The Transformers Left Me Ill-Prepared To Battle Evil

I'm off to get pancakes at a Cambridge diner called Sunny's that was on the bubble for the restaurant list below. Here's the last installment of the TV Trilogy.

The Transformers was arguably the best cartoon of its day. It had everything. It had giant robots from another planet fighting huge battles over the future of the Earth. It had those robots transforming into cars, jets, spaceships, dinosaurs, insects, stereos and guns. It had an anime style years ahead of its time. It had little robots that could turn into vehicles that assembled into a big robot. It had Casey Kasem doing voice acting. It entertained me, hell, it still does entertain me. And yet, the show completely undermined my ability to do battle with the forces of evil.

Mayhaps I should explain the show for those who haven't seen it in a while. The robots from Cybertron are divided into two camps: the Decepticons, devoted to a platform of world domination through evil, and the Autobots, the forces of good. Their homeworld devastated by a centuries old war, the two groups escape only to crash on Earth. The automated repair system on board finds Earth machines to model the robots' new disguises on, and the war continues with new stakes: the Autobots now must also keep the Decepticons from destroying the Earth to get the energy needed to return home and conquer the universe.

The two main characters are Optimus Prime, the leader of the Autobots, and Megatron, the leader of the Decepticons. Megatron is a big grey robot that transforms into a gun that fits into the hand of one of his lieutenants. Much has been made of this lack of continuity in size, but the explanation is simple: It was a cartoon. Prime is a big red eighteen wheeler cab with the voice of Charlton Heston doing an impression of John Wayne. When he transforms to become his truck self, all of a sudden a big grey trailer appears behind him. Much has been made of this, too, but the explanation is equally obvious in retrospect: if you watch the way his legs fold back in under himself, the trailer clearly comes directly out of his ass.

Most of the Decepticons are fighter jets, F-15 Eagles I think. The air corps is led by Starscream, the whiny second in command who attempts just about every episode to overthrow Megatron. His main role is to provide a character with no redeeming features. Megatron was always trying to destroy the earth and everyone on it for his powermad dreams of glory, but let's face it: he was cool. Starscream was the official whipping boy. Another key Decepticon was Soundwave, a blue tape recorder that controlled a whole bunch of little cassette tape robots. In about half the episodes, he infiltrates some factory or power plant as a simple tape recorder. This is more impressive when you consider the only form he could move in was a giant 20-foot tall robot.

You'd think the Autobots would be in trouble against a group that transformed primarily into fighter jets and big ass guns, but the Autobots were crafty. For instance, just because they couldn't fly didn't men they couldn't get around as fast as the Decepticons. They drove from Arizona to Africa once. Also, about half of their forces were specialists in repair. Ratchet, a paramedic/ambulance, and Wheeljack, an inventor/some form of car, were usually hanging out in the repair bay to fix the broken Autobots and send them back out to fight some more. Sort of a kinder, gentler version of the Red Chinese military strategy. They were assisted by two humans, Spike and his dad Sparkplug, who apparently had no friends or family since when the Autobots showed up they just started living in the volcano with them. Jazz and the Autobot stereo Blaster had the special ability to immobilize enemies by playing loud, generic 70s rock. Then there were the rank and file non-descript cars. The best cars were the ones voiced by Casey Kasem. And of course there was Bumblebee, who didn't have a special ability, usually didn't carry a gun, and more or less was the Barney Fife of the show.

And yet that's not even half of the cast. When you think about it, the show was the first great informercial. A half hour of introducing new toys, how their transformation worked, why the kid should bug his parents into buying it, and not even at two in the morning. It became a never ending arms race, because when the Decepticons got the Insecticons, the Autobots returned with the Dinobots, which were outdone by the Constructicons who merged into Devastator (now guaranteeing that the kid wouldn't rest until all six little robots were purchased), who had to be countered by the small city known as Optimus Prime, but by then the Decepticons were bankrupted, the Autobot economy was in shambles, and the Berlin Wall fell.

At any rate, remember the time Spike and Bumblebee got captured and the Autobots had to risk everything to get them back? Of course you do; it happened every episode. Bumblebee at least I can understand, he was kind of like the drummer boy in the Revolutionary War- you have him march at the front of the lines, give him a drum or a flute, and hope he draws some fire. But in most every episode when the Autobots would transform and roll out to an apocalyptic battle with the Decepticons, Spike would ask if he could tag along. Prime never quite saw that as a strategic liability for some reason.

And that's my problem with the show. Its major premise is that good will triumph over evil. That's okay, but most shows along this line give some reason. Good has the support of the people, or evil keeps telling good of its plans and then lets good escape. The Transformers seemed to assume that good would triumph because evil would just let them win.

