Vacation 2008: Day 3 - Give me fyah

Look what I got in the mail last Saturday!

The 25th anniversary edition of Barbecue, the G.I. Joe team's resident firefighter! Or more accurately, the G.I. Joe team's rezahdint fy-ah-fy-tah and token Bostonian.

Lady Jaye's file card states she was born in the Vineyard, but it's safe to assume that she was a high holiday baby with a permanent address in Manhattan's Upper West Side. Gabriel "Bahbahcue" Kelly, on the other hand, was the real fictional deal, a seventh generation Beantown jake presumably well versed in the local culture of fradulent disability reports and lack of independent oversight.

"I'd love tah help ya fight Cobra Cammandah, Duke, but my back's been actin' up. Union rules. Maybe when I get back from rock climbin' I can do somethin'."

While the general wisdom regarding special forces operatives stresses cross-training (so that the units can function effectively despite loss of individual members), the Joes were hyper-specialized to a fault, with full-time team members dedicated solely to covering even the most narrow of disciplines. In practice, this meant that many of the less well-rounded members of the team either spent most of their time warming the benches back at the Joes' HQ or got dragged along on missions outside their areas of expertise, leading to absurd scenarios like Snow Job, an arctic warfare expert, fighting in full cold weather gear in the tropics. Call it the "licensed merchandise theory of warfare."

For poor Barbecue -- armed with a hi-tech supersoaker and a fire axe -- the time not spent inspecting the base's smoke detectors and spinkler systems went something like this...


An important function, to be sure, but it doesn't dull the gnawing feelings of inadequacy when the other guys and gals on the team are doing some post-op boasting about how many Rattlers they shot down or how they kicked Destro in the 'nads while leaping from an exploding A.W.E. Striker.

In the overfondly remembered G.I. Joe cartoon series, Barbecue's great shining moment came in "The Viper Is Coming," a episode revolving around the title's ominous warning and culminating, as these things usually do, with an Eastern European gentleman arriving to "vipe the vindows."

Yes, for real. So fuck your rose-tinted childhood nostalgia, fanboys. All the perfumes in Araby can't mask the pungent stink of 80's toy cartoons.

The episode did treat the public, however, to another interesting popcult attempt to duplicate the Bay State's distinctive regional accent. It goes about as well as you'd expect, as demonstrated by this fan-edited trip into the poorly-synched mouth of madness...

Now while there are certain Snagglepussean overtones in the Charlestown variant of the Boston accent (which I suspect is the real reason behind the Townies' famous "Code of Silence"), I can state with a reasonable degree of authority that we do not speak like the "confirmed bachelor" character actor lovechild of Phil Silvers and Jack Haley. (Haley, along with Ray Bolger, did happen to hail from Beantown, but even so...)

(Also, I don't want to read too much into things, but the personality profile on Barbecue's file card states, and I quote, "He can...wrap his lips completely around the bottom of a quart Coke bottle." Fancy that.)

Dude, I know you're tired of "pahk the cah" jokes, but the white boy ebonics thing is not the answer.
For the musical portion of today's post, I decided to keep things nice and local...

The Cars - It's All I Can Do (from Candy-O, 1979) - As long as it's done well, I won't complain.

The Pixies - Dig for Fire (from Bossanova, 1990) - This is Boston, not Centralia. I still haven't warmed up to The Pixies, as the psychic scars inflicted by the various fans of the band are still tender after almost twenty years, though I can appreciate the music...in small doses...in the rare proper context.

a short hike

From the pages of Josie & The Pussycats #69 (June 1973) comes this choice Melody Valentine moment:


While other comic book publishers were trending toward the lurid end of the spectrum back in the early 1970's, the upstanding folks at Archie Comics took pride in keeping things clean and wholesome....


Minnie & The Kneebones - Me & My Mini-Skirt (from a 1966 single) - Mini-skirts are fine and all, but I don't have the gams to carry off the look. What I really want is a ensemble like the one Alex is wearing in the above panels.

