Pointless Nostalgia, Part Deux

"It's all about helping kids!"

Or so says the intro to one of the greatest, if not shortest lived, cartoons of the early nineties: ProStars.

This is another one for the "used to get up at 5:30 AM for Saturday cartoons" set. As Retro Junk and Wikipedia note, this was supposed to air on ESPN, but was shipped to NBC instead, as part of their new lineup of awesomeness, which also included Super Mario Brothers. Airing from 1991-1992, the show centers on Michael Jordan, Bo Jackson and Wayne Gretzky doing what they do best, which isn't playing their respective sports and earning bajillions of dollars, but instead fighting crime and helping children, often protecting the environment as well. Doesn't that just beat all? Of course, it's all for the kids. Jordan and Gretz are fathers, and I'll assume good ones, and Bo Jackson really did it for the kids, when his electronic image starred in the NES football game, Tecmo Super Bowl, which retarded kids might still play. Back then, Bo was "... the most lethal football player -- in video game history!" because he must have killed somebody in the game, or something.

The show was a hit (with me), because it was mind-blowing to see my favourite athletes accomplish some superhuman feats of derring-do and utilize wacky gadgets. Also, child protection seems noble. No other athletes, during that time, and maybe even today could tackle these issues:

The ProStars battle the evil Gargantus and his gang of thugs to stop them from tormenting a remote Australian town.

The ProStars must travel to Scotland to save a community from the terrifying ghost riders!

Here's the visuals. The opening credits for this powerhouse cartoon:

This confirms what I thought all along: that our best athletes lived in lockers. It makes sense considering that anytime I saw them interviewed on TV, they were always in front of lockers. And those lockers had their names on them. Think about it.

Also, I don't know what a "slam shot" is, but it ain't a hockey term. This is what you get when American producers latch on to a hockey legend in his prime, and try to glamourize the sport they most likely know nothing about. Slap shot wasn't powerful enough, plus it didn't include one of the inane 90's buzzwords seen at the start. "Hot", "cold" (which is it?), "jammin", "slammin" (oh, those rhyme - how clever). These terms were seen on millions of pre-schoolers and elementry kids sweat pants and shirts. Even I had basketball-themed pajamas that had a net and a ball, and were surrounded by awesome phrases like "slam dunk!", "super!" and "basketball!" I really liked those pajamas, but the tag scratched annoyingly against my ass. Note to future parents: unless you want your son/daughter to walk around with a hole in the ass of their pajamas, don't let them near the scissors.

The ProStars inspired an entire year's worth of kids to become better people. And, with most cartoons, had a namesake cereal. Sweet, sweet, tooth-decaying cereal. Sometimes with prizes.

Life: The 3" x 5" Edition

If you've ever wondered whether or not life could be simplified and catalogued for easy reference, Indexed is a great start. It's no Dewey decimal system, but damned if it isn't close.

Words Of Wisdom For The Weekend

Hey guys! While you're out on the town the next couple of days, just remember that we're fighting the good fight here. Don't get knocked out!

Just play it safe out there, because you know how some girls are! Have a great weekend!

From The Bargain Bin

The most recent Something Awful post has me thinking about the state of the internet consumer market these days, both in Canada and the U.S. Mostly, it's got me thinking "Who are the fucktards who buys some of the shit found on the web?!" The 'net have given us a great tool for connecting the world simply through the click of a button, but it's also given us an seemingly infinite amount of products that really shouldn't see the light of day, or any part of the day for that matter. By just searching around for a bit, you can find the most baseless, inane, unfunny, retarded and sappy garbage out there for purchase. Oh, and they're useless. Utterly, utterly useless. One website of note, and one that was featured on Something Awful, is the What On Earth Catalog. The items for sale here, are they collector's items? No, they're not. Joke gifts? Sadly, the jokes on the recipient, who no doubt will lash out with a flurry of face punches if they open up one of these cheap turds.

No, these little malignant tumors are for a few types of people: those who are so removed from regular society that they no longer understand the nature of "normalcy" and how it relates to material items, those who take some kind of sick pride in finding the most obscure and irrelevant item in order to proclaim that an item is "so rare, it's cool" (but in reality, it's so rare because it's idiotic), and those very speical types of people who are simply out of their fucking minds.

