The Long, Hard Goodbye To The Attitude Era

There is a phenomenal group of crazies lurking through the world these days, covering their tracks with the pepper of the internet and preserving their anonymity through the gross mystique of message boards and blog sites.

These jackals pride themselves on pretense and pun, but forgo punctuation and spelling for the sake of sarcasm, forming insatiable bonds with their like-minded brood, while scourging those who oppose. What they lack in substance, they more than make up for with a grossly exaggerated view of themselves. You will find them at every turn, with every URL clicked "go" on your internet browser. You must beware.

More and more I find myself on the run from these crazies, like the unfortunate Season Hubley in Escape From New York (Don't go into the Choc Full Of Nuts!). But in wrestling, it's hard to avoid these kind. They find you and preach the same critical nonsense about the state of current affairs in WWE. They repeat the same phrase, Attitude Era, as if they were Darwin preaching evolution for the first time. Imposters.

True it was a phenomenal era. A brilliant era. A time when it was expected to be as much a fan of wrestling as it was Star Wars or Jerry Springer. NWO shirts and crotch chops became part of the culture. Even bowlers were emulating it. And disgruntled employees found certain solace in giving the middle finger to their boss, thanks to Steve Austin.

McMahon revived wrestling by pushing the envelope in a time when everyone pushing back might as well have been the poor saps trying to corral John Rambo. And he did it through a three pronged rotation of a feud with Austin, Degeneration X, and Divas stripping to near nothing. They fueled the resurgence between 1998 and 2001.

It wasn't so much the wrestling that was noteworthy but what WWE surrounded it with. Increased violence, sexuality. Whatever they could get away with by hanging the TV14 logo in the corner of the screen.

The Hardy Boys became poster children and ambassadors to the next generation of kids who were inspired to leap from ladders and balconies. The same for Mick Foley, whose fall from the top of the Hell In A Cell became the snapshot image of breathtaking and sacrificial.

Sable, Debra, Trish. How far could a good tease go each week with bikini contests, bra and panty matches, and mud wrestling?

The teenage super hormone experience.

It was the hallmark of the late 90's. An America at relative international ease. A post-grunge culture that began craving less classically defined white knights in exchange for antiheroes. Even a presidency less defined by actual policy and more by under the table fellatio.

But then the new millennium came, and everything changed.

It is no incredible coincidence that a conservative White House and 9/11 uprooted a passive American feeling and made everyone sober up from the drunken complacency of the 90's.

It was also the same year that WCW folded after a determined effort to reach new lows in the wrestling business. The epic Monday Night Wars were over. McMahon had bested his competition, and in turn cast aside nearly all of the talent he had purchased.

And then a slow gripping fact became too evident to deny any longer: the Attitude Era was over. Within five years, John Cena was elevated to the front man, the face of WWE. Not long after that, the TV14 logo dissolved into PG. Profanity, violence, blood, sexuality, all extinguished. Even Austin's hand gestures so prominent in yesteryear were camouflaged by blurred editing.

Nothing but blasphemy explodes from the crazies on this point. They seal themselves away in their own bomb shelters and take endless amounts of LSD in the form of classic wrestling DVDs and live in a vacuum of the Attitude Era and the eras previous.

When not stuck in their own drug induced stupor, they return to their primary mission of marauding any fan discussion of the most recent Monday Night RAW with dismissive Attitude Era references.

But the fact remains that WWE has completely pulled away from that direction and mentality, as further evidenced by their corporate website, which so proudly states that their programming is "suitable for all ages." Sponsorships with K-Mart and Mattell, issues stances such as stopping bullying with children and even a proud partnership with the Make A Wish foundation.

This course of action is not so easy for McMahon to deviat from, now with a steady lull in television ratings and stock profits not so bullish. This even fuels the reluctance to turn the very stale Cena character heel because of the alienation of the very fan base McMahon has pulled into his WWE Universe and desperately clings too.

But this is all obvious and clear on the surface. It's the ripple effects of that era years ago that today are sad reminders of what once was and cannot be again.

The great elephant in the room of WWE discussion: Chris Benoit. WWE practically wiped his existence away after the tragic events of 2007. What Benoit's murder-suicide unearthed was not only once again the steroid issue in professional wrestling but further put under the microscope the violent aspects of the business day in and day out on the wrestlers.