Josie & The Pussycats - I Wanna Make You Happy (from Stop, Look, and Listen: The Capitol Recordings, 2001) - Mission accomplished.

and off they go

I was born in 1972, and my formative years were split between the self-asorbed malaise of the Me Decade and the superficial glitter of the Greed Decade. It was fun time to be a kid, as long as you discount the nuclear war anxiety, plaid chinos, Foreigner songs....

...and toy cartoons. Those fruits of the FCC's (at Reagan's behest) removal of restrictions on maximum advertising time allowed toy manufacturers to target their sales pitch to the tykes though program-length commercials posing as poorly-animated syndicated cartoon shows. Even as a kid, I thought they were pretty stupid and far tamer than what happened in actual backyard play sessions, though I did collect and play with some of the featured plastic gee-gaws.

G.I. Joe was a special favorite. Its superheroic presentation (with code names and colorful costumes) of ostensibly "real" military professions and hardware was an easy sell to a kid who was obsessed with comic books and dreamed of following in the footsteps of his war hero father. My brother and I didn't follow the script as laid out in the cartoon and licensed Marvel comic book series, but instead crafted our own (very derivative) characterizations and scenarios, which prefigured the role playing games that would supplant action figures as our hobby of choice.

All of my old figures, along with a lot of other popcult artifacts I'd sacrifice an eye to regain, were lost in the crazy period after my mother's death. My brother did hang on to, or rediscover, a handful of mostly-broken figures which rest in the hulk of a Cobra Terrordrome we pulled out of a neighbor's trash and which is now collecting dust in a corner of my grandma's attic.

I've purchased the occasional vintage or reissued figure or vehicle for reasons of nostalgia or lingering sentimental value, though I've generally avoided the totemic fetishization of childhood diversions that affects too many of my peers. I understand the allure of employing the disposable income of one's adult self to try to recapture (or to hold on to) the stuff of one's youth, but it's a path fraught with the risk of crossing over into dogma and obsession, long nights spent scanning eBay listings and arguing over minutae in discussion section of Optimus Prime's Wikpedia page.

Or worse, using facile references to Thundercats or The Inhumanoids as shorthand for real humor.

There is a certain sense of victory in scoring a coveted prize toy twenty-five years after the fact, but it's a hollow victory....unless you're talking about a set of these beauties.

Sick Of It All - G.I. Joe Headstomp (from Blood, Sweat, and No Tears, 1989) - "Headstomp?" Wasn't he the Joes' civil affairs and community relations specialist?

The Clash - Ivan Meets G.I. Joe (from Sandinista! 1980) - Revisionist rock historians be damned, there is only one word that effectively describes Sandinista!

That word is hubris.

Finally, no musical tribute to G.I. Joe would be complete without some Cold Slither...

I heard that Buzzer tried to get the original lineup together to play at this year's Crüe Fest. Zartan held out for too much money, however, so they decided to replace him with Ronnie James Dio for the tour.

Zartan & The Dreadnoks - Cold Slither - Obtained from here, which also has an alternate version and lyrics for the karaoke-minded.

reverts to pure female

In wake of the cultural and social upheavals of the 1960's, it became a common enough practice for popcult entertainments to acknowledge, if only grudgingly, the heightened awareness of egalitarian principles that permeated the era. Not surprisingly, this trend resulted in a number of stories where ostensibly laudable sentiments were presented (intentionally or not) in the most gratingly patronizing or condescending manner imaginable.

Which brings us to "The Powderpuff Run" from Hot Wheels #4 (September-October 1970). As the title suggests, the series was a licensed tie-in to Mattel's popular line of die-cast toy cars, which also spawned a short-lived Saturday morning cartoon series. "Short-lived" because it had the misfortune of airing at a time when the FCC actually had teeth in matters not directly related to "wardrobe failures" and has-been Irish rock stars uttering four letter words, and the cartoon was yanked when it ran afoul of the restrictions on advertising time. (Those restrictions would later be lifted during the Gipper's administration, thus paving the way for a flood of terrible, cheaply-produced toy cartoons and infomercials for questionable products. Yay, progress!)

