a giant bag of popcorn from the theater people and do a popcorn spot and then make Corn Angels. If you offer to clean it up yourself, I bet they'll let you.

If my brother didn't work at the theater, I'd do it in a second. We have, however, taken things outside a few times, to the underground parking lot to be precise. Favorite spot there was when my brother put a friend in a tarantula over the protective guard rail, complete with passing cars hooting and honking at us.

Then, like a group of 12 year old boys, we scattered when the lot attendant came over to see what the fuss was all about.
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