Still More Pop Peanuts

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Pop culture, broadly speaking, refers to the trends, the names, the events that define a particular time and place for the people who live then and there—the zeitgeist, if you will, though focused on particulars rather than the abstract. So it’s no surprise that Charles Schulz’s Peanuts captures much of the culture of its time, even as it transcends its time and becomes “classic” in every sense of the word.

The most recent entry in Fantagraphics’ Complete Peanuts series, 1975 to 1976, ratchets up the popular culture quotient, with references to once-current events and figures appearing with greater frequency than in our earlier examinations of the series. Billie Jean King extends her reign as the most frequent referent (playing, in Sally’s imagination, mixed doubles alongside Harry Truman against George Washington and Betsy Ross, on December 26, 1975), while Elton John, Olivia Newton John, Uri Geller, and the wacky Sergeant Schultz from Hogan’s Heroes also make cameos (the latter on a television set watched by Snoopy’s brother, Spike, who shows up for the first time in 1975).

The first appearance of a soccer ball in Peanuts occurs in this collection (March 23, 1975, hitting Linus in the head), accompanied by an explanation of just what soccer is, needed for an America that was just getting used to the beautiful game. Towards the end of 1976 (a year with surprisingly few Bicentennial references), Marcie and Peppermint Patty have a nice riff on authors with long names (Katherine Anne Porter, Joyce Carol Oates, and Pamela Hansford Johnson, on December 29, 1976). And when Spike is rebuffed in his quest to hitchhike back to his desert home, he hopes that the family that wouldn’t pick him up gets reduced gas milage from their smog control device. That’s vintage ’70s right there.

But our focus here is to examine the references that haven’t aged quite so well, starting with Spike’s putative job at a Harvey House (August 11, 1975):

The Man From Needles

A Harvey House is a railroad station dining establishment associated primarily with the Santa Fe Railroad (and hence, the American West, whence Spike hails). Noted for their efficiency in feeding diners in strict adherence to the railroad timetable, the Harvey Houses (and associated Fred Harvey Hotels) would have been well known to most adults in 1975, particularly given their spread to interstate rest stops and airports as rail passenger numbers dwindled, leaving a Harvey House as shorthand for any restaurant dedicated to serving travelers.

Of note, Spike’s Needles, California, Harvey House is on the National Register of Historic Places and, as of 2008, was undergoing renovations.

And who, pray tell, is Mr. Frick?

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Bill Lyon on Lappy

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With the NHL playoffs into their second round, Philadelphia’s Bill Lyon returns to the pages of the Inquirer to reflect upon heart, and blood, and the Flyers:

The on-rushing gunner has cranked up a warp-speed slap shot and the puck, a frozen rubber bullet, is zeroed in and dead on, with nothing but ice between it and the goal. So Ian Laperriere, a right winger whose specialty is killing off penalties, follows his instincts without a second thought: He drops and offers up his body as a sacrifice.

He blocks the puck…

…with his mouth.

Ian Lapperriere (14) in DSCF1869 by Dinur via a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivatives License

Winning Lord Stanley’s Cup takes a special kind of dedication, a peculiar willingness (that is not so peculiar amongst the men who don NHL uniforms) to suffer and bleed for the team, for the prize, for the Cup. Bill Lyon, in one of his rare returns to print, captures this willingness in the person of Ian Laperriere, a grinder, a role player for the Flyers, who only made the playoffs on the last day of the season, in overtime.

What awaits the Flyers now? Elimination, if you believe the popular sentiment.

But do not be so quick to dismiss lightly a team that has a man willing to catch frozen rubber bullets. With his face.

Repeatedly.

Like Bill Lyon, the Flyers hold a special place in the hearts of Philadelphians, both native and expatriate like myself. It’s good to see them both working their trade in May.

(Image courtesy of Dinur via a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivatives License.)

Skilcraft Still Kicking

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Growing up in a military family, I just took for granted the ubiquitous Skilcraft ball-point pen. They were practically the only pens in the house. They’re what I wrote (and wrote and wrote) with as a student. They wouldn’t quit and they took the beating of the backpack in stride. Only when I branched out on my own did I realize that these pens weren’t everywhere.

Skilcraft Pen image from https://www.abilityonecatalog.com/home

So I greeted the Washington Post‘s appreciation of the Skilcraft pen (“Low-tech Skilcraft pens endure in a high-tech world“, Ylan Q. Mui, Sunday, April 18, 2010, A1) with delight:

For more than 40 years, standard black pens have cluttered the desks of thousands of federal employees, hung on a chain at post offices across the country and slipped into the pockets of countless military personnel. Yet few have realized that this government-issue pen has a history to rival that of any monument.

I might need to order some of these. While I’m very much a thin-point plastic tip user (Pilot Razor Point for life!), sometimes you need a ball point pen, and these are the best around: a classic design paired with legendary writing endurance.

(Image from the AbilityOne Catalog).

