Month: November 1995

By Paul Caputo and Jeffrey Carl

Our first Theatre review, on the appearance of WWF Raw! at the Richmond Coliseum. Most exquisite abstract-art theatre. Actually, I think this was our second-funniest column ever. But I don’t remember this event. In retrospect, it’s entirely possible that only Paul actually ever went to WWF RAW and that I just wrote my parts based on snarky preconceived notions about wresting and its fans. In fact, most of my writing in this period is slathered with contempt for people who were socioeconomically different from me. So, if this is/was you, I apologize in advance.

Hi. We are Jeff “The Berserk Weasel” Carl and Paul “The Mollusk” Caputo.  And we RULE!

The touring company of “WWF Monday Night RAW!” recently came to Richmond for a one-night-only performance.  And these two reviewers have never seen a show that could compare to its power, energy and sheer number of times people were kicked in the face.

Wrestling has been part of High Culture since the first Olympics in 4 Trillion B.C., when Fabius “The Human Phalanx” Celsius defeated Brutus “The Dagger” Omnibus Cum Laude.  Brutus’s manager, Aristotle “The Brain” Socrates then challenged Celsius to the first Pay-Per-View Grudge Match.

Things were different then: everyone was Greek, and also they may not have been faking it.  But today, wrestling is the finest avant-garde (Serbian for “avocado gourd”) theater in the world.  The modern wrestlers’ performances last Monday night were savage in their post-modernist sarcasm.  The Heroes – tragic anti-heroes, really – were garbed in costumes of such astonishing tackiness that it looked as if someone had stuck a peacock in a blender, then stapled the purée to Spandex.  The Bad Guys were equally vile, reminescent of Keanu Reeves in Little Buddha.  Especially notable was Gary Ramirez in a cameo role as The No-Name Guy Who Gets the Holy Bejeezus Beat Out of Him by One of the Stars.

The first sign that Professional Wrestling is artificial is that it was sponsored in part by “News Channel” 6. If you have ever watched Channel 6, you know that their reporters are made out of a semi-realistic foam rubber compound.  The part of “Charles Fishburne” is played by a clever trained weasel.

The most brilliant part of the performance was that when we arrived, the seats were already filled with “fans” there to make it look like an Actual Sporting Event.  Their portrayal of rabidly overexcited Drooling Zombies was brilliant.  We’re sure they were actors, because they couldn’t have been real. There were several brilliantly-timed lines from these performers, like “C’mon Ref!” “Now git ‘im this time!” and “If I eat one more Blue Icey Treat, I’m going to throw up!”  Okay, that last one was Paul.

The choreography was brilliantly chaotic, savagely modérne, a cross between Bob Fosse and “Godzilla versus Mothra.”  It was like a grand ballet, except you kick people in the face.

At the end of matches, the “fans” would rush, like a swarm of crazed bees with “Love Me Some Skoal” tattoos, to line the corridor where the next wrestler would appear. They apparently sensed when to do this with special chromosomes that the rest of us don’t have … or maybe it’s the other way around.  For a moment, we were convinced that we were at an Actual Sporting Event, albeit one in Hell.

Paul lost a coin flip and had to go interview some Actual Wrestling Fans.  They said inspiring things like “Benny ‘The Flying Carp’ Zambesi RULES!” and “Whooooo!”

The WWF “fans” demonstrated their manic enthusiasm by breaking out the crayons and making signs to hold up in case they got on TV. The Coliseum was filled with colorful if unintelligible signs: “Richmond Likes it RAW!” “Gorrilla Monsoon For President!” and “News Channel 6: ‘Coverage You Can Count On!’”

Some “fans” were particularly compelling.  In the third row there was a grotesquely obese man wearing (True Fact!) a cardboard Burger King crown, who whistled to the wrestlers and danced sometimes.  A truly brutal commentary on Materialism and Greed.  Jeff has never been so disturbed in his entire life.

Also, there were two really cute girls holding up signs.  They weren’t a comment on anything, but we spent a lot of time watching them, just in case.

