Another problem in working with him was that he just wasn’t very good. He’d always boast about his ninety-minute matches with Ric Flair or how he tore the house down with Bruiser Brody in Japan. He bragged that he had trained Shawn Michaels, Marty Jannety, and Chris Benoit. I’m sure he worked with them and beat them, but he sure as hell didn’t train them. If he was alive today, he’d probably say that he trained me too.
What he did train me to do was to have excruciatingly boring matches revolving around headlocks and tackles. In any given one of our matches, he’d say, “Headlock, tackle, get the headlock again, tackle, get the headlock again.” I would work my way off the mat and do it, only to have the crowd chant, “Boring!” When the chants began, Bulldog would say, “We got them now kid, we got them!”
We got them wanting to poke their eyes out with a pointed stick maybe.
Whenever I approached him about spicing up our matches, he would get indignant and say, “You want to do all those high-flying moves that will never get you over, especially if you go to Japan.” Considering that Japan was famous for its high-flying style, his statement was equivalent to saying that Boston isn’t a big college town.
Then he decided that our matches were horrible because I was a drug addict. He walked around the dressing telling anyone who would listen, “That Jericho, he reminds me of Kerry Von Erich, he’s always fucked up.”
I wondered who the fucked-up one was sometimes while listening to him butcher the English language. He dispensed such pearls of wisdom as, “You should try beef tongue...it’s a delicatessen” or “Why would he say that? It’s a mute point.” He also had the horrible habit of paying the boys while completely stark-ass naked with his withered Walt Weatherbee clutched in one hand and a stack of bills clutched in the other. It drove me—ahem—nuts. Especially when he shook my hand after giving me the cash.
Think about it.
But if Bob thought I was on drugs, then on drugs I would be. I bought a package of powdered donuts and rubbed the white powder underneath my nostrils. I wandered into the dressing room bumping into doors and walls and asking Bob in my best Jeff Spicoli voice, “Hey man, can I have an advance so I can buy some shit after the show?” He flipped out and told everyone who would listen that I was completely out of it. Well, one of us was...
Later that summer, Ed asked Lance to replace Brad Young as his assistant for the next (No) Hart Brothers Camp. Even though Lance had only been wrestling for less than a year, he was already a good teacher and was an excellent choice. I was jealous of Lance’s new job because once again it showed that, in most people’s eyes, Lance was better than me. To make matters worse, my bookings had dwindled to zero and I had nothing better to do than hang around the wrestling school. Like Lee Barachie and Steve Gillespie the year before, I gave pointers to kids who didn’t have a clue who I was and acted like a hotshot because I’d had forty matches. I was never asked for my opinions, but I kept showing up every day to give them anyway and I ended up weaseling my way into teaching the class with Lance. After a few weeks I even had the audacity to ask Ed to give me some money for my time, which to his credit, he did. It was pathetic and so was I.
I continued to ride on Lance’s coattails when he got a job as a bouncer and got me hired as well. The place was called Malarkey’s and when we started it was like the Double Deuce in Roadhouse—it needed a lot of cleaning up. The manager, Tom, was working hard on upgrading the club’s clientele and he’d assembled a great collection of doormen to help. He gave all of us nicknames that suited our looks and dispositions. There was Hammer, Creampuff, Guru, Hoop, Turnip, Grizz, Fuji, Chang. I became Biff because I looked like I was from California and Lance became...Lance. He was too serious for a nickname.
We slowly eliminated the barroom brawling crowd by using friendly tactics instead of typical bouncer methods. One night at closing time I told a table of bikers that it was time to finish up and they told me in no uncertain terms that they weren’t leaving. When I calmly reiterated that they had to leave, one of the boys who probably tipped the scales at three bills said, “If you want me to leave, you’re gonna have to beat me in an arm wrestling match.”
What Steppenwolf didn’t know was that I had worked ring crew for a show that featured Scott “Flash” Norton, a world champion arm wrestler who became a world champion pro wrestler. Like a smartass, I challenged Flash to an arm wrestling match in the dressing room and he beat me in about one googleth of a second, almost tearing my shoulder out of its socket in the process. But he admired my chutzpah and in turn showed me a foolproof technique that guaranteed arm wrestling victory.
