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Above: Martín Karadagián carries La Momia in 1972!

I just want to say I’m on CLOUD 9 at the moment! Steve “Dr. Lucha” Sims and I worked our hearts out for several years compiling historical information on legendary wrestler/promoter Martín Karadagián with the aim of getting him inducted into The Wrestling Observer Hall Of Fame. Well— today it happened. Karadagián and CMLL kingpin Paco Alonso are the two Hall Of Fame inductees for 2008!

Steve and I both pecked away at our keyboards over the summer, tag-teaming to write the biography of Argentina’s ultimate wrestling personality in hopes of including it in The Wrestling Observer Newsletter’s Hall Of Fame issue. I have to give a big thanks to Dave Meltzer not just for printing the article we penned, but for printing the article in its entirety (it was a lengthy story!).

For those of you unfamiliar with The Wrestling Observer Newsletter and its Hall Of Fame, both are the Gold Standard for the pro wrestling and mixed martial arts industry. Now in its twenty-fifth year, Dave has recently teamed up with Bryan Alvarez and his Figure 4 Newsletter and website. These two cats are easily the best wrestling journalists in town (even though they do way too much MMA coverage—don’t they know that shit’s real?) , and nobody does as polished and zany an audio show than Bryan and His Friend Vinny. CLICK HERE FOR SUBSCRIPTION INFORMATION — you’ll be glad you did—trust me!

“You may not know it, but at the far end of despair, there is a white clearing where one is almost happy.”               —Joan Baez

So many zombie movies, so few done well! In fact, so many zombie movies blow! Tis a pity, because when zombie cinema is done correctly, nothing is creepier than a cadaver limping, clawing, and slothing toward its prey, trapping and munching victims caught off guard. George Romero set the standard with Night of The Living Dead and the original Dawn of The Dead. Since then, new zombie flicks seem to crank out quickly as porn. And like porn, 98% of these flicks fail, but the remaining 2% are brilliant -albeit overlooked- contributions to cinema!

So— when a zombie film is done brilliantly, I am compelled to shout its word for days and nights from a mountain top. But since I’m too lazy to drive to a mountain (and then climb the motherfucker), I will do the Japanese film Stacy the best justice I can via my caffeinated brain (thanks to the pot of coffee brewed by Ann “Meet Mur” Taylor - thanks Ann!) and hyperactive fingertips upon this keyboard.

With the dawning of the new millennium sprouts a disease called “Near Death Happiness” that afflicts teenage girls. The girls infected laugh and skip through a state of complete and unconditional bliss for approximately two weeks…..and then they drop dead…..and, like all good zombie premises promise, they reawaken as slow moving flesh eating creatures. These creatures are known as “Stacies.”

That basic premise is not the only thing unique for a zombie film; the public response to this “Near Death Happiness” epidemic is just as novel. Society doesn’t run from the problem by hiding itself away in shopping malls or boarding itself up inside rural houses, no, no! Society becomes proactive in assembling civil service brigades to exterminate the reanimated corpses.

Which brings me to the other wondrous aspect of Stacy: these brigades are known as “Romero Squads.” Now— I’ve seen tongue-in-cheek zombie films that pay homage to the classic zombie movies, but this is the first quality flesh-eater flick that salutes the genre without being “cutesy” about it. Another fresh moment in that vein is the TV Shopping Network that sells a Stacy Extermination chainsaw called “Bruce Campbell’s Right Arm.”

What else? There is a beautiful love story tacked on (no, I’m not joking). While the special effects are cheap, they are vile enough to still be disturbing. There is coolly stated social commentary (no, I’m not joking—I think).

Lastly, there is the ending, which I will not reveal. The only hint I will give is this: it is not gory, but life affirming and poetic. Yet- this life affirming and poetic ending is twice as twisted as the rest of the film! You must see this (provided you are not easily repulsed)!

Internet Movie Database users give Stacy an overall 4.8 out of 10 rating. They are complete fools. I hate them. I hate their fathers. Fuck them. Fuck them. Fuck them. These are the same assholes who think Jean Luc “Wish I were brilliant as Doris Wishman” Godard is a genius. Goofballs. Fools! Fools! Take a fucking class in film appreciation! No, wait…don’t! The people who teach those classes are idiots too! These are the same idiots who put George W. Bush into power twice! Ernie Roth, are you smiling from the pill-packed Heavens above at that last comment? Please say “Yeeeeeessss!” Ernie Wizard Roth, you were the greatest mouthpiece pro wrestling ever had!

“We reject decadence. We fight decadence with decadence.”
—Gerome Ragni

The book is The Last Party, written in 1997 by Anthony Haden-Guest: Way too cool for words! Buy this motherfucker now!

I was a slightly retro teen in the late 1970s: my bushy hair and stoner tendencies were still quite contemporary, but my rock preferences leaned toward earlier icons like Janis Joplin and The Doors. I didn’t get my peers love for Bachman-Turner Overdive and KISS, and my peers clearly puzzled over my enjoyment of the newly departed hippie era. We saw eye to eye on a few pleasures: Led Zepplin, Fleetwood Mac (it seemed everybody, no matter what their tastes, owned a copy of Rumours in 1978) and Boston.

We also agreed as to what sucked back then: DISCO.

What did we envision everytime we uttered the phrase disco sucks? Tall, pasty thirty-something guys with perms, pencil-thin moustaches, gold bellbottoms, and platform shoes. Guys who looked like the late John Holmes, but lacking the bragging rights in their loins. Chicks who looked like Cheryl Tiegs in their Sears-Sucker-Suits and “90% Nice-10% Bitch” necklaces. We envisioned pick-up lines involving horoscopes and drinks called “Screaming Orgasms.”