Benoit's style was as vicious and rabid as his monicker once proclaimed. Chair shots, high risk impact blows to the head. These were staples of not only Benoit but so many wrestlers in the Attitude Era, which undeniably fed the popularity of wrestling. But Benoit's death brought a scary reality to the effects of such in-ring offense and created a chain reaction of wrestling prohibition all the way down to the extinction of the classic wrestling pile driver.

On another level of tragedy is the continued downfall of the Hardy Boys. Which brother has fallen further is a debatable subject of sibling failure, but equally their personal troubles in the area of substance abuse can be linked to the post traumatic effects of the aforementioned "caution to the wind" style they adopted in the Attitude Era.

There is a scene from Easy Rider when a dejected Peter Fonda utters the line "we blew it." Film critics pointed to this as a failure of the 60's movement, as did Hunter S. Thompson in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream. Although a surreal, tripping experience, the journey proves to illustrate how the generation succumbed to substance abuse over change and revolution. Did McMahon feel the same way when the tragedies of the Attitude Era became fence posts of criticism for his wrestling product?

Nevertheless, he still found ways to tap into the popularity of the Attitude Era. Most recently, he has built a program around The Rock and Cena, which stands to be an epic, mega main event at the upcoming Wrestlemania. The blatant undercurrent is Rock representing the Attitude Era and what it stood for and Cena representing the PG era of WWE. Ten years ago was the same scenario when Hulk Hogan represented the golden era of professional wrestling against the younger Rock at the time, whose victory was viewed as a passing of the torch of one generation to another. The Rock will more than likely do the same job for Cena, as Hogan did for him before, which will tie the final loose end of the Attitude Era. Just like the mortally wounded Shane riding off into the sunset.

The crazies will find this jobbing absurd and further lock themselves away from WWE, possibly even take the cyanide pill that is TNA Impact, which will leave the rest of us with DVRs set for 9pm on Mondays and reserved seats at sports bars on pay per view Sundays.

We'll watch the the matches, listen to the promos and anticipate the story lines. And that is when a cruel reality settles in and we'll realize that the plastic surgery we administer on our sagging, wrestling faces can no longer hold what lies beneath:

We are the crazies.

Because deep down we are the ones who want the Attitude Era back. We miss the middle fingers. We miss the weekly teases. We miss an adult oriented WWE product. We see Hornswoggle and Santino and shake our heads. We roll our eyes at Cena and mock his five moves of doom. The best we get is the Pipebomber of Promo, CM Punk. There's a reminescence there. A nostalgia factor. A throwback to when WWE had, well, attitude. He's not Austin. He's his own man. But it gives us a similar reason to watch as it did long ago.

But in the end, the Attitude Era is like Mary Astor in The Maltese Falcon, and we're all Sam Spade forced to accept reality and move on with our lives, living with cold showers of McMahon's PG era to get by day to day.

As much as we want her to come back, we know we can never have her again.

Who blew it?

We blew it.

Because us, crazies, thought it could never end and won't let go of the thought that it will come around again.

Maybe the biggest reason we can't let go is because of the tragic, inevitable conclusion none of us have come to accept: that we are getting old. And that wrestling might have passed us by.

The long, hard goodbye to the Attitude Era...

"Myths and legends die hard in America. We have them for the extra dimension they provide, the illusion of near-infinite possibility to erase the narrow confines of most men's reality. Weird heroes and mould-breaking champions exist as living proof to those who need it, that the tyranny of 'the rat race' is not yet final." - H.S.T.

The Great RAW Experience From Section 118

My voyage to the Colonial Life arena is like a trek through a vicious tempest right out of Shakespeare with Vince McMahon playing the role of Prospero.

The sinister local parking agents have thwarted all direct entry points with charges of five dollars per vehicle. Swine. They display University of South Carolina enignias. Not helping your cause, sirs. I'm still paying off the next ten years of my life to that god damned place. No way in hell will they swindle another another payment from me on this night.

Familiarity with the area guides me to the campus area of Drayton Hall. I've performed at Drayton. The seats need WD40, and the heater long ago hit the skids. Ironically, I park next to my lady friend who has to work sound for the dance show going on. The set designer is her inept, perverted professor who so kindly makes comments like "baby, please." He passively coerced her participation in the show by hanging twenty five percent of her grade over her head. Swine.