So I agreed to the contest and the members of our respective groups surrounded the table like the Sharks and the Jets and began to cheer us on. We gripped hands and began the battle. I used Norton’s trick and beat the muthatrucker, barely. My group cheered, his group groaned, but to their credit they all got up and walked out the door without protest. What’s the trick, you may ask? I ain’t telling. If you want to learn it, come ask me if you run into me on the street sometime. If I’m feeling froggy, maybe I’ll jump.
When things were slow in Malarkey’s, I’d get behind the bar and start pouring drinks. I was obsessed with Paul Stanley and Kiss (I dressed as the Starchild for a record-setting seven Halloweens in a row), especially his rap at the beginning of “Cold Gin” on the Alive record. He bragged about drinking vodka and orange juice in his thick New York accent and I thought it was the coolest-sounding drink ever. So vodka and orange juice became my drink, except I eliminated the middle man and simply called them Paul Stanleys. It wasn’t long before all of the bartenders, managers, doormen, and regular customers called them Paul Stanleys too. I didn’t stop there, as rum and cokes became Gene Simmonses, whiskey and Cokes became Ace Frehleys, and gin and tonics became Vinnie Vincents. There was no drink named after Peter Criss because nobody cares about him anyway. If you ever meet someone who worked at Malarkey’s, ask them what a Paul Stanley is. They’ll know exactly what you’re talking about.
Working as a doorman was another great way to meet girls. Everyone wants to be your friend and hang around with you and it’s like shooting fish in a barrel—you can basically take your pick. The only drawback is most barflys are crazy. At least the ones that I met were.
When I gave one such fine lass a ride home one night, we parked outside her house and became fast friends. Suddenly, I heard the sound of breaking glass and the passenger window spiderwebbed. I looked through the splintered glass and saw a guy standing there with a hockey stick. “Shit,” she said. “It’s my fiancé!” Here we were making out, her shirt flung on the dashboard like a used tissue, in front of her own house while her future husband (maybe not after this) was inside. She was either the gutsiest or the stupidest human being on the planet. I kicked her out and sped away, counting my blessings that the guy only had a hockey stick and not a shotgun.
I felt I was better off without a girlfriend anyway because my career mind-set had been influenced by two rules Paul Stanley lived by. His first motto was that the only people who told you that you couldn’t do something were the ones who had failed. Words to live by. He also said if you want to make it and be famous you have to get rid of your women. I got his point and since I wanted to wrestle wherever I could, a girlfriend would only deter my plans to travel around the world in spandex.
CHAPTER 13
MY NAME IS CHRIS TOO
My job was a joke, I was broke, and my love life was DOA, so it was time to hit the road again. My dad had begun dating his future second wife, Bonnie, who lived near San Francisco and while watching a small cable channel at her place he saw a wrestling show called Bay Area Wrestling. I needed the exposure and Bonnie said I could stay with her, so for the second time in my career I went to California.
I walked into the tiny TV studio where BAW was filmed and the first thing I noticed was how low the ceiling was. Were there ANY rings in the free world where you could jump off the top rope and not put your
head through the roof? The crew was another ragtag bunch of misfits who hadn’t been trained properly and once again even with my limited experience, I stood out. Unfortunately, the company couldn’t wait to take advantage of that. I worked my first match against promoter Woody Farmer’s son and lost quickly. Then I worked the illustrious Spanish Hitman, who was managed by an ancient lady named Johnny Mae Young (yeah, that Mae Young and she was already older than Methuselah). She was a lunatic and after she caused me to lose the match, she beat the shit out of me and it hurt.
When I was booked to beat a guy called Luscious Larry, Woody asked me if I was excited that I was “getting a big win.” At that point I could’ve cared less, I just wanted to get it on and get it over with. Winning or losing wasn’t as important as having the best match I could in front of the fifty fans in this tiny studio and hopefully be seen on TV by someone who could get me another job. After wrestling three matches for zero money, I got a small victory when I did my first interview with a nationally distributed magazine called Wrestling World. The reporter took a few pictures and wrote a total bullshit story about the young gorgeous newcomer that had taken California by storm and was on the brink of superstardom. It was the second time my name had appeared in a wrestling magazine; the first via a letter that had been written by a fan named Clint Bobsky, who said that Chris Jericho was the best new wrestler he’d ever seen. Clint Bobsky was of course the nom de plume of moi.