After all, how did every episode end? Megatron and his fleet of jets would be standing there and Optimus Prime would show up (with a few sports cars, an RV, a fire truck, and Bumblebee for backup) and say, "Give up Megatron, you've lost." And then Megatron would... leave! Maybe he'd grapple with Prime for a bit, maybe his squadron of F-15s would strafe the flightless Autobots, but then he would call for a retreat. Try that on the playground bully, he'll just kick your ass and throw you in a garbage can. Trust me.

Aside from little things, like neither side remembering to guard their base, or protect their new weapon of unimaginable destruction, there was a bigger issue of neither side wanting to actually kill the other. Again we seem to hit up on the guiding principle of the 1980s: "if we keep building up and threatening to kill each other, we'll both get rich." Come to think about it, I'm not sure they could kill each other. The laser weapons each side used never seemed to do any lasting damage, even when a group of robots would fire point blank at one dude's chest. Nothing. The main use for the weapons seemed to be shooting out cliff walls and burying the enemy in the rubble. Since most of the battles took place in Arizona, that's usually how the fight would end. This is hardly a useful lesson to children, that even armed with laser cannons, the best way to combat evil is by trying to inconvenience it under a rockslide.

Perhaps the main reason the Autobots served as our role models was how stupid the humans on the show acted. When the Decepticons would show up to start the show, people would invariably point up at the sky in "Oh no! Godzilla!" fashion and scurry about like fools. The Decepticons were usually there to steal some power source of infinite power or a weapon of unimaginable destruction, built by some human scientist who "sure hoped the Decepticons didn't get a hand on it." One of the best inventions was a Japanese scientist who wanted to demonstrate the peaceful capabilities of his field with a thirty foot tall robot ninja assassin. The Autobots were on hand lest it fall into the wrong hands, so that meant it took an extra couple minutes for Megatron and company to steal it. Another case of poor judgment on the Autobots' part, they should have destroyed the invention and smack the scientist around a little, just like the FBI, CIA, or FTC would do.

The Transformers came out in the early 1980s, when the country had recently become enamored with the silicon chip. Not enough to waste billions of dollars in black holes of venture capital, but enough to know that the technology was limitless. The cartoon is a product of these times, with schemes on both sides involving sticking computer chips on stuff and then commanding that stuff by remote control. Sometimes another robot, sometimes a human being, once even a fleet of oil tankers; the contact of a silicon chip on the armor/skin/hull was all that was needed. Here is one of the more important lessons they taught us, that no matter how optimistic people got about computers, they would always be used for evil purposes, as we have seen time and time again.

I guess I have to admit is that the show was ahead of its time. If you listen to some of the voice actors, especially Starscream and about half of the Autobots, you realize the animators were promoting the issue of gays in the military decades ahead of the politicians. Even the Autobots' main computer, Teletran I, once alerted the Autobots to a "Code Magenta!" When the Decepticons got a cool space shuttle/locomotive named Astrotrain, the Autobots countered with a Puerto Rican UFO named Cosmos - the first Hispanic space-going robot on television. Granted, he looked a bit Happy Meal Toy-esque, and got into trouble so many times he was the Bumblebee of outer space, but it was a start.

The Transformers was a great show, don't get me wrong. Entertaining, cool battles, and that wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah sound of one of them transforming, it was beautiful. I just wish they had spent a little more time thinking about the young, impressionable kids watching. If they had, maybe, just maybe, I would be better equipped to do battle with evil today.

The Dukes of Hazzard Played Too Large A Role In Shaping My Value System

This weekend, while the JiggsCasey.com crew is off fighting evil, enjoy Part 2 of the TV Trilogy.

Just two good old boys, never meanin' no harm...
Beats all you never saw, been in trouble with the law
Since the day they was born.

Straightenin' the curves, flattenin' the hills...
Someday the mountain might get 'em but the law never will.

Makin' their way, the only way they know how...
That's just a little bit more than the law will allow.

Just two good ol' boys, wouldn't change if they could,
Fightin' the system like two modern-day Robin Hoods...

written and performed by the incomparable Waylon Jennings

When I was just a lad, I used to come home from school and watch the afternoon reruns to pass the time. Most of them were run of the mill sitcoms, mere playthings to distract me from the trials and tribulations of pre-adolescence, but some shows rose above the noise to educate, inform, and sculpt me into the columnist before you. Recently I've been able to trace my issues with authority to The Dukes of Hazzard. That and my intense urge to run moonshine in an orange Charger.

