Most Valuable Post

Last night, the Washington Capitals defeated the Nashville Predators 4-2 to keep pace in the Eastern Conference playoff hunt. The win was crucial, considering that the Philadelphia Flyers beat the Pittsburgh Penguins and the Toronto Maple Leafs defeated the New York Islanders despite their netminder giving up a goal on a puck shot from outside the arena.

Caps winger Alexander Ovechkin is the Most Valuable Player in the NHL. Bottom line, underlined eight times in red. Washington is in the hunt solely off the sheer will, grit and world-beating talent of the young Russian, who leads the league in (be alert):

Goals--58
Points--102
Percentage of teams goals--27.3%
Game-winning goals--10
Power play goals--21
Shots on goal--399
Even strength goals--37

You want intangibles? Factor in the historic 13-year, $124-million dollar contract (without an agent) and the infectious love not just for the game of hockey, but winning at said game. Last night's goal was an empty-net score, usually a very ho-hum matter-of-fact gimme type way to notch a point. Not with Ovechkin. He was simply trying to kill off the remaining seconds by clearing the puck. From the middle of the ice, he banked the biscuit off the boards...into the net. Ovy is not a timid superstar, content with statistics and highlight-reel moves. Nor is he on the ice with the other teams goalie out of the net just for a chance to grab the puck and fire it down for a cheap score. In the intense action leading up to that improbable score, Ovechkin was seen dropping to his knees on the ice to block shots from the Predators players as they tried desperately to tie the score up.

The argument against Ovy for MVP is the belief many hold that a player on a non-playoff bound team cannot realistically be the Most Valuable Player since the game is all about winning. The tacit implication is that this is especially true in the NHL, where half the teams make it to the postseason. Since expansion in 1967, only one league MVP has hailed from a squad that didn't get to fight for Lord Stanley: Mario Lemieux, 1987-88, of a Penguins team that fell one point short of the playoffs.

Lemieux, of course, was a superlative talent who for the first several years of his career dragged a lackluster supporting cast kicking and screaming to respectability. Ovechkin is on much the same path, and if the Caps make the playoffs, or miss by fewer than 5 points, he deserves the Hart Trophy. Evegni Malkin did a magnificent job keeping Pitt from falling apart when Sidney Crosby went down with an injury, and currently stands second to Ovechkin in overall points. That said, he has only 3 game-winning goals and takes the ice on most nights with Sidney Crosby, milquetoast poster boy for the sport of hockey. When Crosby is healthy, he's the de facto lead dog and Malkin at the point position. As of yet, Ovechkin does not have a teammate worthy of that status (Nicklas Backstrom and Alexander Semin could, with time, develop into elite players).

The Caps are about to face the Blackhawks, channel 19 here on Antietam Cable. I'm not in the business of making predictions, so I won't.

Oh, fine. Caps win 4-1, Ovechkin with 1 goal, 1 assist. If I'm correct, I win a piece of peanut butter pie and I'll Youtube myself eating it while Swedish black metal quivers the walls around me and Snoopy, Come Home is visible on the TV behind me.

Krusty the Clown-approved post-game edit: What the hell was that?

NHL Alexander Ovechkin
Washington Capitals

Thoughts on the Capitals vs. the Bruins

Ah, afternoon hockey!

I love watching a game from the 400's, this time from section 403. The purple seats make me feel closer to my favorite football team (the Vikings) at the same time I root on my favorite hockey squadron. Duality!

Getting into the F Street Entrance was 19 pounds of fun in 13 pound sack. After a few minutes in the whipping wind outside the doors, we finally were able to squeeze in, where we chatted up an older woman who holds season tickets and has damn near every Cap 'graph in the special booklet that those solvent type folk receive. A number of fans were opening up the doors behind me and excusing themselves on the way to the store, which was off to the left. I have no problem with adjusting to accommodate if asked politely, but this one woman came in and immediately sent out deadly gamma rays of "bitch": "Can I get over to the store please?" Don't let the "please" fool you--her demeanor was nothing short of impatient arrogance, completely undue considering she had just walked in the door. I let her pass and then let my own haughty words fill the air behind her: "Buy a new attitude while you're in there." Which, I am proud to say, got a few laughs.

The first 5000 fans through got special "fleece helmets", which I'll be posting pics of tomorrow. I wore mine the whole game. The hat is totally geeky, but hockey geeky, which means it's awesome.

The Caps fandom was strong throughout the venue, but most vehemently in the upper levels. A lone fan also wearing the fleece was making his way to his seat a few rows down when we made eye contact. "It's like Fargo", he commented with great joviality. Patrick, who had just recently seen the movie many consider the Coen Brothers' finest, laughed hardest of all.

I saw my first infant at a hockey game in the row right in front of us. (Well...actual infant, I should say; I've seen and heard plenty mental ones.)

