I smell Skoal.
When you grow up in the South, you're used to that musky, acidic tang. It's in and outside your gas stations, or on your distant cousin's breath in the back of your uncle's pick-up. But there's not much of it in Portland, Oregon. The dejected, artsy depressives who haunt this city prefer cigarettes; the ones who don't smoke, vape.
In the Moda Center, dip smell and cigarette smoke linger alongside candied vape scents. They dance with overpriced domestic macro-brews - thirteen dollars for a can of beer, before tip. The local IPAs are even more, and for my money, most of them probably taste the same. That same hoppy bitterness with whatever mix-ins the brewery could justify a new label for. The micro-brew boom has long since left the city, but you can't go anywhere without being reminded of it - the smack of desperation on each batch of the breweries that survived.
The chewing tobacco smells in here are likely from the surrounding areas - conservative outliers to a blue metropolitan center. For all its stereotyping as a hippy-dippy liberal haven, much of the Pacific Northwest is heavily populated with camo-and-flag types. The kind of guys I don't want to run into on a back-road past sundown. But as fate would have it, I'm about to spend the next four hours locked in an arena with them.
Welcome to WWE Smackdown in Portland, Oregon.
A larger man with a beard and glasses walks by in an "Anti-I.C.E. Social Club" shirt. The line moves up after a couple of minutes, and as it does, a pickled Caucasian in an ill-fitting MAGA hat hobbles past. Folks in hunting camo who speak with a drawl lead their flocks of ragged children in oversized wrestling tees past. Goth couples with spiky jackets and loud colors in their hair. In line, I spot at least a few attendees with mentally handicapped adult siblings. One pair is front of me - a duo of middle-aged men. The more present one is having nice, cordial conversation with another group in line; his brother is enthusiastic, overjoyed about each John Cena shirt he spots.
It's easy to pick the low-hanging fruit - "ha, rednecks and handicapped people like WWE." This is the stigma that's hung over wrestling, in its American incarnation, since the '90s. It's "white trash." It's "ghetto." It's for "stupid people." Think about the intersections there. What's more, WWE has earned a reputation for being a hardcore right-wing promotion among terminally online left-leaning wrestling commentators. It doesn't help matters when HHH mugs with Trump or RFK. As a transsexual wrestling fan, I'm isolated at a WWE show on two accounts -- I'm one of three trans people I see all evening, and the trans people I follow online to talk about wrestling with hate WWE. A reject, on both accounts.
I stand in line for about 30 minutes with the rest of the rejects. It moves faster than I expect for a line wrapped around over half the circumference of the building. Teenage girls in Rhea Ripley and Alexa Bliss shirts walk by. There are more women and girls at this show than the Raw I attended in 2016. More, too, with ample merch to rep of other women. The "Women's Revolution" - everything in this promotion has a moniker - was not a fad. The average WWE or NXT episode has more time devoted to its women's division than hot-to-trot upstart AEW these days. It's fair to say that female wrestlers and fans alike are firm foundations for the promotion now, more than ever.
The merch situation at a WWE show is insane. We're talking $30 programs, $40 blind bags, and $600 title replicas to complement the $40 t-shirts. I shouldn't pay for any of this, really, but I've been in line this long. Most of the merch doesn't interest me, but one shirt has my eye - a black 'RKO' shirt with a viper coiled around the initials. In front of me, parents buy their kids toy title belts and couples debate buying a $60 hoodie. The brothers in front of me finally gets their turned; the excitable one gets a John Cena shirt and is perhaps more excited than an average American child at Christmas. I don't think I'll get that excited about anything at the counter until I get there - as soon as I walk up, I notice a stack of autographed prints. "John Cena" is crossed out of the stock sign - in its place, "Cody Rhodes."
It's $25. I buy it, no question, with the RKO shirt for a grand total of $65. I won't appreciate how funny these two things are to buy together for another week.
