anecdote as an antidote

Two friends went to a small town in Iowa tonight to witness the spectacle of professional wrestling. Not surprisingly, jagbombs and full flasks preceded their actual audience participation. I got a phone call about an hour ago explaining as much. It made me want to play Sega, listen to the Meat Puppets, and eat a square piece of pizza off school lunch line all at the same time. Evidently I will be able to view a picture involving this individual, one Booker T.:






What a country. The more apposite part of the anecdote: there was some kind of chair-bludgeoning incident, after which the offending party went after the referee who had stopped the match and then declared the bludgeoned party the winner. While in pursuit of the referee, one of my friends yelled something like, "That's not fair - you're bigger than him." The chair-wielder evidently sidled up to my friend, and conspiratorially informed him: "It's ok . . . It's fake." (Evidently they had good seats . . . I know, with all the questions begging, it's almost too much information to process).

Is there something innately ridiculous about 24 year olds driving two and a half hours to witness a spectacle that enthralled them as pre-adolescents? I guess not. It seems a step up from ultimate fighting, if also a step down. Professional wrestling just may exist in that rarefied air of faux-competition-as-entertainment, where the faux part doesn't detract from the enjoyment of those who shell out $$$ to be there on the spot and do what they can to see how the athletes pull off the trick of seeming to be careful about how they portray themselves getting hurt. It's complicated.