Amidst a rock block of The Strokes, Interpol, The Stills and a bunch of other bands more popular in New York than anywhere else on Earth, the deejay slipped in George Michael's "Freedom '90."

The entire room paused for six nanoseconds -- no mean feat in a room of jabbering drunks, fueled by stimulants and self-absorption -- and then had a big question to answer. In the first nanosecond, people were merely trying to place the song, but once Michael hit the opening lines "I will not let you down / I will not give you up" years of watching MTV's House of Style came flooding back and it was clear what was playing.

The next nanoseconds were far more interesting as the rush of familiarity gave way to a deeper query: "Can I like this crap?"

After a steady diet of harmlessly acceptable garage rock, the decision on whether to like George Michael became a complex algebra problem imbued with grave meaning. You couldn't just like it -- or not -- at least not in a room full of hip, intelligent, pop culture junkies. The questions begat questions, causing synapses to pop and crackle with activity: Is this really enjoyable? Or is this just enjoyable in an *ironic* way? Or is that a *nostalgic* way? Is this totally fucking gay? Wouldn't I kick my own ass for liking this if it were, in fact, 1990?

Liking "Freedom 90" (or not) was no simple matter. Not only are there ironies and permutations of ironies, but there are all kinds of back stories, like Michael's bathroom bust, his dis of George Bush, his failed career and the fact that, well, he's fucking ass-shaking, pop-rocker, five o'clock shadow-havin' George Michael. How do these things factor out? How do I feel about George Michael now? If I don't care, will I get laughed at?

What is the appropriate knee-jerk response, given six full nanoseconds to react?

And by the time George Michael gets to the "Heaven knows I was just a young boy / Didn't know what I wanted to be" part of the song, most of the room has decided to sing along, myself included. Suddenly, I am shaking my ass and moaning the lyrics at a friend, sans irony, enjoying the fact that I: a.) Know all of the words to this song. b.) She also knows the words. And c.) It is always fun to sing a duet while drunk, no matter what song you're singing.

You'd think liking a simple song played in a simple bar at someone's simple birthday party would be simple transaction. But no one can merely *like* something anymore. We have been weaned on insta-retrospectives from E! and VH-1, and a surface reaction to pop culture is for the mainstream proles. We are far more evolved, are we not?

Simplicity is for bumpkins and stupid people! Instead, we perform an extensive autopsy, as if the carcass of a George Michael song from 1990 -- or any other hunk of media we're exposed to -- held the secret of a lost civilization at its core.

First, the song (or movie, or TV show, or political ideology) must be placed in a context. Then the general reaction must be taken into account, critical commentaries must be weighed and our final verdict must reflect a finely calibrated sense of ourselves. In the end, our reactions are not initial reactions, but reactions to reactions and reactions to reactions of reactions, a five-blackboard equation of self-referential pop gobbledygook designed to produce an opinion that reflects our keen taste. After all, we cannot like things that suck. (And if we do, we like them precisely because they suck, which explains the rise of Ugg boots and trucker caps.)

So, what does a George Michael song have to do with like professional wrestling?

Professional wrestling doesn't raise these kinds of cultural questions or demand anything more than a cursory analysis. With pro wrestling, it's *impossible* to dig too deep because the essential framework is so shallow -- two big, massive hulking dudes are in a ring pounding on each other, until the match stops or someone wins. It's so simple and basic you can't even paint a layer of irony over it. This is why I like it.

Pure simplicity is what makes pro wrestling so enjoyable. When the WWE sells a shirt that says "Drink Beer," people buy it because they agree with the message -- they don't buy it because they're a recovering alcoholic making a subtle, sarcastic commentary on the stupidity of a "Drink Beer" T-shirt by wearing it. When the WWE trots out half-naked women to roll around on top of each other, fans root for the nudity. What you see is what you get. Period. End of discussion.

Every time I turn on Monday Night Raw, or SmackDown!, I'm an eight-year-old again, watching Hulk Hogan slam Andre the Giant at WrestleMania III in the Pontiac Silverdome in front of 90,000 screaming fans. There's nothing ironic about my love of professional wrestling -- I'm not doing it to be different. In fact, that's one of the joys of professional wrestling. When you're at a show, you'll see entire rows of people wearing the exact same T-shirts, because they want to show support for their favorite wrestler. (And perhaps a measure of support for other fans who are also walking around with a shirt that says "SUCK IT!" in foot high letters.)

This is a far cry from the hipster ethos of being unique, individualistic and iconoclastic at all times. With professional wrestling, I'm just another dude with a foam finger and a $6 beer in my hand. I don't have to analyze what I'm seeing, or worry if I'm cool -- because, rest assured, there is nothing cool about a 26-year-old kid who still watches wrestling -- I just enjoy reacting with the crowd, cheering and booing bad guys and good guys and seeing who will win.