Now, I have to remark that my birthday is approaching with great speed. If anyone out there were to even think of purchasing any of these "gifts" either as a twisted joke or some perverted idea of irony, I'm just going to snap on them. As I perused the What On Earth website, I noticed that not only are the items aesthetically challenged, and just plain stupid, but the company's attempts at clever, marketable item descriptions are almost pure literary gold.

First off, is this montrosity, The Boyfriend Arm Pillow:

Description: "Never curl up on the couch alone again, with this comforting arm that wraps around you as if to say, "I'm sorry work was rotten today," or "No, you pick what we watch tonight," all the stuff you'd never hear from a real boyfriend. Polyester filled with comfortable, snuggly foam."

I'm going to let Josh Boruff from Something Awful give you the 411 on this "item":

"If I were to walk into a lady friend's domicile and find an arm attached to half a torso that she uses for cuddling, I would immediately run away in terror. In much the same way a man having 1/5 of a fake woman to cuddle with would be extremely disturbing and downright perverted, the scenario is no better when gender roles are reversed. In fact, dare I say it's even a little weirder? At least with guys you pretty much know they are capable of high levels of inspired perversion and ingenuity when it comes to combating loneliness. There is simply nothing sane or rational about snuggling up to a chunk of severed muppet. Worse, you couldn't even cheat your way into a high occupancy vehicle lane with this, unless maybe you bought 4 or 5 of them and stitched them together and then stuffed them into an adult tie-dye outfit. "

Enough said. Now, on to the next affront to good taste, another item for the "stay at home and dream about celebrity stalking" girl, the Fluffy Pink Boxing Gloves:

Description: "Sock it to him, one kittycat-soft punch at a time. These playful punching gloves are ultra puffy and fluffy, with "Tough" and "Chick" embroidered on the elastic cuffs. Super fun for goofing around, or wear them to rev up your home kickboxing routine."

Unless you're a girl who has an unhealthy obsession with the colour pink (and I know that there are some), I cannot imagine any girl with even a slim thread of self-respect buying these for themselves or someone else. These gloves are pretty much relegated to gay strip clubs and really cruel stagettes.

It's not all for the ladies, though. I'm sure there are a few basement-dwelling albino males out there who would get a kick out of this next item. Do you like "Monty Python and The Holy Grail?" Afraid of women? Then the Monty Python Black Knight Helmet is for you!

Description: "The first line to memorize: "None shall pass." The last: "All right, we'll call it a draw." You know the rest. A hilarious way to blow off some steam at work (how about wearing it to that next big meeting?) or for while watching 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail.'"

If anyone were to wear this at work, I'm sure they'd find that a) they've been fired and b) they've had their ass kicked, two times over. The only person wearing this is hidden away in the back room of the local board/card game store, and they're in the middle of a 72-hour long game of magic cards. They also smell like old jugs of milk.

Next, an item I could probably wear at the next family reunion, if only to feel like I've accomplished anything, the Graduate Hat:

Description: "Trade in that mortar board for an innovative advertising campaign; you're a proud graduate and available for hire!"

This is almost as stupid as it gets. I can only see this hat given away to people "graduating" from Special Education. And I'm sure that they don't even want to wear it.

I'm sure that some of my friends know my attitude towards insane dog/cat lovers. You know, the types of people who consider their pet(s) to be akin to a son or daughter? They dress them up, talk to them in babytalk, and let them sit on their laps while driving. These people are pretty much dead to me. However, that doesn't mean they can't be fashionable! Here's the Dog/Cat Hairs Sweatsuit!

Description: "For any dog-lover, it goes without saying, but now you can improve the fashion sense of the rest of the world."

Please note the immense irony in that statement. "Improve the fashion sense of the rest of the world." Apparently, the rest of the world wears a suit made out of garbage bags.

Lastly, an item that no depressed, low-self esteem person can live without: The I Rule Bowl.

Description: "What a way to start the day: vivid colors, sincere complements, carbs. Each of these bright, cheery bowls is handpainted with positive feedback around the rim and in the bottom."

Yep, it's the perfect item to make me feel better when I'm 40, alone and having yet another bowl of putrid Frosted Flakes, wondering what happened to all the good years, and what the best way to kill myself would be. I'll probably just drown myself in this colourful, fun bowl.

Tom Hanks Not Available For Comment

Rudy: Let's have a bachelor party with chicks and guns and fire trucks and hookers and drugs and booze!