It's a mild deluge on the way to the arena, and the crowds gather outside of each exit, ready to take McMahon's black acid on their tongue. Southern gentlemen detoured from entrance are turned into redneck piranhas, chomping anyone who appears to cut in line. It's a mad scene.

Children displaying shirts of John Cena are greeted with discerning stares and antagonizing phrases so clearly put as "Cena sucks!" Their faces of concern reflect the current discention gripping WWE. The older generation never wants to leave 1998 behind. The new generation just wants Cena. The poor buggers don't know any better. I probably felt the same way when an Earthquake fan lunged at me and my Hulkamania bandana...

The slow entrance into the arena cannot move fast enough for the commentators behind me, who carry an unmistakable audio comparison to characters out of Gator. They debate the shortcomings of Carolina basketball along with the arena quality of an Usher show. Renaissance men.

We are finally allowed entrance an hour before scheduled start time. I pick up on a gentleman's elaborate ruse to convince his wife they are attending a basketball game. The displayed memorabilia and attire of 99% of the people attending does crash the allusion. She demands to see the tickets. He refuses. I am eventually questioned in this matter, to which I deliver a dead pan delivery that the Globetrotters are in town. Her reaction is genuine delight. Must be a Washington Generals fan.

With all WWE shows that are televised, you get your full ticket price with a series of dark matches or matches recorded for other shows. Tonight, we are treated to the Scotsman Drew McIntyre and Alex Riley, a seven minute yawn fest. Mcintyre's stock has been on a consistent decline over the last year, and Riley is a forced face with little charisma in his current incarnation. He was better served as the Miz's emissary. No shock that he goes over on McIntyre, though it is sadly forgettable.

The two matches for the Superstars show are mostly crowd pleasers, especially when you throw Santino into a match against JTG, whose employment I doubted until I heard his name called. Still having the same gimmick it appears. A chant for him begins, though, from the drunken rows of frat boys who proudly display various jerseys of merit such as Roy Williams from his Dallas days and Allen Iverson from his ill-fated tenure with Detroit.

This Santino gimmick continues to be a sad, sad sight. Such a talented wrestler relegated to a comical punch as his finisher. If anyone needed to drop a timely shoot promo, it's him.

The other Superstars match proves to be an unexpected twenty minute epic between Kofi Kingston and Primo (yet another guy surprisingly employed). An acrobatic affair filled with the usual Kofi "boom" spots but entertaining nonetheless with an unexpected ending that has Primo going over clean. Even the look on Primo's face indicated how surprised he was, as if Kofi felt bad for the poor yokel and changed the finish at the last minute...

In the brief interim before the real spectacle begins, people hustle for last minute buckets of fries and tall boys of Bud Light. The frat row has exploited this ten-fold. Danger, danger. People who try to walk by, politely prefacing "excuse me" are returned scornful looks of disgust by seated individuals who have their view of the empty ring momentarily eclipsed. Savages.

The opening of the RAW show is a great throwback with Rowdy Roddy Piper's entrance and subsequent Piper's Pit segment. He calls John Cena to the ring and invokes a psychological exercise to bring Cena's contempt for the growing antagonism from the audience to the surface. Cena, however, refuses to play ball despite a slap on the face from Piper. Perhaps this is finally the beginning of the long anticipated heel turn we have all hoped for. Faustus had to eventually pay his due to the devil. Cena owes his turn to McMahon...

Leading into the show,a rumor that caught fire throughout the internet wilderness was that John Morrison was leaving the company, apparently disgruntled with mediocrity. If it is indeed the case, the crowd prepares for a grandiose swan song, anticipating Morrison to tear the house down with every page of his repertoire; maybe even exit to a thunderous "thank you, Morrison" chant.

His match is announced as Falls Count Anywhere, further proof that a five star match is coming. Morrison is introduced first. Unfortunately, witnessing the entrance in person deprives us of the slow motion effect when Morrison poses on the stage. Morrison walks all of five feet before he is attacked from behind by the Miz with a pipe. Mix zeroes in on Morrison's ankle with a savage, rabid beating. A deja vu to when Morrison was attacked by R. Truth this summer.

Unlike that incident, Morrison shrugs aside medical assistance and limps toward the ring to face the Miz. A galant effort that still indicates hope for one last gutsy Morrison match...

