What: The fully enclosed BattleMech cockpits used in futuristic multiplayer combat in Virtual World Entertainment's BattleTech Centers. A 'Mech pod features a huge viewscreen, a virtual map, a throttle, a joystick for firing a dozen weapons, movement pedals, heat sensors, and other bells and whistles. Here is a demonstration of a 'Mech in action:
Why: Inherent in the definition of "arcade" is the sense of variety from one machine or attraction to the next. Not so in the BattleTech Centers, such as the flagship center in Chicago's North Pier. Here you'd just find row after row of pilot cockpits for 30-foot-tall exoskeletal tanks. You'd shut the door, lock in, and familiarize yourself with your BattleMech. And a whole lot of other people would too. Suddenly, you were fully immersed in 33rd century combat, blasting away at your enemies with rockets and lasers. The 'Mechs were all different, and you'd vary your play style based on whether you were in an agile Blackhawk or a lumbering Atlas. The pods' greatest innovation was a concept called "heat," where continuous firing of your weapons would not only deplete their ammunition, but burn out your 'Mech's systems as well. So you had to cool down, play smart, and watch your six.
Impact: Launched in 1990, the pods drew gamers from everywhere. A second game, the Martian sled racer Red Planet, debuted in the pods, here shown off by Judge Reinhold, Joan Severance, Nora Dunn, Cheech Marin, and Weird Al. It's overstating things to say that the BattleTech Centers revolutionized arcade gaming, but they were the most ambitious virtual environments of their day. In the 1990s, there were 26 centers across the world, each with at least 12 pods. But by 2000 the main centers in Tokyo and Yokohama shut down, and Dave & Buster's closed its pod installations in the US. The VWE company passed to BattleTech originators FASA, then Microsoft, and now to an operation in Kalamazoo, which supports centers in a few US states. It's a modest old age for one of the greatest videogame systems of all time.
Personal Connection: BattleTech co-creator Jordan Weisman and I have been friends for 15 years, working together on the BattleTech Trading Card Game in the 1990s and Pirates of the Spanish Main earlier this decade. At Origins this past weekend, we did something we'd never done before: face each other in a 'Mech pod battle. None of us were very good. While I stumbled about in my 85-ton Deimos, Jordan's son Nate flew circles around us in the much nimbler Shadowcat. By the end we'd actually killed ourselves as often as we'd killed each other, but a splendid time was had by one and all. (Thanks to MechCorps for comping us. You guys rule.)
Other Contenders: that game's spiritual godfather BattleZone, where green wireframe tanks bore down on you like death; the Guns 'N Roses pinball machine, with its gun and rose-shaped plungers, snake ramp, and head-banging soundtrack; the gorgeous Don Bluth-animated Dragon's Lair cabinet game, and yes, those are gameplay sequences from 1983; Acclaim's summoning game prototype Magic: The Gathering—Armageddon, the coolest arcade game never produced; the dual-pad Dance Dance Revolution, the only exercise many gamers get; the quest for that perfect game of skee-ball.
Why: Inherent in the definition of "arcade" is the sense of variety from one machine or attraction to the next. Not so in the BattleTech Centers, such as the flagship center in Chicago's North Pier. Here you'd just find row after row of pilot cockpits for 30-foot-tall exoskeletal tanks. You'd shut the door, lock in, and familiarize yourself with your BattleMech. And a whole lot of other people would too. Suddenly, you were fully immersed in 33rd century combat, blasting away at your enemies with rockets and lasers. The 'Mechs were all different, and you'd vary your play style based on whether you were in an agile Blackhawk or a lumbering Atlas. The pods' greatest innovation was a concept called "heat," where continuous firing of your weapons would not only deplete their ammunition, but burn out your 'Mech's systems as well. So you had to cool down, play smart, and watch your six.
Impact: Launched in 1990, the pods drew gamers from everywhere. A second game, the Martian sled racer Red Planet, debuted in the pods, here shown off by Judge Reinhold, Joan Severance, Nora Dunn, Cheech Marin, and Weird Al. It's overstating things to say that the BattleTech Centers revolutionized arcade gaming, but they were the most ambitious virtual environments of their day. In the 1990s, there were 26 centers across the world, each with at least 12 pods. But by 2000 the main centers in Tokyo and Yokohama shut down, and Dave & Buster's closed its pod installations in the US. The VWE company passed to BattleTech originators FASA, then Microsoft, and now to an operation in Kalamazoo, which supports centers in a few US states. It's a modest old age for one of the greatest videogame systems of all time.
Personal Connection: BattleTech co-creator Jordan Weisman and I have been friends for 15 years, working together on the BattleTech Trading Card Game in the 1990s and Pirates of the Spanish Main earlier this decade. At Origins this past weekend, we did something we'd never done before: face each other in a 'Mech pod battle. None of us were very good. While I stumbled about in my 85-ton Deimos, Jordan's son Nate flew circles around us in the much nimbler Shadowcat. By the end we'd actually killed ourselves as often as we'd killed each other, but a splendid time was had by one and all. (Thanks to MechCorps for comping us. You guys rule.)
Other Contenders: that game's spiritual godfather BattleZone, where green wireframe tanks bore down on you like death; the Guns 'N Roses pinball machine, with its gun and rose-shaped plungers, snake ramp, and head-banging soundtrack; the gorgeous Don Bluth-animated Dragon's Lair cabinet game, and yes, those are gameplay sequences from 1983; Acclaim's summoning game prototype Magic: The Gathering—Armageddon, the coolest arcade game never produced; the dual-pad Dance Dance Revolution, the only exercise many gamers get; the quest for that perfect game of skee-ball.