Taylor Gourmet Takes on Roast Pork

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It’s one thing to re-create an authentic Philly hoagie south of the Schuylkill River, as the crew at DC’s Taylor Gourmet have done. Use the right bread (Sarcone’s seeded Italian), with premium ingredients, and combine with an assiduous touch and an generous eye, and you have a hoagie, not a sub. A hoagie from Taylor Gourmet could be served with pride anywhere in Philadelphia.

But there is science, and there is art, and with the recent introduction of the Philadelphia roast pork sandwich to their menu, Taylor Gourmet takes on quite a task.

The roast pork sandwich can’t just be created from good ingredients, any more than a painting is a mere agglomeration of high quality oil paints.

The pork has to be cooked just so, to hold the right amount of moisture yet still provide enough bite; the provolone needs to be ripped into pieces to coat the inside of the roll, with no extraneous cheese flopping over the edge; and the rabe (only rabe) needs to be tender, tearable by the teeth, and bitter without bringing too much “veg” to the experience.

The true masters of this sandwich have an kitchen infrastructure in place dedicated to the creation of this salty, bitter, perfectly balanced foodstuff. DiNic’s, Tony Luke’s, John’s—this trinity creates hundreds (thousands?) of roast pork sandwiches a day between them, and have for decades. The counter staff has an intuitive feel for the sandwich (and generally expects you to order and get the hell out of the way, because the line behind you is out the door).

So how did the DC rookies do?

Roast Pork in DC

Pretty damn well, actually.

The execution was flawless—good proportional balance between the pork and the rabe, with the provolone neatly sundered and the rabe layered just so. The bread held the moisture, and the roast pork was nicely flavored and tender. And the rabe…

Um, can we talk about the bread again? No? OK.

The rabe was, sadly, lacking, like the Flyers’ goaltending in any year except those when Parent or Hextall were in goal. The rabe had too much stalk and too many florets. It needed just a bit more cooking time to get it slightly more tender. I look for just a bit of snap in my rabe, but in this sandwich, I wound up pulling whole rabe stalks out of the sandwich when biting in. Though nicely seasoned and bitter, the rabe let down the sandwich as a whole.

Nonetheless, I’ll be going back for more. The Pattison Avenue, as Taylor Gourmet dubs this sandwich, would not be booed out of any of the stadiums lining its namesake street in Philadelphia. And if one measures the worth of a roast pork sandwich on a scale based on the distance from Reading Terminal Market (home of DiNic’s), this one is off the charts. It’s a true roast pork sandwich.

A Fan’s Dilemma: Union or United?

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In every major American sport, I root for the team from Philadelphia. Flyers? Orange and Black courses through my veins. Phillies? I wore a Phillies cap to elementary school in the midwest when everyone else was wearing a Royals cap (that should date me somewhat). Sixers and Eagles? Love me some Mo Cheeks and Doc and Jaws.

But soccer? Other than the defunct NASL Atoms and Fury, I had no specific allegiance, because there was no team from Philadelphia.

That changed this year. Philadelphia Union begins play this season as the latest Major League Soccer expansion team, and given Movement Point‘s focus on the Philadelphian, it should be easy for me to root for this team, to be a fan of Union. Not so simple, though.

But they sound so similar. Do I have to choose?

When MLS started up in the 1990s with a franchise in DC, where I’ve lived for some two decades, I followed DC United in the absence of a Philadelphia entrant in the league. I was happy when United won, I kept track of the scores and the players, went to a few games over the years, and even tailgated with the Screaming Eagles and sat in their nest occasionally.

And yet, I’m considering abandoning them.

Am I a faithless fan of DC United, or just a fickle follower? How do I reconcile my support for United over the years with a new, arguably more valid, contender for my cheers in Union?

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The Best Video Game Movie Ever

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It’s something of a truism that movies based on video games are, well, terrible. Really, truly, unabashedly terrible. I’m still trying to get my money back for having sat through Wing Commander (USA, 1999), even though it was a matinee. And I went on a free pass.

The attempt to transfer the experience of playing a game, interacting as an active participant, to the decidedly passive experience of watching a film, fails, without fail, time and time again (cf. Uwe Boll). Not to assign value to the various modes of culture consumption—film, at its best, offers a transcendent experience and forces active mental participation, while the mere fact of interactivity in video games does not guarantee a worthwhile, active thinking experience—but the basic expectations one brings to playing games differ from those one brings to watching a film.

Choices, options, paths are, of course, constrained by the game as readily as a director positions actors in a scene, but the illusion of choice, of agency, remains, and this sense of being in control appeals to the gamer—and it’s this sense that doesn’t translate across genres.

Video game films fail most often because they attempt to portray figures from the games that the gamers themselves control. If the long delayed Halo film ever comes to fruition, it will fail, because what the screen Master Chief does is not necessarily what I would have done; his thoughts, given voice on the screen, as he mows through the Covenant forces, were not my thoughts as I did the same in the game.

But they finally did it. I finally saw not just a good video game movie, but the best video game movie ever.

Best Video Game Movie. Ever!

What is it? The Damned United (UK, 2009). But, you protest, that’s not a video game movie! Isn’t, it, though?

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