Long time ago, me and my brother Kyle here,
we was hitchhiking down a long and lonesome road.
All of a sudden, there shined a shiny demon in the middle of the road,
And he said,"WRITE THE BEST WRESTLING COLUMN IN THE WORLD OR I'LL EAT YOUR SOULS!"
Well, Me and Kyle we looked at each other, and we said, 'OK'
"Tribute" - Tenacious D

I think most people know what to expect from one of my sporadic When We Were Marks columns by now. I open with my best imitation of Mel Blanc doing Rod Sterling channeling the Crypt Keeper, throw in a few in-jokes, toss off some cryptic film references, send a shout-out to a Wiener or two, before (finally) getting down to the business at hand. Usually, the main topic of the column tends to be historical, since I am less interested in what happened last week, than I am in what happened twenty years ago. Or, if I am interested in what happened last week, I am interested only in how it relates to things that happened twenty years ago. In the process of a column, I hope that I entertain. I hope also that I manage to, as Chris Protege puts it, "drOp some knowledge" and leave my readers a little more informed about our so-called sport, and its often ignored or forgotten history.
BUT, this is not that column... This is just a Tribute.

We are on the road to Wrestlemania, and on this site, on a dozen, a hundred other sites, columnists, journalists, historians, pundits, gossips, know-it-alls, seen-it-alls, has-beens, wanna-bes, insiders, outsiders, whiners, weiners, kibitzers, ranters, recappers, jokers, hackers, hacks, smarts, marks, smarks, cynics, zombies, amateurs, and professionals, we all gather to observe, to take notes, to muse, to sketch, and, ultimately, to write columns addressing that most pressing of questions: Why does the WWF suck rocks? As though we were gamblers, we keep pumping columns into the WWF slot machine like so many quarters, hoping that the next column, the next pull on the lever, will ring up three cherries, and five star matches will pour out like coins in a bucket.
BUT, this is not that column... This is just a Tribute.

I could sit in a dark room, like a spider in a web, gathering information from hundreds of different sources. I could acquire dozens of back-stage informants, weighing each piece of gossip for lies and truths. I could read every word to be released from Stanford; parse press releases for hidden meaning; study financial reports for clues; search promotional material for secret messages; read JR as though he were James Joyce. I could watch the WWF as if it was the Kremlin in the middle of the Cold War, and I was a spy deep behind the Iron Curtain, smuggling out state secrets, hoping that if my column could only alert the proper authorities in time, that sucking could somehow be prevented.
BUT, this is not that column... This is just a Tribute.

I could write you a column suggesting that if Christian was used more or Edge were used less, if Triple H was turned heel or Angle was turned face, if the Dudleyz were broken up or the Perfect Storm was formed, if the NWO was broken up or D-Generation X was reunited, if Eddy Guerrero was hired or Scott Hall fired, if RVD would only job or Funaki could only win, that if any of a million possible fantasy combinations were done in exactly the right order that the WWF would finally be GOOD. As if I were a locksmith, and the WWF was a safe, and if I could only dial the right combination, I could throw open the doors, and release the locked-up five star matches.
BUT, this is not that column... This is just a Tribute.

I could, I suppose, recap the Raws and Smackdowns leading up to Wrestlemania, hoping somehow that my critical scrutiny might have some effect on the outcome. I once had a roommate in Halifax who was convinced, that by eating a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup at exactly the right moment, he could induce the Boston Bruins to score. To his credit, the Bruins did ride the power of Reese's right up to the Stanley Cup Finals, before falling to the power of Mark Messier. (Because Reese's may be a wonderful combination of chocolate and peanut butter, but Mark Messier is just TOO SWEET~!) My ex-roommate may have been on to something, for both my sister, the anthropologist, and my friend, the physicist, have informed me that there is a scientific principle that states that by observing something, we change that which is being observed, and the more intense the observation, the greater the change. So, if my gaze was strong enough, intent enough, focused enough, and if I could write a recap reporting the results of that scrutiny accurately enough, I might actually be able to improve what I was watching, or kill it forever. And there is precedent on my side, after all CRZ did kill off Nitro, didn't he? Well, didn't he? Right! Right?
BUT, this is not that recap... This is just a Tribute.