What: The zombified Michael Jackson and his undead line-dancers doing a herky-jerky shuffle in John Landis's 1983 music video "Thriller." Below is the sequence itself. In the full video, this occurs between 4:30 and 7:00.
Why: Since the dawn of rock and roll, musicians defined their songs by signature dance moves. Chuck Berry's duck walk, Elvis's hip-shaking, Mick Jagger's swagger, James Brown's sex-machine showmanship—all made the movement of the singer nearly as important as the singer himself. But it took Michael Jackson's breaking out of his brotherly format to redefine the music video. His laser-limned hustling from Off the Wall's "Rock With You" and his moonwalk bust-out in Thriller's "Billie Jean" made him MTV's first black artist. But it took Thriller's title track for him to define MTV itself. The 13-minute video narrated by Vincent Price had at its heart a 2 1/2-minute routine of zombie Michael in a boffo distressed red leather jacket joined by some extras from a George Romero film. Far from being a stiff number, though, Jackson's zombie army thunders across the street. Hand motions, shoulder shrugs, stomping slides, miked-in shuffling sounds—everything is riveting and revolutionary. You can't take your yellow cat's-eyes off of it.
Impact: It's hard to argue with the notion that "Thriller" is the most important video of all time. It legitimized the art form, and solidified Michael Jackson as the King of Pop. He continued to mesmerize in future videos, whether gangster fronting in "Smooth Criminal", challenging the only male performer who might be more graceful in "Jam", or even just sitting in a chair in "Blood on the Dance Floor". Meanwhile, the "Thriller" zombie sequence remains the most well-known music video dance, and is painstakingly reenacted at zombie walks and Filipino prisons all across the world.
Personal Connection: I'm at Origins, where news of Jackson's death spread through the convention like wildfire. Unlike with Farrah Fawcett, whose heart-wrenching death also happened yesterday, people (including me) were quick to make the obvious jokes, especially the one involving Michael just returning as a zombie. Our ease with this comes from Jackson's fall from the height of royalty to something that acted and appeared other than human. Many of my younger readers can't remember the time when Michael Jackson wasn't a freakshow. But there was a run from 1979 to 1985 when Michael was just The Show. That's where I'll try my best to focus from now on.
Other Contenders: Michael's sister Janet strikes a martial pose in "Rhythm Nation"; Jay Kay of Jamiroquai slithers between animate objects in "Virtual Insanity"; TLC slinks about in satin pajamas in "Creep"; OK Go hits the treadmills in "Here It Goes Again"; Christopher Walken lets his Brooks Brothers breathe in Fatboy Slim's "Weapon of Choice"; Feist dances in a rainbow in "1234"; four Sony QRIO robots pick up some new fans in Beck's "Hell Yes".
Why: Since the dawn of rock and roll, musicians defined their songs by signature dance moves. Chuck Berry's duck walk, Elvis's hip-shaking, Mick Jagger's swagger, James Brown's sex-machine showmanship—all made the movement of the singer nearly as important as the singer himself. But it took Michael Jackson's breaking out of his brotherly format to redefine the music video. His laser-limned hustling from Off the Wall's "Rock With You" and his moonwalk bust-out in Thriller's "Billie Jean" made him MTV's first black artist. But it took Thriller's title track for him to define MTV itself. The 13-minute video narrated by Vincent Price had at its heart a 2 1/2-minute routine of zombie Michael in a boffo distressed red leather jacket joined by some extras from a George Romero film. Far from being a stiff number, though, Jackson's zombie army thunders across the street. Hand motions, shoulder shrugs, stomping slides, miked-in shuffling sounds—everything is riveting and revolutionary. You can't take your yellow cat's-eyes off of it.
Impact: It's hard to argue with the notion that "Thriller" is the most important video of all time. It legitimized the art form, and solidified Michael Jackson as the King of Pop. He continued to mesmerize in future videos, whether gangster fronting in "Smooth Criminal", challenging the only male performer who might be more graceful in "Jam", or even just sitting in a chair in "Blood on the Dance Floor". Meanwhile, the "Thriller" zombie sequence remains the most well-known music video dance, and is painstakingly reenacted at zombie walks and Filipino prisons all across the world.
Personal Connection: I'm at Origins, where news of Jackson's death spread through the convention like wildfire. Unlike with Farrah Fawcett, whose heart-wrenching death also happened yesterday, people (including me) were quick to make the obvious jokes, especially the one involving Michael just returning as a zombie. Our ease with this comes from Jackson's fall from the height of royalty to something that acted and appeared other than human. Many of my younger readers can't remember the time when Michael Jackson wasn't a freakshow. But there was a run from 1979 to 1985 when Michael was just The Show. That's where I'll try my best to focus from now on.
Other Contenders: Michael's sister Janet strikes a martial pose in "Rhythm Nation"; Jay Kay of Jamiroquai slithers between animate objects in "Virtual Insanity"; TLC slinks about in satin pajamas in "Creep"; OK Go hits the treadmills in "Here It Goes Again"; Christopher Walken lets his Brooks Brothers breathe in Fatboy Slim's "Weapon of Choice"; Feist dances in a rainbow in "1234"; four Sony QRIO robots pick up some new fans in Beck's "Hell Yes".