For those of you who don't remember too clearly, The Dukes of Hazzard is set in Hazzard County, a fictional area in Georgia. Bo and Luke Duke, two cousins on probation for running moonshine, live on the family farm with their Uncle Jesse, a crotchety old man who used to run moonshine in the good ol' days. Hazzard is run by County Commissioner Boss Hogg, a heaping mass of humanity who rose to corrupt power after an early career running moonshine with Uncle Jesse. Boss Hogg's evil schemes are executed by his sheriff (and brother-in-law) Roscoe P. Coltrane (aka Roscoooe!), whose incompetence is only exceeded by that of his deputies, Enos and Cletus, who are probably cousins.

But this supporting cast would have been nothing without the three stars of the show. In no particular order, these are the lake-jumping General Lee, the cutoff-sporting Daisy Duke, and the country witticism-spinning narrator/balladeer Waylon Jennings. This man, woman, and automobile elevate the show from merely cool to artistic perfection.

The basic storyline goes something like this: Bo and Luke are on probation, and Boss Hogg really wants them thrown in prison so Uncle Jesse can't run the farm anymore and has to turn over the deed. But Bo and Luke just can't stay out of trouble, so Roscoe chases them around Hazzard for about half of each episode. Hazzard has an inordinate amount of water, and an awful lot of makeshift ramps. Bo, the ex-stock car driver, would jump the lake, swamp, river, creek, inlet, canal, puddle, or fjord. Then Roscoe would try to follow, but despite the fact he was pretty much matching speed with the Duke boys, he'd always land square in the middle of the water. This is widely attributed to his failure to give a proper Rebel yell in mid air.

But even if he did, how could his cruiser compare to the General? A souped up Dodge Charger with its doors welded shut, its suspension so loose it swerved and fishtailed going around corners in town, and its hood so slick that Luke never fell while ass-sliding over to the passenger side. Try it next time you're busting out of your county jail, it's harder than it looks.

Many people dismiss The Dukes of Hazzard as having only one plot: Bo and Luke have to outrun Roscoe and company in the General Lee, jumping a variety of obstacles. This ignores the premise for the car chase. In actuality there are two plots: Plot A, where Boss Hogg has some sinister plot to lie, cheat and/or steal that gets foiled by the Duke boys; and Plot B, where some criminals first frame, and then get foiled by, the Duke boys. That both plots end in the same exact fashion leads most to assume that the entire plot is the same.

But, as everyone knows, the show was really an allegory to illustrate the moral ambiguity necessary to maintain the individual's innocence when the system is inherently corrupt. The purity of the individual is symbolized by the unreal beauty of Daisy Duke in her cutoff shorts. Boss Hogg oppresses Daisy by forcing her to work long hours at The Boar's Nest bar, in sort of a Jabba The Hutt - Princess Leia thing. She is protected by the reckless Duke boys, who wield the power of the General Lee and the crotchety wisdom of their Uncle Jesse.

The Dukes of Hazzard was about breaking through conventional thinking. Bo and Luke showed us that the blonde/brunette stereotypes could apply to men too. Daisy pioneered the rare combination of cutoff shorts and nylons. Every other episode proved that hang gliders were suprisingly useful for reconnaissance, chases, and even sneak attacks. And Boss Hogg somehow kept getting elected to the post of county commissioner, even though he had a personal vendetta against at least half of the electorate (the electorate consisting of the Duke family, Cooter, Roscoe, Enos and/or Cletus, and a few extras).

Bo and Luke's probation tends to get in the way of their ongoing quest to protect the glory of Daisy's sweet, sweet legs. It makes them the only inhabitants of Hazzard County over the age of six without ready access to firearms. The deck may be stacked against Bo and Luke, but they always come out on top. Why? Because they're cooler. Granted, they are unarmed (or occasionally armed with bows and arrows like a' two modern day Robin Hoods), but they have bigger and fluffier hair, tighter jeans, and their car horn plays "Dixie." If two guys held them at gunpoint, the boys would just rush them and kick the guns out of their hands. It wouldn't matter how far away the men were standing, they would stand there with a mixture of mean and stupid on their faces as the Duke boys gradually approached them. Not that it was all that brilliant of a moment for the Dukes either, but the lesson taken away was clear: It is okay to be an idiot if you only fight morons.

All the while Waylon Jennings treats the audience to a narration that has yet to be equaled. It makes The Wonder Years look like the work of a retarded 8 year-old. His voice over supplies all the key exposition and explains big plot points like a severely inebriated Greek chorus. The Dukes of Hazzard doesn't just astound you with a plot twist, Waylon is there with "Don't that just beat all?" before the break to commercial. We may have known the situation was bad, but we didn't necessarily know the boys were in a "heap of trouble." Most viewers come from places where one bloodline didn't populate the entire county, so Waylon Jennings serves as the cultural ambassador. My personal favorite was when a helicopter forced a truck off the road by throwing bags of oil onto the windshield, Waylon told us, "I know it may be a quart low, but that's not where you put it."