I could rant about the sins of the WWF: broken promises, failed marriages, screw-jobs, false advertising, unsafe working conditions, bad gimmicks, worse writing, squashes, run-ins, referee bumps, hazing, the humbling process, over-booking, bad booking, too much violence, too little violence, racism, sexism, ageism, midget abuse, gorilla abuse, skank abuse, fan abuse. As if by writing a column detailing them all, I could, like a detective called to a crime scene; outline the corpse; search for clues; dust for prints; interview witnesses; gather the usual suspects; use the third degree; lock up the culprit(s), and with the guilty parties safely locked away, five star matches would come out of hiding like so many frightened witnesses.
BUT, this is not that column... This is just a Tribute.

I could, I suppose, praise the WWF's for its successes instead of focusing on its failures, panning WWF broadcasts for nuggets of gold like a prospector, hoping that if I could only assemble enough material for a column, I could somehow take the WWF cow-pie, and, by painting it gold, convince people it was a golden ingot.
BUT, this is not that column... This is just a Tribute.

I could click my abacus, clack my slide-rule, whirr up my calculator and hum up my spreadsheet. I could tabulate, measure, chart, tally, count every aspect of the WWF, in the hopes that I could develop mathematical formulae to explain the fed. I might be able to tell you that if CB & SCSA = healthy, then CB vs. SCSA + 60 minutes - run-ins = *****, or that SMH + microphone = nausea (for the audience). In time, I might be able to write a column reducing the WWF to a mathematical construct proving definitively that the WWF sucks, and, more importantly, what variables make it suck.
BUT, this is not that column... This is just a Tribute.

I could borrow a page from a colleague, and compare the WWF to a comic book like the Doom Patrol, or a TV show like the Brady Bunch, or a Detroit assembly line, or the life cycle of the Monarch butterfly, in the hopes that by finding the right metaphor to describe the WWF, I could, like some natural historian, chart the life of the WWF organism, and its cycles of sucking and non-sucking. In time, I could write a column providing a simple, elegant explanation for the WWF, that would allow us to predict its tidal patterns of sucking and non-sucking, and only view the WWF when it was presenting five star matches ...and (other) marking out moments.
BUT, this is not that column... This is just a Tribute.

I could focus my attention away from the WWF, and turn my attention to puroreso or lucha libre, in the hopes that by exploring the differences between those styles and the WWF's, I could somehow distill their essences like a crazed Iron Chef, and add the spices of puropepper and lucha libregano to the WWF stew, trying desperately to somehow transform a Big Mac into filet mignon.
BUT, this is not that column... This is just a Tribute.

I could quite easily mock the WWF, churning out a column making fun of the WWF's many foibles, like some late night stand-up comedian, hoping that by pointing out that the Emperor has no clothes, I could somehow shame the WWF into covering its nudity with five star matches.
BUT, this is not that column... This is just a Tribute.

I could write a column about the indy experience, the blood, the sweat, the tears, the community of wrestlers and fans who gather in dark basements, smoky bars, bingo halls, community centers and high school gyms to share their common passion for our so-called sport. As if I could write a column distilling those scents, and smells, and emotions down to Rick Martel's newest perfume, "Passion", and by dabbing the cologne behind the WWF's ears, we could make the federation smell sweeter.
BUT, this is not that column... This is just a Tribute.

I could write a column about my fellow columnists, dragging the internet wrestling community onto my couch to analyze its fears, its insecurities, its secret longings and hidden desires, as if I could, through psychiatry, turn us all into the kind of people who would like the WWF just the way it is.
BUT, this is not that COLUMN... This is just a TRIBUTE! Oh Yeah! TRIBUTE! Someone throw me my air guitar, it's time for my solo: Br. Br. Br. Brew-wah-wah-waaaaaaah! Brew. Br. Br. Brewooooo. Brewwhhaaa! (In the interest of full disclosure allow me to point out that any actual music is provided by Brewguy. Back to my solo.) Brewwwwwwwhhhhhhaaaaaaaa-whaaa-whaaaaaa-whaaaaa-whaaa-whaa-wha! Br. Br. Br. Brewwwhhhhhooooo-whhoo-who!