Who: Atticus Finch, pa to Jean Louise "Scout" Finch and her brother Jem in Harper Lee's 1960 quasi-autobiographical novel To Kill a Mockingbird, and then later played by Gregory Peck in Robert Mulligan's 1962 film of the same name. Here is Peck delivering the lesson from which the book's title comes:
Why: My none-too-subtle hint that I would be writing about the greatest American novel on Father's Day probably didn't escape many notices. Alabama town attorney Atticus Finch would have been one of the all-time literary characters if he had only unsuccessfully defended accused rapist Tom Robinson from a whites-only justice system. But as important and compelling as that subplot is, it's his relationship with his daughter Jean Louise that is the most riveting element of the book and movie. He calls her "Scout," and in a baseball-bat swing at Southern decorum, she calls him "Atticus." The character is impossible to perceive as anything other than Gregory Peck, playing an educated version of his other great literary Southern dad character from the 1948 adaptation of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings' The Yearling. Viewed through that lens, Atticus is the dad every American wants to have—our original ones excepted, of course.
Impact: Harper Lee's publish-and-vanish approach, already perfected by J.D. Salinger and Ralph Ellison, put her on the list of America's most enigmatic novelists. To Kill a Mockingbird won the Pulitzer, and she never wrote anything again. (She's still alive. She has time.) Gregory Peck won the Best Actor Oscar for playing Atticus, his only win of his five tries. Atticus became the ultimate American attorney, inspiring, among many others, our modern Mr. Finch, Morris Dees of the Southern Poverty Law Center. And of course, on one day a year, Atticus leads every list like this one.
Personal Connection: Is there such thing as a literary clicker-killer? For me, it's this book. If I'm stuck looking for something to re-read on my shelf, it's often this one I pick up. It's certainly the novel I've read the most times, by far. Thirty times, maybe? It's tough to tell, because I'm probably counting the thirty times I've seen the movie in there too. One thing is certain: There will never be any words better at bringing me to tears than the reverend's admonition to Scout, "Stand up, your father's passing." Yeah, I just got you too, I bet. Happy Father's Day, Dad.
Other Contenders: King Lear, who makes a teeny-tiny misjudgment about which of his three daughters loves him best; Sean Connery's Henry Jones, Sr., the foil we never knew Indy needed; Finding Nemo's Marlin, swimming with Albert Brooks' nervous energy; elderly Albert Finney and youthful Ewan McGregor as Will's tall tale-telling father in Big Fish; Robert De Niro's Dwight, who invites Leonardo DiCaprio's Tobias Wolff to shut his goddamn piehole in This Boy's Life; FOX's all-time idiot sitcom dad—no, not this guy, but Bryan Cranston's brick-thick Hal from Malcolm in the Middle.
Why: My none-too-subtle hint that I would be writing about the greatest American novel on Father's Day probably didn't escape many notices. Alabama town attorney Atticus Finch would have been one of the all-time literary characters if he had only unsuccessfully defended accused rapist Tom Robinson from a whites-only justice system. But as important and compelling as that subplot is, it's his relationship with his daughter Jean Louise that is the most riveting element of the book and movie. He calls her "Scout," and in a baseball-bat swing at Southern decorum, she calls him "Atticus." The character is impossible to perceive as anything other than Gregory Peck, playing an educated version of his other great literary Southern dad character from the 1948 adaptation of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings' The Yearling. Viewed through that lens, Atticus is the dad every American wants to have—our original ones excepted, of course.
Impact: Harper Lee's publish-and-vanish approach, already perfected by J.D. Salinger and Ralph Ellison, put her on the list of America's most enigmatic novelists. To Kill a Mockingbird won the Pulitzer, and she never wrote anything again. (She's still alive. She has time.) Gregory Peck won the Best Actor Oscar for playing Atticus, his only win of his five tries. Atticus became the ultimate American attorney, inspiring, among many others, our modern Mr. Finch, Morris Dees of the Southern Poverty Law Center. And of course, on one day a year, Atticus leads every list like this one.
Personal Connection: Is there such thing as a literary clicker-killer? For me, it's this book. If I'm stuck looking for something to re-read on my shelf, it's often this one I pick up. It's certainly the novel I've read the most times, by far. Thirty times, maybe? It's tough to tell, because I'm probably counting the thirty times I've seen the movie in there too. One thing is certain: There will never be any words better at bringing me to tears than the reverend's admonition to Scout, "Stand up, your father's passing." Yeah, I just got you too, I bet. Happy Father's Day, Dad.
Other Contenders: King Lear, who makes a teeny-tiny misjudgment about which of his three daughters loves him best; Sean Connery's Henry Jones, Sr., the foil we never knew Indy needed; Finding Nemo's Marlin, swimming with Albert Brooks' nervous energy; elderly Albert Finney and youthful Ewan McGregor as Will's tall tale-telling father in Big Fish; Robert De Niro's Dwight, who invites Leonardo DiCaprio's Tobias Wolff to shut his goddamn piehole in This Boy's Life; FOX's all-time idiot sitcom dad—no, not this guy, but Bryan Cranston's brick-thick Hal from Malcolm in the Middle.
What: Jimmy Cliff's soul-striking 1969 ballad "Many Rivers to Cross." Here is the studio recording from the soundtrack of the 1972 film The Harder They Come, but it needs to be heard live, as in this 1989 Greenpeace benefit performance:
Why: A smooth blend of calypso, gospel, and ganja haze, reggae kicked onto the world scene with the soundtrack to the Jamaican gangster film The Harder They Come, a contender for best soundtrack ever. (It's not, though. I'll get to that.) It featured Cliff's anthemic title track and the infectious "Sitting in Limbo", the original versions of "Pressure Drop" and "Johnny Too Bad", and enough soon-to-be-classics to fill a UB40 tribute album. Floating above them all was the film's star singing "Many Rivers to Cross," a mirror of his character's battles with poverty and crime. Fueled by a Procol Harum-style organ, the song fuses reggae and the spiritual like no other, battering the lost and lonely narrator like the waves off the white cliffs of Dover. He might make it across those rivers, and he might not. But he will try, Lord, he will try.