About the game...CAPS LOCK FOR A CAPS WIN! 2-1 in a shootout, of all things; the first of those that Patrick or myself have seen live. Awesome. Viktor Kozlov's winning shot sent us into paroxysms of raw glee and Christobal Huet was the worthy first star of the game, with 39 saves (whereas, in all honesty, Kolzig may have made 37 of them).

So,two very crucial points for Washington. Carolina whipped up on Ottawa, but Philly got creamed (albeit by the bastard Penguins), and we're within two points of surpassing the latter in the playoff hunt. The forthcoming road trip will show if this team really is made for a late push.

The good stuff:

--Well, obviously, the win and the points.

--Washington can win even when Ovechkin doesn't make a dent on the scoreboard.

--"Linus and Lucy" playing during the Mighty Mites games in between periods.

--The boisterous, involved crowd.

--Federov's first goal as a Cap, on a 5 on 3 no less.

--Tom Poti during the second intermission calling out the officials: "I don't know, maybe they want Boston to win." That guy for prez.

The bad stuff:

--The last game against the Bruins and Caps was marred by iffy officiating that cost Washington two vital points. This game was possibly even worse: inexplicable offsides calls, goalie interference on Huet that was not called, a bullshit diving call on Ovy (diving?! When you skate all-out and get tripped, you'll go far and land hard, geniuses, that's far from "diving"). That the Caps still won is testament to their heart, talent, and the fact that the Bruins are pretty much an AHL team, especially with Zdeno Chara out like he was today.

--Alexander Semin had a key shootout goal, but he was sloppier than leftover enchiladas during the game proper. I'm not sure how much more time to develop he needs.

--Ovechkin had a yen to be Adam Oates today, for whatever reason. Russian tank does not pass puck, Russian tank shoot puck.

Next game for the J & P Show...the regular season finale, April 5th against the Florida Panthers. Section 100. Yep. We actually took time out before the game to gaze down there and share sentiments of, "We'll be there."

Any Nation That Worships the Beagle Is a Nation On the Ball

There are a thousand benefits to being in a romantic relationship,the last 900 being the non-obvious, non-sexual ones. Among this number sit some sly spices that season the broth with a sneaky yet welcoming kick.

The enduring unpredictability of such personal revelations are what makes the ride worth the occasional bout of motion sickness. Patrick and I were a good four years into our relationship when he began experimenting with international food beyond what dots the typical American strip mall (Italian, Chinese, Mexican). First was Thai; he quickly converted me (this was long before Hagerstown got its own taste of Thai, in the form of Red Curry) and I to this day remain an advocate for the edibility of tofu. For serious.

Over the past several months, both in Hagerstown and in his home base of Olney, we have paid multiple trips to Japanese restaurants, enthralled by the powerful lure of the teppanyaki. Tonight it was another trip to the Sakura in Olney (not affiliated with the Sakura in Hagerstown). It was a bit after 6, which of course meant the place was packed jelly tight with sundry hungry folk. Our wait was only 15 minutes out of a potential 30, and the time positively flew by as we pondered why the Japanese love kittens so damn much. I was just about to bring up the contradiction of a culture loving both cats and Snoopy to the point of appointing both iconic status when we were called.

Our table was a dozen strong: 3 couples and a party of six that sat across from us. As per usual whenever I am around a large group of people (acquaintances or strangers, it matters not), I felt the strong need for some alcohol. To that end, I ordered a Green Dragon. Patrick had some smooth sake, which came in a blue-gray carafe for one. I actually had gulped down a can of Coors Light before we left the house, just to get a small buzz happening in anticipation of a crowd. As I was later to discover, some people need a bigger one.

Not content with mere soup and salad, Patrick made some selections from the sushi menu: two orders of salmon, two orders of yellowtail. Ah, sushi! One of the three indisputably marvelous things that the Land of the Rising has given America (the other two being Nintendo and Ichiro Suzuki. I don't count Gaki No Tsukai, 'cause they didn't give that to us, we had to rip it away violently and spread the good viral word).

"That's gonna be eight pieces. We'll split that, right?"

"Oh yeah."

And really, I didn't think I had to ask. Whenever 'trick and I share a food which can be equally partitioned--e.g., pizza--we do so. Also, I was paying for the entire meal, so yeah. Gimme mines.

I tasted a salmon then yellowtail; both delicious, the salmon almost too good. Before I knew it, there was only one piece left, the final salmon.

"You can have it," Patrick offered. I gazed at him and saw eyeballs ready to erupt. "If you want it, go ahead." His tone was friendly; I almost believed that he wouldn't have ripped my small intestine out if I dared position my chopsticks over that delectable plop of raw fish and rice. In the end, I conceded. Final sushi count: Patrick--6 Jenn--2.

A period of quiet ensued, broken by Patrick's accusation that I was being inexcusably pouty. I protested and resolved the issue by pointing at the porcelain kitty perched over the sushi bar.

Patrick had shrimp, while I enjoyed shrimp and chicken. My decision not to order steak stemmed from the last two occasions that I had, only to be met with disbelief when I stated my preference to have the meat "well done". I had no clue that this was such an unusual request. As I heard three other people around me request "medium rare" steak for their entrees, my inner sigh of relief was damn near audible.

