TNA Impact recently featured a skit which had ODB in the menâs room openly suffering from gastrointestinal problems.
How does THAT sell a ticket? How does THAT sell a PPV? How does THAT sell merchandise? How does THAT further a storyline? How does THAT keep someone watching?
It doesnât, it doesnât, it doesnât, it doesnât and it doesnât.
Itâs tough to write this, because I like him and he treated me OK when I worked for him at WCW. But Vince Russoâs booking sucks out loud. Talk all you want about his alleged influence on the WWF âAttitudeâ era. But the fact is that very little done then can be directly traced to Russo. Itâs a further fact that 95 percent of the booking that can be traced to Russo stinks.
Tell me the last thing Russo booked that drew money, or even legitimately increased his productâs visibility. Tell me the last thing he booked â” as TNA heads toward a rehash of New Blood vs. Millionairesâ Club â” that wasnât self-plagiarism John Fogerty would be proud of. Tell me why heâs still employed, tell me why he gets chance after chance, and tell me how many times he has to fail before heâs voted off the sorry island that is wrestlingâs âcreativeâ arm, because believe me, heâll reach it.
You can tell Russo has zero respect for wrestling fans â” hey, join the club, but no oneâs wasting MILLIONS on my acumen â” because heâs a smart man who books lowest common denominator bathroom humor. Subtlety and logic are verboten. You wonât get it. Just laugh when somebody breaks wind.
I chortle when Dixie Carter is called an astute businesswoman. Her support of the Jeff Jarrett regime â” which supports the Russo sub-regime â” shows sheâs just another mark with cash, an airheaded ditz, someone who wastes gobs of dough for the âprivilegeâ of hanging out with wrestlers.
They say a fool and his/her money are soon parted. Iâm amazed Dixie and her money ever got together in the first place. What a dope.
Jarrettâs attachment to Russo is at least understandable. Russo booked WWF when Jarrett actually meant something â” though not much â” and pushed him like crazy in WCW (to no great effect). Jarrett clinging to Russo equates to Jarrett hanging on to the shattered remains of his fading career.
History shows us that wrestling really hasnât had many good bookers, but the very worst seem to get chance after chance. Case in point: Dusty Rhodes. Rhodes tried to ruin Ric Flair by way of furthering his own cause, but he couldnât. Flair was just too good. Maybe thatâs the lesson to be learned: Good booking doesnât matter half as much as star power.
Of course, TNA doesnât have much of that, either.
Jim Cornette should book TNA. Cornette and I are hardly friends, and heâs a bit old-fashioned. But he books with an eye toward logic and sequence. He knows which parts of wrestling history are worth recycling. And he cares â” and cares deeply â” when given reason. Cornette knows that nothing succeeds like success. Conning yourself into thinking youâre the only hip guy in the room doesnât count.
Wrestling is about telling stories. Russo has proven, over the longest of long hauls, that he simply doesnât have even the vaguest idea how to do that. History will show he failed a heck of a lot more than he succeeded. History will show he contributed almost nothing positive,
Russo defenders point out that heâs part of a booking committee. How convenient. The traditional function of booking committees is to provide a smokescreen that shields any of its members from individual blame. Donât do your job. Keep your job. Itâs the TNA mantra.
TNAâs âNo Surrenderâ PPV was ironically titled. It may have been the promotionâs low ebb, which says plenty. âFire Russoâ chants got on the air. Jarrett came back under the guise of TNAâs savior and was received with mass indifference. On some cable systems, a snippet of soft-core lesbian porn actually aired during âNo Surrender.â It was the PPVâs unabashed highlight.
Why? Because Vince Russo didnât book it, thatâs why.
A SAD FAREWELL
The news that Shelly âSalinasâ Martinez has left TNA to film a movie in Italy leaves me hopeful that she might accidentally wind up naked and kissing another girl on a TNA PPV someday.
But otherwise I am deeply saddened by the departure of a woman that some fancied as multi-talented, an actress who effortlessly careened back and forth between playing a vampire, a duct-taped bondage queen and a hip-shaking hoochie mama from the barrio. But I will not remember Shelly for her versatility, or for the way she contributed almost nothing to LAX, or even for her fine video work with Jewel DeNyle, another noted thespian.
No, I will remember Shelly for taking fake breasts right up to the precipice, to the very limit. Right up to the point of being too big without quite crossing the line. As a TNA personality once said, âWhen you see her in a cut-up T-shirt with no bra, itâs like being hit in the head with a left hook. POW!â
I wish Shelly well in her future endeavors, and if things donât work out in film, perhaps weâll be able to follow her further exploits at theeroticreview.com. Again, hereâs hoping.
