Stanton. Orange County. Ill lit streets. Even Katella, the main drag. The parking lot of an industrial park. There’s a church. A mortuary. And an MMA gym that also trains wrestlers. Back alley behind, that’s the hub. They block off the ends, set up a ticket taking booth. It’s modern enough to grab your phone ticket, but cash gets you in. $20. Four hours of live lucha libre.
VWE – Venue Wrestling Entertainment survived 2020. And 2021. And now 2022. They run their primary shows out of El Centro/Brawley on the California/Mexico border. Inland, not San Diego/Tijuana. They were reaching out to expand to Orange County shows in the Spring of 2020. Their first show was scheduled in March that year, the second weekend. We all know what happened then. That first OC show never took place until July 2021. Since then, with COVID hiccups, they’ve been doing two shows a month, one on their home turf, and one in Stanton. Under the lights of Disneyland less than two miles away from the industrial park. Despite the rumors of constant Southern California freeway angst, when I go to VWE lucha, the worst traffic is down Katella as I drive by Angel Stadium, the Ducks arena no longer known as the Pond, and Disneyland. Now more than ever, pop culture reigns supreme in Southern California. If I lived on the other side of the county, I would pass Knotts Berry Farm in Buena Park on the way to Stanton. I don’t know the crossover audience between Disneyland, the Angels, Knotts, and lucha libre. But I do know which is my top choice on a Friday night.
The first time we went, the first post-COVID show in July 2021, you grabbed your own folding chair as you cleared the ticket-taker and set it up yourself. El Mariachi Loco got hit with my chair that night. Since that first show, the folding chairs are now set up before the crowd is allowed in. There’s a reserved section that costs a few dollars more to sit in. The last time I went, el Mariachi Loco got hit with my chair. The more things change, the more things remain the same. Which is really part of the charm of lucha libre. Especially live. There is the ring announcer. There is the mic work, alternating in inglés y español, luchador by luchador, sentence by sentence. The wordsmithing so much more profane en español. Lyrically profane. The insults run free and easy. Not just the luchadores. But the crowd. Las viejas. Los niños. The blonde lady that brings a metal lunchroom tray and a wooden spoon to beat on. The vuvuzelas buzzing.
I met Jayson Hisel, the promotor, the commissioner, and all around brain-trust of the VWE, and his second-in-command Big G a few years ago at one of the Lucha-Va-Voom promotions in Riverside. Somehow, we ended up being the first in line, and like two hours early. I had brought my mom. Because you know, burlesque and wrestling, who else but mom will do? And so goes serendipity. When you meet the people you are supposed to meet. When you meet the promo you need to know.
I’ve learned since then that’s not so unusual with Jayson and the VME family. The last show I went to, they recognized two of the shorter members of the promo, the Quesadilla Brothers, the pre-teen nephews of el Chiver, Freddy Havoc, and gave them both junior title belts. They paraded around the ring with them. It was the opening for the night. Before any matches. To get the crowd pumped. Getting la familia involved. They have shirts that say La Familia right next to the VWE logo shirts. Big G’s kids and Jayson’s son are always at the events, helping out, running around. It’s a cliché that wrestling is a family affair for a reason, be it the Harts from Canada, the Rock’s Samoan connection, but especially so in lucha libre, where familias pass down the names, the heritage. It’s Blue Demon, and then Blue Demon, Jr. y el Hijo de Blue Demon. But on the smaller scale, to see it as you sit in your folding chair, smelling Big G’s home grilled carne asada, it’s a little different. To see the sons, the nephews, the nieces, working it.
And Jayson has made that his niche: traditional lucha libre. He carries a regular stable of luchadores, headed by Li’l Cholo and El Mariachi Loco. You see them each show. EL Centro and Stanton. Chris Nastyy. Mike Cheq and his traveling fan base, the Cheqmates. Jack Cartwheel. Bovi. Freddy Havoc. Eddie Vice. You’ll see an occasional big name out of the AAA or the CMLL in Mexico. Psicosis. El Bandido. COVID testing notwithstanding. All around Orange County there are different promotions. Friday nights. Saturday matinees. You could go every week. The promotors go to each other’s shows. They check the crowds. Me and my buddies have been noticed as VWE regulars. They have started the press on us to go to their shows. There is overlap, like Nastyy and Cheq, that work several of the local promotions. Each stable has its own stars, but the regulars, they move promo to promo, wrestling Friday and then again Saturday. As you look at the fliers and see their faces. It’s family. It’s why Jayson asks every time I see him, every time we text, “Is your mom coming?”
Is there dinero in this? ¿Quíen sabe? Who knows? At an appointed midway point, the action slows, and the luchadores bring out their swag – t-shirts, stickers, photos, máscaras – to hawk. They take selfies with the audience. No high end marketing, not even the headliners like Li’l Cholo. They set up and sell their own. It’s family. And it’s small business owners, where the business is themselves. I save some dolares, cash and carry, to make sure I can grab a shirt each show. Keep the luchadores appreciated and coming too. It’s real money to them. And Jayson and the VWE? The crowds run around three hundred or so, pretty steady since day one. Even in between bouts of continued COVID shutdowns. It’s not the WWE or the AEW, but it’s people in the seats. It’s a crowd. They have sponsors in Stanton now, where they didn’t in July 2021. The parking lot is a little more full with their booths.
There are hundreds of promoters like Jayson Hisel across the country. There are no other promotors like Jayson Hisel. That’s the beauty of lucha libre. That’s the beauty of this world. Go pay your $20. Find your own lucha libre.
JOE HILLIARD. Writer. Luddite. Teller of Tales. Michigander by birth, in the wilds just outside the World’s Largest Walled Prison. Grew up as a teen in Los Angeles on a diet of Blue Demon, Doc Savage, Philip K. Dick, the Circle Jerks, Mildred Pierce, Judge Dredd, and 50s science fiction films, on the fringe of 80s Hollywood. Graduate of the University of Michigan, which only added Kawabata, Krazy Kat, and William S. Burroughs to the mix. Marks time as a paralegal in sunny California.
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