Most people I talk to loathe wrestling and the reason that is most often cited is that it is "fake." And on one, very minor level, they are correct. The outcomes of wrestling matches are predetermined, but instead of seeing the potential good in this, people who dislike wrestling immediately think wrestling fans are stupid for watching anyway -- as if we still think wrestling is real. We just don't care that it's fake, in fact, we revel in the fakery, having endless debates over who *should* be put over in a match, second guessing the writers and bookers who decide who will win.

But the majority of people, especially smart people who love to endlessly dissect George Michael's contribution to the pop canon, can't understand how I can like something fake. Perhaps they feel this way because they liked wrestling as a kid, found out it was fake and vowed never to be fooled again. Wrestling haters, at least some of them, probably feel betrayed after spending a childhood of Saturday mornings under the misguided notion that Hulk Hogan, a balding orange-skinned former wannabe rock musician from Florida, was the single most unstoppable force on Earth.

But just because Hulk Hogan's miracle comeback was scripted, just because his lame leg drop wasn't the most devastating move ever, doesn't mean that Hulkamania didn't run wild on people. The man was, hands down, one of the biggest entertainers of the 1980s. He was in Rocky III. He had a popular cartoon. He sold a billion yellow and red T-shirts. And he did it all by shaking his bald head at the right moment, wagging a finger in the face of his enemy and cupping his ears after a "win" to get people to cheer louder.

Although, I can't blame people for feeling a bit betrayed, but by harping on the fact professional wrestling is fake, they miss the larger spectacle. Simply put, professional wrestling is one of the most pure, "real" forms of entertainment left -- a vaudevillian circus that combines gladiatorial combat, shocking freak show, scantily-clad women and constant acts of betrayal. It's a big, dumb soap opera with muscles, which is why professional wrestling calls itself "sports entertainment" now. It's a big show based around sports, that is designed to *maximize* your entertainment value.

Every single week, you are *guaranteed* a shocking or dramatic moment. This happens from time-to-time in other sports, but even then, there are limits. I can only imagine if the WWE's sports entertainment logic was applied to football, another sport that specializes in pre-game pyrotechnics and man-on-man violence.

Without the help of a predetermined outcome, Super Bowl XXXVIII between the New England Patriots and the Carolina Panthers, was arguably one of the greatest in the history of the NFL. The beginning of the game was a slow, grind-em-out affair dominated by defense -- neither team scored until the end of the first half. The second half picked up considerably, both teams began putting up points at will and the score was tied 29-29 with four seconds left to go. Patriots kicker Adam Vinatieri lined up at the 41-yard-line, ready to kick the game-winning kick -- just as he had during the Patriot's Super Bowl run two years earlier.

In real life, Vinatieri kicked the field goal, the Patriots won and quarterback Tom Brady went back to Disney World.

But if Vince McMahon and the WWE were scripting the show, the ending might not have been so simplistic -- in fact, it might have been much different, if only to set up a bigger money rematch or to make you watch next week. Vinatieri could have taken the snap, handed the ball to a Carolina Panther and cost the Patriots the game -- then stand in the end zone, rip off his Patriots jersey to reveal a Panthers jersey underneath, give his former team the finger and soak in the boos.

Or maybe Vinatieri hits the field goal and the crowd goes wild. But after the game Panthers' head coach John Fox runs on to the field, disgusted by the close loss, and lays out Bill Belicheck with a folding chair. As confetti falls on the field, his offensive line stomps the Patriot's coach into the ground -- that is, until Patriots rush back onto the field to fight back with flaming baseball bats covered with barbed wire.

Both outcomes are equally implausible -- and the real ending was perfect -- but my point is that just because the ending is fake, doesn't mean it's not entertaining. In fact, it's quite the opposite.

Nowhere was this clearer to me than during WrestleMania XX, held in Madison Square Garden, professional wrestling's Yankee Stadium and the home of the first WrestleMania. After two decades of watching wrestling on television, I had finally succumbed to the curiosity and attended the biggest show on Earth in person.

The crowd was young and overwhelmingly male, the kinds of people who look like they would eat 90% of their meals in a mall food court and like it. But these masses, while both great and unwashed, were an excitable and fun lot. They chanted "asshole" at the security guards for not opening the doors early. They yelled "show your tits" at the woman in the skybox above the crowd who pulled up her skirt and pressed her ass cheeks against the window. When a match wasn't up to snuff, they screamed "boring."

