I love the lucha libre. You see a lot of lucha respect in American indies, but they tend to concentrate on the artsy-fartsy crazy characters and fliptastic styles. The great thing about lucha libre is that it's folk art rather than urban art school college art, and there's a down-home feel to lucha that the lucha-inspired indies have yet to capture.
The deal here is Universo Dos Mil beat Halloween in a hair match, using what looked to be a piledriver, but the ref ruled it that Halloween hit his shoulders. We have Universo talking shit with a scowl before this trios match, with Halloween being pushed around in a wheelchair with neckbrace and leg cast by Damian, who is in full evil make-up and street clothes. The skull of Melissa would be proud. When I first started getting the lucha libre weekly back when I had a satellite tracking machine shooting television waves into my brainwashing box, much to the joy of Homeland Security types, I could not stand them there Dynamite Brothers. And I still don't care much for Cien Caras or Mascara Ano Dos Mil, but Universo Dos Mil started growing on me pretty hard about the time he put Perro Aguayo out of official commission. And now that he looks like a pockmarked evil drunk Mexican heel without his mask, it's even better. And you know, you have to love the fact that in the year 2006, with all the scientific breakthroughs in medicine and structural rehab of skeletons, the piledriver is still sold as motherfuckin' chump ass evil in Mexico. I am not a scientific type; in fact, I'd say fuck science, as it's not half as smart as it thinks it might be. There are things that cannot be explained, like Que Monito or hermaphrodites or furries or Reggie Roby, and science will come up with some half-assed explanation to try and put it all in its proper place, but it doesn't work. This is why I like the religious aspects of wrestling as opposed to techincal analysis, because religion doesn't give you a half-assed explanation, it just accepts the fact there's shit you could never explain and THAT'S THE MAGIC of whatever it is you're getting religified about. Sometimes, I hate wrestling so much because I've been polluted by the poisons of over-analysis. Usually, when this feeling overwhelms me, I'll take a couple hydrocodones with a corked bottle of cabernet sauvignon, something warm for my gut and slow for my bloodstream, and pop in an old Sabu videotape or watch more lucha that my man Ed Turtle continually sends me even though I've sent him nothing but broken promises for like two years. (Actually, that's why I started in May of lucha on gala, because I'm determined to work my way through all this lovely stuff more than just having it on the background while I carve retarded educated redneck haiku into soapstone with a Dremel.)
If someone promised me 51 lucha ring girls in some sort of fake-heaven after I martinized myself, I'd probably try to kill some godless Americans, too. Pooch bellies and fake titties never looked so good. Hector Garza's mustache makes me think further of fake-heavens and the recent passing of Antonio Pena and I'm sure if there is a for-real Heaven, no religion's for-real Heaven would exclude a mad genius businessman like Antonio Pena, and I'm sure in Heaven, the midgets and women work for free, the young wrestlers are more than glad to sign the rights away to their gimmick, and the muscular guys love wearing thongs. Heels fuck up the faces for a visually spiffy three men splitting apart the legs of two men to flip them over into a menage-a-cinco Boston crab fairly fast for the cheap first fall victory.
I guess everybody in this match is actually rudo, just like the real world. Tarzan Boy doesn't look nearly as roided up as I remember him. Now, Damian and then Aguila both had CAPITAN! Universo Dos Mil pinned in this second fall, but pull him up to make him suffer, just like their podna Halloween has suffered, sitting up there on the entrance ramp in his neckbrace, wheelchair, and doo-rag. Damian 666 does one of them new-fangled invertebreaker-breaker moves that would far more easily paralyze a man than a piledriver for the second fall win. This is Mexico, and the crowd appropriately boos, and without irony, but a man also draws caricatures ringside while an infant wears a Mistico stocking hat.
Rubber stamp caida starts with Universo Dos Mil wanting him and Damian 666 one-on-one, to settle some old festering bullshit, which ends in some crowd-pumping kicks to Damian's ribs. I guess Los Perros Del Mal are more rudo than regular rudo. And I gotta tell you, if you had said to me in like 2001, "Yo Raven, you know Hector Garza is gonna look far gayer than he does now, and in an even more disturbing mistaking-power-for-sex type way," I would've said bullshit, because his AAA gyrations of 2001 were enough to bother even me, the amazing two-bearded man. But damned if he doesn't, with his thicker physique and creepy blonde hair and weird Magnum P.I. as filtered through the Rio Grande mustache, look even more creepily homosexual than he did back then. (For those who think I automatically associate gay with creepy, I'd like to explain my barometer for wholesome homosexuality is Larry and Laban, two guys who had crocheted witches in their kitchen on a Roanoke-based PBS cooking show that was the greatest show a stoned teenager could ever want to watch while staying home from school for the fourth time in two weeks. It's where I learned to make peanut butter pie, and no, that's not a euphemism for something homosexually kama sutric.) Bucanero does a ringside drop toehold on Garza into the fans in the front row, and it just doesn't seem that devastating if Garza is acting like he's gonna lose five teeth but the dude he got dropped against is leaning on his wife's shoulder and laughing. Third fall highspots lead to just Garza and Tarzan Boy in the ring, and Garza gets down on his knees with one hand behind his back for the handshake, in the third fall. You gotta love lucha. Ends up with Tarzan almost getting pinned by Garza but Universo, ever the resourceful old fighter, throws a beer in the face of Garza which leads to his match-deciding pin, because alcohol stings his memory, as it was the drunken abuse of his father at a young age that has caused him to unhealthily search for approval, albeit through sexual avenues, from older men.
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