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.