Not the case.

Although he manages a couple of small bursts of offense, Miz decimates Morrison and finishes him off with a Skull Crushing Finale on the ramp. Morrison is carted off on a stretcher. Miz grabs his trademark microphone and cuts a promo right out Jericho's playbook. In fact his monotone stare and slow delivery is reminiscent of John Lithgow from the film Ricochet.

So this is the end for Morrison in one way shape or form. Whether it's some kind of sabbatical or straight exit from the company, his last image on RAW for now is a no-chance beat down with a pipe. Thank you, Morrison?...

The rest of the show settles into the typical RAW pattern of yawning Divas matches and overly long promo segments involving uncharismatic individuals. Although, to his credit, Daniel Bryan navigated through his segment with Michael Cole fairly well along with Mark Henry's interruption. Can't help but think a Bryan heel turn would be a great result of this storyline.

Match of the night honors once again go to a Dolph Ziggler-involved match. Last week, it was his match with CM Punk that hit five stars. This week, it's with Randy Orton. Of course with Wade Barrett hanging out a ringside, we all know what's coming, and inevitably he distracts Orton enough to allow Ziggler to score with the Zig Zag for the pin. His celebration takes a curious route with a lengthened handstand at ringside. If only his mic skills were a little more on par with the likes of Punk and Miz. Amazing skill set, though.

During this match, not only does my lady friend make it to the arena from that sham dance show, but it also brings to a close a vicious Cold War struggle with the child occupying her seat beside me. We have been jostling for control of the arm rest for well over an hour, which I have been more than generous in giving 50% of control over. But my appeasement is not enough for this fiery chap as he presses forward for total control. No sir.

Main event, Punk and Del Rio. Return match from the previous pay per view. Laurinaitis puts in the stipulation that Punk can lose the belt via disqualification. How long will we have to wait before Punk and Laurinaitis wind up in the ring? They're just dusting off the playbook from Austin/McMahon circa '98.

The match itself is pretty steady, including the usual spots for each wrestler. Unfortunately, there is just an incredible lack of chemistry between these two guys every time they have a match. You'll just see these spots that look rough and ill-conceived. Del Rio just looks rough, and maybe it still involves conforming to the WWE style. But his one dimensionality as a character is accurately criticized by Punk as boring.

The finish comes with Punk pulling an Eddie Guerrero and feigning a chair shot from Del Rio which provokes a vicious interrogation from the referee, but ultimately allows Punk to hit a Snake Eyes version of the GTS. Punk retains. All is well in the WWE Universe for another week...

The Columbia crowd gets a post-RAW broadcast treat involving Big Show and Mark Henry in a World Title match, except it evolves into a six man tag match with Show, Punk, and Cena against Henry, Del Rio, and Miz. Of course Henry bows out quickly; gassed, angry, and craving a bologna sandwich. Punk and Cena get the win with a snapshot image of them hitting their finishers at the same time.

Booker T, special referee for the affair, then demands a spinaroonie-off between Punk and Cena, which Cena, for all his witty sarcasm during promos, won't allow himself to made a fool of doing a spinaroonie and promptly refuses participation. Punk is a good sport and allows himself to look foolish doing a terrible roll instead. Miz returns to participate and does a spot-on impression of Booker T, but ends up getting the Attitude Adjustment and GTS.

It's a comical scene to end the night, and the crowds leave with a good taste in their mouth. But what's more impressive to see is how Punk takes every possible moment to greet the fans at ringside, well after the masses are heading for the exit. For a wrestler known almost more for his controversial comments in and out of the ring, his commitment to the fans as champion is strong and very present. Not unlike Cena, who to his credit, has walked that walk for years. But Punk's appeal is more universal and comes from a more identifiable place in 2011.

Plenty of internet jesters will continue to mock the path that WWE is on and has been for the last ten years. These same jesters with their infectious tongues are content continuing to see wrestling through the eyes of the Attitude Era that long ago ended.

But culture has changed and so has wrestling's popularity. Will their be a resurgence again? Absolutely. But in the meantime, what makes being around wrestling today so interesting, is how in these lull times, it allows the wafer fans to exit stage left and the die-hards to stick around. A lot like Carolina football. Lovable losers at times. But a fan base that does not show distinction in commitment, whether in the penthouse of success or the cellar of defeat.