If only we looked a little deeper into the cooler media coverage of the NY palace of sin known as Studio 54, we would have seen Andy Warhol, transvestites, yummy Grace Jones, and an all-out-in-the-open hedonistic festival filled with sex, drugs and Turn-The-Beat-Around. In hindsight, boy did we miss out! Yes, if The Ghost of Christmas Past were to drop by in my bleakest hour of despair and say “Let’s go back in the past…. your past,” my response would be a resounding “Yes! Yes! But ….. before we roam the streets of Fullerton, California in 1978, could we spend an evening at Studio 54 first?” I mean, think of it: The Ghost of Christmas, dressed in his white gown flaunting his flowing white angelic mane, roaming the disco amidst cokies and sexaholics, surrounded by the sounds of Boney M blaring out “RA-RA-RASPUTIN!” — he really would have fit right in!

Of course, I am idealizing the scene as if every night at Studio 54 was peak-performance, and as if the entire nightclub scene was every bit as hot and sizzling. And let’s not forget that Studio 54 was one of those many fleeting Camelots of pop-culture.

I know director John Ford said that when choosing whether to present legend or fact to the public, that legend makes for a more interesting story. I completely disagree. When I read a history or biography of a pop-culture phenomenon, the two things that fascinate me are the true story, and the story that tells us how the myths and legends behind the icons were born.

Which is where the book The Last Party comes in. Anthony Haden-Guest’s 1997 work is an excellent in-depth analysis of the New York City nightlife known as “Nightworld,” from the discothque 70s into the Club-Kid culture of the 1990s. The hardback cover is a bit misleading, luring you into thinking this is “The Studio 54 story.” Studio 54’s Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager do take the center stage here, but the book also focuses on the rise and fall of the entire NYC nightclub scene. Therefore, if you are looking for a book that blows the steamy essence of nightlife into your senses — the celebrities, the glitz, and wild parties of Studio 54— this book may not be your cup of tea.

The above topics are covered, but what the book really emphasizes is the maniacal, competitive —and often cutthroat— business nature of nightclubs. In this realm, Haden-Guest excels at illustrating Nightworld’s sharp businessmen, starry-eyed dreamers, junkies, megalomaniacs, doormen, and generic party-goers. You read about the manic ups and downs of the wild players and get-rich-quick wannabees, and their mad scrambles to try and duplicate the success of Studio 54. And often, some of these key players are all the abovementioned descriptions rolled up into one.

What surprised this disco-layman was the depth of instabilty the nightclub business suffered during this “Boom” period. No club came close to Studio 54’s once-in-a-century money making machine, and even its keenest competitors found numerous obstacles when running a successful party-scene. Very few lasted more than two years. The Nightworld party-goers were a truly fickle crowd, with very little loyalty for any club. These dancin’-dopin’-drinkers tired quickly of even the hottest parties, and eventually abandoned every hot club in hopes of a newer, glitzier nightspot.

It is equally astounding to discover that the tales of nightclubs becoming overnight money-makers were mythical (I bet that myth still continues), and how many would-be entrepreneurs, despite their complete lack of competency in running a business, could obtain massive funding from money-marks in hopes of duplicating Studio 54’s success. There are the brief triumphs of Maurice Brahms, the drive of Arthur Weinstein, the mixed success of Scotty Taylor, and the tragic story of male model Uva Hardin, a volatile dreamer who shot for the stars, but never so much as got one club up and running.

You do get to meet a fascinating array of charismatic characters that inhabited Studio 54 and the surrounding clubs, including Bianca Jagger, drug runner Tom Sullivan, Mark Benecke (probably the only guy who became famous solely for being a club doorman), club goers Tinkerbelle, Carmen D’Alessio, legendary (and scary) attorney Roy Cohn, Rudolf and His Club Kids, and Halston. The author does not merely tell you the cool stories about their doings, he illustrates how they shaped Nightworld and/or how Nightworld shaped (and sometime damaged) them.

Haden-Guest beautifully paces the story of Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager’s unexpected success and chaotic fall. Their financial boom was so intense and happened so fast that both men failed to see the potential fallout. Like many club owners, they skimmed money from the cash box. Trouble is, whereas most club owners skimmed mounds of cash, Rubell and Schrager skimmed mountains and oceans of cash, and practically egged on the IRS to investigate them. Out of control egos and the delusion of feeling untouchable is all too evident in this tale. The author also illustrates the irony in Studio 54’s downfall, how if Rubell and Schrager reeled in their egos just a little bit, there is a chance the Saga of Studio 54 would be an ongoing success story to this day.

If I could point to the one thing that I enjoyed most about The Last Party , it would be the treatment of Steve Rubell. I have seen numerous articles and documentaries of the nightclub phenomenon that paints Rubell as an eccentric visionary, a maverick, a madman… and not much else. Yes, the tales of a manic & drug-dabbling Rubell are true, but Haden-Guest illustrates that there was an honest-to-god soul behind the “human perpetual-motion machine.” Especially moving was that after numerous whirlwind career ups-&-downs and “Hello & G’bye” sexual encounters, Rubell, in the last years of his life, found love with Bill Hamilton.

If you are looking for a source on the glitz and craziness that was Studio 54, a good source is the VH1 “Behind the Music” documentary aired around 1996-97. Probably the worst portrayal of Studio 54 is the 1998 film “54.” Aside from a stunning set and Mike Myers’ astounding portrayal of Steve Rubell, this tepid story barely scratches the surface of Studio 54.

On the other hand, if you want an insightful look into the complex and unpredictable nature of the Nightworld phenomenon, this is the book for you.

Fell Hard Into Sweet Deep Sleep
Only Two Hours
Yet Dreamed For Two Nights!

Night-Wired With No Sign Of Sleep.
Chemo Nibbles Cells.
Sweet Buzzing White Noise!

August 26, 2008
4:47 AM PST