I'm seated in Row B of Section 112. They're good seats - better than I had at a Raw taping in Greensboro back in 2016. It's center to the ring. Next to me is an overly friendly white guy whose face I don't internalize as he tries to tell me wrestling trivia I already know. In front of me and to my right -- two straight couples. Next to the pair in front of me is a gristly looking older fellow with a permanent smirk. He's wearing a shirt with a vectorized image of Donald Trump, bleeding from his ear and raising up a triumphant middle finger. You missed, bitch, it reads. But I don't have much time to take in my surroundings -- within five or so minutes, the house lights dim. The crowd is warned not to film, throw things, or get close to the ring; otherwise, they will be turned over to the police.
Yes -- the first thing WWE tells an audience, before the show starts, are ways they can get fans arrested.
First up -- it's Main Event. These glorified dark matches are apparently an online show people watch, which I only found out from someone I follow on BlueSky. First men in the ring are Royce Keys and Rey Fenix. Just months ago, I saw Keys on AEW as Powerhouse Hobbs -- erstwhile member of The Opps eventually relegated to being a sidekick. As Keys, he jumped fence earlier this year; while he hasn't exactly gotten a major push outside of Stephanie McMahon's podcast, the match he turns in against Fenix is rock-solid. Fenix throws a number of flashy, dynamic moves and jumps at Keys, but it's not enough; the brick wall of a man absorbs the blows, delivers some heavy reversals, and wraps up the fight. It's surreal, watching two former AEW guys go at it for a SmackDown warm-up show.
But the second match is the one that really sticks with me. Jordynne Grace vs Alba Fyre doesn't last long - and that's a shame. Grace is one of the most exciting up-and-comer talents right now, fresh off a stellar TNA tenure. Unfortunately, what happens next puts her out of commission for over a month as of this writing. Fyre sends Grace to a corner, which Grace counters by grabbing both ropes and kicking back out over Fyre. But Grace lands crooked -- her right ankle is wrenched as her foot is bent back at a near 90 degree angle. She falls to the ground, as Fyre is ushered to the corner. The ref throws up the 'X' - everyone knows it's real. After medical arrives and checks up on her, Grace is lifted up by the team and taken away from the ring. "Jor-Dynne! Jor-Dynne!" Almost everyone in the stadium gets to their feet and cheers the wrestler on as she's carried up the ramp.
This is a more eventful Main Event than expected. Two former AEW alums who jumped ship to start off, followed by a non-work injury to one of the most exciting wrestlers in the women's division. It feels suitably cursed, in an era where WrestleMania can't sell out and Pat McAfee gets brought out to insult people who actually pay money to be at these shows. WWE is torn between its past and the future, between being a wrestling company and being a lifestyle brand. That's been true for a while, but the TKO Holdings era has cemented the promotion as being in a sort-of half life. The numbers don't lie, of course -- the company is still doing fine, financially, as Jeff Jarrett pointed out recently. But one questions how long that can be sustained, especially with the hugely unpopular Saudi Arabia WrestleMania booked for 2026.
In this opener, the flaws of the company are apparent. Signing talent from the rival promotion to get one over on them, only to relegate them to warm-up spots. Consigning exciting, fresh faces to pre-show matches only for them to get injured and disappear from TV with little explanation. These are not problems unique to WWE, but they are problems nevertheless.
But there isn't time to focus on that; not with the broadcast starting up. It takes about 10 to 20 more minutes of advertisements, but finally -- at 5 PM Pacific Time -- it's time for WWE SmackDown, live from Moda Center.
"Would it do a reader any good to have me recap month-old promos, when those are spots they can find out themselves?" That's something I've grappled with over the past month. The answer I've arrived at is, no, it wouldn't make for good reading. It often doesn't when it's reported on! If it's a monologue or televised skit, I'll leave it for you to find. (Blog of Doom is a great place to read recaps for context!)
