There was a period in the early ’00s where some friends and I would watch not a lot of wrestling, but a fair amount—we’d get together for pay-per-views, marvel at the ability of Ric Flair to perfectly pepper his outlandish promos with his signature “whoo”s, mimic the self-bigging-up style of Rob Van Dam, marvel at how much of Dustin “Goldust” Runnels’ elaborate facepaint stayed on despite his in-ring sweating. A couple of moves and other shifting plates meant the end of our get-togethers, but I still think of those times fondly enough to follow Chris Jericho on Twitter and keep up with the goings-on through other pals still in the scene. So when Mike Edison, man about New York City and a wrestling aficionado so hardcore he requires prospective attendees of his Wrestlemania party to fill out an application (with essay section!), asked me if he could write about the possibly final match by the dead man lumbering who goes by The Undertaker, I had to say yes. In addition to his thoughts, this issue has a question for you, dear reader: What is the hipster? (Don’t all gnash your teeth at once.)