Whenever the “fans’” “favorite” “wrestlers” appeared, thousands cheered wildy, and hundreds of otherwise-dormant brain cells leapt into action.  The critique of totalitarian socialism was savage.  The entire arena looked like a horde of Berserk Redneck Mongolian Warlords, dredged from the shallow end of the gene pool and oozing lumpily up the walls of the Coliseum.

The Coliseum Staff was in on the act as well, giving us a thrill-packed adventure before the match when we tried to pick up our press passes.  The Sluglike Woman (a brilliant cameo!) in the Box Office told us to go to the Lower Concourse. (The scenery downstairs involved a lone befuddled guard sitting amidst whistling wind and tumbleweeds in a vast, open, entirely press pass-less space. A bit overdone. Really.)  The Lower Concourse Office told us to go upstairs. The Upstairs Office told us to go to the Box Office.  The Box Office told us to go to Hell.

Eventually we pestered  Slug Woman (and her sidekick, Sloth Cashier) to call a Box Office Manager, so that she could go back to her other valuable work, cracking walnuts with her skull.  We think they never found our press reservations – the Manager just gave us tickets so we would go away.  

We wonder if they do this stuff to the Times-Dispatch.

But the really moving performances were in the ring.  The Referee was vital: he was Everyman; he was blind Justice; he was obviously drunk.  The “rules” are strict: whenever ANYONE breaks even a tiny rule, the referee MUST grimace and MAKE A STERN GESTURE imitating the infraction, then stare at the ceiling and PICK HIS NOSE while one wrestler’s manager beats the other wrestler SENSELESS with a POLO MALLET.

The first match was Enormous Fat Man (played by Chris Farley) and his Flamboyant Manager (Elton John) versus Flamboyant Wrestler (An Overgrown Mutated Weasel) and his Enormous Fat Manager (the late Orson Welles). The wrestlers’ repertoires included a wide range of professional wrestling moves, such as the Almost-A-Punch, the Flying Buttress, the Body Slam, the Denny’s Combo Melt Slam! and the ubiquitous Clutch-Your-Face-When-The-Other-Guy-Pretends-To-Punch-You.

WWF Heavyweight Champion Brett “The Large Intestine” Harte gave a stirring soliloquiy.  Unfortunately, he gave it in a high-pitched yell, about half an inch from the microphone, so what the audience heard was “BLAPHT SZZGRBL kill PHLORGM!  NRZBT “WWF” LIPPY-GORPLER! Minnesota Timberwolves GRLOOOMP!!  FNNGVLST MRDLUNHGP existentialism PHLURG quantum physics HNFF fin-de-síecle London GNRKLTNDFMG Super Size McBHRLTLTHOKKKK!!!!!”  Still, it was pretty inspiring.

One wrestler, who we think was named “Mister Savage,” or possibly “Bert,” appeared in a cloud of smoke and walked directly toward his first opponent, “USA Network Camera Man.” Savage Guy (or whatever) intimidated Camera Guy by screaming at him unintelligibly and covering him with spittle, often in large gobs.  Then he got in the ring and kicked somebody in the face.

One wrestler was really hurt during the performance – the Martha Graham Dance Company also faces many such injuries during a season – and the WWF Emergency Medical Response Team (four fat guys with a stethoscope) sprang into action several beers later.  This must have been very reassuring to the injured man (“Don’t worry!  There are FAT MEN coming to help you!”), since he lay motionless and didn’t try to crawl to a hospital.  Delicious satire on health-care reform.

The show’s climax is the GREATEST EVENT IN THE HISTORY OF THE UNIVERSE. The three-hour web of intrigue and colorful Underoos™ that the cast had been weaving all night drew to a Shakespearean finale of Faustian conflict, Herculean effort and kicking people in the face. It was, uh … well … you know. Okay, so we left early.

What conclusions can we draw from all this? 

On the Bad Side, the utterly seamless performance may have left some viewers with the misapprehension that it was real.  Plus some people may be allergic to bizarrely-costumed homoeroticism.  

On the Good Side, we were getting paid for this.

By Paul Caputo and Jeffrey Carl

Our special editorial on what we were and weren’t thankful for, including Miracle Whip, happy Golden Retrievers and girlfriends who hadn’t dumped us. Written with all the pathos and earnestness that two callow 22-year-olds could muster at the time, which is frankly not much. But still kind of touching, actually.

