The lowest art form is not the pun but pro wrestling, which is not to be confused with the straight goods -- college and olympic wrestling. Pros are egomaniacs who can grow to believe so fully in their ring personas that they don weird masks in daily life or, like Gorgeous George, have hotel rooms and restaurants sprayed with Chanel No. 10 (""Why be half safe?.""). Gorgeous, The Human Orchid, wore long bleached-blond curls, fabulously swish robes, gold bobby pins (he called 'em Georgiepins) and had a stiff-faced valet in tails who perfumed the mat with a fancified Flit gun and set up George's primping mirror between falls. No babyface, Gorgeous was a sellout draw until cirrhosis and booze led to his fatal coronary at 48. A vast panoply of freaks from the annals of this peculiar vaudeville is exposed on these good-humored pages, each groan-artist with his special act and ferociously fake holds. Grotesque but forceful.