Perhaps the strongest symbol of the virtuous common man overcoming the corrupt state is when the Duke boys break out of the Hazzard jail. This is why that scene was written in about twice an episode. They kept a better eye on Otis the drunk in Mayberry. An important point here is that Bo and Luke are not virtuous in and of themselves, seeing as how by that time they had broken parole about three or four times over. But fighting The Man makes them virtuous by default. They are against Boss Hogg, and that's all that matters. Being on the side of Daisy Duke and her succulent, nubile beauty doesn't hurt either.

It is a surprise anyone could grow up with this show and not have an ingrown mistrust of authority. Boss Hogg has a mandate from the masses, and look what he does with it. The only time he's not doing something evil is when he's eating multiple buckets of fried chicken. He is always picking on the Dukes and being mean to poor, lovely, lovely Daisy. The man walks around in a white suit and big ass white cowboy hat. His ride is a huge white Cadillac with longhorns mounted on the front. If there's a uniform for Team Evil, that's it.

Not all is lost, though, for even the goons employed by the System can still be lured back to the side of goodness and decency. Enos has a gawking crush on Daisy, as did so many of us young lads staring slack jawed at the screen every time she slinked into view, so you know deep down he's a good guy. True enough, he even got a spin off that lasted at least two and a half episodes. And even Roscoe could fall for a Duke diversion, invariably Daisy trying to fix her Jeep, bent over under the hood, jeans hugging tight skin milky white curve flesh smooth... Power corrupts, but booty saves.

I still try and take in an episode whenever I can. The show was important. It proved that the everyman Duke boys could hold the fat, bloated, big ass Cadillac driving System at bay, leaving the world safe for their moonshine, fast cars, and women in tight shorts lifestyle.

How Gilligan's Island Made Me a Nihilist

It's Friday again, time for an old article. Here's the first of a three-parter on how television shaped my psyche.

When I was a kid I used to watch old TV reruns all the time. Only recently have I discovered how deeply and profoundly they have affected my personal philosophy. Perhaps no show had more impact that simple little Gilligan's Island. Namely, it completely destroyed all faith I had in humanity. Granted, the show did this for a lot of people, but for me it wasn't the fact that people allowed it to run for four seasons, rather the messages subtly woven into each episode. So I thought I would share with you why I think this is the darkest show on syndication: Enjoy!

Gilligan alone could drive one to nihilism, or at the very least existentialism. As each fool-proof rescue plot is hatched and subsequently crushed by Gilligan, we learn that all endeavors are inherently doomed by the "Gilligan" within each of us. What kind of lesson is that for the youth of today? We may be young and stupid, but we're trying. And yet, no matter how hard we try, we're always going to stumble into the 10 kilowatt coconut radio tower and blow yet another chance at contacting the damn Coast Guard.

If it were just Gilligan on the island, perhaps it wouldn't be quite so dark. He would die of thirst within 48 hours, and we would be spared having to watch him fail every week for four years. Too inept to be rescued, too well cared for to die. The nameless authority figures Skipper and the Professor discipline and educate Gilligan, respectively, instead of staging an unfortunate "accident" out by the cliffs like they should have early on for the good of all. The three of them form the Freudian model of id, ego and superego. No matter how many times the Professor plans to have Gilligan cleaning algae off rocks in the lagoon when the bamboo rocket is going to be launched with the SOS message recorded on a coconut 8-track, no matter how many times the Skipper savagely beats Gilligan, the "little buddy" will thwart every chance of rescue. That nickname, combined with his unfortunately shaped hat, leads to the obvious conclusion that men are doomed to have every plan eventually negated by their own collective penis.

Women don't fare much better. Look at the duality of Mary Ann and Ginger. One of the timeless debates, the show stacked it in favor of Ginger. Ginger was the feminine ideal, from her countless array of gowns, stock issue mole, and complete and utter lack of anything resembling intelligence. Mary Ann for four years wore the same damn pair of shorts and had maybe two shirts. [But really, hasn't the wardrobe of Gilligan's Island been analyzed to death?] The Ginger preference is one of image over substance, one that showers disdain on those who would pine for a more wholesome life, preferring a skanky ditz to a simple and decent country girl with whom you could hold a conversation for longer than three minutes. Besides, Mary Ann is way hotter.