Hi. We are Jeff and Paul.  And just what are yams anyway?

Thanksgiving is as much a part of American culture as baseball and David Hasselhoff. It is a time to give thanks, (Get it?  Thanks … give … ing?  Clever.), a time to revel in the warmth of family, a time to reflect, a time to eat so much that you feel like you will NEVER EAT EVER AGAIN, until tomorrow when Taco Bell unveils its Border Light Leftover Turkey Soft Tacos. 

It is a time for brotherhood and stuffing.  Not necessarily in that order.

To truly understand Thanksgiving, we must go back to the story of the First Thanksgiving. Some historians (all right, one historian) believe that Thanksgiving was invented by aliens from the planet Pong. Another scholar (Rush Limbaugh) believes that Thanksgiving came into existence for bleeding-heart cry-baby liberals who wanted more turkey. (Although, Limbaugh doesn’t need any more turkey himself, if you know what we mean.)  Both of these theories, while believeable, are, as the Norwegians say, “Wrong.” 

If we recall our 17th Century History correctly – which we almost certainly don’t – the Pilgrims, seeking freedom and larger belt buckles, sailed to America, the Land of Opportunity, Freedom and “Miracle Whip.”  They endured many harsh winters, caused by, um … Canada and the Treaty of Ghent.  Just to keep warm , they had to burn witches.  Then they met the Indians and wrote the Magna Carta.  One Indian, Squanto, taught them how to plant “maize,” or  margarine.  This made them so happy that they arranged for a great feast, invited all the Indians and then shot them — including Squanto, whom they blamed for the terrible margarine harvest.  This process (shooting Indians, not planting margarine) continued for several hundred years. We’re not sure what that means but we’re glad the pilgrims aren’t shooting us.

This theory may be “factually correct,” but it too is wrong. Actually, Thanksgiving originated when the first Indians played the first Cowboys in NFL football.

Perhaps we can understand Thanksgiving through our modern, updated observance rituals.

Modern Americans celebrate Thanksgiving by dressing their children in ugly pastel dress-up clothes and  gathering at the ugly house of ugly Aunt Helen, who “hasn’t seen you since you were only knee-high to a weasel and ooooh how you’ve grown!” The men drink beer and watch football in the living room while the young cousins sneak outside with the enormous pot of Uncle Bert’s “special” mashed potatoes and play “Spackle Tag” in the yard. The women congregate in the kitchen, where they drink cooking sherry and talk about how thankful they are that football is on so that the men don’t try to help out with the food.

Football has always been a part of Thanksgiving because without it people would be forced to speak to “relatives,” people who are apparently, through no fault of their own, related to them. If men did not have the haven of televised Detroit Lions games, there would be endless violent arguments about silly family matters like who hates whose family and whose kids painted whose cars with cranberry sauce, blah blah blah.. With football, though, men can argue about important matters, such as why only an idiot would run straight up the middle on third and goal on the four yard line.

In most familes, there is a tradition in which the leading male figure (the male with the least hair) slices, or “trims” (Turkish for “hacks the crap out of”) the turkey that Aunt Helen has had in the oven since, roughly, last February. This tradition is allows males to be a part of it all without screwing up something that would ruin the entire holiday. In Paul’s family (True Fact!) it is his job to open the jars of olives (black and green). And he’s damn good at it.

Despite the fact that Thanksgiving’s mascot is the stupidest animal in the universe (turkeys often score less than powdered donuts and wood paneling on the SATs), it carries a serious message.

It is not our custom to be serious.  In fact, Jeff has never done it before, and the only time Paul ever tried it he couldn’t eat solid foods for three weeks.  However, we do have a lot to be thankful for.

We are thankful that our girlfriends have not yet dumped us even after reading several of our columns. 

We are thankful for baseball fields on Sunday afternoons, for finding a decent song on the radio, for backrubs from the aforementioned girlfriends, and for the way that golden retrievers just seem to be happy about everything. We are thankful that you are reading this column, when you could be watching “Baywatch.”