Gary: Yeah! Yeah yeah! All the things that make life worth living for!

- Bachelor Party (1984)

Now, that's how a bachelor party/stag party should be done. I will be witness to a stag party tomorrow for one of my best good buddy, Jason M. Now, there are opportunities for great shenanigans, but I think it's lacking in some vital areas. The organizer of tomorrow's party just needed to do a little research. All he had to do was pop in the DVD, or for historical merits' sake, the VHS, of Bachelor Party, with Tom Hanks and Tawney Kitaen. What he would have witnessed is the correct way, and really, the only way to properly celebrate our friend's departure from normal society, and into what I call, "The No Fun Zone".

I label it "The No Fun Zone", because after you, the bachelor, get married, what fun are you really going to have? Sure, you might have a little bit of fun with your wife somewhere down the line picking beans at the farmer's market, but what about the great times and fantastically stupid memories that you and your buddies are capable of producing, even on the worst of days? Gone, my friend, gone. No more stupidity for stupidity's sake, no more drunken dials, no more yelling, pantsing, "whoo!-ing", punching, farting, belching, bare ass-waving adventures. Why? Because if you do have any of these, the keeper of sex, i.e., your wife, will withold. And then you're fucked, at least until you bring her flowers, build her a garden, or whatever.

Therefore, since you've committed yourself to this penitentiary of predictibility, this detention of dullness, you have but one chance to redeem yourself in front of your pals. The bachelor party. Your last moment of singledom (unfortunately our boy Jay hasn't tasted the single life since he was 17, but this lesson can be applied globally), your last days of autonomy should be executed to the fullest extent. You have to have fun one more time, before having fun is something you need permission for, and can only be done if you don't "have some chores" to do that day.

Look, I'm not a complainer, or a wet blanket or anything, and I do realize that some effort went into organizing this event. I'm just being realistic, and unless TV and film have lied to me, there should be some sort of "revered passing" of the single torch, and that torch should be used to blow shit up. Metaphorically, of course. There should be booze, hilarious hijinks, acting stupid for photographs, acting stupid and complaining that a camera didn't catch it, more booze, perhaps some little people, mooning/flashing older people, etc., etc. Most of all, there should probably be female nudity somewhere along the trip. Maybe the sight of nudity that's not his fiance might be distasteful to our boy, but what about the rest of the guys? A stag party at a strip club, or one that has booked a stripper is ten times the amount of fun one dude would have on his own. Just look at the assholes who frequent the peelers. Do they look like they're having a good time? No, because they're hiding from something, probably their wife, kids, or their extremely ugly face. Oh, and they're also perverts. However, when you see a stag party with strippers, they're always having a good time, not too mention getting most of it on tape (for blackmail). Sure, the majority of stags that actually get strippers are mostly douchebags, but their intentions are noble, and their dreams of sleeping with those strippers...are extremely sad.

So what then is the most viable option for a bachelor party? How can a party look fun and memorable, without becoming greasy and pathetic? Let's take a cue from Tom Hanks and his merry men. Watch the film. Study the film.

Then turn this:

Into this:

That's just fucking rad. This weekend, let's do it, and let's do it awesome. I want to see dumptrucks of awesome dropping their payload onto our party. And then I want to swim in that sea of awesome, because that's what parties are for.

Set Sail For The Boston Pizza!

Now, everyone join with me here:

"What the fuuuuuuck?"

I mean, honestly, let's just look at the most recent Boston Pizza promotion, and let it out. Let it all out.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Arrrrrrrr!

What the hell is that thing on the left? Am I supposed to get the impression that during this promotion, I will be served by or cooked for by pirates, or pirate-types? I hope for their staff's sake, that no-one had a terrible accident leaving them scarred, and horribly disfigured by some nasty kitchen incident. I can just see the chaotic mess that followed some poor guy's/ladie's kitchen mishap.