The only thing that set the Hot Wheels comic apart from the mass of forgettable and forgotten kid's fare from that wild era when kids actually read non-manga comics was the participation of Alex Toth, whose outstanding powers of illustration were capable of elevating even the most pedestrian plot material. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it) Toth was not involved in crafting "The Powderpuff Run," which was a Len Wein/Ric Estrada collaborative effort. (Talented men both, and I won't fault anyone for not bringing their A-game to a short back up feature in a licensed toy comic, but I gotta call 'em as I see 'em...)

The story begins with the member of the Hot Wheels racing team puttering around the Metro City Speedway. When team member Ardeth (no relation to Bernadeth) asks why the team isn't planning to field an entrant to the women-only "Daisy Derby" event (because there is no vocation so dangerous or skill-intensive that it cannot be diminished with a girly descriptor when women are involved), tempers begin to flare...

DO IT, SISTER!
Before Ardeth can deliver Mickey's well-deserved braining, the arrival of a mysterious driver of exceptional ability captures the attention of the team. And guess what, she's a WOMAN!

Two women participants in an overwhelmingly male-dominated sport? Won't anyone think of the patriarchy?
She's not just any woman, either. She's Alexandra, cousin of the Hot Wheels Team's hated rival, Dexter Carter. Carter's gloating (coupled with his disturbingly misaligned nostrils) is too much for Mickey to take, and changes his mind about Ardeth's participation in the Daisy Derby...

Dexter Carter: The bastard child of Henry Mitchell and Oswald Cobblepot?
Supporting a colleague's dreams and career aspirations? Whatever. Winning a dick-waving contest by proxy? COUNT ME IN!

With little time to waste, the team members commence burning the midnight oil to kit out a suitable ride for Ardeth to use. Because they're aiming for performance over aesthetic appeal, the final product ends up looking a bit rough around the edges, so Ardeth and Janet, the Daphne Blake to Ardeth's Velma Dinkley, take it upon themselves to do a little impromptu customization...

Yeah, because there's an inherent sense of dignity in turning one's car into a rolling billboard for Viagra or chewing tobacco.
Is it an attempt to subvert traditional perceptions regarding gender? Or to unironically embrace them? The text is ambiguous on this point.

Race day arrives, and Ardeth discovers that winning might be a harder proposition than she had previously anticipated. Not only is Alexandra a skilled and aggressive driver, but she has also had her car outfitted by the same firm that does automotive customization work for Matt Helm and Penelope Pitstop. Even though she is in full view of thousands of (granted, mostly shitfaced) spectators, she doesn't think twice about employing these non-street legal modifications...

The principles of fluid dynamics worked differently back in the late 1960's.
As Ardeth struggles to regain the lead, Janet hatches a little scheme of her own to neutralize Alexandra's decisive advantages on the asphalt...

..and so the Anderson Family's weekend outing to the races ended in an explosion of flame and sheet metal. In lieu of flowers, the family has requested donations be made to the local Waffle House.
Other signs Janet had considered using included "Your attitude scares potential mates," "Work or family? You can't have it all," and "Your biological clock is ticking!"

Alexandra's fall to the inexorable forces of biological determinism leaves a clear path to the checkered flag for Ardeth, who nets the Daisy Derby Cup (which is just like the Metro City 500 Cup, but decorated with plastic flowers and pink ribbon and stuffed with a $25 certificate for a pedicure instead of a check for $5000) with no further complications.

Feeling empowered? I know I am. (Wait, I meant "confused and slightly queasy." I confuse those all the time.)