Nonetheless, we are thankful for “Baywatch.”

We are thankful for Extra Value Meals.

We are thankful that Super-Sizing them costs only 39 cents (plus tax).

We are thankful for the Chinese food at Beijing Café.

We are not thankful that Bob Saget is still alive.

We are thankful that we live in a country where smart-asses like us can make fun of everything.  

We are thankful that we all have so much to be grateful for – whether we realize it or not.  And we are thankful that you are here with us to say “thanks.”

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone, from everyone at the State.  And save your wishbones for us.  All of us.  Or we’re coming after you.

By Paul Caputo and Jeffrey Carl

The complete guide to Richmond Virginia radio stations in late 1995. At the time, this was hilarious. Unfortunately, even I don’t remember why it was funny at the time. Still, I think it’s funny that we said one ‘Lite Rock’ station’s motto was “It’s like never leaving the elevator.” That line was Paul’s, but I consistently take credit for it.

Hi.  We are Jeff and Paul.  But sometimes we fight crime in our secret identities of “Captain Gravel” and  his sidekick, “Fish Boy.”

Welcome to part 7 of our seemingly never-ending series, “The Decline and Fall of Basically Everything.”  Our previous chapters examined the Richmond Marathon, the Martha Graham Dance Company, turnpikes, cancer and the evidence linking Style Weekly to Satan.  This week’s installment is …. what’s that?  You  missed the last six?  We submitted them, but we suppose they were “bumped” to make room for the STATE’s special editorial pull-out section last week on “Why Poor People Should Be Shot.”  Oh, well. 

If you have never heard the expression “A city is made in its airwaves,” it is probably because it is one we just made up for the purposes of this column. However, were this an actual expression instead of an invention of what can only be described as “warped journalism,” it would serve as a great introduction to this column, which just happens to be about radio in the city of Richmond.

Recent changes have put Richmond’s music on the “cutting edge,” bringing it to the “forefront” of the “musical scene,” making it “fashionably late for dinner.” While the changes can only be “positive” for the simple reason that the Richmond “radio scene” sucked “a lot” before the changes, it should be noted that, after the changes, radio in Richmond still “bites itself.”

Now, in studying the subtle nuances of radio in Richmond we must first discount all country music.. The reason for this can be summed up by the following remark by a noted music critic: “AIEEEEEEEE! OK I’ll talk! Please God, don’t make me listen to that!” 

His thoughts can be understood better by analyzing the following lyrics from what is almost certainly an actual country music song:

Aaaah love mah truck/

And aaaaaah luv mah Maaaa/

But aaah jest found out/

Mah Maaa run off with maaaah dawg (chorus)

Moving along to what the hip kids these days call “rock ‘n’ roll,” we all know that the life of every radio-listening Richmonder changed when  Redneck Rock giant 104.7 WSUX switched its format from its original  country to its current 106.5 WVGO.

Wait.

No, that’s not right. 104.7, which now calls itself “The BUZZ” switched from its former country music format to its current “alternative” (“alternative” implying that it’s not your first choice) grunge music format. “Grunge” is a mysterious West Coast term that, for all we know, means “a light chicken gravy.”  You can tell that these  “alternative” bands are very progressive and cutting-edge because they have an out-of-context verb or noun name like “Suck” or “Dogbowl” that was apparently chosen at random.  

A typical lyric from one of these songs (True Fact!) by “Pearl Jam” seems to be, as best we can figure it out:

She dog lick fits sponge bone/

I bong the wink, scoop poke Nerf zone/

She slurp funk tick gourd (unintelligible)/

I  gills wig snort, stink clambake drone (guitar solo)

Right now we should mention, for the benefit of those who disagree with us and are preparing to write nasty letters written in flaming dog-doo stuck to the STATE’s door with a knife, that Paul and Jeff’s music tastes are not “cool” to begin with.  Paul still thinks that “They Might Be Giants” is neat, and Jeff is certifiably the only 22-year-old in the world who listens to “Gilbert and Sullivan.”  So you can a.) like it, or b.) lump it.

