Is the WWF Spectacular Theater or Total Trash? A WWF Newbie's Account

Christina "Gucci mama" Rosenberger

HEIGHT: 5'10"

WEIGHT: "a lady never tells"

CLASS: paperweight

SPECIAL MOVES: THE hair toss,

the icy "i have those shoes" glare,

the fox trot

I had a sneaking suspicion that I would be the only girl in the Fleet Center who blow-dried her hair before she went to see steroid-filled men pretend to mortally wound one another wearing uni-suits at WWF's Smackdown!. I even contemplated leaving it wet, but my vanity, and the idea that one of these wrestlers might be cute, got the better of me. So I blow-dried my hair, put on the most non-descript outfit I could think of, and headed to the Fleet Center armed with my mace and two days of beginner Tae Bo videos.

Now, I should preface this whole endeavor by stating that before Dec. 6, 1999, the only WWF in my vocabulary stood for the World Wild Life Fund. You know, that nice place that helps you save the unfortunate sooty terns and invertebrate spawning grounds in Tortuga and sends you posters of pandas? But since I have no idea where Tortoga is and had nothing else to do on a Tuesday night, I figured I'd go check out this other WWF.

I was assigned to go with Nate Gray, a first-year. Well, a tall first-year. That was okay. I was a self-sufficient woman, and I had my mace. No one was going to mess with me. And besides, I wasn't convinced that these wrestlers did anything but strut anyway.

We arrived at the Fleet Center an hour early, and tickets were being scalped outside the T station for hundreds of dollars. Hundreds? I began to get nervous. Hundreds of dollars is a lot of money. I counted no less than five stretch limousines in a line by the curb. These people were obviously high rollers. But all the limousines were white. And in there was a 33 RV parked directly in the middle of the line. Garth Brooks would have been proud. This crowd had its share of card-carrying members of the American Honky-Tonk Bar Association.

I kept walking, head up, eyes alert, when some big thug came up behind Nate and told him to watch out, so I didn't get jumped. I didn't bother to ask what exactly "getting jumped" meant in this context, instead using a few well placed elbows to get myself into the safety of the lobby.

I soon learned that maybe I should have stayed outside. The stink of cheap cologne, and I mean really cheap, was combined with a heavy alcoholic stench that hung over the room in such a thick fog that I had trouble breathing. Men were shouting all over the place, as the doors were late in opening. Even the Salvation Army Man had earphones on. I decided to check our tickets and see where we were sitting. First row, floor. I looked at Nate. He was practically giggling with glee, managing to sputter "five-feet from the ring!" I told him that I was going back outside to scalp my ticket, then going to the Prudential to buy a new holiday dress with my profit, and would meet him at the Park Street T stop at 11. I thought conceding the 2,000 words of my article for life and limb was a fair trade. Nate was still grinning.

But, as usual, my curiosity got the better of me and I settled into my seat, which was in spitting distance from the ring. (I only know this because some wrestling brute with tattoos that spread continuously from his right pinky to his left decided to demonstrate. I wanted to ask him if getting all those tattoos had hurt, but was afraid of being spit on again.) The first fight involved someone in yellow leather (or pleather? I couldn't be sure, even with our proximity) pants fighting a Dracula-esque character with fangs and blood spurting out of his mouth. Dracula's girlfriend then came out, much to the delight of the 18,000 in attendance and to my disgust.

Plastic surgery, we all know, has been around for quite a while. And honestly, this woman's chest was an embarrassment to the profession. Yes, it was large. Yes, all 17,963 men in the audience didn't seem to notice anything else. But it looked like a color chart for cheap housepaint! Her face looked like a Cover-girl light beige, her neck a "Perfectly Peach," her lower neck a "Truly Tan," her clavicle area a "Trendy Toupe," the first three inches of her chest a "Light Chocolate Brown" and the next five inches were decidedly an "Earthy Ebony." I'm all for creativity and free expression, but really, there must be some sort of limit on the number of boob jobs one person can get.

A few more wrestlers came and went, spewing expletives and sweat at an astonishing pace. (Especially since the wrestlers did not appear to be doing anything that could be considered the least bit physically taxing.) But after I'd seen my fifth creotine monster doing some sort of fierce, satanic, testosterone-induced dance around the ring wearing modified ballet slippers1, I got bored.