The red-hatted chef was as showy as expected, with the onion volcano and rolling eggs in full effect. He was not especially verbal, save for some brief conversation with the Cambodian man sitting right next to me.

"Have you ever seen that much rice on a grill? And five eggs!" Patrick was wowed.

Every Japanese meal I've had has been beyond reproach, and so it was again. It was as I looked around to see how many other people besides us were using chopsticks (only one!) that I noticed the woman across the table. One of the party of six, she was between a man who looked about in his 30s and a young boy. To assume, one would say the man was her boyfriend/husband, and the child her son. Perhaps. I could more assuredly state, however, that this woman was out of her freaking gourd on some substance.

The first sign was her embracing of the assumed significant other. It was not the grasp of the outwardly affectionate inasmuch as the lazy hug of the fucked up. When she freed him from her intoxicated grip, her eyes were barely able to remain open and her entire upper body had the slow, overmeasured movements peculiar to the non-sober individual. Patrick and I were undecided on the narcotic to blame, although alcohol seemed the likely culprit. However, she was clearly drinking a soda, so if spirits had flown, they would have preceded her arrival.

"Blehwofejefwfgjlwe".

She spoke! And what a slutty slur it was, flattening consonants like a runaway steamroller and elongating vowels like a medieval torture rack. The only part we could make out was the most telling: "I need six more shots."

What? Bitch, you look like you've had sixteen!

There was no harm done, and nothing exceedingly embarrassing. I did feel bad for the kid next to her when she took her right hand and started stroking his head. Not in a tender way, mind you; rather, it looked like she was running her hand through cement, slowly and with undue pressure. Even the couple next to us asked if we noticed anything funny about her.

There were four birthdays on our side of the restaurant. I think sometimes people be lyin'. One of them was at our table, the drunk's boyfriend/husband. He was not pleasantly surprised. He didn't even want a Polaroid taken to mark the occasion. Come on, man.

Amazingly, we have not yet encountered a drunk person at a Japanese restaurant in Hagerstown. I suspect it is only a matter of time.

Say Uncle

Up until 2000, I was bewildered by the origins of the furious desire to scribble that practically contaminated my blood. Insofar as I knew, no one else in my family shared this urge. My father was a gifted storyteller, but more in the fine Southern tradition of sittin' and speakin' true tales designed to impart some kernel of commonsense wisdom as much as entertain the audience with verbal expressiveness and well-timed gesticulations.

Then Mom told me about my late uncle Marshall. He was one of the singular people on either side of the family: he walked on a wooden leg thanks to a war injury, became an attorney, and ended up a millionaire. Also, he found time to write a few stories for the Saturday Evening Post.

Moreso than grave injury or financial fortune, Marshall's writerly bent intrigued me. I could actually relate to it. This led to my great curiosity over what he wrote about; surely his widow or someone in the family had copies of a magazine or two. But no. She had only a list showing the dates of the issues his work appeared in. My mother copied them down and passed them along to me. I made it my mission to scour Ebay and purchase these five magazines. I thought that it would be cool to have them around not just for reading, but also to give my mother something of her late brother, a remnant to refer to, learn from, or even just take comfort in.

In just six months of Ebay hunting, I won all five Saturday Evening Post issues that Marshall Davenport's writing appeared in. It was not easy, but it was worth it.

12/10/49, take 1: I won this first, from a reputable online store. Within a week I received...not this issue. Turned out that addresses were switched on two packages, one being mine. For whatever reason, the person who received the issue they didn't win refused to exchange it or send it back so the seller could redress the problem. Clearly, they weren't on a mission.

12/10/49, take 2: Ah ha! It was a big day when this baby arrived. The mag was dog-earred for sure, but still in good fighting shape for being a li'l over 50 years old at the time. It smelled like what I have always imagined the 1940s to smell like--a musty easy chair where a man could sit for hours and chew tobacco while watching the flames dance in the fireplace.

Fittingly, my uncle wrote a seasonal piece, about the town of Santa Claus, Indiana. Bright, felicitous pictures of the bustling post office and kid-friendly play areas trap in my uncle's assured write-up. His first paragraph could, now that I consider it, be easily applied to my first time reading it:

"Had the settlers called the community by any other name, it would have remained an obscure hamlet, lost among the knobs of Southern Indiana. The name, however mellifluent, would have echoed no further than the boundaries of Spencer County."

Which isn't to say that if not for our relation I would have disregarded my uncle's prose as forgettable. But just as a fortuitous christening transformed a charming li'l chip of the Midwest into a popular family attraction, so did the name "Marshall Davenport" pull me towards this article, compelling me to read it through several times.

One thing that is instantly, delightfully apparent from only a couple paragraphs in, is that both my uncle and I, as writers, share a love for the expressive sentence that twinkles along the page and virtually supernovas when spoken aloud. I can see in his style my own knack for almost-throwaway wit, blunt exposition, and a smart-if-not-clever vocabulary. He tells the story of the town's origins, its boom, and the many letters that arrive day after day, including the following gem from a Missouri boy: "Dear Santa: Bring me two double barreled Long Tom guns. Bring them."