Impact: "Many Rivers to Cross" became Cliff's signature song, and a favorite of pop singers seeking a touch of gravitas. Covers by Cher and UB40 hit the pop charts; others include Elvis Costello, Lenny Kravitz, and a recent American Idol version by Annie Lennox. It's a voice-wrecking song, so it helps if you've already done so. Some four decades later, the song remains rock's most anguished declaration of hope.
Personal Connection: The Harder They Come easily holds the record for my personal longest gap between owning a film's soundtrack and seeing the film. Yes, I mean that direction. I had the album at age 6, hardly a good age to be watching a film about drug trafficking and gangster hooliganism. After a 35-year delay, I saw the film for the first time about a year ago, and was impressed by how real it felt. (I was slightly less impressed by the realism of the song's namesake, the 1955 western comedy Many Rivers to Cross, starring Robert Taylor as "Bushrod Gentry." But even the most epic songs have to get their inspiration from somewhere.)
Other Contenders: "The Guns of Brixton", The Clash's incendiary call to violence inspired by The Harder They Come; Bob Marley's plaintive "Redemption Song"; UB40's horn-propelled instrumental foot-stomper, "Dance with the Devil"; The Beat's ska-pop swirl of "Save It for Later"; the sweet rocksteady lope of The Paragons' "Wear You to the Ball"; Paul Young's pop cover of Nicky Thomas' reggae cover of Waylon Jennings' folk song "Love of the Common People"; Michael Franti & Spearhead's not-highly-metaphysical dancehall hug, "Say Hey (I Love You)" (also good with puppets).
Why: A smooth blend of calypso, gospel, and ganja haze, reggae kicked onto the world scene with the soundtrack to the Jamaican gangster film The Harder They Come, a contender for best soundtrack ever. (It's not, though. I'll get to that.) It featured Cliff's anthemic title track and the infectious "Sitting in Limbo", the original versions of "Pressure Drop" and "Johnny Too Bad", and enough soon-to-be-classics to fill a UB40 tribute album. Floating above them all was the film's star singing "Many Rivers to Cross," a mirror of his character's battles with poverty and crime. Fueled by a Procol Harum-style organ, the song fuses reggae and the spiritual like no other, battering the lost and lonely narrator like the waves off the white cliffs of Dover. He might make it across those rivers, and he might not. But he will try, Lord, he will try.
Impact: "Many Rivers to Cross" became Cliff's signature song, and a favorite of pop singers seeking a touch of gravitas. Covers by Cher and UB40 hit the pop charts; others include Elvis Costello, Lenny Kravitz, and a recent American Idol version by Annie Lennox. It's a voice-wrecking song, so it helps if you've already done so. Some four decades later, the song remains rock's most anguished declaration of hope.
Personal Connection: The Harder They Come easily holds the record for my personal longest gap between owning a film's soundtrack and seeing the film. Yes, I mean that direction. I had the album at age 6, hardly a good age to be watching a film about drug trafficking and gangster hooliganism. After a 35-year delay, I saw the film for the first time about a year ago, and was impressed by how real it felt. (I was slightly less impressed by the realism of the song's namesake, the 1955 western comedy Many Rivers to Cross, starring Robert Taylor as "Bushrod Gentry." But even the most epic songs have to get their inspiration from somewhere.)
Other Contenders: "The Guns of Brixton", The Clash's incendiary call to violence inspired by The Harder They Come; Bob Marley's plaintive "Redemption Song"; UB40's horn-propelled instrumental foot-stomper, "Dance with the Devil"; The Beat's ska-pop swirl of "Save It for Later"; the sweet rocksteady lope of The Paragons' "Wear You to the Ball"; Paul Young's pop cover of Nicky Thomas' reggae cover of Waylon Jennings' folk song "Love of the Common People"; Michael Franti & Spearhead's not-highly-metaphysical dancehall hug, "Say Hey (I Love You)" (also good with puppets).
What: The titular monster in the 1974 storybook Wheedle on the Needle, by Stephen Cosgrove and illustrator Robin James.Why: Many years ago, before anybody lived in the Northwest, there lived a very happy creature called a Wheedle. He was big, fat, and had a very large nose. But his peaceful life was disturbed by the sound of whistling from the happy people building Seattle. This made the Wheedle grouchy. So he stole their tools, but that didn't work. He tried to scare them, but that didn't work. He moved to the top of Mount Rainier, but that didn't work. He gathered up all the clouds in a bag, climbed to the roof of the Space Needle, and made it rain day and night in Seattle, and that did work. You see, it's not easy to whistle when your lips get all wet. So the people of Seattle sewed a giant pair of earmuffs so the Wheedle wouldn't hear their whistling. And the Wheedle folded the clouds into a pillow and fell asleep so soundly that his red nose started blinking. And that is why everybody thinks it rains a lot in Seattle, and why there's a blinking red light atop the Space Needle.
Impact: Wheedle on the Needle is Seattle's most beloved work of fiction, even beating out Frank Herbert's Dune. Immediately upon publication, Wheedlemania took hold; the Seattle Sonics even had a Wheedle as a mascot for their glory years of 1978–1985. Sadly, Penguin Books ruined the Wheedle, publishing a 2002 edition which redacted the environmental themes and de-Seattle-ized it. (If you come across a version without the Space Needle on the cover, feel free to set it ablaze.) But in a happy ending, Cosgrove won the rights back after a 15-year battle, and will publish a new Sasquatch Books edition in 2010. I'm in line already.
Personal Connection: Like every Seattleite of a certain age, I reflexively quote the book's closing quatrain:
On the Needle
I know just what
You're thinking
But if you look up
Late at night
You'll see
His red nose blinking
I hope that at some point in the near future, I'll be able to walk onto the roof of the Needle and say hi.
