Play Live Radio
Next Up:
0:00
0:00
0:00 0:00
Available On Air Stations
Supported by

Slam poets

Andrew Kiraly

Jessy Sorensen vamps with his belt before taking on Graves. (Yes, just Graves.)

Weird to say, but the first word that comes to mind when recalling last night’s Paragon Pro Wrestling bash at Sam’s Town is endearing. Oh, don’t get me wrong, there’s no condescension in that sentiment. At last night’s event — a hokily theatrical indie thumpfest of men in off-brand superhero drag flinging themselves at each other — I cheered on every bodyslam, every dropkick, every neck-chopping clothesline that decisively levered opponents to the mat like a door slammed shut.

When Kevin “The Tollman” Kross stalked the ring, rousing the crowd as he prepared to pin his dazed opponent, I tapped my wrist along with him and uttered his drippingly ominous trademark line, “It’s time to take the toll!” When reigning champ Jessy Sorensen triumphantly waved his title belt

that for all I know was made of spray-painted plastic and I had absolutely no idea who this guy was but he seemed like one of the good guys you were supposed to cheer for so okay, I cheered for him. When the mic-chewing hypeman barked up yet another unforgettable epic not-to-miss bout, I didn’t care what strutting gimmick stepped out into the sweeping lights amid a thundering whorf-whorf dubstep bass drop — whether it was Crash Test Cody in his dummy mask, skull-faced Graves who hailed from “six feet under” or the caped lucha libre dude covered in spikes (!) — I have to admit, total systemic adrenaline flush.

Sponsor Message

It was the intimacy and weird, earnest purity of the event that made it endearing. But not cute — not inconsequential. Pro wrestling is an ultra-vivid live action morality cartoon: Totally fake, sure, but totally true. It puts you in satisfying proximity to athletic actors — toy micro-celebs who snarl and shout back when you boo or cheer — that make the event more akin to participatory community theater than sport. Or maybe it’s some species of porn: It whispers to you, This is a compellingly simple possible world. Anyway, I’ve had a fondness for wrestling since the days when the now-defunct Showboat hotel-casino hosted AWA bouts in the ’80s and wrestlers such as The Clawmaster felled opponents with his signature facehugging move — and the PPW night at Sam’s Town totally sated the resurgent jones

(Technical shout-outs in naked hopes PPW tapes here again: perfectly sized, well-maintained venue with, really, truly, no bad seats; friendly, sign-waving, face-painted crowd that’s passionately in on the scheme; and — most importantly, hard-working wrestlers who put a lot of blood, sweat and tears into their fictitious blood, sweat and tears.)

If you’re one of those people who makes officious, drudgey pronouncements about “fake wrestling” and something something culture of violence blah blah, this isn’t for you. But if you like seeing bad movies in the theater, loud parties, comic books, unapologetic titillation, deceptive simplicity and bodily spectacle, I’ll save you a seat. It’s time to take the toll.

As a longtime journalist in Southern Nevada, native Las Vegan Andrew Kiraly has served as a reporter covering topics as diverse as health, sports, politics, the gaming industry and conservation. He joined Desert Companion in 2010, where he has helped steward the magazine to become a vibrant monthly publication that has won numerous honors for its journalism, photography and design, including several Maggie Awards.