Almost immediately after I won this issue at auction, I received an email from someone who identified himself as an older man living in California. He explained that there was a story in the magazine about a town in Indiana, and the accompanying color photos included him in a group of kids sitting in the grass watching a miniature train ride by. (Sure enough, it's there on the bottom right of the first page.) This man very politely offered to buy the magazine from me. I simply couldn't do it, especially not after the hassle over my initial attempt at obtaining it. Instead, my mother and I went to the library and made several color copies of the article and sent it to his address. In what seemed like an exceedingly swift period of time, another email arrived in my box; the old man again, this time effusively grateful and eager to reciprocate our kindness at anytime in any way he could. "You've made an old man very happy", he concluded.

2/17/45: The next issue featured the first half of Marshall's most ambitious project--the story of his service in World War II. It was a simple retelling of a horrific series of events.

Attacked by Germans in North Africa, Marshall was the sole survivor of the five soldiers that occupied his tank. The blasts left him with severe facial scarring and a severely damaged left foot. His simple language condescends to no one, and it's hard to forget the story once you've read it.

For anyone else reading it, my uncle's words probably didn't hit them where it stung until he placed himself (and them) in the middle of a war zone, a young man ready to die and hoping it wouldn't be as bad as he always feared. For his family, however, the very first paragraph was a breathtaking gut punch. In it, he talks about his sense of self-preservation, stemming from the death of his mother when he was only five years old and his father not long after. Makes you feel very sympathetic towards him, doesn't it? Gives his story tremendous emotional gravitas. Orphan boy struggles to obtain law degree, lose limb in war, never loses hope. Great stuff. Except, the first part of that sentence is not true. Marshall was not orphaned. His parents lived long lives and by all accounts were loving and supportive. When the article was first published, a mild rift between Marshall and the family formed. His excuse was a familiar one for most any writer, especially one trying to make a little extra cash and gain exposure in a widely-read periodical: the editor suggested that he take what was already a gripping, true slice of life tale and give it some heart-rending back story sure to ensnare the reader.

2/24/45: Marshall laid on the ground for ten hours, kept company by the sounds of planes, exploding shells, and an errant German soldier who tried to use his prone body for target practice. He was taken to first a lice-ridden Italian prison hospital, then a much-improved one in Germany. A year later he was sent home (via a "prisoner exchange") to a wife who loved him unconditionally and a horrified local populace, who could not hide their repulsion at his extensive scarring. My uncle spends the rest of the article detailing conversations between himself and other soldiers about the differences between officers and civilians, and the contempt many of the former could not help but feel for the latter in the face of ingratitude and insensitivity.

11/19/49: A piece on the American Automobile Association that would be reprinted one year late in Readers Digest. The subject didn't intrigue me terribly.

10/7/50: "Why Are Russian Tanks Better Than Ours?"

Captivating as his story of survival was, this article is still my favorite. He asks a question many of the time might consider unpatriotic if not treasonous and answers it with the unaffected confidence borne of a man who attended the grand ball and had a lingering slow dance with the most abhorrent guest present.

Marshall blamed the "unimaginative" Pentagon brain trust for valuing statistics and calculations over armor and arms. "The dogma of the slide-rule boys" he called it, a wonderful turn of phrase that could only slip forth from the pen of one who knows how fatal such folly can be. With no grace, and no delusion of a grand solution, he pointed out the torpid "progress" of the American military in developing tanks to keep up with the Russians (and other nations) and the potential for disaster in continuing to insist that running neck-and-neck with the Jones' in that area of battle was not relevant in the general scheme. I wonder what Marshall would make of wartime technology nowadays.

I wonder what he'd make of my writing. Probably would tell me I curse too much.

So Long, Brett...And Thanks For All the Fish

As a Minnesota Vikings fan, I am relieved at the retirement of Green Bay Packers quarterback Brett Favre, announced earlier in the week. Our cheese-reeking rivals in the NFC North are now passing the reins over to Aaron Rodgers, who, despite preemptive pleas to fans that he not compared to the man responsible for the teams last Super Bowl championship and should thus not be judged against such lofty standards, will undoubtedly be jeered out of The Land Hygiene Forgot after only lasting two playoff-free seasons with a 2 to 1 interceptions-to-touchdown ratio. It's going to be the worst division in football. C'mon Vikes, strive for that elusive 10th win!

As a football fan, I am relieved at the retirement of a mere mortal who many in the media canonized because, well, he best fit their preconceived notion of what a "real" footballer should be: white, humble, from the South, strong family, willing to give interviews.