Other Contenders: Edward Gorey's The Doubtful Guest, who shows no intention of going away; Dr. Seuss's The Lorax, who speaks for the trees; J. Otto Seibold and Vivian Walsh's Olive, the Other Reindeer, a dog who mishears her name in a critical Christmas carol lyric; the creatures visited by young Max in Maurice Sendak's Where the Wild Things Are; Squammy, the lovable horror from the depths in Stan!'s The Littlest Shoggoth.
What: The three-minute opening sequence of the 1967-1968 drama The Prisoner. In this montage, Patrick McGoohan's unnamed character resigns from his British spy agency, only to be gassed and kidnapped to a mysterious prison called "The Village." Despite his insistence that he is not a number but rather a free man, he is dubbed "Number Six." He matches wits with a villainous Number Two, almost always a different warden than on the last episode. He attempts to escape, but is run down by a white weather balloon called Rover, as the current Number Two laughs maniacally.
Why: There's a strong argument that The Prisoner is the best TV series ever, but it's unfair to compare a series that ran for four months with one that, say, had to come up with new ideas for a decade longer than the Korean War it was set in. So I'll simply say that no series has ever had a more impressive opening sequence. In those three minutes, you get Ron Greiner's lively theme, a fine view of a Lotus Seven, and a strikingly compact tour through what you could imagine was another entire series. (And many did, insisting it was McGoohan's character John Drake from the series Danger Man, despite his claims elsewise. You'll never get me to pick a side on that, no matter how many Rovers you send after me.) The constant swapout of Number Twos, and their chilling walkthroughs of the same interrogation, made you believe that by hook or by crook, the irresistible-force/immovable-object waltz of The Village and Number Six would go on forever.
Impact: Obviously, it did not. McGoohan only wanted the series to run for seven episodes (fairly common for British series back then), but CBS coaxed him to stretch it to seventeen. But those seventeen bizarre episodes hit a chord, brazenly embracing themes of drugs, politics, and rebellion. The series is now considered one of the greatest cult shows in television history. It will soon be remade into an AMC miniseries starring Jim Caviezel as Number Six; the selection of Sir Ian McKellen as Number Two makes this not quite as blasphemous an idea as it sounds. But you don't have to settle for a knockoff, as you can watch the entire original series on AMC's website. Be seeing you.
Personal Connection: I watched the series in its entirety when I was too young to understand it, a statement which has applied to every other time I watched it. For seventeen consecutive Wednesdays, I showed it at lunch at Wizards of the Coast. My favorite moment was when someone came into the breakroom right around Episode 14 and said "What the hell are you guys watching?" and one person who'd been present for all the episodes said "Dude, I have no idea."
Other Contenders: the most sensational, inspirational, celebrational, Muppet-ational curtains-up of The Muppet Show; The Simpsons' chalkboard-, sax solo-, and couch-altering intro, here shown alongside the jaw-dropping live BBC version; everything wild about espionage stuffed into Mission: Impossible's 5/4 theme; our weekly playback of Jim's answering machine on The Rockford Files; the HBO double-shot of The Sopranos' cool menace and Big Love's freaky surreality; the apocalyptic bombast of Life After People's opening, with its gut-punch tagline "Welcome to Earth, Population: Zero."
Why: There's a strong argument that The Prisoner is the best TV series ever, but it's unfair to compare a series that ran for four months with one that, say, had to come up with new ideas for a decade longer than the Korean War it was set in. So I'll simply say that no series has ever had a more impressive opening sequence. In those three minutes, you get Ron Greiner's lively theme, a fine view of a Lotus Seven, and a strikingly compact tour through what you could imagine was another entire series. (And many did, insisting it was McGoohan's character John Drake from the series Danger Man, despite his claims elsewise. You'll never get me to pick a side on that, no matter how many Rovers you send after me.) The constant swapout of Number Twos, and their chilling walkthroughs of the same interrogation, made you believe that by hook or by crook, the irresistible-force/immovable-object waltz of The Village and Number Six would go on forever.
Impact: Obviously, it did not. McGoohan only wanted the series to run for seven episodes (fairly common for British series back then), but CBS coaxed him to stretch it to seventeen. But those seventeen bizarre episodes hit a chord, brazenly embracing themes of drugs, politics, and rebellion. The series is now considered one of the greatest cult shows in television history. It will soon be remade into an AMC miniseries starring Jim Caviezel as Number Six; the selection of Sir Ian McKellen as Number Two makes this not quite as blasphemous an idea as it sounds. But you don't have to settle for a knockoff, as you can watch the entire original series on AMC's website. Be seeing you.
Personal Connection: I watched the series in its entirety when I was too young to understand it, a statement which has applied to every other time I watched it. For seventeen consecutive Wednesdays, I showed it at lunch at Wizards of the Coast. My favorite moment was when someone came into the breakroom right around Episode 14 and said "What the hell are you guys watching?" and one person who'd been present for all the episodes said "Dude, I have no idea."
Other Contenders: the most sensational, inspirational, celebrational, Muppet-ational curtains-up of The Muppet Show; The Simpsons' chalkboard-, sax solo-, and couch-altering intro, here shown alongside the jaw-dropping live BBC version; everything wild about espionage stuffed into Mission: Impossible's 5/4 theme; our weekly playback of Jim's answering machine on The Rockford Files; the HBO double-shot of The Sopranos' cool menace and Big Love's freaky surreality; the apocalyptic bombast of Life After People's opening, with its gut-punch tagline "Welcome to Earth, Population: Zero."
