Before we do, though, there’s always a huge private party for all of us that starts as soon as Mania ends. It’s always first-class, with gourmet food, full open bar, amazing decorations, and a killer live band to set the tone. Some bands were better than others, with Los Lonely Boys at one end of the spectrum, The Hillbilly Jim band at the other, and the band that played one set dressed as AC/DC (Vince’s favorite band) and the other dressed as The Rolling Stones (Vince’s second favorite band) ending up somewhere in the middle.
But this year the entertainment was going to a whole new level. This year it was all about . . . MUSCLEMANIA. This was a bodybuilding contest between Cody Rhodes and Santino Marella that was going to be held during the biggest (and sole) company party of the year. Only in the WWE, right?
The seeds for the contest had been sown on an overseas tour when Cody told Santino that he had gotten fat and needed to shape up. Cody was instantly ambushed by catcalls and snide remarks from the rest of the crew, who felt he was out of line; or more likely, we were just bored and thought it was funny to gang up on him. Santino, of course, took great umbrage (try using that one on Words With Friends, kids) to this and bet he could get in better shape than Cody in time for Mania. Within minutes the contest was booked for the post-show party, the judges were picked (Taker, Regal, JBL), the rules were set, and the T-shirts were printed featuring a knockoff of the famous Mega Powers Explode poster from Mania 5, with Santino in the Hogan spot and Cody in the Savage position.
Both men dieted and trained as hard as they could, and on the night of the show, it looked like it was going to be a tight contest; even though Santino was on a roll as his “sister,” Santina had already won the Divas title earlier in the night. (I’ll let Santino tell the story about why he was dressed up as a woman in his own book.)
It was also a pretty hard task having to explain why there was a guy in a dress parading around the ring with the women’s title to Kid Rock.
Yeah, that Kid Rock.
I first met Kid years earlier at a joint MTV/WCW event in Cancun (read all about it in my gladiator novel, A Lion’s Tale, available in armour shops worldwide) and we’d been buds ever since. He had done a mini concert at Mania earlier that night and invited me to come hang in his dressing room after we were both finished. We had a few beers while watching the show with his massive entourage and even though Kid was a big wrestling fan, he was a little weirded out by the “tranny in the ring.”
“He ain’t no tranny, he’s my brother,” I said, and sipped my PBR.
Santina winning the Divas title was the silly side of wrestling, but the Shawn Michaels/Undertaker match was the epitome of what the business is all about. As a matter of fact, I’ll go on record and say it’s the best match I’ve ever seen in my life, a five-star clinic that was perfect in every way. Kid and I watched it, cheering along like two fourteen-year-olds getting our first taste of the WWE. We gasped at the intensity of the battle, gave each other high fives at the false finishes, and practically hugged each other in fear when Taker did a dive out of the ring and landed directly on his head. Both of us jumped off the couch and waited in silence, praying that he would move his legs, his arms, anything.
“Come on, big man, get up, get up,” Kid kept repeating under his breath, until Taker finally rose to his feet. We sank back into the couch with a big sigh of relief.
When Mania finished, Kid and I and his entourage headed to the after-party and set up shop in the corner of the hall. We drank more beers, told jokes, and had a great conversation about everything from our initial meeting in Cancun to our second meeting in Vancouver, when I got trapped under the stage after introducing him on Raw (Confused? Get my self-help book, Undisputed, for your Kindle now); his dear departed sidekick, Joe C; how AC/DC was the best rock band of all time; and the pros and cons of smoking weed.
Suddenly an announcement was made . . . MUSCLEMANIA was about to begin!! The DJ stopped the music and the live band started laying down some grooves to set the scene. Kid wasn’t too sure what was going on, but when the band started rocking, his ears perked up like a Pavlov dog and he hit the stage. He set himself up behind some bongo drums and began jamming along. Suddenly the music stopped as Taker grabbed the mic and called Cody and Santino to the stage. Kid looked on, dejected, wondering why the vibe had been interrupted.