The relentless flagellation of Favre by John Madden, Chris Berman, et. al was bad enough to listen to while the man played the game. With his decision to hang 'em up, the print media (online and off) have rallied together also to reminisce on the wonders of "The Gunslinger": that time he threw into triple coverage while a bull bore down on him; his penchant for shovel passes while temporarily blinded by his own innate awesome; his forbearance throughout a career that saw him being the only person involved with the Packers, from the field on up, who knew anything about the game and had any kind of talent and love for it whatsoever. If the article is long enough, you can read about the incident in 2003 where he found a cure for cancer but lost it when he had to save a young boy from being struck by an errant Greyhound bus.

"Perspective" is practically nonexistent when people talk about Favre. People either adore him beyond reason and don't see how anyone could not consider him a top 5 QB or are so put off by what they see as suffocating unconditional love that they believe anyone who would dare rank Favre among Montana, Bradshaw, Brady, etc. is a know-little homer.

The truth lies (with Monie) in the middle.

Favre finished his career with the most passing yards, most touchdowns and most wins of any quarterback in NFL history. He also played 17 seasons. Saying that amassing sheer numbers over a lengthy period of time makes him the best at his position is like saying Nolan Ryan is the greatest pitcher of all time. Favre had 288 interceptions, also a record. Ryan had 2,795 career walks and and 277 wild pitches.

Favre knew how to win, at least for awhile there. He was the reason the Pack took Super Bowl XXXI, and he racked up 3 Most Valuable Player awards. Ryan had a middling win percentage, was just another player on the '69 Mets, and never won a Cy Young.

Favre also knew how to lose. Spectacularly. But whereas another QB would get reamed by the fans and media for poor decision-making, Favre's oft-fatal foibles were excused with, "That's what happens when you're a gunslinger"; or, my absolute favorite--by which I mean the one that most makes me want to throw acid on John Madden's manatee-like face--"He just has fun out there! Favre is just a kid playing a grown man's game." Imagine Carson Palmer getting a pass like that. Nope. He's just a SoCal pretty boy on a team of degenerate thugs with no love for the game. When Favre admitted to an addiction to painkillers, the media was cautious and respectful. To this day, many admire Favre for "being real". Which, I don't doubt he was. A pill popping schlub is a pill popping schlub. But if one gives Favre leeway on that, then give leeway to the rampant egotism of Terrell Owens, who is being every bit as real and true to his personality as Favre (just not in a way palatable to the public).

What irks me most severely about the lovefest is the tendency of so many writers--a proclivity that I try with all my heart to avoid when I put pen to paper or fingers to keys--to create some communal understanding that everyone does, or should, love Favre. They use phrases such as, "That's what you loved about him" or "We'll miss that about him". Piss off. You only use language like that when you're trying to convince the readership that the Kool-Aid only looks like it has something floating in it. Not everyone is losing sleep and/or planning to name their newborn sons after a goddamn football player. Mind you, some are; that's why I am using language that reflects the natural differences between people.

Favre was great. There have been greater. There are greater now, and will be greater to come. It seems the media is more in mourning over the loss of a personality than a player. This ESPN article seems to support my vibe, mainly the opinion of Matt Mosley that Favre was more clutch than Montana, qualified by, "I don't think any man has ever played the game with as much joy and passion as Favre." As if love of the game makes Favre the go-to guy. What, it was a brief shock of ambivalence that caused that INT in OT against the Giants in the NFC Championship game? Name the QB with 3 interceptions in two overtime playoff games. It ain't Joe Cool.

NFL Brett Favre

She's a Good Skate, Charlie Brown

AIRDATE: 2/25/80

STORY: The first Peanuts special of the new decade wastes no time heralding the creative teams determination to explore within a fine-tuned formula. Just two years prior, What a Nightmare, Charlie Brown eliminated every kid on the block bar Chuck as it immersed the willing viewer on a wordless Call of the Wild. The opening moments of She's a Good Skate feature a sleek, delicate figure skating routine set to an even more precious orchestral backing. The young girl's clothes blend with the nascent morning sky. While her moves practically sing, her stubborn, steely coach is a ball of hyper-perceptive judgment on the sidelines. Regardless, his pupil has a refreshingly pragmatic understanding of her mentors grumpified airs. She knows that both of them are chasing one goal: an ice-skating championship trophy.

While it may seem odd that Peppermint Patty should enter a competition requiring grace of movement and the wearing of a dress, it really isn't. The desire to play and win is strong within her, and she will do whatever it takes to be a champion--even waking up at 4:30 AM to take cantankerous instruction from a dog, a training plan with obvious benefits (perfecting her routine) and detriments (falling asleep in class).