What: Danica Patrick takes a stunning gamble and charges into the lead with ten laps to go at the 2005 Indianapolis 500. This occurs about six minutes into this video:
Why: The Indianapolis 500 was once the most important day in sports, but a blockheaded ownership fracture and the mainstreaming of NASCAR shunted open-wheel racing to the fringes in the '90s. But in May of 2005, hope came in the pint-sized form of a rookie from Roscoe, Illinois. Sponsored by owners Bobby Rahal and David Letterman (yes, him), Danica Patrick threatened to overshadow the race itself with her looks and attitude. These features belied a solid but raw skill set, which she showed by qualifying for the fourth position. A mere 56 laps after the call of "Lady and gentlemen, start your engines," Patrick became the first woman to lead the 500, but gave it all back with a series of rookie mistakes: a stall in the pits midway through, and a caution-flag spin which damaged four cars. But on lap 174 of 200, Patrick's team kept her out while the leaders pitted, and she charged to the front. This, it seemed, was winnable, but she needed a lot of luck. Specifically, because Patrick didn't have enough fuel to finish full-out, she needed people to crash. As Dan Wheldon passed her on lap 186, that crash came, as Kosuke Matsuura popped his front wheel onto his hood. Four laps later, when the green flag flew, Patrick roared ahead of Wheldon. One more caution, and she would've won. It never came. Patrick did the racing equivalent of going all-in on an inside straight draw, and she paid for it. Finishing fourth, she had set every record for a female racer, and did so with the ballsiest move (note: intentional word choice) in open-wheel history.
Impact: Patrick's run revitalized the 500, at least for a time. She easily took the Rookie of the Year trophy. A few years later, now part owner of her car's Andretti Green team, she became the first woman to win an IndyCar race. She remains the sport's biggest draw. Part of this is for her looks, which she exploits to uncomfortable levels. Yet another part is for her attitude, as she routinely picks fights with other drivers. But a very important part is for her ability, as she's consistently ranked between the 5th- and 8th-best racer on the planet, with high expectations for Sunday's Indy 500.
Personal Connection: By far the most embarrassing thing I've ever had published in a newspaper. What in the name of Emerson Fittipaldi was I thinking?
Other Contenders: Jesse Owens corrects Hitler's mistaken assessment of Aryan superiority at the '36 Berlin Olympics; Australia II emphatically ends 132 years of U.S. hegemony at the 1983 America's Cup (boxing kangaroo alert at 2:13!); local hero Seattle Slew becomes the only undefeated Triple Crown winner in 1977; Top Gear's Richard Hammond and James May both get nicked by the cops as they race a Ferrari Daytona and an XSR48 powerboat down the Riviera.
Why: The Indianapolis 500 was once the most important day in sports, but a blockheaded ownership fracture and the mainstreaming of NASCAR shunted open-wheel racing to the fringes in the '90s. But in May of 2005, hope came in the pint-sized form of a rookie from Roscoe, Illinois. Sponsored by owners Bobby Rahal and David Letterman (yes, him), Danica Patrick threatened to overshadow the race itself with her looks and attitude. These features belied a solid but raw skill set, which she showed by qualifying for the fourth position. A mere 56 laps after the call of "Lady and gentlemen, start your engines," Patrick became the first woman to lead the 500, but gave it all back with a series of rookie mistakes: a stall in the pits midway through, and a caution-flag spin which damaged four cars. But on lap 174 of 200, Patrick's team kept her out while the leaders pitted, and she charged to the front. This, it seemed, was winnable, but she needed a lot of luck. Specifically, because Patrick didn't have enough fuel to finish full-out, she needed people to crash. As Dan Wheldon passed her on lap 186, that crash came, as Kosuke Matsuura popped his front wheel onto his hood. Four laps later, when the green flag flew, Patrick roared ahead of Wheldon. One more caution, and she would've won. It never came. Patrick did the racing equivalent of going all-in on an inside straight draw, and she paid for it. Finishing fourth, she had set every record for a female racer, and did so with the ballsiest move (note: intentional word choice) in open-wheel history.
Impact: Patrick's run revitalized the 500, at least for a time. She easily took the Rookie of the Year trophy. A few years later, now part owner of her car's Andretti Green team, she became the first woman to win an IndyCar race. She remains the sport's biggest draw. Part of this is for her looks, which she exploits to uncomfortable levels. Yet another part is for her attitude, as she routinely picks fights with other drivers. But a very important part is for her ability, as she's consistently ranked between the 5th- and 8th-best racer on the planet, with high expectations for Sunday's Indy 500.
Personal Connection: By far the most embarrassing thing I've ever had published in a newspaper. What in the name of Emerson Fittipaldi was I thinking?
Other Contenders: Jesse Owens corrects Hitler's mistaken assessment of Aryan superiority at the '36 Berlin Olympics; Australia II emphatically ends 132 years of U.S. hegemony at the 1983 America's Cup (boxing kangaroo alert at 2:13!); local hero Seattle Slew becomes the only undefeated Triple Crown winner in 1977; Top Gear's Richard Hammond and James May both get nicked by the cops as they race a Ferrari Daytona and an XSR48 powerboat down the Riviera.
What: An unresolvable tie between Jane Austen's 1813 novel Pride and Prejudice and Charlotte Brontë's 1847 novel Jane Eyre: An Autobiography.