The first live match of the night is an open challenge from Carmelo Hayes. He's resurrected Sami Zayn's old spot of defending the belt against all comers, and today, the mystery guest comes courtesy of AAA: El Hijo de Dr. Wagner Jr. The crowd is mostly quiet, but a row of rowdy smarks behind me begins to pop off. They talk the whole show -- chant inside jokes, shout the requisite "you can't wrestle!" jeers. For the most part, they crack me up -- especially during this match. Most people in the room are on Melo's side, and for good reason: he's one of the most dynamic and talented performers at the company right now. His effortless swagger combined with a likable attitude and great ring work make for an engaging performer.
But these guys don't pop for him - it's all about Wagner Jr. As practically everyone else in the arena cheers for Melo, I join them to cheer for the generational lucha star making his North American WWE show debut. During the melee, a shrill voice somewhere near the back of our section jeers, "go back to AAA!" The lads, indignant, shout back, "it's better than this!" They then kick off a short-lived, but passionate, "triple A!" chant, followed by, "it's free on YouTube!" This won't be the only "go back to..." which gets thrown at a Mexican wrestler tonight, either -- more on that below.
It's a great match -- even if I'm not invested in either man, their feats and agility in the ring draw me into the fight itself. Melo and Wagner nail some impressive leaps and throws between fierce strikes throughout, both extremely agile athletes in their own right. The whole match is a constant push-and-pull -- never strictly favoring one or the other until the very end. This is WWE at its purest, its cleanest -- two guys from two programs they run, smacking up against each other and leaving nothing in the tank. It makes SmackDown better, it makes the belt mean more, and -- vitally -- it puts more AAA talent on North American television. I definitely count myself among Wagner Jr.'s fans now.
But the next match -- that's the one I came here for. And the best part is, I didn't even know it was happening. It starts simple enough -- Nia Jax and Lash Legend come out to the ring with their belts and some champagne. They brag, brag some more, then issue an open challenge. Enter Charlotte Flair and Alexa Bliss, only to be interrupted by Kiana James and Giulia. All four women bicker about who's most eligible to take on the Irresistible Forces, even though we all know that the four women in their ring gear -- not Jax or Legend -- will likely end up the ring. Just to confirm, though, GM Nick Aldis emerges to announce that things aren't settled on SmackDown by arguing -- they're settled by fighting. And right now, the two feuding pairs will put their shot at the Forces on the line in a tag-team match.
The way I pop for this can't be put into words. There's this stir in my chest, a tingling to my skin, a moisture on my eyes somewhere between ecstasy and shock. It's how wrestling feels when I'm bought in, and there's nobody I'm bought in to like Charlotte Flair -- the wrestler who got me into wrestling. She's the first person I saw in the ring and thought, "oh, I want to see everything she does forever." Her ring etiquette is bold, built around grand-standing and posturing between dramatic blows with her long limbs. How she greets child fans, and the genuine pathos in all her interviews, gives the image of a positive and genuine face who's happy to be a part of the business. One of my biggest regrets about missing the years of WWE is how many Flair matches I missed as they happened, and how many I could've seen live. She showed up for a segment at Raw in 2016, but didn't wrestle a full match. Suffice it to say, this surprise match justifies the ticket -- for me.
My eyes remain mostly on Flair and Bliss for the fight. Their teamwork is electric -- despite their very different sizes and speeds, the duo is able to time simultaneous moves and pull off synchronized finishers like it comes naturally. What strikes me most here is the sheer battering power of Bliss -- her propulsive dropkicks land with a resonant thud. Her and Flair's signature pair-up move, in which Charlotte picks up Alexa and aims one of her kicks, is exciting to watch because of how it makes use of that force with the other's strength. One woman is tall, very shredded with big biceps; the other is short, fast, nimble. It's a great contrast, and in person, it's one hell of a live two-woman act.