Which leaves us with Thurston Howell III and his wife "Lovey". They are so rich they even have stupid rich pet names for each other like "Lovey." Not even an upper middle class guy would come home to a wife named "Lovey." With a name like that they can't be anything but the capitalist exploiter class. Sure enough, once on the island, they immediately begin to exploit Gilligan, making him a little servant boy paid in cash that is obviously worthless if they never get back to civilization. Without even a pretense of legal tender, Gilligan is bought and sold like the crack whore that he is. And by that reasoning, the "Gilligan" within us all is a dirty little ho-bag.

Oh sure, you could argue that the abundance of food, water, and semiconducting coconuts and bamboo implies a just and loving god that will take care of us. But that same god, acting as storm, wrecks the boat every opening credits and then finds a way for every one of the three million individual visitors to the island to leave without rescuing the castaways. I find it much more reminiscent of Sartre's No Exit, myself. That, or Waiting for Godot. Or Magnum, P.I.

As for crossover specials like The Harlem Globetrotters on Gilligan's Island, The Detroit Pistons on Gilligan's Island, and The Jetsons on Gilligan's Island, I think we should stick to episodes that stayed true to the initial artistic vision. That vision being one of despair and meaningless exile. If not for the courage of the fearless crew, the Minnow would be lost? The Minnow would be lost? The Minnow would have been better off lost, that's what the show teaches us.

So why am I bothering with this if I'm a nihilist? Well, I'm not actually a nihilist, the title of this piece was just a literary device. Actually I'm an agnostic existentialist, but that doesn't change the fact that this is one messed up television program. Save yourselves and save your children! Watch something like Punky Brewster instead.

Many apologies to Dawn Wells.

Thank you for your time.

Classic Jiggs: Movie Review

Still no sun here in the Northeast. Perhaps this weekend there will be sun. In the meantime, here's a movie review from the archives. First one, in fact. Chuck Norris, how you inspire us all to greater things.

Breaker! Breaker! (1977)
Starring Chuck Norris
Plot summary: Chuck Norris is a Zen trucker who must save his brother from a speed trap.

Breaker! Breaker! comes right out of the 1970s, embracing the era in all its decadent glory. And the glory of the 1970s was, of course, CB radio. Yes, cross country truckers were all the rage, their language capturing the American imagination even though it was clear from the start that they were making up every word of it as they went along. This movie brought that particular piece of Americana and mixed it in with the Zen martial arts of the great Chuck Norris in a rare beardless appearance. His first solo work after many years of being Bruce Lee's little cabana boy, this East meets West jewel starts out perfectly and never ceases to satisfy. Chuck Norris, Zen trucker John Dawes, sends his little brother Billy (played by a delightfully scampish Michael Augenstein) out on a short dry run. Billy is by the way a dirt bike enthusiast to make the period piece complete. Sadly, though, the youth falls into a speed trap, or a 10-73 if you speak trucker. This appears to be the main plot point, which is an odd status to award a speeding ticket. I'm pretty sure it symbolizes something.

The little podunk town of twenty called Texas City, California, is actually a vast corrupt crime syndicate run by the mayor, Judge Trimmings. George Murdock plays this character with the subtle mixture of one part Enrst Blofeld from James Bond villain fame and one part Boss Hogg from the Dukes of Hazzard series. After arguing with the judge, assaulting several police officers and jumping through a plate glass window to escape the trial, Billy is captured by the evil townies. He gets locked away somewhere, or so you have to assume since you don't actually get to see him until the last few minutes of the film, but don't think that this will get on your nerves or anything. Chuck Norris rolls into town in search of his brother, driving a big ass van with a golden eagle painted on the side of it. I mean, a giant golden eagle! Nothing screams "don't fuck with me" like a giant golden eagle. Incidentally, the van looks remarkably similar to the Mystery Machine of Scooby Doo fame. Chuck proceeds to investigate, and by investigating I mean kicking the crap out of everyone in the town consecutively and concurrently. Somehow interspersed in all of the asswhooping, the director finds time to add about twenty or so subplots to the film. This is possibly to distract from the fact that he all but ignores the little brother that Chuck is whooping all the ass over in the first place.

These subplots include the single mom waitress with a heart of gold that is wooed (nudge nudge) by Chuck and won over to his cause, her son who runs off into the Central Valley wilderness to escape the evil police force, a mildly retarded hick that is discernible from the merely brutally stupid hicks by virtue of a stutter, his caring brother who is the ruffian with a heart of gold, and a guy who randomly flies around in a helicopter a la Mad Max whose sole purpose in life is to justify a bunch of aerial shots of Chuck running around beating ass. You may want to take notes.