Manager: "Oh shit! John what the fuck happened?"
Poor John: "Ahhhh! The slicer cut my hand off!" Take me to the hospital!"
Manager: "Hold on a sec. I've got an idea. Rick, pass me that pizza slicer and some tape. Yes, yes! I've got it!"
Poor John: "What are you doing? I'm FUCKING DYING HERE!"
Manager: "Just hold on. I'm going to need you to put on this frilly shirt for a moment while I get my camera. Hold your arm over this pizza. Hold it." *click*


Seriously folks, this is one of the stupidest things I've ever seen. I can understand restaurants trying to break up the monotony of their everyday menu and I can even extend some credit to a business trying to piggyback on whatever's popular at the time (see an earlier post about The Pirates Of The Caribbean). But this is helmet-worthy retarded. I can just see Captain McAllister from The Simpsons coming around to each table:

McAllister: "Ahoy Mateys, had your fill of tacos? Would ye sooner eat a bilge rat than another burger? Then come for all you can eat seafood at the Fryin' Dutchman/Boston Pizza! Is it more iced tea you be needin'?"

Except the iced tea is probably bilge water. And the seafood? I probably wouldn't order it. It was prepared by a guy with a can opener for a leg.

P.S. Thanks to Allie E. for her sharp eyes and love of BP's.

Death From Above 1979...Dead

Damn it all.

For some reason, I'm not allowed to like something, and have it last. I'm not allowed to have nice things.

When Death From Above 1979 broke out in 2002 with their EP Heads Up, they were unknown to me, and pretty much everyone else outside of Montreal's sweaty dance-punk scene. However, with 2004's You're A Woman, I'm A Machine, they fast became one of my favourite bands, adorned many top album lists from that year, and it all culminated in a tour spot with Queens Of The Stone Age and Nine Inch Nails. They had a raw, electric energy that most bands only dreamed of, but don't even come close, even if they had a magical rock machine. DFA 1979 consisted of two musical visionaries, two regal knights of the rock table. With Sebastien Grainger exploding the vocals and drums, and Jesse F. Keeler rocking bass, vocoder and other percussion, they were a force to be reckoned with for many moons to come.

Or so I thought.

With a website post on Friday, Jesse officially laid some rumours to rest and declared DFA 1979 expired. I must give my utmost thanks to the gents for providing me with a sonic revolution, an auditory delight that I will be honoured to pass along to the uninitiated. To Jesse, best of luck with MSTRKFT and doing the drum work on the new QOTSA album. To Sebastien, best of luck with whatever you're up to. I hope you're not still dating Kelly Osbourne, right? RIGHT?

And now, we rock:

Pointless Nostalgia, Part One

As some of you know, I'm a sucker for anything and everything related to pop culture, or as it's more commonly known, "usless crap". During my formative years, which due to a mental defect, are still continuing to this day, I watched countless amounts of TV and movies, both of which still permeate into my vernacular and conscious thought. It's now at the point where everything I say is probably from some show or film, much to everyone's annoyance.

My absolute favourite pop culture poisons are anything from the fantastic decade of nostalgic decadence, 1985-1995, the latter year being when I entered high school, and therefore could not openly profess that I still had "Return of the Jedi" bed sheets (it was well known that in high school, even having bedsheets was a sign of pussydom. Not having a bed was the height of cool). In that decade, we youngsters were subjected to marvels of such great wonder, that we grew up to be normal, productive members of society, with the occasional feeling of shame and embarrasment for having witnessed such marvels.

One such marvel originated not in North America, but the wacky fetish factory known as Japan, where kitschy obsession has no bounds, and is most often bounded itself. Samurai Pizza Cats aired 54 glorious times in Japan, and was eventually passed over the Pacific, along with many other Japanese creations in the Seizure Induction Pact of 1990. SPC first aired in 1991, and combined many favourite things of that era's youth. Ask any grade 6 student to name things they like, and they'll no doubt reply "Animals, pizza, robots, and not getting hit by daddy". The show was a 75% hit!

What resonated with most young mouthbreathers was the frantic animation style, non-sensical dialogue, wide arrange of colours not yet seen in the Americas (blue wasn't used until 1993), but most of all was the hilarious, mind-boggling intro sequence:




The lyrics spoke of whimsical dreams, requited love and the ability to be stronger than dirt. 3 or 4 kids in America, and two in Canada, one being me (I met the other guy at a convention in 1999!) truly believed that the show would be the answer to all the world's problems. As it turned out, it was the answer to nothing except two questions: "How can I waste a half-hour of my time each day?" and "What should I stop watching if I want to impress girls?"

Samurai Pizza Cats earns its place in the pantheon of great, never-watched animated programs of my youth. And to it I say, "Thanks for making me such a fucking weirdo".