Nobody fucking cares what you think, Mickey.
The Bodysnatchers - Ruder Than You (from a 1980 single; collected on The 2-Tone Collection: A Checkered Past, 1993) - We named one of the local feral cats (the mother of Lil' Baby Setz and Nubby, and therefore the grandmother of our kittens) "Rude Girl," in reference to this song and The Clash's "Rudie Can't Fail." How's that for insular personal trivia?

As for the song, it's a swell bit of all-female 2-Tone ska. Singer Rhoda Dakar later went on to work with The Specials and other members of the band eventually formed the Belle Stars.

The Dictators - (I Live for) Cars and Girls (from The Dictators Go Girl Crazy! 1975) - An admirable philosophy, I suppose, providing the car in question isn't a 1985 AMC Eagle and the girl isn't Sally Kern.

12 Days of Christmas - Interlude: A Winter's Tale

It's the last Friday night before Christmas. For too many people, the next three days will be a screaming tinseled nightmare of last minute shopping, travel hassles, and event planning...

...and that's exactly why it's important to take a little time to kick back, relax, and appreciate the little things that make life worth living.



The Cattanooga Cats - Sittin' by the Fireside - This cozy little bubblegum pop gem didn't appear on the cartoon felines' 1969 LP, but came from Mondo Daddykin's meticulously compiled collection of the music used in the show. (Oh, how I miss MD's blog...) The male vocals for the Cats were handled by Michael Lloyd of The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band (and later a superstar producer).

couldn’t understand a thing they said

The synergetic entertainment/marketing blockbuster that is the Transformers movie opens today. While I have no desire to submit myself to a widescreen assault of Michael Bay-isms and blatant product placements, the film’s premiere does present me with the opportunity to spotlight my affection for the gloriousness that is Cosmos.

I was twelve years old when the first generation of Transformers debuted in the States, which meant I was old enough to achieve escape velocity from the multimedia hard sell surrounding the toy line. Though I didn’t care about the ready-made Transformers mythos, which seemed rather puerile even from a kid’s eye level, I was fascinated by the sleek, angular designs of the toys themselves which dovetailed nicely with my growing appreciation of giant robo anime (where many of the early Transformers designs were “borrowed” from). I was especially fond of the Mini-Bot figures at the low end of the line’s price range, which combined affordability with an inspired sense of oddness, and none were as delightfully odd as Cosmos.

The extremely retro flying saucer vehicle mode…

…the awkward-looking (Maura says “absurd”) robot mode…

…and the garish red, green, and yellow color scheme that evokes both an Eastern Bloc design aesthetic and a commitment to pan-Africanism… What’s not to love? It’s as if some cheapjack Japanese toy from the early 1960’s managed to sneak its way into a hip, happening American franchise of the mid-1980’s, and I can totally get behind that concept (being somewhat unstuck in time myself).

When I went of a vintage robot toy buying spree in the late 1990’s, Cosmos was at the top of my wish list. (My original toy had gotten lost, along with most of my childhood junk, during the Great Upheaval of 1988.) The replacement version now occupies a place of honor on my computer desk, and it occasionally moonlights as a kicky chapeau for Oscar the Pughuahua.

Concept sketches for a deluxe edition update of Cosmos were displayed at Botcon (an event I envision resembling the circle of hell reserved for thirty-something victims of arrested childhood), but the newfangled designs lacked the simple appeal of the original’s and resembled a cross between a paramilitary Frisbee and a next-gen anti-personnel mine. (I still would have bought one, though.)

Billy Lee Riley and His Little Green Men – Flyin’ Saucers Rock & Roll (from Red Hot: The Best of Billy Lee Riley, 1999) - Take me to your juke joint, earthman. I feel the urge to wail on my space-sax. Update: Because I was behind in my blog reading, I didn't realize that AM, Then FM posted Sleepy LaBeef's excellent 1979 cover of this song on July 1st. Great minds think alike, yadda yadda and so forth.

Violent Femmes – Eep Opp Ork Ah Ah (Means I Love You) (from Saturday Morning Cartoons’ Greatest Hits, 1995) - Jet Screamer! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!