While she's on the sidelines during a few points of the 10 minute match, Charlotte works the crowd into a fever pitch over Alexa. She walks back and forth up the side of ring, lifting up her arms and imploring us to cheer for her partner. "Come on!" she demands. When she looks at different members of the crowd, it's like she's speaking to us directly -- because she fucking is. It's easy to treat wrestling as passive entertainment, as most of us got into it by watching it on TV. But when you pay to see a live show, you're losing money to not put down the phone and lose yourself in every second of it. That's what these people are here for -- to entertain us by pushing themselves. Every time Charlotte whips the crowd up, they get gradually more unglued, until -- finally -- the arena is fully engaged by the last few minutes.
In those final moments, Charlotte and Giulia are between the ropes. Giulia tries to throw Charlotte, but it's reversed -- the Queen shuffles behind her opponent, then delivers a crushing suplex. Kiana James attempts to bum rush Charlotte, but Bliss soars in with a flying DDT and disposes of her. This just leaves Giulia alone with Charlotte, struggling to get to her knees. Anyone who's followed the Top Girl knows what happens next. Charlotte grabs a knelt Giulia from behind to flip over her shoulders, then send her face-first into the mat for a Natural Selection. One, two, three -- game over.
It's a good match -- a highlight of the night, overall. Charlotte's in top form; her moonsaults, graceful and dramatic, hit every mark. Alexa's offense is equally compelling, especially in-person. Usually, cameras will cut around Alexa to make her look a lot bigger than she actually is. The woman next to me squealed, "she's so little!" at several points in the match, and for good reason. But the momentum she puts into every move, the way her entire body hits with her dropkicks... She's a force to be reckoned with. Does this match do much to address dissatisfied joshi fans who hate watching their favorite Japanese talent poached, then buried under already-over blonde Superstars? No, probably not.
But life's too short -- I like watching women wrestle, and this was a great ten minutes of that. End of discussion.
Earlier in the evening, Damien Black and R-Truth appeared together in a segment with Aldis -- to cement their partnership, he sentenced them to a Tag Team Turmoil Gauntlet. Why? Uh, because R-Truth wanted a new tag partner and started begging until it happened. That's how we got here -- 10 men (Truth, Black, Fraxiom, Motor City Machine Guns, Los Garza, and two of the Wyatt Sicks,) with only a chance for 2 to be left standing. Storytelling!
I wish I could tell you, "actually, the tag turmoil match was good in person." But really, I can't even tell you it was bad - worse, it was forgettable. Certainly, I'm not going to fault the performers, because there was solid ring work all around and Truth did a killer job keeping the crowd engaged. On some level, it's still fun to watch a lot of guys throw themselves at each other for 25 minutes. But my biggest issue is that ten years later, they're still doing this gimmick with R-Truth. He doesn't have a tag partner, he's paired up with an unlikely opposite, they come out to a rap, and then they inexplicably stomp more established teams. They did this with Goldust, and now Damien Priest. It feels pretty disrespectful to other talent, especially when their teamwork within their respective duos runs circles around this new pairing.
These calls come at the expense of the tag team division - one of the reasons FTR, notably, left the company. The belts feel cheap because creative shenanigans can land a hard-fought title into the lap of a goofy gimmick team. Sure, it's wrestling - the titles are made up and the rules don't matter. But suspension of disbelief plays a big part in the dance, and it's the responsibility of bookers to not make viewers feel like they're being cheated out of a square fight. WWE used to be much worse about this - they were literally defined by squashes and skits, for portions of their existence. Largely, modern-day WWE is a vast improvement over the product last decade. But even with longer, better matches, these wild booking calls undercut the effort and theatricality of so many talented performers signed to the company.
During the tag team gauntlet, a child shouts, "go back to Mexico!" towards Los Garza. My skin bristles; the Hispanic couple next to me look down at the kid, then try to focus their attention back on the match. It's a short disruption, but it sticks out. These taunts stick out like bent nails in the I.C.E. age. "Go back to" is no longer a jeer, it's a threat -- the very knowledge that someone is an immigrant puts them on a list, legal or no. Maybe this kid doesn't know it. Maybe he does. Either he's heard that at school, on the internet, or from his parents.
