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Brooks Peterson
Brooks Peterson's column is published Mondays. Brooks also sits on the Caller-Times editorial board and can be contacted at petersonb@caller.com
Monday, October 18, 1999
Can you handle the truth about Jesse Ventura?
Is it safe? Have all the talking heads had their say? Has the McLaughlin Group babbled its way into the silence of exhaustion?
I think so, and that's why I have the colossal effrontery to come forward with just what you probably don't want to read: another meditation on the Jesse Ventura phenomenon.
True, ol' Jesse - now governor of the proud, enlightened, civilized state of Minnesota - has been probed, analyzed, deplored, applauded and explained with the manic intensity that can only be generated by the appearance on the national scene of a Phenomenon.
As the reaction to his incendiary interview with Playboy makes clear, The Governor retains the power to shock, infuriate, and, by no means least, entertain.
I mean, c'mon: Can you imagine your typical gray, moistened-finger-ever-to-the-wind U.S. politico casually suggesting that religion is "a sham and crutch" for "weak-minded people"? Or that John F. Kennedy was assassinated by operatives of the military-industrial complex? Or that the celebrated Tailhook Association debauch of 1991, during which female Navy officers were groped, fondled and humiliated was . . . well, not exactly OK, but not really that big a deal.
When the interview hit the press, virtuous Minnesotans, not to mention any number of outraged out-of-staters, sent up a mighty hue and cry, calling for Ventura's ouster at the very least - preferably to be accompanied by ritual immolation. But here we are a few days later, and you know what? Ol' Jesse's still there, and his poll ratings, though down a bit, are still robust.
All this you know. What you don't know is . . . The Rest of the Story.
See, the great unanswered question is: How? How could this strutting, posturing, trash-talking, feather-boa-wearing, chrome-domed colossus make it in politics? He's a professional wrestler, for cryin' out loud.
Ah, but that's the point. Jesse Ventura didn't rise and thrive in spite of his rassling background; he did so because of it.
As one who has been known to watch professional wrestling every now and again on the tube, I may have a little more insight into this than your average white-wine-sipping, brie-nibbling Washington aesthete.
It's as obvious as the paisley pattern on George Will's bowtie: Far from being a barbaric, exotic realm, pro wrestling is the ideal training ground for a political career, given the current state of the art in the United States.
True, in most statehouses, let alone the halls of the Capitol, you won't have much need for the Atomic Piledriver or the Mandible Claw Death Grip.
In case you haven't noticed, however, that stuff has almost become a side issue in the squared circle. What, after all, do wrestlers spend most of their time doing? Emoting, that's what: For every five minutes they spend grappling with one another, they spend 10 (if not more) screaming abuse, inciting the audience to riot, threatening unthinkable bodily harm (not to mention occult punishments too horrible to mention here) . . .
In other words: politics by another name.
Note also: These guys are not stupid. Sure, some of them may walk with their knuckles dragging on the ground, but there's definitely something going on between their ears.
A recent A&E documentary, "The Unreal History of Professional Wrestling," drove the point home. Virtually without exception, the wrestlers interviewed for the piece - from the gnarled old-timers to the most outrageous newcomers - were articulate and even, when the occasion demanded it, insightful.
If you've ever tuned in on the WWF or the WCW, you'll realize just how effective these guys are at delivering their messages - and whipping a crowd into a frenzy. Indeed, one of the more adept practitioners of the art, Stone Cold Steve Austin, calls to mind nothing so much as Benito Mussolini - though of course Il Duce didn't give himself a beer shower after every victory. (Nice touch, that.)
So, my artsy-craftsy friends, do not be too quick to shrug off Jesse "The Governor" Ventura as a colorful aberration. He may simply be the trailblazer: The Hulkster is waiting in the wings. Stone Cold is considering his options. Oh . . . and do you know what The Rock is cooking?
Wait and see.
(Peterson can be reached by phone at 886-3772, or by e-mail at petersonb@caller.com)
Brooks Peterson
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