So, perhaps the acronym doesn't work, but this show was absolutely amazing. I hope that you've already familiarized yourselves with the unparalleled joy that is watching the cramp-inducing hilarity that was MXC. For better or for worse, the show is now off the air, but from for five glorious years, from 2003 - 2007, viewers were able to watch contestants who were an intriguing combination of brave and stupid perform ridiculously nonsensical stunts, all set to the biting commentary of Kenny Blankenship and Vic Romano.
But let me back up for a moment... It all originally began as a Japanese game show called Takeshi's Castle, a weekly serial whose premise was that Count Takeshi, the owner of a besieged castle, and his assistant would create challenges and obstacles in order to fend off waves of attacking soldiers. These obstacles would include, say, rolling giant cardboard rocks down narrow, walled-in slopes, while daring contestants (attacking soldiers) to find a way past the rocks and to the castle walls.
Simple enough.
Now, first things first: MXC is simply the episodes of Takeshi's Castle dubbed in English and transformed into slapstick comedy. The premise of MXC was that two men, Vic Romano and Kenny Blankenship, host a game show where contestants attempt to successfully pass obstacles while being mercilessly mocked. Vic Romano is the name given to man who plays Count Takeshi in the Japanese original, and Kenny Blankenship is the man who plays the count's assistant. Mind you: all of the footage is the same. All that has changed is the commentary, and that, apparently, makes all the difference.
Along with Vic and Kenny are Captain Tenneal, a field marshal of sorts who guides the contestants through each challenge. He begins each episode by conversing with the contestants as they're grouped en masse before releasing them into the field by shouting, "Let's go!" Guy LeDouche is the field reporter for the show. He goes around and interviews the contestants before and after attempting the obstacles, and consistently makes inappropriate comments of a sexual nature to contestants both male and female.
In short, each episode is twenty minutes of non-stop laughter interspersed with sympathetic flinches when contestants injure themselves (as they often do). ABC created an obvious and horrible ripoff of the show called Wipeout. I urge you to never, ever watch it. Watching garbage like this only encourages TV executives to continue torturing us with similar outrages.
Go to youtube and watch a clip or two. Then go and buy the complete series - it's totally worth it.
Friday, July 31, 2015
Monday, July 27, 2015
Wednesday, July 22, 2015
Leave Me Alone to Die
This is how I feel each and every morning, when my girls wake me up before 6:00 a.m.
I slap them and make them cry...
The other day, as I was in the process of dropping off my daughters at day care, the janitor motioned me over to him so that he could tell me something. Peter is an older Jamaican man who has always been incredibly sweet with my daughters, and I enjoy trading pleasantries with him each morning.
I walk over to him, and he says, in his dulcet, rhythmic Jamaican patois, "Ya know de olda one (referring to my older daughter), she never no take no gruff from nobody. She never no let no one talk bad to ha' sista. No, mon, she stand up for her righteously. It's a sweet ting ta see."
I smiled and thanked him for letting me know. I felt a surge of pride pulsating through me, knowing that my daughters were doing well together without my protection. I walked back to where the girls were standing and crouched down to speak with them.
"Mr. Peter told me that you defend your little sister," I said to the older one. "He said you don't let other people tease her."
She smiled proudly and nodded her head. "Yeah," she replied confidently. "If someone talks mean to her, I slap them and make them cry."
Okayyyyy. The slapping part is her teacher's problem, I tell my self. The defending her sister part is mine to enjoy.
"Yeah," agrees my younger daughter, "If someone punch me, then she punch them. Yesterday, Abby poke-ed me in my eyeball, and (older sister) pushed her down to the floor."
I smile and sigh. I love my girls.
I walk over to him, and he says, in his dulcet, rhythmic Jamaican patois, "Ya know de olda one (referring to my older daughter), she never no take no gruff from nobody. She never no let no one talk bad to ha' sista. No, mon, she stand up for her righteously. It's a sweet ting ta see."
I smiled and thanked him for letting me know. I felt a surge of pride pulsating through me, knowing that my daughters were doing well together without my protection. I walked back to where the girls were standing and crouched down to speak with them.
"Mr. Peter told me that you defend your little sister," I said to the older one. "He said you don't let other people tease her."
She smiled proudly and nodded her head. "Yeah," she replied confidently. "If someone talks mean to her, I slap them and make them cry."
Okayyyyy. The slapping part is her teacher's problem, I tell my self. The defending her sister part is mine to enjoy.
"Yeah," agrees my younger daughter, "If someone punch me, then she punch them. Yesterday, Abby poke-ed me in my eyeball, and (older sister) pushed her down to the floor."