During my BAW time, I met a guy named Billy Anderson who had the dubious distinction of being the 500th best wrestler in Pro Wrestling Illustrated’s annual top 500 wrestlers issue. I struck up a friendship with him and his girlfriend, exchanged contact numbers, and parted ways.
A few weeks after I returned to Calgary, I got a call from Billy’s girlfriend, Rebecca, who had gone through his phone book while he was in the shower and stolen my number. She said she was enamored with me and just had to call. The situation got even weirder a few weeks later when she called me at 4 A.M. and told me she was being chased by the Yakuza (the Japanese mafia, more on them later) and was terrified.
“I’m so scared...they’re after me,” she said. “I don’t know what to do!”
I sure as hell didn’t know what to do either, as I envisioned the Yakuza finding my number and coming after me too.
“Help me, please Chris help—” she said and then the line went dead.
Either she had hung up the phone and had a laugh at my expense OR the Yakuza had actually gotten her. I never found out because I never spoke with her again.
I did however, speak to the Great Gama, who was putting together a one-night-only Stampede Wrestling revival show at the Victoria Pavilion, the home of the promotion for forty years. When he told me I was booked against the 350-pound female Monster Ripper Rhonda Singh, I still did a Jeri-jig because I was finally going to get to wrestle for Stampede Freakin’ Wrestling!
I was in the dressing room getting ready for my match, when Mike Lozanski walked in with my long-lost brother Chris Benoit. I’d been a fan of Benoit’s from Stampede and had followed his career ever since. From Canada to Japan to Germany to Mexico, he’d built his reputation as one of the best wrestlers in the world. He was also an inspiration to me because he’d started in Calgary, wasn’t a giant, and had established himself as an internationally respected superstar. I wanted my career path to emulate his. I racked my brain to think of something to say that would show him how much I respected him. I walked up to him, stuck out my hand and said, “My name is Chris too.”
Benoit looked at me sideways and muttered hello. As he walked away, Lenny, who was sitting beside me, mimicked my voice and said, “My name’s Chris too...my name’s Chris too...” He broke into a gale of laughter and I told him to fuck off.
Lenny and I had grown quite close and we spent a lot of time together. We were both obsessed with This Is Spinal Tap and called ourselves the Lovely Lads, after David and Nigel’s first band. He played guitar and to kill time between gigs, we formed a band named Blackstone Menace. We used a drum machine in lieu of a drummer so for the band photos we had Lenny’s brother Ajax stand in as the skinsman. We sounded like a cross between the Ramones and Mötley Crüe and we spent weeks in Lenny’s basement recording our first demo, “My Brain Hurts.” When it was ready, we drew the cover, handwrote the lyrics, and produced 100 hand-laminated copies. We took them to a record store in Okotoks and sold them on consignment. The final sales at Big Rock Records had Blackstone Menace outselling Nirvana, Kiss, and Elton John, five copies to three copies.
We were huge rock stars.
We kept releasing different demos under the band names Mr. Filthy, Great Caesar’s Ghost, Love Weasel, or Jesus A Go-Go and sent them out all over Canada. If you were a fan of unsigned Canadian bands in the 1990s, look through those old boxes of cassette demos and maybe you’ll find one of ours.
Our musical peak arrived when a national music magazine named MEAT reviewed the Blackstone demo and said, quote, “This demo has very catchy songs and the band has an original sound to them; either that or the tape I got is fucked up.” What more could you ask for in a review?
While chasing our rock ’n’ roll dreams, Lenny and I were still wrestling in Calgary. The quality of workers was deteriorating because there wasn’t much work in town, so once again with the tremendous training we’d both had our skills were better than the majority of the guys around, and that pissed some people off.
The booker of the weekly Calgary show was Karl Moffat, who had wrestled in Stampede as the original Jason the Terrible. He was an arrogant prick and he didn’t like the fact that Lenny’s booking ideas were better than his. So he decided to put a bounty out on Lenny, which would be collected by the first guy who kicked the shit out of him in the ring for real. The stupid thing was that Moffat bragged about his plan to anyone who would listen and the word trickled back to us.
