I’m torn. I consider myself a progressive gentleman, one who respects women and strives to treat them equally. On the other hand, I know the perils of being a “nice” guy all the time, and I’m not adverse to occasional hot girl-on-girl action. To put these conflicting thoughts from my head tonight, I dampened my nervous system with Pabst and cheap whiskey to better enjoy the nubile young ladies of the Pillow Fight League duke it out.
This was in Brooklyn at Galapagos and only the second-ever U.S. outing for the Canadian league—the other was last night, which sold out and inspired tonight’s rematch.
It’s really just wrestling, set up Fight Club-style in the back room of the bar on a ring of mats surrounded by a tightly packed crowd of 200. The big difference is that each fighter, with punny name and matching costume, can use her regulation pillow as an extension of her limbs.
The tourney began with a ceremonial appreciation of our neighbors to the north: a singing of the Canadian national anthem over a slideshow of things proudly Made in Canada: mounties, hockey, Pamela Anderson, etc.
The five-minute bouts pitting the practiced pro players against each other were fast-paced and fun, but the giddy excitement came from the amateur fights, involving local ladies who had filled out a consent form in advance and presumably never pillow-fought at the professional level before.
After the first two amateur contenders wormed their way out of the crowd to the mat, the announcer introduced them by their freshly chosen fighter names: Jersey Girl and Orange Crush. “Fuck Jersey!” shouted a Brooklyn patriot in the audience. “Check her for weapons!” hollered another. “I love you, Orange Crush,” someone added meekly.
As if they were entering lockdown, they were instructed to remove their jewelry, watches, belts and shoes. (Obligatory jerk in audience: “Take it all off!”)
Both wore jeans but the similarities ended there. Jersey Girl, who wasn’t doing much to dissuade a certain stereotype, had on a black CBGB tank top that revealed bra straps and muffin top, while her thong and requisite lower-back tat were also visible. Orange Crush was slim and prim with reddish hair and a cozy gray turtleneck. She looked exactly like Julianne Moore. So the best thing ever was her response to Jersey Girl’s first strike. Imagine striding up to the actual Julianne Moore on the sidewalk as if you wanted her autograph or to praise her work in The Hours, but instead whaling her full in the face with a pillow. Since most of my photos from the rumble turned out as smudged and posterized as Stag at Sharkey’s, here is a visual aide to help you imagine the situation.
What I’m getting at is that Orange Crush wasn’t expecting to get whomped upside her head as quickly as she was. Maybe she wasn’t expecting it at all. But she was pissed and with eyes blazing like her now-mussed hair, unleashed a determined retaliation, thundering down short-armed blows on Jersey with the heft and fury of 1,000 sledgehammers. The crowd howled. It ended badly for Jersey, her face mashed to the mat. She wasn’t pinned for the count, but the judges gave the edge to Orange Crush, possibly because they feared for their safety.
Helping the contenders stand again, the ringmaster asked how they felt, for the benefit of the audience. “Awseome,” said Jersey Girl. “Fucking exhausted,” said Orange Crush, out of breath. The ringmaster got back on the mike for the color commentary: “The first thing the amateurs learn is: you gotta do cardio.”
The next pair of amateurs clearly had learned from the first. Although they started by sparring in place, swinging widely, they graduated soon enough to include fancy footwork. Then the girl who went by the name Sugar Glider, six-feet tall and dressed in a rust-colored terry dress from the ’70s, leapt on her much smaller opponent, collapsed her like a tent, then pillow-garroted her until the ref counted off three. Now that’s entertainment.
There were many young couples in the audience of 200, but a fair sprinkling of guy’s guys, resplendent in their stubble and major league ballcaps, the sort of fellows you could bet had a Sports Illustrated Football Phone in their not-too-distant past. But this being New York they were blessed with a higher wit.
“My inner lesbian’s so aroused right now,” the tough guy to my right said to me. Turning back to the action he yelled “Hump her!”
I overheard others armchair-quarterbacking like the tournament was a warped match of the NBA or NFL, things like “Carbon Monoxide’s cute but she didn’t bring her A-game” and “That Betty Crocker don’t take shit from no one.”
Stepping out at one point to get another drink, I saw a guy standing near the door considering purchase of a late ticket. He asked another exiting guy “Is it fun in there?” The guy walking out looked at the questioner as if he was a cretin. “Hell yeah,” he said. “There’s girls beating the shit out of each other.”