WWE is a balancing act of America's ugliest impulses held up alongside the best of what it has to offer. Its roster not only reflects the diversity of styles to professional wrestling, but the rich racial tapestry which makes this country worth staying for. Its fanbase is of a pair - online, there is less of a white hegemony over wrestling discussion when WWE is factored in. In a minor but still noticeable way, I think BlueSky's impulse to exclude or shade WWE from the general wrestling discourse is community erasure. It's especially hypocritical when football and basketball discussion thrives on the platform - two sports whose governing bodies arguably house more malfeasance and active detriment to society than current-day WWE. At the same time - I'm not going to begrudge wrestling fans who grew up watching the company swallow everything they love and can't engage on those grounds.
Also -- the Air Force ads aren't just for show. While the broadcast is in commercials, the packed arena lights up before things are set up for the latter half of the evening. A promotional reel plays out on the 'tron and on the two massive entrance screens. Cody Rhodes, Tiffany Stratton, and several other wrestlers I unfortunately like appear in a big, sloppy kiss to the United States military. The audience is implored to thank the troops for their service, and to clap for the general concept of our nation's military. On the heels of multiple elementary schools being bombed in Iran, I feel a cold chill run down my spine as the crowd claps and begins a "U! S! A!" chant. I stay silent and still amid the hot flash of patriotic fervor.
At the end of the reel, the announcer thanks an attending veteran - seated ringside with his family. As he's broadcast out on the screens, a grim smile haunts his lips. There is pride there, but at the same time, a visible resistance to being applauded. Perhaps he doesn't think of himself as a hero; perhaps he's just as disgusted by the last week as me. I will never know. For him - only him - I clap for a few seconds.
A month later -- the war in full effect -- the Air Force promotions will disappear from the ring. But the WWE's storied enmeshment with the military, doubtless, continues.
It's main event time. No, no -- not "Main Event." As in, the actual main event. The confusion is understandable.
Heat from pyrotechnics wafts over Section 112. Fire plumes from overhead fixtures as Drew McIntyre makes his entrance to bagpipes. Thundering boos - the Portland crowd is bought in to this feud. Outside of the cut, cute white boy in a HHH shirt in front of me, nobody around me is cheering for McIntyre. In these moments, you almost feel bad for heels until you remember it's their job. But it takes a lot of gumption, regardless of profession, to stand in front of a crowd cheering against your very existence. It's a stark contrast to Cody's walkout -- thunderous applause and the obligatory sing-along.
After the protracted pomp of both men's very long walkouts, the match starts -- and as soon as it does, Drew bails. He slides out of the ring and begins to walk up the aisle, refusing what he considers an unfair fight. McIntyre was previously assured that Cody couldn't challenge for the belt if he lost Elimination Chamber. But Drew brought this match on himself when he attacked Rhodes during the event, which let Randy Orton secure the win. Nick Aldis forced McIntyre to put his title on the line in this match as a consequence of his underhanded tactics.
It's been interesting to see fans get worked by this storyline, specifically. Some online pundits were upset that the "rules" had been broken, and felt that Cody shouldn't be "allowed" to challenge. That's why this is professional wrestling and not MMA, though. It's a populist appropriation of the performing arts, above all else. Wrestling stipulations are like comic book deaths -- they matter right up until the point that they don't. There's always a curveball tucked away, some back pocket loophole or invalidation of a rule that prevents someone from challenging for a belt, or participating in an event.
This is why Drew is storming up the aisle. He's indignant, and if he can't make Aldis cancel the match, he'll refuse the fight to make a statement. Cody will have none of it, though. Furious, determined, desperate for a shot at Wrestlemania, he jumps out of the ring and chases after his opponent. They start their brawl on the aisle -- punching, grabbing, and throwing each other in front of screaming fans on either side. After this, Cody manages to lead Drew back to the ring and throws him back in... only for him to leave again.