“What’s going on, man?” he asked me. “Why did the music stop?”
“Those guys are going to have a bodybuilding contest,” I explained.
He looked at me like I was a devil without a cause and watched what was transpiring onstage. Cody and Santino had taken off their clothes and were flexing their muscles, wearing nothing but skimpy posing trunks (well, Santino was, but poor Cody was wearing a pair of cheap Speedos and looking like he was going to puke), while the mostly male audience stood at the front of the stage hooting and hollering. Triple H was the MC calling out traditional poses, which the two performed dutifully, as Vince, Taker, Cena, and Kane cheered from the front row, laughing hysterically.
Kid’s face scrunched up in disgust like he had a spider in his mouth as he watched the two oiled-up half-naked men flexing and writhing on the stage. When Santino hit a crab and the audience cheered wildly as if he were Mandy Melons taking off her top at The Cheetah Club on a Friday night, Kid Rock decided he had seen enough.
“That does it, this sucks, I’m outta here,” he said, and without another word walked straight out the door, his entourage filing out behind him with no questions asked. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.
One of the biggest and most decadent rock stars of all time, a man who had seen and taken part in the kind of sexual debauchery that would’ve made Caligula blush, had finally reached his decency limit and been completely disgusted by the atrocity known as MUSCLEMANIA.
World Wrestling Entertainment: 1
Early Morning Stoned Pimp: 0
—
Poor Cody didn’t stand a chance at MUSCLEMANIA and was booed out of the building; he was nothing more than the straight man in this comedy duo. Santino, on the other hand, was the star of the show and walked away with the seven-foot-tall JBL-designed trophy adorned with tiny female sports figures (ice-skaters, gymnasts, ballet dancers, etc.). It was no surprise Santino was voted the winner, for he was probably the most popular guy on the entire roster. Everybody loved him because he was so ridiculously goofy in every way.
As a person, he was impossible to dislike—great sense of humor, laid-back vibe, and the best stories ever. He’d seemingly done everything in his life, so I called him Santino Gump. As I was writing this modern-day Catcher in the Rye, I couldn’t remember all of the jobs he’d told me he had over the years, so I texted him to get the details. This was his response verbatim:
“I’ve been a dish washer, bus boy, bartender, bouncer, master of ceremonies, scrap metal worker, sub sandwich maker [his autographed picture still hangs in a Mr. Sub in Toronto], retail seller in the mall, male stripper, singing telegram delivering Power Ranger, personal trainer, account manager in a telecom company, event marketing coordinator, mechanical installer, customs broker, ad salesman for a magazine, high school teacher, truck refrigeration parts delivery boy, warehouse worker, roadie for a circus, landscaper, pizza shop worker, pro fighter and of course pro wrestler.”
He knew everybody and had seen everything, like the WWE’s version of Bob Sakamano, plus he had the strangest of talents. He was a great speed walker . . . for real. He had entered speed-walking contests and won. He was great at rolling and I’m not talking about joints. I’m talking about actually getting on the floor and rolling back and forth. I’ve seen him roll across the dressing room with perfect speed and precision like a Buzz Droid. Who does that?! And how do you find out you’re good at rolling in the first place?
He would go to a club and glide across the dance floor like Danny Zuko, yelling at the top of his lungs, “Here it comes! Here it comes!” t
hen jump in the air and land in a full split. Then he would pop straight back up onto his feet and keep on dancing like Jimmy Hart and The Gentrys.