We knew that the ambush was going to happen that week courtesy of a big fat farm boy named Shane Croft, so we devised a plan of our own. Moffat had booked us in a tag match, and when it was over, I was supposed to fight to the back with our opponents, leaving Lenny in the ring. Croft was then going to hit the ring and give Lenny a brutal beatdown. But instead of fighting to the back, I was going to remain at ringside and if Croft was too much for Lenny to handle, I was going to perform an ambush of my own.
So we had the match and when it was over, I hustled back to the ring just as Croft arrived. He got in the ring and started lacing into Lenny and it was obvious that the shit was on. Lenny gave me the sign and I hit the ring ready to rock.
While I was envisioning a Three Ninjas attack, it ended up a Three Stooges bit. I got in the ring and started pulling Croft’s hair to get him off of Lenny. The more I pulled the less he moved, so I kept pulling and pulling until I heard Lenny yell, “Stop it man!” I looked at my hand and saw that I was pulling Lenny’s hair instead.
The comedy routine continued when Lenny aimed a punch a Croft’s moving head, but popped me in the jaw instead. At that point I’d had enough, so I reached down and grabbed his ballbag—Croft’s this time, not Lenny’s—and squeezed it as hard as I could. To my dismay, the guy didn’t flinch. Not even a little. That’s when I knew we were in trouble. He was still pummeling us with his massive hamhock farmer fists, so I rolled out of the ring and grabbed a chair. When I came back inside, I hit that bitch in the head from behind harder than I’ve ever hit anyone in my entire life. There was a sick crack and he grabbed the back of his head and said in the saddest voice, sounding just like Mongo from Blazing Saddles, “What did you do that for?”
Croft had had enough but Lenny sure hadn’t. He walked over to the gimmick (souvenir) table and picked up the stack of Shane Croft 8x10s. Since Croft hadn’t sold a damn one of them, I’m sure they were lonely and enjoyed the attention that Lenny gave them when he ripped each and every one of them in half. He threw the pile at Croft’s wife and yelled, “What are you going to do about it, you CUNT!” Them thar’s fighting words, cowpok
e.
We went downstairs to the dressing room and grabbed the weapons we’d brought with us: my tire iron and Lenny’s hockey stick with nails driven through it that he had made just for the occasion.
We stormed into the booking office where Moffat was cowering and chewed him out like a beaver’s birthday cake. Then Croft walked in the room and Lenny said, “I just called your wife a cunt. What are you gonna do about it?” Both Croft and Moffat had apparently noticed something interesting on the tips of their shoes because they both refused to look up. “You guys got anything to say?” Lenny continued. When neither of them did, I said, “Well then get the fuck out of here.” And they did. We’d kicked them out of their own office. Lenny sat in Moffat’s chair, put his foot up on the desk, and said, “My scalp is killing me.”
Later that night an old Japanese wrestler named Mr. Hito was impressed enough with my wrestling skills...or my ballbag-grabbing skills...to ask me if I wanted to train with him the next week. He was looking for guys to work with his Japanese students and since I was constantly looking for ways to get a shot in Japan, it was a no-brainer. I could hardly contain my excitement when he said, “I see you on Monday at Stu’s house.” Stu’s house? That meant I was finally going to get to train in the infamous Hart Dungeon!
The next Monday, I pulled up to a house that resembled the Addams Family mansion, only the family that lived inside this house was much stranger. I knocked a few times and there was no answer, so I walked inside the unlocked front door and introduced myself to Stu and his wife, Helen, who were sitting right inside the foyer. I guess they didn’t feel like answering the door. Hito was there with a few Japanese kids and he grunted in my direction and led me down the steps into the Dungeon. I saw right away why it had that name. It looked like the basement of the house in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, dark and damp with pipes hanging from the low ceiling and a mat slightly raised off the floor that served as the training ring. There were some weights lying around with HART branded onto the plates (years later before the house was sold, Bret gave me one of them as a gift). Overall, the world-famous Dungeon was just a big unfinished rumpus room. But it was a rumpus room haunted by the screams of a thousand wrestlers.
A Lion's Tale: Around the World in Spandex Page 10