The crowd is pissed, but in the best possible way. Drew's early ring exits add tension and stakes, as we for him to get back in the ring to face the music. "Coward!" a woman shouts. Emboldened, I yell, "you can't run from your problems, Drew!" After we browbeat a man who could smash our pelvises with his pinkie enough, he relents and gets back in to fight. McIntyre gets several rounds of punches in on Rhodes, but as soon as Cody gets an upper hand and sets up Cross Rhodes, Drew bails out onto the floor again.
A knock down, drag out floor brawl begins. The men fight atop the announce desk, only for it to collapse under their hulking weight. Cody pulls a table out from under the ring, only to have it used against him moments later when Drew powerbombs him through it to cheers. This isn't meat of the match yet -- a proper back-and-forth fight in the ring to determine the champ. Yet it's already been thrilling to see live. Television can't capture the scale of seeing two musclebound brawlers running up and down an aisle, working the crowd between blows, and making full use of the space beyond their designated squared circle. The way such a spectacle can capture everyone from the front row to the nosebleeds is something that must experienced to be understood.
Once it's begun in proper, and Drew has stopped trying to run, the match itself is a heater. Both men use a barrage of finishers on each other over 20-plus minutes, pummeling each other with blows up and down the ring. Each man is given ample time to pull off their signature moves and finishers on each other, as they exchanges kicks, chops, and pins until -- in another stroke of cowardice -- McIntyre grabs ref Charles Robinson and throws him in the way of an incoming Rhodes Disaster Kick. Robinson buckles, which now leaves both men to fight with no ruling for a long, uninterrupted period.
By the time the second ref arrives, both men have worn each other ragged. McIntyre lands a pin, gets it close, but doesn't lock it in. Enraged, he exits the ring to storm the timekeeper's desk for a weapon. He finds it, in the form of a steel chair. But as he slides back in the ring, and lifts the chair over his head to batter a downed Rhodes, fate intervenes. Jacob Fatu -- McIntyre's foil for the weeks leading up to this -- jumps in the ring and holds his chair back. Drew goes for one last Future Shock, a final pin... but it isn't enough. Cody kicks out, then dodges a Claymore to leap and wrench Drew's neck into a Cody Cutter. But he's not done -- one last time, he takes McIntyre under his arm for one more finisher: a fierce Cross Rhodes.
One. Two. Three. That's the show. Cody's music plays as an exhausted Rhodes takes the belt and lifts it high, as the ref leads him around to raise the battered winner's arm. Pyro, sparklers, fireworks... Whatever hasn't gotten fired off in select bursts over the night is loosed for Rhodes.
This is the only place it will ever feel right to be happy about this title change. The morning after, it will be a point of discourse and conjecture everywhere I look about wrestling. Social media, tabloid rags, and YouTube reactionaries will seethe as the Fed abstinent snicker in a corners. It will be branded "the worst SmackDown ever" until the new "worst ever" episode, one month later; the AEW fanbase, meanwhile, will get its fresh round of slag on Cody Rhodes. A man who was instrumental in that promotion's early days is now a villain in the eyes of its fans. Whether someone is a Fed head or hater, this choice will have broad consequences for how people talk about the state and future of WWE in the coming weeks.
None of that matters right now. Right now, after eating two major Ls, the American Nightmare has roared back to life and reclaimed his belt before our very eyes. Cherry-picked shots of peeved crowd members or smark accusations of "inflated applause" won't do this moment the justice it deserves - the cheers are a thick, sonic wall of unbridled and roaring zeal. The guy in the "you missed, bitch" shirt is happy. The couple next to me is happy. The guys behind me are happy, and so is the enthusiastic woman to my left. Children in their Cody Rhodes outfits shriek, as that woman two seats down from me -- who never stopped yelling "get him, Cody!" and "let's go, Cody!" through the whole match -- cheers like a man she knows personally is being honored.