After Chuck works his way through beating down everyone a couple times, one of the resident hicks realizes that repeatedly rushing a master of the deadly arts is not quite as effective as pointing a rifle at him. Outsmarted at last, Chuck Norris winds up in jail. Now with the hero immobilized, you'd think the plot would slow down. Actually it kinda disappears for about fifteen minutes - don't worry. The subplots more than take up for the slack, and soon you've forgotten all about poor Chuck and his brother, and for that matter, why you're watching the flick in the first place. Then when you finally give up all hope of understanding what the hell is going on, the cavalry is called in. Yes, the CB lingo talking cross country truckers themselves. Their plan to save Chuck from jail is apparently a scorched earth policy consisting of driving their big rigs through every building in town, eventually freeing or flattening him. Either way really. As the cross country trucker cavalry is ripping shit up, all of the subplots converge. Not only that, but Chuck's kid brother Billy (Remember him? That's why Chuck is kicking the crap out of the town in the first place!) is found concealed in a barn and is reunited with his golden-haired ass-beating brother. Granted all of these subplots converge in the same minute and a half, so you may need to refer back to the copious notes you have taken throughout the film to have the slightest clue who the hell anyone is. The primary theme you will want to explore is economic freedom for the common man from corrupt government intervention, as symbolized by Chuck Norris delivering countless roundhouse kicks to the face of the local cops.

I would have to say that Breaker! Breaker! is the greatest movie I have ever seen.

What does hockey mean?

This is why people who search for toothless hockey players (and their king, Mike Ricci) find jiggscasey.com. This is from the 2000 playoffs.

With the hockey playoffs in full swing, I thought I'd take some time to look at the significance of hockey. Given the speed with which I usually write, this piece will be up on Jiggs sometime around preseason next year. But hey, we can always hope. We'll start off like this, with a word to get you thinking at home about this sport of really big guys skating around a really big rink chasing after a really small puck.

Canada.

When we examine what a sport means, we look first at where it came from. Ice hockey comes from back when ancient Canadians would fight fierce battles on frozen lakes, skating around each other with furious speed and hacking at the flesh with wooden axes. The first hockey game is thought to have started when a small rock was accidentally struck by one of the warriors trying to remove the foot of one of his enemies. This first slap shot theory is currently taken to be gospel truth.

Canada is a clean, polite nation. Understandably, they have a lot of pent up violence that they have to get rid of. This violence entered the culture in the form of hockey, which through mutual evolution with their socialized health care system produced this brutal sport. As a result they have fine state run hospitals to treat the victims of a sport that declares such penalties as "spearing," "hooking," and "slashing" as minor penalties. Incidentally, I have never understood why this sport that allows skating at full speed into an opponent, slamming him up against the boards, has a category of match penalty called "attempt to injure." As far as I can tell, just getting out on to the ice is an attempt to injure.

And of course these minor penalties mean spending two minutes in the box. But why the box? Most sports just give possession of the ball to the other team, maybe give one team better field position, but in hockey the assailant is placed in a little plastic box and his team must skate short handed. The penalty box is reminiscent of the place where the defendant stands in the British courtroom. Although this may seem like an odd connection, remember that Canada was a Crown possession until 1867, and even after that they became independent in a real half-assed way. Separating the guilty party in this way allows the common man in the stands to jeer at him like our forefathers did at criminals locked up in the stockade. However, at the same time, the penalty box lifts the player above the game, elevating him to public spectacle. It lets him drink a bit of water and be admired by the fans for his devious behavior. It harkens back to the outlaws of the American Old West, at the same time condemned and worshipped by morally ambivalent and eternally stupid people. The player is a celebrity, and the high walled plastic box is like his own personal Popemobile.

I'd like to take this opportunity to say that I was entirely opposed to the 1993 move to realign the divisions. That was the one thing hockey had over every sport on earth. The two leagues were named after Clarence Campbell and the Prince of Wales. The divisions? Adams, Norris, Patrick, Smythe. You people with your American and National leagues, West, East, Central divisions? Hockey had so much character. Speaking of funny names, there are about fifteen trophies awarded annually in hockey, for the most valuable player and normal stuff, but eventually it just gets random. The Lady Byng Memorial Trophy is given to the player that most embodies excellent play and gentlemanly conduct. Gentlemanly conduct. Did I mention this is a sport that considers hitting someone in the face with a sharp wooden stick a minor penalty? A sport that only will consider a major penalty in that situation if the victim is bleeding profusely has a trophy for gentlemen.

As with all great things, Americans felt the need to take it and distort it to fit our own particular dementia. Hockey is no different, as it has ruthlessly expanded from the Original Six to 28 teams (for now), it has also begun a steady march south. Only 6 of 28 teams currently reside in Canada, many of those remaining threatening to move to America. Now towns like Tampa Bay, Los Angeles, San Jose and Phoenix have teams they don't at all deserve or even understand. How on earth can we have hockey in the desert? Yes, with air conditioning, but on a more cultural level, the Americanization of hockey has changed the sport in many subtle ways. Just as Disney Americanized fascism, hockey has been similarly warped in these warm weather towns.