Patty never frazzles beyond the point of no return, although the pitfalls are considerable: hockey brutes on "her" pond, last-minute fretting over a suitable outfit, a mishap with the cassette player at the venue on the day of competition. Her patience and resolve pay off as she cops the trophy. Which rather looks like an Emmy with the globe ripped off and the ladys wings pulled back and twisted with industrial strength pliers. 10

ANIMATION: Linus has his security blanket, the very same that gave the world that term in the first place. It has come to indicate anything (or anyone) that provides solace that permeates beyond the physical comfort. The animation of this show is much like a security blanket for the story. The colors are season-appropriate; the children are drawn masterfully, not one stroke gone awry. Their actions and reactions are as "sensible" as one dare use such a word when discussing a cartoon. 10

MUSIC: Ed Bogas and Judy Munsen were like the Gerry Goffin/Carole King of childrens show music, except they weren't. As with any Peanuts special that they helmed the pit for, the sounds are very of their time, the playing and arrangements almost always competent but almost never spectacular, the exceptions coming when the instrumentation gets far too "busy" for such a steadily-paced program. 8.5

VOICES: Oh, this here is funky. Not Ohio Players circa Honey funky, or even armpits that smell like the dumpster out back of a Turkish restaurant funky. I mean more like seeing a snowman in the summertime. Or listening to--and I mean really listening to--a Big & Rich song.

Peppermint Patty and Marcie get the bulk of the lines here, with a brief pipe from their mutual crush (Lucy, Linus, Sally, and Schroeder are all shown in the audience cheering Patty on but do not speak). Despite having the greatest possible name anyone voicing Peppermint Patty could have, Patricia Patts only gets a 9. She's fine, but the bar is high. Blame Linda Ercoli and Gail DeFaria for that. Casey Carlson knocks it out of the park as Marcie, with just the right mixture of wit, concern, and pinheadedness. 10

The hockey bully is straight out of Race For Your Life...not really complaining. 9

Oh wait, I forgot some other speaking roles. No I didn't.

No I didn't.

IF SHE NAILS THAT LUTZ, I'M GONNA PLOTZ

--No one ever accused Peppermint Patty of especial creativity in confrontation. She'll just generally utter some playground insult and knock yer block off. Standing up to the hockey bullies, she gets off one of the best namecalls I've ever heard: "Get lost, neckhead!" Neckhead? Does that mean a head like a neck, or that your neck is bigger than your head? It's brilliant either way, one of those exclamations that will send the target reeling mentally as he or she tries to figure out if they should feel insulted and if so, exactly how insulted they should feel.

--No one ever accused Peppermint Patty of having a reasonable sense of self-worth. The night before the competition she freaks out over needing a dress sewn up, a task Marcie takes on, fails horribly at, then of course is completed to OTT perfection by Snoopy. She also complains that her hairstyle needs a Higgins, because it is so "mousey-blah". The way she runs that phrase together makes it sound French.

--No one ever accused producers of getting it right the first time. The initial name of this special was "She's a Winner, Charlie Brown", until someone surely realized that the word "winner" and the name "Charlie Brown" not only do not go together, they have a rather cobra vs. mongoose relation to one another. Gotta love, also, the very Schulzian ring "She's a good skate". Not a good skater, mind you. How friggin' Minnesota.

--Unlike Lisa Simpson, Patricia Reichardt has no beef with Vassar.

--Patty's superbly fluid skating sequences were done with the relative magic of rotoscoping, a technique that would be revisited on the unsung classic It's Flashbeagle, Charlie Brown. (The model in this case was Amy Schulz.)

--"Even the ice is still asleep at 4:30." I fucking love you, Marcie.

--Snoopy Fassi. "I'll show you how to do this."

--Someone switched Snoopy's tape of Illmatic with Electric Youth.

--When Patty's tape gets mangled and disqualification looms, a quick-on-his-wings Woodstock takes to the mic and whistles out a grand accompaniment for a prize-winning glide around the rink: "O Mio Babbino Caro", a piece from Puccini's opera Gianni Schicchi. Just proving yet again that where there's a will, there's a way to write yourself into it. Not content to wing it--holy shit I'm hilarious--Schulz and friends got a pro to deliver this command performance: professional whistler Jason Serinus. Try writing that on a tax return sometime under "occupation".

I DISLIKE OLYMPIC ATHLETES WHO WHINE OVER WINNING SILVER AND BRONZE MEDALS. AT LEAST IT'S A MEDAL! SERIOUSLY, THE FOURTH PLACE FINISHER WOULD PERFORM ORAL FAVORS ON A FARM ANIMAL TO GET THAT BRONZE FROM YOU.

--I have one problem with Good Skate, but it's not insignificant. Adult voices can be heard in this special. Speaking clearly, not that "wah wah" stuff. Lucid, perfectly enunciated, bizarro Jimmy Onishi English. There's the teacher, a store employee and finally the emcee at the event. Unfathomable. Focusing a show on a so-called "second tier" character is an unorthodox choice that works, much like I Want a Dog For Christmas 23 years later. The decision to interject grown up voices into the special is the only blemish on the whole 25 minutes, but it's one that's an absolute bitch to treat. I still cringe a little when I hear them.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Patricia Reichardt is an odd duck in the (sometimes frozen) pond. She has Charlie Brown's desire to be loved, Linus' faith, Lucy's temper, Snoopy's hope. She lacks Charlie Brown's athletic ineptitude, Linus' intellectualism, Lucy's girlishness, and Snoopy's luck in landing a taciturn best friend. She rocks striped shorts and shirts, hippie chick sandals, and freckles that dot her face like sunspots. Her hair is unmanageable; her voice is a ball of bubble wrap being lovingly prepared for popping by a pair of mischievous hands. She has two nicknames: one that everyone calls her and one that only one person calls her. As irrelevant as parents are in the Peanuts galaxy, at least the other kids have a complete set of them. Patty only has her father, a man given to spoil his only child in both material and emotional ways. Almost everything about her musses up the tidy neurotic world of Charlie Brown and friends. She's swaggering, brash, a be-all to-all tomboy who worries about calories only after she's eaten the meal.

