I don't know how it happened.
I mean, I wear leather pants, orange sneakers, vintage '70s shirts and live in the East Village.
But evidently, I've become, somehow, some way, a boring-old-fart.
I know this now because my 17-year-old nephew just came to stay with me and he seemed to think I was about as thrilling as ice in Antarctica.
I assumed he'd want to see ground zero. He didn't.
I suggested a boat ride in South Street Seaport. He suggested ... not.
I offered to take him to see a Janus Joplin musical. He offered to vomit.
I tried to show him fun, global fusion restaurants. The only thing global he wanted in his food was the shape of his hamburger.
... and so, just when I beginning to think that absolutely nothing in Manhattan besides sneaker shopping and girl watching would interest him, he suggested the WWF-theme restaurant.
World Wrestling Federation ... restaurant.
Doesn't seem to quite go together, does it?
Our first pleasure at the WWF was standing in line. We got there early -- 6:30 p.m. -- so we only had to wait an hour to get inside, and 15 minutes more to get to a table. Once seated (at 7:45) it took us another hour to get our food (which disappointingly, wasn't entirely terrible).
The place was huge. There musta been about a thousand people there, and television screens everywhere. Our table was surrounded by television screens. All the TVs played continuous footage of wild wrestling moments and WWF commercials.
The idea, Andrew explained, was to get in, grab a table and then hoot and holler as much as you could at exactly 9 p.m. to try to get on television. From 9 to 11, you get to watch the wrestling live. Well, live on TV. Monday night is something called Raw and Thursday night is something called Slamdown or Smackup or something. As an added bonus, just before the show starts, they bring out a wrestler to talk to the crowd for a few minutes.
OK, so am I missing something here?
We stood in line for an hour, then paid a $10 cover to have the pleasure of eating mediocre food for a ton of money, all so we could watch wrestling on TV?
I guess it's all about the ambiance.
Andrew loved it.
He rushed the stage at 9, screamed and waved and was convinced that he wound up on television, although I didn't see him, unless that speck of red shirt and brown hair was him.
He chanted with the rest of the motley crew.
Evidently, this wrestling thing requires some audience participation.
Like when the guy with the shaved head and leather vest comes out, everyone screams "What ... what ... what!" over and over again. I don't know why ... or, ummm, what.
There's another guy with platinum hair who I think tried to pick up my sister in the late '70s. When he comes around, everyone screams, "Woooo!"
It's sort of like The Rocky Horror Picture Show ... with tights.
The liveliest moment was when the two women with very apparent tit jobs, wearing nothing but bikinis, wrestled.
The men at the bar went nuts.
"Yeeeeahhhh, babyyyyyyy!"
Yecch.
I hadn't seen that much white trash since my family went "camping" outside an all-night convenience store in South Carolina.
Oddly enough, it was fun (the WWF, not the camping) in it's own rather sad and twisted way. It certainly was something I'd never done before, which doesn't happen that often.
After three hours of wrestling screaming through my ears, I was ready for two aspirins and bed.
Andrew was mildly disgusted.
"Tired out, old auntie?" he asked, teasing.
"What ... what ... what!" I replied.