Why: This series of columns is all about decisiveness, but this time, I just couldn't do it. These are the two greatest novels ever written, amazingly both by women in a time where such a thing was frowned upon. (The third greatest is also by a woman, and I'll shine the spotlight on that one in a month or so.) I spent a fair amount of time comparing Austen and Brontë's novels, trying to get one to outshine the other, but it never happened. It's likely because they're mirror images of each other: Jane Eyre is about miserable people desperately trying to make themselves happy, and Pride and Prejudice is about happy people desperately trying to make themselves miserable. Each has a riveting heroine struggling with a rigid society, and embarking on a star-crossed relationship with a difficult and wealthy landholder. The reserved governess Jane endures trial after trial, somehow holding onto a central sense of order in a time of chaos. On the other side of the social ladder, the unwilling debutante Elizabeth Bennet is often the chaos in a very ordered world in which she lives. If the two somehow ever crossed paths, they would see in each other a kinship based on their mutual force of will. (At least, Lizzy would tell Jane that in a series of barbs, while Jane demurely tried to slink off to the neighboring room.)
Impact: It's scarcely possible to find a greatest-novels-of-all-time list without both of these. Both are required reading in high school English classes, but it's not surprising when students will re-read the books on their own (this will not happen with, say, Ivanhoe). A hundred years from now, if there are still things called books, Pride and Prejudice and Jane Eyre will still top the lists, and people like me will still not be able to choose. But of course, I can't let this topic go by without discussing the scandalous adaptation of one of them into a twisted tale of mayhem amongst the living dead. The genteel society is uprooted by incursions of zombies and nightmares, but somehow manners endure. I speak, of course, of the 1943 RKO Pictures adaptation of Jane Eyre, I Walked with a Zombie. Wait, what did you think I was referring to?
Personal Connection: I've lost track of how many times I've read Pride and Prejudice; it's got to be over twenty by now. On the other hand, I know exactly how many times I've read Jane Eyre: just three. Austen's book is funny and breezy, and capable of being knocked down in a weekend. Brontë's is serious and dark, requiring long breaths between chapters. I still have my heavily scrawled-up copies from high school, so upon a re-read I get a trip down memory lane as well. Only now with Keira Knightley and Charlotte Gainsbourg in my head. This works for me.
Other Contenders: Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, maybe the most entertaining book of all time; Alexander Pushkin's gorgeous novel-poem Eugene Onegin, so good in English that I wish I could read Russian as well; Charles Dickens' sweeping and affecting A Tale of Two Cities; Oscar Wilde's ultra-freaky The Picture of Dorian Gray; the two derringest-do tales, Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island and Alexandre Dumas' The Three Musketeers; Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's masterful debut of Sherlock Holmes, A Study in Scarlet; sheerly for how-the-hell? value, Morgan Robertson's The Wreck of the Titan, or Futility, which describes the Titanic disaster fourteen years earlier.
Why: This series of columns is all about decisiveness, but this time, I just couldn't do it. These are the two greatest novels ever written, amazingly both by women in a time where such a thing was frowned upon. (The third greatest is also by a woman, and I'll shine the spotlight on that one in a month or so.) I spent a fair amount of time comparing Austen and Brontë's novels, trying to get one to outshine the other, but it never happened. It's likely because they're mirror images of each other: Jane Eyre is about miserable people desperately trying to make themselves happy, and Pride and Prejudice is about happy people desperately trying to make themselves miserable. Each has a riveting heroine struggling with a rigid society, and embarking on a star-crossed relationship with a difficult and wealthy landholder. The reserved governess Jane endures trial after trial, somehow holding onto a central sense of order in a time of chaos. On the other side of the social ladder, the unwilling debutante Elizabeth Bennet is often the chaos in a very ordered world in which she lives. If the two somehow ever crossed paths, they would see in each other a kinship based on their mutual force of will. (At least, Lizzy would tell Jane that in a series of barbs, while Jane demurely tried to slink off to the neighboring room.)
Impact: It's scarcely possible to find a greatest-novels-of-all-time list without both of these. Both are required reading in high school English classes, but it's not surprising when students will re-read the books on their own (this will not happen with, say, Ivanhoe). A hundred years from now, if there are still things called books, Pride and Prejudice and Jane Eyre will still top the lists, and people like me will still not be able to choose. But of course, I can't let this topic go by without discussing the scandalous adaptation of one of them into a twisted tale of mayhem amongst the living dead. The genteel society is uprooted by incursions of zombies and nightmares, but somehow manners endure. I speak, of course, of the 1943 RKO Pictures adaptation of Jane Eyre, I Walked with a Zombie. Wait, what did you think I was referring to?
Personal Connection: I've lost track of how many times I've read Pride and Prejudice; it's got to be over twenty by now. On the other hand, I know exactly how many times I've read Jane Eyre: just three. Austen's book is funny and breezy, and capable of being knocked down in a weekend. Brontë's is serious and dark, requiring long breaths between chapters. I still have my heavily scrawled-up copies from high school, so upon a re-read I get a trip down memory lane as well. Only now with Keira Knightley and Charlotte Gainsbourg in my head. This works for me.
Other Contenders: Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, maybe the most entertaining book of all time; Alexander Pushkin's gorgeous novel-poem Eugene Onegin, so good in English that I wish I could read Russian as well; Charles Dickens' sweeping and affecting A Tale of Two Cities; Oscar Wilde's ultra-freaky The Picture of Dorian Gray; the two derringest-do tales, Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island and Alexandre Dumas' The Three Musketeers; Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's masterful debut of Sherlock Holmes, A Study in Scarlet; sheerly for how-the-hell? value, Morgan Robertson's The Wreck of the Titan, or Futility, which describes the Titanic disaster fourteen years earlier.