Thank You! Thank You! No applause! Thank You! Thank You! Just send money! Ouch! Crap! All right who's the joker throwing pennies? You there with the Big Lots bag and the slutty Barbie knock-offs! I'm watching you!

Of course it is possible, that it sucks to watch the WWF, not because of what the WWF is, but because of who we are watching the WWF with, or rather who we are NOT watching the WWF with. Perhaps I could write a column describing that loved one who took us to our first live event; the Grandmother who wanted Bad News Allen to rip Owen's head off; the Grandfather who had seen Lou Thesz wrestle in person; the Uncle who had been in the navy with Jesse Ventura: the Sister who got us the Andre the Giant autograph; the older Brother who had a collection of wrestling magazines hidden with his Playboys; the Father who pretended not to notice our tears when Steamboat's throat was crushed by Randy Savage with a ring bell; the Mother who claimed not to understand why we liked wrestling, but who cheered like a madman for Bret Hart; that lost and universal loved one, who increased our enjoyment for wrestling by sharing our enthusiasm for it. Maybe if I could write a column that described that person clearly enough, I could summon their ghost to sit beside us on the couch while we watched Raw, and even though in fear of, like Orpheus, losing the shade, we could never turn to be sure that they were there, we would still be able to feel their presence, and their company would improve a thousandfold what we were watching.
BUT sadly, tragically, this is not that column... This is just a Tribute.

On the other hand, maybe the reason that the WWF sucks rocks is that it always sucked rocks. Maybe like a home-owner in Mississippi, who has damp basements every spring because he built his house on a flood plain, the WWF built its foundations on the quicksand of deceit, disrespect. dishonour and defiance. Maybe the state of the WWF is NOT the fault of Vince, or even of Vince's Dad. Maybe the seeds of the problems of the WWF were planted right at the birth of the WWF. Maybe decisions that were made then, to this day influence who is pushed and who is buried; who is hired and who is ignored; who is given the belt and who is asked to job; who is cheered and who is not. Maybe the five star matches that we have seen in the WWF, have been as a result of the superhuman Sissyphean effort of a few men working against the constraints of the WWF. Maybe someone could write a column digging up the foundations of the WWF like some wrestling archaeologist, and by explaining the WWF's past, could shed light on its present and predict its future.
BUT, this is not that column... This is just a Tribute. OR if I'm really lucky, it's a Prelude, an Introduction, as I try to do just that, because digging up the bones of the WWF is something I might actually be able to do. Now, I can't promise that the result will be enough to make a shining demon ask, "Be you angels?", but starting next Wednesday, I'm going to do my damnedest to try, as I start a series of columns on the WWF's original sins with a column entitled "The Psychology of the Punch" (Yes Shaddax, there is such a column.)

Why Wednesday? Well, given that I am the Guardian of the Useless Knowledge, the answer should be terrifyingly geeky, so here goes: Wednesday or Woden's Day is named after Odin the head of the Norse Gods. Readers of Marvel's Thor will know that Odin wears a patch because he is missing one eye. What they might not know is that Odin is missing that eye because he plucked it out to acquire the knowledge of good and evil; light and dark; the earth and the heavens; the past, present and the future. In some stories, he trades the eye with a wise old crone, and she gives him his pet ravens, Huginn and Muninn, thought and memory. In other, darker stories, it is to his ravens that Odin trades his eye, and the trade is not for one eye, but for both eyes, one now and one... later. I certainly don't plan to be sacrificing anything more than a little sleep to complete these columns, BUT perhaps by invoking Odin's name, I can hope that Huginn and Muninn will visit me, and whisper their secrets and mysteries to me as I sleep.

Llakor
that Lousy Canuck
[slash] wrestling