I smile and sigh. I love my girls.
Monday, July 13, 2015
On the Taste of Flamingos
The other day, I went to pick up my daughters from a morning spent with their babysitter. As I walked through the front door, they ran excitedly to me, shouting my name and showering my with hugs. There is nothing - NOTHING - like such a warm and relieved greeting that is capable of making me momentarily forget that these were the same children that made my morning a living hell by throwing simultaneous tantrums over my reasonable request to put on socks.
"What did you eat today?" I asked them as we got dressed to leave.
"Flamingos," my older daughter excitedly informed me.
I shot a quizzical look at the babysitter. "Uh, is that even legal?"
She shook her head. "I think she means mangoes."
"Yeah," my daughter agreed. "Flamingos."
Check.
"What did you eat today?" I asked them as we got dressed to leave.
"Flamingos," my older daughter excitedly informed me.
I shot a quizzical look at the babysitter. "Uh, is that even legal?"
She shook her head. "I think she means mangoes."
"Yeah," my daughter agreed. "Flamingos."
Check.
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
Fabulous
My daughters are three and two. They like My Little Pony and Sophia the First and the Olivia books. They each have a baby doll, and they have each named their doll ‘Baby.’ They love puzzles and coloring and building towers with their blocks.
Recently, they have discovered nail polish, and they have added it to the growing list of things that they love. My wife and I have agreed to allow them to have nail polish on their toenails, but not yet on their fingernails.
This past weekend, the four of us had a nail polish party. We currently own four different colors of nail polish: orange, pink, blue, and purple sparkles. The girls decided together that my toenails should be a nice mix of all four colors, and I readily agreed. My toenails are now a walking pride flag, and though they look ridiculous, I am content knowing that I am fabulous…
Earlier today, while undressing in the locker room of the gym, an older gentleman happened to catch a glimpse of my deviant toenails. He stared for a moment, perhaps confused by the irregularity of it all, but then turned away without a word. I continued about my business, wondering if he would work up the nerve to share his disappointment with me.
Fortunately, it took him less than a minute to decide that he had an obligation to himself, to the world, and to basic human decency to tell me that my toenails bothered him.
“You know,” he said in his gravelly voice. “In my day, real men didn’t wear make-up.”
No, I thought to myself. In your day, segregation was the law of the land, sexual harassment wasn’t a crime but homosexuality was, there were two world wars that killed over sixty million people, and half the world had been colonized and brutalized by western Europe and America.
But real men didn’t wear make-up.
Forgive me if I refuse to be lectured about morality and decency by someone of your generation.
“Too bad,” I said with a smile. “It’s good to be fabulous…”
Recently, they have discovered nail polish, and they have added it to the growing list of things that they love. My wife and I have agreed to allow them to have nail polish on their toenails, but not yet on their fingernails.
This past weekend, the four of us had a nail polish party. We currently own four different colors of nail polish: orange, pink, blue, and purple sparkles. The girls decided together that my toenails should be a nice mix of all four colors, and I readily agreed. My toenails are now a walking pride flag, and though they look ridiculous, I am content knowing that I am fabulous…
Earlier today, while undressing in the locker room of the gym, an older gentleman happened to catch a glimpse of my deviant toenails. He stared for a moment, perhaps confused by the irregularity of it all, but then turned away without a word. I continued about my business, wondering if he would work up the nerve to share his disappointment with me.
Fortunately, it took him less than a minute to decide that he had an obligation to himself, to the world, and to basic human decency to tell me that my toenails bothered him.
“You know,” he said in his gravelly voice. “In my day, real men didn’t wear make-up.”
No, I thought to myself. In your day, segregation was the law of the land, sexual harassment wasn’t a crime but homosexuality was, there were two world wars that killed over sixty million people, and half the world had been colonized and brutalized by western Europe and America.
But real men didn’t wear make-up.
Forgive me if I refuse to be lectured about morality and decency by someone of your generation.
“Too bad,” I said with a smile. “It’s good to be fabulous…”
Friday, June 26, 2015
Dance Break
Octonauts
Okay. This children’s show has a straightforward premise: a group of (mostly) mammals (a polar bear, a housecat, a penguin, an octopus, a dog, a sea otter, and a rabbit) live underwater in a mobile base called the Octopod and assist random sea life in solving problems that often threaten their safety.
Got that?
Now, a group of half-vegetable, half-animal creatures called Vegimals live with the Octonauts in the Octopod. The Vegimals are, of course, the cooks on board the Octopod, and are loved by the crew for their specialty, baked fish biscuits and kelp cakes.
Got that?