It is no accident that as hockey expanded south from the Original Six cities of Montreal, Toronto, Detroit, Chicago, Boston and New York, safety equipment became more prevalent. In 1959 Jacques Plante became the first goalie to use a mask, just because a shot had broken his face in the previous game. As the sport started needing two leagues and four divisions, players started wearing helmets. In 1979 players forced to wear helmets by league rule. Now the league is starting to talk about face shields for players. Absolute madness. But as always, we have to look at this on the level of causation. The cause of this shift is from the Americanization of a Canadian sport. In America, we praise beauty and style over anything resembling substance. Hence, through minor and major changes to the sport, Americans without even realizing it are creating a monster heretofore unseen in the sport: The beautiful hockey player. How else can you explain the great Wayne Gretzky, graceful, frail and beautiful, playing in Los Angeles?

The best examples of the invasion of beauty into hockey today are Peter Forsberg and the brothers Bure. Granted, Forsberg is growing this shaggy beard that's giving him a Michigan militia look right now, but prior to that the guy looked like a lost Baldwin brother for Christ sake. Then there's Pavel Bure, the Russian Rocket, whose boyish good looks and impish pug nose captured the heart of the lovely Anna Kournikova, at least for a few weeks. A few years later his younger brother Valeri entered the league, confirming fears that the NHL is indeed breeding for prettiness. I only ask, what happened to players like Mike Ricci? Ugly, ugly people with multiple broken noses, none of which seem to have ever been set properly if at all, missing the majority of the front teeth, greasy stringy nasty hair - now that's hockey. What happened? America happened, baby. Now we seem to be importing players from Europe to satisfy the quest to turn hockey into a photogenic sport. We're dressing them up in helmets and face shields to prevent the hits, high sticks and pucks to the face from gradually turning them into ogres, or in other words, turning them into hockey players.

I mean, what's happening to the sport? FOX started putting a blue halo around the puck because American TV audiences couldn't find it. They actually programmed it to show a red comet tail when a player made a slap shot. Plans to give Nielsen families game pads to remotely control star players fell through at the last minute. No FOX execs were forced to commit ritual suicide or anything.

But what can we do? Write your congressperson. Tell him or her to support the Howe-Orr bill to invade Canada. If we invade Canada we can then set aside the nation as a hockey refuge. Move teams back to Winnipeg and Quebec. Allow hockey players to skate free on frozen lakes in their natural habitat. At the rate we're going, Americans will destroy a great sport and Canadians will have nothing to watch except Canadian football. Don't let that happen: Invade Canada.

Maxims and Interludes

I've been dividing my time evenly between trying to figure out why delicate electronics aren't working and lifting very heavy vacuum pumps. So I have nothing for the blog. Instead, enjoy this piece of randomness I threw together some years back:

Friedrich Nietzsche published Beyond Good and Evil in 1886, a stinging rebuke to the Western concepts of morality. Within its short essays is a chapter called "Maxims and Interludes," where Nietzsche strings together dozens of aphorisms, one-liners, and non-sequiturs for no apparent reason. I always admired the blatant disregard for the flow and continuity of his arguments, so I decided to update the format for this century. I hope that mine is more timeless than Nietzsche's.

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The profound and choking loneliness of existence is no excuse to surround oneself with morons.

Renee Descartes postulated the existence of an objective reality independent of our own observation. Then again, Descartes was an idiot.

There is no greater form of conceit than declaring yourself better than the sum total of humanity.

The human body is a beautiful thing, but not in the fresh produce aisle at Safeway.

I am tired of every Republican, Libertarian, and anarchist claiming that government has no role in society and all things are better on the free market. We must not worship the free market, because that would really piss off God.

Some nights when I cannot sleep, I envy men who do not suffer from insomnia. Their penises are probably bigger than mine.

When I walk under a streetlight and it burns out, I think I caused it.

Stream of consciousness is just an excuse to avoid editing.

The most important public works project a government can pursue is subsidized high-speed rail, for low cost transportation, pollution prevention, and phallic implications.

I don't think you need 57 varieties of anything.

When a boy is raised with caring and understanding, he is completely unprepared for junior high school.

I like to pee at the kids urinal. It makes me feel like a giant.

The transition from badass to kitsch should be described using the verb form of Billy Idol.

Maybe no one wants to hear what you think is wrong with the country. Did you ever think of that? Jerk.

The condition of a nation can best be determined by the quantity and quality of their shopping districts geared to the middle class.