In response to 104.7’s maneuvering, WVGO 106.5 switched from its old alternative format to its new exactly-the-same but differently-named modern rock format.   Also, WVGO retired (“fired like a cruise missile”) its old morning show hosts,  Mike, Meg, Weav (short for “weevil?”), Bob, Yoda, and Ringo.  They then picked up Howard Stern, who fills a longtime gap in Richmond radio, namely that there weren’t enough “penis” jokes.

Not to be lost in the shuffle, XL102 did not change its format, or even rename of its old format. Instead, they put up huge billboards saying “Don’t Fake It,” and pictures of what must be some woman being tortured by police after trying to use a fake ID.  We applaud XL102’s stand on teenage civic responsibility.

Or … wait a second.  Oh, she’s supposed to be faking an orgasm.  That makes sense, because radio … orgasms … um … okay, we don’t know what the Hell that’s supposed to be about.  If someone finds out, please write to us, care of this newspaper.

XL102 also plays some “Heavy Metal” music.  It can be distinguished by its lyrics, which are something like this:

I am very angry about something!!!!!/

I am really very angry about something!!!!!/

My life is unpleasant, and I am angry about this!!!!!!!/

Now let’s all worship Satan. (guitar solo)

Or at least that’s what we heard.

Meanwhile, B103.7, which at any given point during the day, has up to four people listening to it, recently joined the radio battle by switching its motto from “The best of the 70s, 80s and 90s” to the harder edged, more direct, “All Phil Collins, All the Time.”  Its strategy also seems to be to play the theme song from the TV show “Friends” at least every three songs and sometimes up to twice per every song, and then again during commercials. 103.7’s most direct competition, Lite 98.1, combatted the recent movement on the radio dial by switching its motto from its old “Like Lite beer, but worse” to its new “It’s Like Never Leaving the Elevator.”

In a refreshing display of either stubbornness or apathy, the new WLEE 96.5 seems to be going out of its way to discourage listeners from tuning in. The most striking evidence of this is their occasional use of the motto, (True Fact!) “Keeping the ‘70s alive.”

Our message: LET THEM DIE!

Apparently, someone in the WLEE advertising department thought it would be really great if everybody out there in Listener Land imagined that the 96.5 deejays all had big muttonchop facial hair and were wearing plaid bell-bottom pants and tight satin button-down shirts. This is cool enough.  But then they actually have to play the music that people were listening to back then, which seems to have been nothing but “Steely Dan.”

At the far left end of the dial, we have the steering column. (Important note: There is only one actual functioning non-digital radio dial left in the country. So, unless you are actually in Jeff’s car while you are reading this, you’ll just have to imagine.) On the far “left,” we have Q94.5.  We should probably mention that we would listen to Q94 even if its entire music library consisted of old Menudo 8-Tracks for one simple reason: They keep saying they might call us and offer us $1,000. 

Can you imagine? A thousand drachmas! We could super-size it every time! We’d be living the good life, baby!

Then there is “Power 93,” which, according to their commercials, “JAMZ!!!!”  There are many people in the commercials dancing around and waving their fingers to demonstrate how happy this makes them.  At the other end of the dial, there is NPR, National Public Radio, which has all the excitement of Public Television, plus it doesn’t have pictures.  Paaaaarrrttyyyy!  Lyrics for a typical NPR song go like this:

Dum dum da dee dum/

Dum da da da da/

Dum doop de doop doo/

Let’s all go worship Satan. (flute solo)

Well, not really.  But it would be much cooler if it did.

At this point, we’ll open the discussion to questions from the audience.

Q: Do any of these stations play “The Beatles?”

A: No.

Q: So, then, they all stink, right?

A: Yes.

Perhaps we have been too harsh: these stations all have their good points.  For example, B103.7 plays cool cheesy ‘80s stuff.  WVGO is great to start your day with that first penis joke of the morning.  XL102 must have a sense of humor, for broadcasting “KISS Unplugged” on Halloween.  “The BUZZ” must be good for entertaining mutants and  VCU students. Lite 98 keeps Michael Bolton off welfare.

Therefore, our scientifically-tested recommendation is to listen to whatever station offers to pay you the most money.  God knows somebody should pay people for listening.  

Or whatever.