But to type her as a young girl of negligible feminity is to ignore the deep-seated yearnings inherent in any females soul. She's a Good Skate opened up a new drawer, the one at the bottom of the dresser that practically no one gets around to using. From it was pulled the desire to be a beautiful, desirous young lady that exists uneasily alongside the drive to succeed in areas not traditionally considered appropriate for girls (that would be the contents of the top drawer). Patty will always value a no-hitter over a triple axle...but she's too interested and interesting to not try both.

Some of the latterly Peanuts specials had critics and fans scratching their heads off premises alone: a Flashdance take off? Snoopy's nightmare? Linus at a birthday party? With Good Skate, the inspiration could not get more pure. In the following links, you will find the series of 27 daily strips from November 4th to December 7th, 1974 that detail Patty's journey from the cold and lonely pond out back to the world of competitive skating (one of the longest runs in the history of the strip, showing how much Charles Schulz loved writing for the character).

You will note some key omissions as you read. For instance, in the very first strip, Patty makes the ultimate testament for the worth of Title IX; she also makes a brief, wistful reference to her absent mother; and finds time to zing the NHL.

Of course, as you progress from one strip to the next you will notice key twists that simply couldn't fit within the limited TV time the producers had, which just makes the panels that more special. It would have been delightful to see Marcie stammer and faint from her own sweethearted prudishness, for one; however, for those of us lucky enough to partake of the immaculate panels as hungrily as we do of the made-for-box moving pictures, we can consider these moments our own little secret. Especially the real conclusion of the story.

Enjoy the rest; number 337 ranks on my top 20 favorite Peanuts dailies.

329
330
331
332
333
334
336
337
338
339

Charlie Brown Snoopy Peanuts

What A Nightmare, Charlie Brown

AIRDATE: 2/23/78

This author's nightmares are free of splatterfest horrifics--no buckets o' blood, no miscreations, no death whatsoever. My dreadful visions reek of familiarity, hitting close to heart and home, a subconscious naturalism drenching the stuttering proceedings until I awaken with a blunt sense of horror still striking a pose in my brain.

It was my most recent nocturnal fright (combined with the season) that inspired this review. Much like Snoopy, my nightmare was birthed from intestinal discomfort. Our ghastly forced fantasies also shared a menacing adult male figure (although mine was fully visible).

My mother and I watched breathlessly from the far end of the upstairs hallway as a mustachioed man in his early 40s with circular specs and a pedo hairchop emerged from the bathroom. He walked towards us. Unusually in my experiences, the entire sequence unfolded in black and white. A .38 caliber pistol gleamed whitest of all in his hand; his smile suggested the ceaseless joy of a new father as he waved it around. Mere inches from us, he finally took aim.

Instinctively I reached out and clutched the weapon. The wrestling of our hands forced the gun upward. I waited for a report that never came. No blast, no blaze. Finally, the man's face fell in anguish and he placed the barrel of the gun into his mouth. I heard myself speak the first and only words of this dream: "Do it, then, do it!" Which turned out to be a bad move on my part, as encouragement to abandon his shell for the great unknown seemed to galvanize the bastard. The fact that a person so wanted him dead seemed to give him a reason to live--and to kill.

He jerked his head up with the frightening speed of a triggered trap snap and began fighting me anew, eyes set in a clairvoyant glare. And then...nothing more.

STORY: Snow blankets the neighborhood, and Charlie Brown wants to go sledding with Snoopy. The world famous beagle would much rather sleep, especially when he realizes that his owner expects him to do all the work. Repeated attempts to convince Snoopy how awesome it would be to pull him through the snow result in Charlie Brown harnessed up at the mercy of the whip.

A smugly satisfied Snoopy unwinds with dinner: five pepperoni and onion pizzas and an egg creme to wash it all back. All the while, Charlie Brown bemoans his plight: "You're an overly civilized dog, Snoopy", he admonishes, hearkening back to his earlier statement that if Snoopy lived in the Great White North, he'd be part of a pack expected to travel great distances under duress, with no time or room for sleeping all day or fighting in a World War.

Snoopy is thoroughly nonplussed, and heads off to bed. Almost instantly, his tummy reacts naturally to the speedy consumption of food and the discomfort travels throughout his system until it shocks his brain into a nightmare, the jolt jarring loose the part of his brain that actually retains what the round-headed kid says.

