11:45 p.m. LA-based psychobilly band Gamblers Mark finishes its high-energy set Saturday night at Adrenaline Sports Bar & Grill with The Stray Cats’ “Rumble in Brighton.” For the rest of the night, there will be rumbling between scantily clad women in a lube-filled blow-up pool. Pretty much exactly what The Stray Cats meant.
11:50 p.m. The ring crew is in full setup mode. Large swaths of plastic cover the side of the stage. Foam mats are laid down. Then a tarp. Then the blow-up pool. This is taking a long time.
12:15 a.m. The first match! A woman who goes by Jazze makes short work of her opponent. Things are kicking into high gear.
12:16 a.m. Things have slowed down considerably. The two fighters lube-wrestled each other so hard, they tore a hole in the blow-up pool. It’s reminiscent of the time The Undertaker chokeslammed Edge off a ladder, breaking the ring in the process. In my mind I hear Jim Ross: “He chokeslammed him straight to hell.”
12:28 a.m. “Does anybody have an extra blow-up pool?” someone in the restless crowd asks.
12:45 a.m. The pool has been fixed, kind of, by taping the tarp to the pool. Match two features a woman named Spunky, who limps away after her loss. I ask what happened as she ices her knee, and she says it popped out of place. I asked if she’s getting paid. She’s not. I ask if it’s worth it. She tells me it is.
1:09 a.m. Two promotional models, Kym and Lauren, get in the pool and “wrestle” each other. Actually, they gyrate in staged sexual motions. Zero points to the DJ for not playing Ginuwine’s “Pony.”
1:10 a.m. I leave, disgusted that the promo models had a choreographed fight. What is the point of lube wrestling without competitive integrity? At least I didn’t get any lube on me.