He also knew exactly how to play his character for maximum laughs at all times. He purposely mispronounced names (calling Raw guest host Snoop Dog Snoopy the Dog while dressed in full Charlie Brown regalia was my personal favorite), wore his hair in a goofy mullet/faux hawk combo, and drew a unibrow on his forehead every night for maximum comedic effect. He formed a partnership with The Glamazon Beth Phoenix and christened their team Glamarella. He seemingly tore his ball bag while attempting Melina’s splits-on-the-apron ring entrance. He won the IC title and claimed he would beat the Honky Tonk Man’s record as the longest-reigning IC champion, then introduced the “Honky Meter” to measure his progress. He only kept the title for like twelve of the sixty-four weeks necessary to beat the record, but was so over that the fans loved him even more when he lost. Actually, they cheered him no matter what: when he won, when he lost, when he broke the record for the quickest elimination in Royal Rumble history (Kane got rid of him in two seconds and Santino protested, “I wasn’t ready!” all the way to the back). When he seemingly won the 2010 Royal Rumble or was in the final two of the Elimination Chamber in 2012, he got astonishing ovations from the fans begging him to win the big one. His character was bulletproof in that he could do anything and still stay over, the rarest of rare things in pro wrestling.
Santino ridiculously dressed as Charlie Brown. You can see the lineup for that weekend’s live events, taped on the wall behind him.
Then there was his actual in-ring work, which was the most entertaining part of his character, because you never knew when he was trying to be bad or when he was just bad. He would jump toward his corner to make the hot tag and land two feet away from his partner with his hand extended like Charlie Brown sliding into home plate. This was on purpose.
He’d do a flying head butt that looked (as Arn described it) “like a salmon swimming upstream to spawn.” There would be no grace whatsoever, no technique at all. He would simply jump in the air straight as a pencil and drop straight down like a brick. That was not on purpose.
He’d do an elbow drop where he would mime to the audience that he was sharpening his elbow like a pencil before he dropped it. That was on purpose.
Then he would give a totally awkward stiff-legged hip toss that looked ridiculous and made Cena and me laugh every time. That was not on purpose.
Then there were his famous finishing maneuvers. The Cobra was a ridiculous move where he would turn his hand into a snake with a series of taps to various parts of his arm and then “bite” his hapless victim. He upgraded the move a few months later when he began reaching down his pants to pull out a full-length spandex glove painted to look like a cobra. That’s when you knew shit was getting real. In typical Santino fashion, the move got over huge in spite of looking completely stupid. Heel after heel was vanquished after being struck in the throat by the dreaded snake sock puppet.
When Santino got bored with the Cobra, he began working on his new finish, the Maserati Clutch, which was a “high-risk running top rope submission maneuver.” He got the mic at live events to warn his opponents that when he made the sign of a giant M with his arms, “that stands for Maserati,” and then locked his hands into a clutch, “that stands for Clutch,” the end was near. During the course of the match, he would signal for the devastating move, and get cut off every time. We never did see Santino unleash the Maserati Clutch, which is probably best for the survival of mankind.
Half of the stuff he did was comedic genius and the other half was rotten, but it still made people laugh, so his matches were always entertaining.
Unfortunately, not everyone felt that way. He was in a tag-team match against Cody Rhodes and Bob Holly in Vienna that didn’t turn out the way it had been planned. According to Bob, Santino made a few mistakes during his comeback that caused some timing issues and screwed up the match.
Bob was quite high-strung, with a hair-trigger temper, and was fed up with Santino’s perceived incompetence, so he went off on him in the dressing room afterward.
“Santino, you are the absolute shits! You are the worst performer I’ve ever been in the ring with! The absolute worst!”
Bob Holly had been around for a long time, so for him to say Santino was the WORST opponent he’d ever faced covered a lot of territory and was a huge insult. But Santino didn’t think so, and looked at Bob completely unfazed.
“Come on. Really? The worst? Are you sure? You must’ve worked with SOMEONE worse than me.”
The best part was he wasn’t trying to be sarcastic; he just honestly couldn’t believe he was the worst guy Holly had wrestled.
Santino’s logical tone made Bob backtrack a step and reconsider his hostile statement.
“OK, you’re not the worst . . . but you are ONE of the worst!”
Santino nodded his head, satisfied with the upgrade.