My hands sting, and a bruise on the base of my thumb throbs as I smack it against bone and flesh. As I scream, I don't know that I've damaged my voice and won't be able to talk right for over a week; I'll have a cold by Sunday. As the guy in front of me claps, he doesn't know that he's cheering for the same guy as his political and social opposites just one row back. This collective moment has shattered barriers and melded us into one moment of unified unconsciousness - so focused on the outcome of a rigged match, of "fake wrestling," that we cheer for the same thing in the same room for perhaps the last time in our lives.
This is the addictive poison of professional wrestling, and perhaps sports in general - a hope that these moments mean anything.
Going to SmackDown in 2026 made me realize that I need to get out of the house more. Experiencing reality as the average American does - not in a self-selected, curated bubble built on mutual interests - is perhaps better for me than I imagined. Is it riskier? Yeah! But if I sacrifice my autonomy, or my ability to coexist with people who don't look or think like me because I transitioned, I'll miss out on so much life.
What's more, the crowd reminds me how much I love Portland. It's about as much as I love Atlanta; almost as much as New York vexes me and L.A. entrances me. My city's become a sneering point among the literati, terminally online media types, and right-wing wingnuts alike. Being on the ground, it feels like a place resistant to the alleged inevitability of pie-in-the-sky futurism. A place techies tried and failed to take over, where the people had to pick up the slack left behind by bored billionaires. There's none of the Southern grit I was molded by, none of the Yank pretension I aspired to in my simpler days. It's a place of old brick, bent steel, and communities of all stripes harder than both. You need a certain kind of strength to find warmth in this cold, damp place - a resilience to find smoke from barrels under overpasses, light and community in buildings older than most of their inhabitants.
After ducking between coverage under a steady drizzle on the phone after the show, my fiance and partner find me. They pull up in the Honda, I jump in, and we drive off to end the night at one of Portland's melting pots - My Father's Place. The dive bar and diner, whose jukebox changes depending on the clientele, is a home away from home for me and the girls. Some nights might be all '90s R&B; others, alt-metal or butt rock staples. '80s chart toppers, country jams, contemporary rap... You never know what you're going to get. Unless, that is, the goth club a block over lets out and fills the air with New Order, The Cure, Cocteau Twins, and the like. Yet the atmosphere is always the same - a homey, dark hole with passerby stopping in for drinks, a game of pinball or to try their luck at video poker. Like Portland itself, it scares off the cowardly and incurious - over almost five years, I've seen more people walk in, get a bad vibe, and leave than I can count. Only the sturdy stay.
The same is true of wrestling. That girl I talked about WWE with in college, who congratulated me on my transition, and her Trump voter dad she watched it every week with - wrestling is for both of them. It's for me, too. In its current form, American professional wrestling exists to disrupt reality for the illusion of sport across as many demographics as possible. Left-wing and right-wing promotions exist, but the biggest ones will always stand to profit the most by - like Mac in Always Sunny - playing all sides. To be into professional wrestling is to make ethical compromises on differing scales. Everyone is going to draw the line somewhere.
It's become popular to draw parallels, like my dad, between Trump's rise to power and WWE. The ties are there, yet it's hard to indict the promotion as the sole source of blame when the promotion, itself, is driven by American capitalism. Like the line between kayfabe and the person embodying it, the ugliness of both the Fed and the culture that wrought it are difficult to delineate. So many of the evil places McMahon Jr. took his father's company were informed by '80s advertising culture and post-war imperialist capitalism that accompanied it. He observed how other abusive, morally bankrupt men gained capital in his heyday and chased the dragon as it burnt every single one of the pieces on his board. From a symptom, to a cause.
In that sense, WWE is America's soda tray, its suicide drink - bacterial spillover in bright candy colors. As much a product of the thing as it is the thing itself. Look away if you must, but the truth is that there's no better representation of our country all its diverse corruption and multi-cultural, collective malaise.
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