Sensibly, the Octonauts all speak English, though they do so with distinct accents. Captain Barnacles, the polar bear, speaks with an authoritative and measured British accent. Peso the penguin is the medic, and is a timid and often frightened character who speaks in something that might resemble a Spanish accent if you had never before heard anyone speaking with a Spanish accent. Professor Inkling, the octopus, is the founder of the Octonauts and speaks with an educated Oxford accent and is often found alone in the Octopod’s somehow extensive library.
The sea otter is named Dr. Shellington. He is a marine biologist who obviously hails from Scotland, and he is the only member of the crew that can understand Vegimalese, the name given to the gibberish that the veggie-animal mutants speak. Tweak, the rabbit, is a mechanic who is from the American South and says things like, “I’ll fix ‘er up faster than you can say ‘buncha munchy crunchy carrots.’” Daschii the dog is the IT officer and photographer. She speaks with a generic American accent and once got herself trapped in the stomach of a whale shark. She passed the time by taking pictures and not at all being liquefied by the creature’s stomach acid.
The final Octonaut is Kwazii the cat. He is a former pirate and, as proof of his previous life, he wears a black eye patch over his right eye. His grandfather was the infamous pirate Calico Jack, and Kwazii often finds himself pursuing treasures that had somehow escaped the grasp of his granddad. His catchphrase is “Shiver me whiskers” and, in spite of my efforts not to, I chuckle every time I hear him say it.
Somehow, when I watch this show with my daughters, I accept the basic premise of it, and I appreciate the fact that the girls learn something about sea creatures and perhaps grow to understand the importance of helping others, even complete strangers from different species, who are in need.
My problem is the cat. I can’t get past the fact that the cat is a pirate. It doesn’t make any sense. Vegimals? Enh. I can see how that might happen. A bookwormish octopus? Okay. That makes sense. A Scottish sea otter who works as a marine biologist? Well, he obviously has a personal interest in ensuring widespread health and harmony in the oceans.
But a pirate cat just goes too far for me. Save your implausible fantasy for someone else.
Okay. This children’s show has a straightforward premise: a group of (mostly) mammals (a polar bear, a housecat, a penguin, an octopus, a dog, a sea otter, and a rabbit) live underwater in a mobile base called the Octopod and assist random sea life in solving problems that often threaten their safety.
Got that?
Now, a group of half-vegetable, half-animal creatures called Vegimals live with the Octonauts in the Octopod. The Vegimals are, of course, the cooks on board the Octopod, and are loved by the crew for their specialty, baked fish biscuits and kelp cakes.
Got that?
Sensibly, the Octonauts all speak English, though they do so with distinct accents. Captain Barnacles, the polar bear, speaks with an authoritative and measured British accent. Peso the penguin is the medic, and is a timid and often frightened character who speaks in something that might resemble a Spanish accent if you had never before heard anyone speaking with a Spanish accent. Professor Inkling, the octopus, is the founder of the Octonauts and speaks with an educated Oxford accent and is often found alone in the Octopod’s somehow extensive library.
The sea otter is named Dr. Shellington. He is a marine biologist who obviously hails from Scotland, and he is the only member of the crew that can understand Vegimalese, the name given to the gibberish that the veggie-animal mutants speak. Tweak, the rabbit, is a mechanic who is from the American South and says things like, “I’ll fix ‘er up faster than you can say ‘buncha munchy crunchy carrots.’” Daschii the dog is the IT officer and photographer. She speaks with a generic American accent and once got herself trapped in the stomach of a whale shark. She passed the time by taking pictures and not at all being liquefied by the creature’s stomach acid.
The final Octonaut is Kwazii the cat. He is a former pirate and, as proof of his previous life, he wears a black eye patch over his right eye. His grandfather was the infamous pirate Calico Jack, and Kwazii often finds himself pursuing treasures that had somehow escaped the grasp of his granddad. His catchphrase is “Shiver me whiskers” and, in spite of my efforts not to, I chuckle every time I hear him say it.
Somehow, when I watch this show with my daughters, I accept the basic premise of it, and I appreciate the fact that the girls learn something about sea creatures and perhaps grow to understand the importance of helping others, even complete strangers from different species, who are in need.
My problem is the cat. I can’t get past the fact that the cat is a pirate. It doesn’t make any sense. Vegimals? Enh. I can see how that might happen. A bookwormish octopus? Okay. That makes sense. A Scottish sea otter who works as a marine biologist? Well, he obviously has a personal interest in ensuring widespread health and harmony in the oceans.
But a pirate cat just goes too far for me. Save your implausible fantasy for someone else.
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