Suddenly, a large menacing shadow appears and whips Snoopy off the doghouse and into the brutal Alaskan winter. He is harnessed and placed amid a pack of Huskies. The facts of his size and breed do not matter; he is a dog, and thus must do his job.

The climate and workload are rough enough for the pampered beagle; the rancorous isolation he is forced into by his unaccommodating packmates almost breaks Snoopy's spirit completely. He seeks escape and almost finds it when the driver stops at a saloon. Typical Snoonanigans ensue, but ultimately he's out set out on his ass and back in the pack.

At the next rest stop, Snoopy has resigned himself to fate. Instead of letting the bigger, meaner dogs bully him away from the fish and water, he bares his teeth and ruffles his fur to show them he can hang and bang. When it comes time to hit the trail again, Snoopy places himself in the position of lead dog and dares challengers to approach. With the littlest beagle that could leading the charge, the journey continues.

Snoopy's triumph is short-lived; a daring dash across a frozen body of water is not ballsy or quick enough to elude the cracking ice. Down into the frigid waters go the man and his Huskies. Snoopy tries harder than he knows how to pull them up, but inevitably must abandon the hero role and concentrate on saving his own hide. Just as his anguished cries give way, the nightmare ends.

A feverish pantomime to Charlie Brown and lovingly-prepared chocolate fudge sundae later, Snoopy is finally able to rest peacefully. He is no wiser. He's your dog, Charlie Brown. 9

MUSIC: This is when Ed Bogas and Judy Munsen were not confident enough to completely abandon what made Peanuts music so effective. The 1920s style harmonica-heavy soundtrack needs to work from the jump, as over 90% of the show is dialogue-free. Thankfully, the moods set by the music are appropriately realized and placed. 8. Also, how remiss would your girl be if she didn't give love to "Overlycivilized, Underlydogified Dog" as sung by Larry Finalyson? "Bring out the boowwls! Sharpen the kniiiiiiiiives!"

ANIMATION: Winter is my favorite season, and seeing it animated is no less enjoyable. The dogs are wonderfully drawn, and Snoopy's tranformation into a rabid beast is both reality-stretching and hilarious. Again, in a special so free of verbals, the expressions and actions take center stage. If they fail to entertain, the viewer won't hang around. The animators do a fantastic job in making Snoopy's nocturnal catacomb engaging. 10

VOICES: This is easy, there's only one (Bill Melendez' Snoopy, as always, excepted): Liam Martin as Charlie Brown. He gets a 7 in a limited role. "Hey! Hey! Hey!"

CAN YOU IMAGINE, LIKE, IF IT WAS LIKE LIGHT OUT FOR THE WHOLE DAY? LIKE WHEN YOU WOKE UP IT WAS LIGHT OUT AND WHEN YOU WENT TO SLEEP IT WAS STILL LIGHT OUT? LIKE CAN YOU IMAGINE HAVING A BARBECUE AT 2 AM BUT IT'S LIKE TOTALLY LIGHT OUT?

--I don't say or think "Bitch, please" anymore. Not since I saw this show again. I just get the same stance as Snoopy in the above capture. The ineffable cool of Snoopy could not be seized more perfectly.

--Would you eat even one onion and pepperoni pizza, much less five?


--

You gotta love just grabbing whole pizzas and eating them. Who the hell just takes an entire pie by one hand and says, "Yeah, time to grub!" It's called "slice at a time", Snoop.

--The sequence with Snoopy in the saloon is the highlight of the show. From playing "The Washington Post March" on the PlayerPiano (does The Baltimore Sun have a march? More likely a rag) to the doomed poker game.




--One day, Jebus willing, we will see these scenes come to vivid life on a very special "Animals Fight Back" edition of America's Funniest Videos.





There are few things in the world I find funnier than animals going after kids. Seriously. Not to the point where the children are injured, but just knocking them down or dragging them across the backyard. They got it coming, trust me. Every time. Might teach them to respect our little furry friends.

BUT I DON'T KNOW IF I'D LIKE THAT DARK ALL THE TIME STUFF. LIKE YOU WAKE UP IT'S DARK AND YOU GO OUTSIDE IT'S LIKE ALWAYS DARK. LIKE WHEN MR. BURNS BLOCKED OUT THE SUN THEN HE GOT SHOT AND THE BABY DID IT, LIKE WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT. I MIGHT GO CRAZY IF IT WAS DARK ALL THE TIME.

--You think this part scared some kids?




--

I know it's Snoopy, but...that's disgusting.


------------------------------------------------------

This special was inevitable. Er? Yes, I believe so.

"Unfortunately, the balance of nature decrees that a super-abundance of dreams is paid for by a growing potential for nightmares"--Peter Ustinov

Snoopy is one of the greatest dreamers in history. His list of personas could fill a nice slab of memorial wall. There seems no world he is unwilling or unable to step into and immerse himself into completely, no role he can't play with swaggering relish. In that light, it can be assumed that this particular slice of hell was cut from a sizable pie.

Charlie Brown Snoopy Peanuts