Have you ever seen the movie Fight Club? In the film, Edward Norton plays a man who has become more or less emasculated by society. He lives in a trendy, tidy apartment and attends several therapy groups. He hasn't really experienced what it's like to be a true man; sensitivity and political correctness have taken the place of honesty and national pride. While the heroes of yesteryear were war veterans and self-made men, the male superstars of today are stars like Leonardo DiCaprio, someone who cares more about his hair than about football. (Even Elvis, who certaintly cared about his hair, enlisted at one point.) Pride, courage and masculinity are altogether dead in this pretty-boy infested world.

How did the characters in Fight Club remedy this lack of testosterone, you ask? The only way it should be remedied: by beating the crap out of one another.

I thought I could use some masculinity training, but I didn't really want to deal with the side effects of getting into a brawl (broken bones; bruised head and ego). So I jumped at the chance to go to SmackDown!, the World Wrestling Federation's slugfest in which masculinity rules and violence is the answer to any dispute.

Before Christina Rosenberger, my fellow WWF reporter, and I leave for the Fleet Center, my editor pulls me aside. "I swear she's gonna get jumped," he warns. Yeah--I think--she doesn't know what she's getting herself in to. Suddenly, I feel a little cockier about this venture. Satisfied with my newly appointed role as The Protector, I sense some of my Harvardfeebleness melting away. I'm ready for some SmackDown!.

Tickets in hand, Christina and I battle through the hordes of WWF fans who are waiting in the lobby of the Fleet Center. I stop for a minute to examine my ticket. We're seated in the FIRST ROW?! Ring side seats! This is getting better every minute. My excitement's cut short by an impatient gray-haired woman in a WWFshirt, who tells me to get my ass moving. I obediently pick up the pace. _Ok, now I know Harvard's sissified me--some little old lady is pushing me around.

After navigating through a riotous crowd wearing an obscene amount of WWF paraphernalia, we enter the arena and take our seats. We are about five feet from the edge of the ring. I smile at Christina. She smiles back nervously. The lights go out. Let the ass-kickin' begin.

Enter Road Dogg, a rather chubby but enthusiastic wrestler with a few missing teeth. He prances towards the ring, and, at the top of his lungs, shouts something loud and incomprehensible, but I'm sure very manly. I can only understand every fifth word he yells, but the pure volume of his five-minute-long rant pumps me up for his forthcoming match. His opponent is Chris Jericho, a leaner, and certainly less crude wrestler. I know the Dogg will win this one. He does. Not a spectacular fight, but you can't expect too much from the first match. Christina looks bored already.

Next up is a tag team competition. Taka and Funaki, an Asian tagteam, run to the ring, waving a Japanese flag. They are instantly booed. Their opponents, who I do not recognize, enter the ring, receiving deafening shouts of praise. Not knowing which team to root for, I sit back and watch the spectacle. It's no contest. As Wrestler One mercilessly and repeatedly throws his fist into Taka's face and stomach, Wrestler Two stretches the corners of his eyes with his index fingers to form a "slanty-eyes" face, and skips around the ring.