After that tour, we went straight to South America and did a string of shows in Chile, Costa Rica, and finally Panama (jump back, what’s that sound). Whenever we toured internationally, accommodations were paid for and we always stayed in nice places. After the show, we went back to our hotel, which was also a huge casino. We were enjoying a few cocktails, when we were told the bar area was about to be converted into a karaoke bar. I kicked things off with a rousing rendition of “Enter Sandman,” followed by Punk, Mickey James, and me doing a kick-ass version of “Summer Lovin’” from the Grease sound track (it’s on YouTube if you want check it out). Then Santino got up and made his way to the stage. He cracked his knuckles and hopped up and down like Royce Gracie before a fight as he prepared to sing his tune, “The Summer of ’69” by Bryan Adams.
He sang it right on time and completely in the pocket, each word of Adams’s iconic lyrics delivered perfectly in tune. “I got my first real six-string . . .”
He had the scattered crowd in the palm of his hand . . . then he started changing the words for no apparent reason.
“It was the summer of motherfuckin’ ’69 . . . not ’68 . . . oooh yeah!” he screamed, like Adam Sandler singing about the lunch lady. The crowd, which only moments earlier had been responding to Santino like he was the King of Pop, turned on him like he was the King of Poop.
He continued messing with the chorus, changing the year of that famous summer, from ’69 to ’68 to ’77 to ’08, as the audience became increasingly hostile. Then, for no apparent reason during the guitar solo, he started chanting, “Hogan! Hogan! Hogan!” and marched across the stage stiff-legged, like Basil Fawlty confronting the Germans, while the Panamanians wondered what the fuck he was doing.
This was the final straw for the unforgiving crowd; they got up out of their chairs and streamed toward the exit. In the three minutes and thirty-four seconds that it took him to sing “Summer of ’69,” Santino had cleared out the entire bar, with the exception of his peers.
He was far more effective than “Closing Time” by Semisonic, that’s for damn sure.
Afterward, we split back to our hotel bar to keep the party going and met up with Ted DiBiase, Cody Rhodes. and Beth Phoenix. Cena had just done the movie 12 Rounds, and the Finnish director Renny Harlin had taught him how to make a special drink where you put a certain high-proof liqueur into a glass and light it on fire. Then you place the palm of your hand over the glass, which stifles the oxygen and causes a suction allowing you to lift it off the table. Then you down the shot, pour the last few drops on top of another overturned glass, and snort those drops up your nose.
After a few of these Harlin specials, everybody in the room had either thrown up or was acting a damn fool. Santino speared DiBiase (whose only pair of shoes I stole and didn’t give back until the next afternoon) over a set of tables and smashed a Styrofoam cooler lid over his head, breaking it into a hundred pieces and making a huge mess in the lounge.
I watched the carnage, all the while greasing the palms of the waiter who was ready to kick us out unless we paid him off.
At the end of the night, only John and I were standing, and we carried the lidless Styrofoam box up to my room so as not to waste any of the unopened beers. When I woke up the next morning, I couldn’t figure out why there was an oversize beer cooler sitting in the middle of my floor. So I cracked open a Corona and tried to piece it all together.
Twanging Koto
One of the most integral components of a pro wrestler’s ring entrance is his or her accompanying music. It sets the tone of the character, and from the first note, the fans should know exactly what to expect. Whether it’s the breaking glass of Stone Cold Steve Austin, the tolling funeral bell of The Undertaker, or the twanging koto of Funaki, ring music is the most important way to alert the fans as to what kind of performer they’re about to see.
Being a music fanatic, I’ve always given a lot of thought to what song was going to herald my arrival in the ring. I perform with a lot of energy and I always want my ring music to reflect that. If I had the right song, I felt like I could kick the world’s ass, but if I had the wrong song, it was like trying to bang Asa Akira with a case of the shrinkage. Unfortunately, I wasn’t always in control of my ring music and some of the choices made me feel like George Costanza in the Hamptons.
The following is a log of every song I’ve entered the ring to, some of them classic, some of them OK, and some of them just plain Johnny Rotten.
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