Yes, bored. The novelty of seeing live body-slams soon wore off, and somehow the headlocks just weren't as dramatic without WWF's in-your-face camera close-ups. Indoor fireworks always impress me, and the ones at Smackdown! were no exception; but this time only because I was wondering how on earth WWF regularly gets fire permits in such a large number of cities across the nation. Who with even a drop of sanity would trust someone named "Degeneration X" with large quantities of explosives?

So I looked around me. The woman two rows over was wearing a purple pleather jacket, black tights and stiletto heels, with rhinestone-studded hoop earrings and a can of what I'm sure was aerosol hairspray. It was becoming increasing clear that attire was key; a point I apparently needed some work on. Jeans were a must, but your WWF T-shirt declared true allegiance to the fraternity--to wear anything else was simply bad etiquette. The T-shirts diverged into two categories: the c.1986, neon-yellow version with the image of the Incredible Hulk airbrushed across the front, or the c.1999, brand-new, still-has-the-vendors-creases-in-it black T-shirt with "WWF Attitude" scrawled across the front in white and red lettering, with "Come Get Some" on the back. Apparently the management of WWF only left the '50's to gain the vulgarity of the '90's.

In this sea of ridiculously expensive and severely offensive T-shirts, I spotted a Harvard couple from my house six rows back, clad conservatively in jeans and Gap T-shirts. I sighed with relief, and ran over. "Hi! I'm with the Harvard Crimson, Arts actually,"(confused stares) "you know, all the choreography. And, well, I'm basically wondering what on earth you're doing here?" Her stare becomes even more confused, he turns back towards the fight. Obviously I've missed some large point about the relevance of senseless simulated slaughter in our society. So I make them smile for a photo, proof that not only am I not the only Harvard student who lowered herself to this level, and run back to my seat. I decided not to ask them how much they had actually paid to see this.

What they had paid to for, it became increasingly clear, was not entertainment--repeated 20 minute gaps between the wrestler's performances is not terribly professional, and prompts one to wonder just what they were doing back stage. (Not stretching, surely?) Rather, they had paid for admittance into a culture where vulgarity is celebrated, violence championed, and morals are checked at the door. When, in a heavily scripted fight, a team of American wrestlers repeatedly punched a nauseatingly stereotyped Japanese wrestler, a man behind me yelled "That's for Pearl Harbor, right there!" I looked back in horror, mouth gaping. Could someone actually be that prejudiced--and everyone else remain silent?

National prejudices established, it took one look at The Godfather and his "ho-train" of surgically-endowed girls to provide a case study in the objectification of women. While the women leaned over the ring displaying glitter-covered posteriors, married men waved $20 bills, and the popcorn man stopped his rounds to rhapsodize, "that's somethin', huh?" I was vaguely reassured when I saw a sign being held up saying "John 3:16," thinking that at least religion was still paramount. Nate quickly explained that it was a twisted sexual reference to a certain female wrestler who had announced the week before that she does not wear underwear. I debated walking out. Instead, I asked the hawker tossing out peanuts if he had a Perrier on the premises.

My belief that WWF is undeniably horrible as an institution was only been confirmed by my ring side seat. The morals, gender codes and so-called patriotism it condones make my stomach queasy. The wrestlers are over-paid to do nothing (they don't even look particularly good in those spandex things), and, as performers, could use some work. Wrestling lessons would be at the top of my list, with a few lessons on acting as a close second and haircuts a definite third. As I watched yet another wrestler gesture at his groin, I realized that my mace was futile; what I really needed was 18,000 paperback copies of Emily Post.

But I was wrong about the blow drying. I was the only girl who blow-dried her hair. Now I know. Next time I'm going to dry it, mousse it, gel it, douse it with peroxide, and by God, I'm going to tease it.

1 Just for the record, the whole rough-tough-combat-boot thing is a very well executed illusion. The wrestlers wear shoes with soft, pliable rubber souls that would leave an ant unscathed.

3 Although part of the Dec. XX Smackdown has since been taped over with a Dawson's episode, I managed to salvage the section where my right arm makes a cameo. Email cbrosenb@fas.harvard.edu for screening times.