Cheerful bedlam was everywhere. One young man shaved "XX" into the back of his head to commemorate the occasion, while another showed off his collection of pro-wrestling inspired tattoos. Kids dressed up as their favorite wrestlers -- and so did adults, including a particularly good Hulk Hogan, complete with feather boa, big sunglasses and championship belt. During a excruciatingly boring match, (yes, it happens more than I would like to admit) the fake Hulkster ran up and down the stairs, flexing and posing wildly, inciting the crowd to cheer. After giving the crowd a 21-gun salute with his 12-inch pythons, the skinny Hogan wannabe ripped off his yellow T-shirt -- it took three yanks -- and 18,000 people screamed "Hogan," conditioned after years of TV watching.

Okay, so this was not a place for discourse on the role socialism could play in ameliorating the negative affects of capitalism, but as I've said earlier, that is precisely why I like wrestling. I am not looking for intelligent discourse -- I want to watch ginormous, 'roided up dudes pound on each other in person. If there are boobs and blood involved, well, all the better.

For five hours, I sat there in the stands, cheering like a kid. I marveled when John Cena, a super ripped Marky Mark wannabe delivered a decent freestyle rap, then proceeded to pick up the 550-pound Big Show across his back and drop him on his ass for the win. While the finish was pre-planned, it was pretty clear there was nothing fake going on -- Cena really slammed a man the size of a Geo Tracker, live and in person, without a blue screen or any wires involved.

Yes, I stood up and yelled "TAKER!" when the Undertaker made his triumphant return with manager Paul Bearer and the gold urn that was the "source of his power," bringing his wrestling career full circle, all the way back to the same hokey gimmick that made him a star. And when Trish Stratus turned on Chris Jericho, slapping him in the face, costing him a match and then making out with Christian, his heated rival -- I booed lustily. Even if I saw it coming, what else could I do? The sweet, pretty, Canadian Trish Stratus -- who promised to deliver "Stratusfaction" to all the boys -- was nothing more than a two-faced jezebel!

But it was the finale of WrestleMania XX that really made me realize what I love most about professional wrestling, driving home the dramatic reality that exists in a fake sport.

For twenty years, Chris Benoit has been the best wrestler on Earth, able to make slow, plodding, unathletic goons look like world-beaters. But because of his size -- Benoit is 5' 9" and was dubbed a "vanilla midget" by people who decide who wins -- the "Canadian Crippler," as he is known, had never won a major title.

The man has wrestled all over the globe in search of a belt, wrestling in Japan and Mexico, taking all comers, but when it comes to the big time, he was always passed over. That is, until WrestleMania XX, when he was put into a three way match. His opponents were HHH and Shawn "Heartbreak Kid" Michaels, the kinds of people who *always* ended up winning, not only because they were larger and better on the microphone, but because they were politically connected and friendlier to the bookers who decide who wins.

Things didn't look good. HHH had pretty much held the belt for more than a year and was married to Stephanie McMahon, daughter of the WWE's owner. And Michaels was HHH's real-life best friend and one of the industry's most-popular veterans, well known for refusing to lose big matches. Both in the ring and backstage, Benoit was an underdog -- and few expected him to win the match because of it.

The match went on for 25 minutes and Benoit held his own mightily, busting open Shawn Michaels, who then proceeded to bleed all over the ring. (Another sign of wrestling's reality -- when wrestlers bleed, they use a razor blade to cut open their head, then allow their opponent to punch open the wound, so it gushes.) HHH was also busted open and by the end of the match, the ring looked like an early Pollack.

With everyone bleeding heavily, it was time to finish the match. HHH and Michaels threw Benoit through the Spanish announcer's table and left him for dead, prompting the crowd to chant "holy shit." The remaining two men traded off a series of close counts ("1. 2. NO!") that built the crowd into a state of delirium, everyone standing up and yelling, so worked up that no one could get a chant going. Finally, Benoit crept back into the ring, fended off both men and then locked on his signature move -- the Crippler Crossface. (In this move, he locks your arm between his legs and pulls back on your head until you give up, which actually looks quite painful.)

After a long struggle to get free, HHH tapped out in the center of the ring, undisputedly crowning Benoit the champion of the world. Overcoming years of losing, Chris Benoit won his first belt at the biggest event in professional wrestling, in the most historically significant arena, against the odds. Overcome, I immediately jumped in the air and screamed along with the rest of the crowd. Around me, prepubescent teens high fived and parents held up their kids so they could see the confetti coat the ring.

And there was Benoit, collapsed in the middle of the squared circle, crying real tears. He slowly staggered around the ring, selling his non-existent injuries, showing the belt to a rabid crowd. The ending may have been fake, but Benoit's emotions were real -- and so were my own.

I didn't need a five-blackboard equation for me to figure out what to do. There were no levels of irony to weigh. There was no six nanosecond pause to think about the repercussions of my decision to like something. There was me and 18,000 other screaming maniacs, cheering on the blissful simplicity of a fake victory.