What: Leftover pizza straight from the refrigerator first thing in the morning.Why: As meals go, breakfast is like the French language: it is not inclined to allow foreign influences into its official domain. If a foodstuff is not composed of eggs, pork, fruit, or processed grains, it is not getting in. As such, cold pizza is not a breakfast food your mother will teach you; it is a breakfast food you must learn on your own. But figure it out you will. All it takes is one lazy evening and one forgotten trip to the grocery store, and you will be hooked. Cold pizza's preparation time cannot be beat, and it comes in conveniently separated servings so you can share with that strange person you woke up with. For god's sake, do not heat it up, as that is the act of someone who is prepared for the morning. Instead, surrender to your bleariness, and pick up a slice.
Impact: Okay, World, I simply do not get you. I have dutifully patronized many hundreds of your breakfast buffets in hotels and casinos. I have stood in line at your omelet bars, sampled your dozens of cereals, and overdosed on your pancakes. I have never once seen you put cold pizza on a countertop. This is insane. If you offer a choice between watery oatmeal and cold pizza, you will never run out of oatmeal. Heads up, any restaurateurs reading this: Put cold pizza on your menu, and people will never eat breakfast anywhere else.
Personal Connection: Now for the debate. The holy trinity of pizza is New York-style that passes the fold test (the father, supreme and undeniable to many); Chicago-style stuffed pizza (the son, revelatory and transcendent, but not universally venerated); and California-style flat-crust (the holy ghost, ephemeral and mystical, but hard to comprehend). To me there is no debate about which is king of the dinner table: the sheer sensory onslaught of Chicago-style rules all. But for breakfast, I'll commit Midwestern sacrilege and give the nod to New York-style. The solidity of Chicago-style makes the pizza more of a commitment, whereas New York-style seems more of an easy adjustment to morning. Still, it's a meaningless debate, as any pizza is a welcome sight when the refrigerator bulb flickers on in the early hours.
Other Contenders: an omelette du fromage, most especially a Greek omelet with feta cheese and kalamata olives; half of a juicy pink grapefruit; a lightly toasted and buttered crumpet; a stack of french toast dripping with maple syrup; extremely crispy bacon, so brittle that you can shatter it with a hammer.
What: A slow, observant walk through a butterfly house, such as this tour of the now defunct London Butterfly House by Italian photographer Paolo Mollica:
Why: As public image goes, the butterfly is second to no arthropod. It is no less an insect then the roach or the hornet; consider the reputation of its order-mate the moth, which cannot appear but once in a closet before being chased out with a broom. Its name comes from the legend that witches transformed into the winged bugs to steal butter from helpless medieval milkmaids. Strange, then, that the butterfly has become the pinnacle of serenity. Part is due to its winsome beauty and riot of coloration, but the butterfly's key feature is its peacefully erratic flight pattern. You can't take your eyes off a butterfly, because you can't predict its path. That is, unless you are surrounded by hundreds of them. This is usually only possible in a butterfly house, the most calming type of manmade structure on earth. The indoor climate is a constant 80 degrees, the perfect temperature for your own inactivity. And if you wear bright colors, the butterflies will land on you, a true delight. Just remember to turn around a few times on your way out, so that you don't leave with a hitchhiker.
Impact: Weather, logging, and predation wipe out species of butterflies at an alarming rate. Butterfly houses provide conservation of many threatened species, in environments safe from outside forces. At many houses, you can watch them emerge from their chrysalises. To learn about the Butterfly Conservation Initiative, go to butterflyrecovery.org.
Personal Connection: The room of choice for me is the Pacific Science Center's Tropical Butterfly House. We went there with![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
scarlettina earlier this week, and I was once again reminded that if I could just take a laptop and work there all day, I'd probably write a lot of calming, introspective stories. Then again, I might forget to write at all.
Other Contenders: strolling among tulip fields; getting a cucumber facial at the Bellagio day spa in Las Vegas; standing in the shadow of Christ the Redeemer overlooking Rio de Janeiro; hanging out at the base of a waterfall, such as at Snoqualmie Falls (a.k.a. Twin Peaks); looking out on Manhattan from the deck of the Empire State Building; doing just about anything with a puppy.
Why: As public image goes, the butterfly is second to no arthropod. It is no less an insect then the roach or the hornet; consider the reputation of its order-mate the moth, which cannot appear but once in a closet before being chased out with a broom. Its name comes from the legend that witches transformed into the winged bugs to steal butter from helpless medieval milkmaids. Strange, then, that the butterfly has become the pinnacle of serenity. Part is due to its winsome beauty and riot of coloration, but the butterfly's key feature is its peacefully erratic flight pattern. You can't take your eyes off a butterfly, because you can't predict its path. That is, unless you are surrounded by hundreds of them. This is usually only possible in a butterfly house, the most calming type of manmade structure on earth. The indoor climate is a constant 80 degrees, the perfect temperature for your own inactivity. And if you wear bright colors, the butterflies will land on you, a true delight. Just remember to turn around a few times on your way out, so that you don't leave with a hitchhiker.
Impact: Weather, logging, and predation wipe out species of butterflies at an alarming rate. Butterfly houses provide conservation of many threatened species, in environments safe from outside forces. At many houses, you can watch them emerge from their chrysalises. To learn about the Butterfly Conservation Initiative, go to butterflyrecovery.org.
Personal Connection: The room of choice for me is the Pacific Science Center's Tropical Butterfly House. We went there with
scarlettina earlier this week, and I was once again reminded that if I could just take a laptop and work there all day, I'd probably write a lot of calming, introspective stories. Then again, I might forget to write at all.Other Contenders: strolling among tulip fields; getting a cucumber facial at the Bellagio day spa in Las Vegas; standing in the shadow of Christ the Redeemer overlooking Rio de Janeiro; hanging out at the base of a waterfall, such as at Snoqualmie Falls (a.k.a. Twin Peaks); looking out on Manhattan from the deck of the Empire State Building; doing just about anything with a puppy.
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