I'm not sure Albert Brooks and Steve Gutenberg are different people.

Perhaps there are more elegant solutions to the problem of being in the land of Truthtellers and Liars, but it seems you could just as easily beat the truth out of either of them.

Why is cannibalism wrong? Murder definitely is wrong, but after the fact, why is eating the corpse so much worse than burying it, burning it, or dissolving it in a tub of lye? I think it's a conspiracy by the beef industry.

Remorse is unbecoming in a politician. The people punish not for the indiscretion, but the apology.

What's love got to do, got to do with it? Plenty, Tina. Love has plenty to do with it.

Girl Troubles

The weather's been nice this weekend, so we've been out frolicking and gallivanting. Mostly gallivanting. In the meantime, enjoy this from the archives:

I've always had difficulties with women. See, I'm funny. I know, I know, women are always saying that all they want is a man who can make them laugh, but the more complete answer would be that they want a tall, strong, good-looking buck who can make them laugh while building them a log cabin with nothing more than a hatchet and a box of twelve-penny nails (which he would hammer in using his penis).

The problem when your primary weapon is being funny is that you can't turn it off. Part of being funny is being very fast with jokes, which involves training your brain to send impulses directly to your vocal chords, bypassing the judgment center of the brain. Although you can catch a girl's attention like that, all too often you offend her before you can trick her into falling in love with you.

I recall a young girl, let us call her Mary, with whom I was rather taken. We were discussing history and anthropology in her living room with a mutual friend or two, when the subject of life expectancy came up. Mary had taken a course in early civilizations and asked if we knew what the primary cause of the lower life expectancies in past societies was. I suggested death. After the awkward silence she said it was actually infant mortality. Apparently we were having a "serious conversation" and I was an "ass."

To be funny, one must hang out with funny people. They will challenge you to sharpen your wit by a never-ending barrage of verbal abuse. At least, that's how it is with my friends back home. We're a bunch of like-minded individuals, in other words, a bunch of sarcastic assholes. It's hard to adjust to the outside world when you've spent a lot of time in a circle of friends like that. You learn to attack, quick and vicious, and at the same time you learn not to take anything seriously. The outside world, though, they take things seriously.

I remember this one girl, let us call her Mary, whom I had begun to court. Sitting in a bar with some mutual friends, I remarked on a story of how she deflected the advances of a smitten pursuer. It would seem that saying she had a "cold, dead, black heart" offended her. How could I have phrased it any differently? Adjectives work better in series, three is usually a good number, and the alliteration with the d's was required for the flow. I could have merely said that it was cold, but that wouldn't have been funny.

Race is not a sensitive issue with us. The reality of race is that it is a purely visual characteristic, but humans are visual creatures. Race will always be an issue, so it can either be an issue that embodies rage or one that embodies laughter. My friends come from various parts of the world, and we find that amusing. We mock each other's ethnic origins, we mock our own. Nothing serious. Rest of the world, serious.

This one girl I thought was cute, let us call her for sake of argument Mary, was sitting at a lunch table with a few friends. We were talking about ethnic slurs and I remarked how my favorite was "honkey." A particularly sheltered youth had never heard of it, so I casually said it referred to white people. I have nothing against white people, some of my favorite relatives are white people. I just like the sound of honkey. But Mary was from a more homogenous part of the country, and she said that she always thought that honkey referred to Poles. I of course, without funneling the thought through my cerebral cortex, countered that a better definition of honkey was anyone who thought that honkey referred to a certain, less white, breed of white people. Perhaps calling Mary a honkey wasn't nice, but it was funny. Retarded, but funny.

You see, people like me joke about everything. At various times, a person's quirks, foibles, or belief structure will come under fire. It's not supposed to be offensive, but some people can't see the humor in attacking the foundation of everything they hold dear. Sometimes, someone gets hurt. Sometimes, that someone is a girl whom I found endearing, or a girl with a really sweet ass. But this is the sacrifice you must make in order to be funny.

And there was that young girl, strangely enough also called Mary, who used to have lunch with me after lecture on Monday, Wednesday, and even Friday. We used to talk of many things, and laugh. How was I to know that she'd take being called a "gold-digging crackwhore" personally? It's just a figure of speech in my group of friends.

A comic is not like a sniper, firing off witticisms at clearly-defined targets. A comic is more like a monkey with a flamethrower. A whole lot is happening, and most of the time he's only vaguely aware of it all. Control is out of the question. People look at us at the jiggsblog and think, "These fellows are pretty funny, and they're not ugly men, so naturally they must have to fend off an unending stream of tail every day of their lives." Not so. Weep for us, for we are funny.