B-Listers

Who has time for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame when World Wrestling Fed?er, Entertainment is adding inductees to their own hallowed institution for the first time since 1996? Unlike the Hall of Fame, however, WWE does a fine job of making this a big event for the fans as a prelude to WrestleMania XX. WWE personalities are lined up to sign autographs, and there's even an open bar, which is better than anything the cheap-ass Friars managed the last time I was at the Grand Ballroom of the New York Hilton.

There's a stellar collection of fans, too, everyone from hipster gals to 50-year-old men with South Park tattoos to awed Japanese tourists. There are plenty of guys who look like they used to be in ska bands, a middle-aged gentleman who flew in from England and contest winners from Spike TV.

Oh, and don't forget the remnants of the Trench Coat Mafia. They're very sensitive.

It's also a fine line-up of inductees, including "Superstar" Billy Graham, Jesse "The Body" Ventura and Sgt. Slaughter?who's now forgiven for supporting Iraq during the Gulf War, since he's maintained a more consistent record than John Kerry. Pete Rose, of course, is honored for his important work getting pummeled by Kane on a regular basis.

The hero of the night, though, is Triple H?for praising Graham as a true star who "can do more than drop a leg." See, that's a clever jab at "Hulk" Hogan, but maybe you had to be there. Already booed for taking the podium, Triple H then stops to consult his notes, prompting a cry of "Hogan can read!"?to which Triple H quickly replies, "That's never been proven."

And if you'd rather be reading about Keith Richards drooling all over a podium, then note how you can cash in on a dead pool with an unannounced speech by veteran WWF?er, WWE announcer Jim Ross, whose touching tales of being fired by Vince McMahon strongly suggest he won't be around for WrestleMania XXI.

This reminds me to take in a screening for Dawn of the Dead, primarily so that I can make a joke about Dawn of the Deadheads as I move on to the 4th Annual Jammy Awards at the Theater at Madison Square Garden?although the film's worth watching to hear the crowd cheer when someone suggests shooting the zombie that looks like Rosie O'Donnell. Anyway, my clever segue pans out as the packed Jammy crowd swoons away in mindless consumerism. It's more like 1981's Hell of the Living Dead, though, due to a toxic green cloud that's clearly spread to the Madison Square Garden security team.

They're so addled that I get to enjoy a casual tour behind the scenes of the neighboring Knicks game before wandering into the Jammys. I know that I'm getting close as I take a staff elevator that's boarded by security guys loading in bleary-eyed revelers. "You're not a goddamn C.O.," one stoner shouts at me, and I would challenge that assumption by punching the guy if he was properly handcuffed.

The green cloud has further grown to consume the minds of those in the Jammys' makeshift press area, as two photographers insist that I pose for them. I'm bundled up in a baseball cap and bulky jacket, but I'm still planning to go out like a Rosie O'Donnell zombie if I find myself in tomorrow's papers being mistaken for Michael Moore.

Actually, the Jammys turn out to be very pleasant. The nod for community service goes to a nice guy from the String Cheese Incident who uses an entrepreneurial spirit to feed the poor. There isn't much in the way of oblivious social commentary, either. The audience is pretty much made of nice, normal guys. The only real tragedy is a strong female presence intent on wearing peasant dresses in the snow and practicing yoga during the concert.

It's nice to see the Robinson brothers from the Black Crowes reunite for one evening, even if it is with Gov't Mule. It's even better to see Solomon Burke and Dr. John playing to a large, appreciative crowd. They're part of several legends contrasting young talents such as Victor Wooten and Jojo Hermann, who have always been better than their genre. I'll never understand the appeal of funky flautists, though. At least everyone can be proud that they're transcending being a bunch of old hippies stuck in the 90s. For example, it's left to the Knicks fans to sport dopey Dr. Seuss hats.

[jrt@nypress.com](mailto:jrt@nypress.com)