Greetings and salutations, folks. Boon here, with a landmark (I guess) edition of The Column. Ikuzo!

I have a friend who used to be a huge WCW mark. He was a big fan, and watched it since before Sting went all Crow-ish on the world. However, about a year ago, he stopped watching, disinterested. The other day, I went to his house, and gave him a quick recap of the past month in WCW--he doesn't watch, but he's still always waiting to hear about the event that will get him back into WCW.

Arquette, WCW Champion didn't work. The New Blood didn't work. Of all the gimmicks and angles that have gone up in the last year, none worked. Then, the other day, something happened.

Me: "Actually, WCW's been doing a bit better... for the moment, anyway."

Him: "What happened?" Me: "They put the belt on Booker T." Him: "You're kidding." Me: "Nope... ain't it great?" (Insert ironic Jeff Jarrett comment here.)

Him: "That's TERRIBLE."

I can't remember the rest of the conversation, seeing as how it ended up seeing us trying to toss each other through a TV set, but I realized something as I dabbed a bandage at my head the next morning: We have truly reached the death of wrestling. He'd known who Booker T was, and had seen him wrestle for over 5 years, and he thought he was a bad world champion.

That confirms this fact--one that is sad, but true. Very rarely is workrate remembered. Seldom will the average fan say something along the lines of "Bret Hart was the man." Over time, wonderful wrestling talents aren't remembered for that great Iron Man match they had way back when. Casual fans of 10-year-old wrestling don't remember Flair/Steamboat, they remember Hogan/Savage. They remember the big gimmicks. They will remember Steve Austin and Goldberg, not Chris Benoit and Booker T. They will remember the Rock. They will remember the Wolfpac. They won't remember Eddy Guerrero or Jeff Jarrett. And that's just depressing.

Just in case that hadn't sobered you up, here's some more quasi-angst.

I realized something this morning. Amid the coffee-stained haze that usually makes up my first pass at my mailbox, I took a look at my offerings to [slash] and realized something.

The Column is nothing new. Nothing, period. It's filler, pure and undiluted, for your viewing pleasure. It's a piece that doesn't have anything innovative to add (such as Butch's Listo, or Michaelangelo's GBU). This isn't too much of a problem, except I don't have enough talent to just churn out a page or two worth of thought on paper and come away smelling like roses.

With that in mind, I've decided to put The Column into a coma. If I come up with a wonderful, innovative idea, or if I become the [slash] correspondent for the New Zealand Pygmy Wrestling Association, I'll come back. But if not, then here's a warning to all potential [slash]ers. Be careful about applying. Make sure you've got something either good or new to put on the table.

Now, to help close this sucker out, I'd like to offer my thanks. Thanks, everyone that read. Thanks, everyone that mailed me. Butch, Rob, extra thanks for giving me mails that didn't specifically involve correcting me about Lita's rack. Christopher Robin Zimmerman, super special death-defying thanks for putting up with my columns, posting my stuff, and running what is easily the best wrestling site I've been to.

So until I think of something better, mata ne. Make mine [slash].