"I Think, Therefore I Ant."

April 30

Ant’s disclaimer: I didn’t write this and don’t know who did.  It was sent to me by a pal of mine and I thought it was a riot.  If anyone out there knows the original author, let me know and I will give him (because it’s definitely a him) due credit.

Review of “The Mighty Hercules”


Hercules 
 

First, let's get this straight: I'm not referring to any wimpy Disney incarnation or pretty-boy live-action stud here, I'm talking about the real thing, the animated Herc http://tvparty.com/herc.html  that ruled my Saturday afternoons when I was a kid. It was classic animation. Every episode, it was the same plot: some beastie or bad guy trashes the tiny Greek kingdom of Calidon (renters must have had a hell of a security deposit) and the big guy is forced to come down from whatever Olympian orgy he's attending to perform a little deus ex machina on someone's sorry ass. Not much going on in the personality department, but you had to respect the guy. Never could figure out the whole ring thing, though. Why would a god need a ring to get stronger? And why would villains and monsters politely wait while he charged up? And why wait until the heat of battle to tap the juice? Why not charge up the ring as part of his morning ritual, like flossing or sucking in his gut in front of the mirror? So many questions.



Newton

The lovable centaur who acts as Herc's sidekick. We know he's lovable because he has a really high-pitched voice, and everything he says comes out repeated twice ("Herc! Herc! Over here! Over here!"). Personally, given the historically raunchy reputations of the Classical centaurs, I'm aghast a generation of children are denied basic truths of Graeco-Roman mythology. But then my displeasure is tempered by another deeper, more disturbing question: How the hell did that little quadruped do it? No matter where they were, all Herc had to say was, " Newton ! My bow and arrow! My shield! My thermonuclear warhead!" and off Newton went to fetch it from the nearest tree trunk. Ten seconds later, Herc is armed and ready. Were the villains kind enough to pick the same field all the time for their little rumbles, or did this four-footed freak of nature have weapons of mass destruction stockpiled in every tree trunk in the kingdom? Eerie.
 

Helena

Herc's girlfriend. Um... and that's about it. Really, character development isn't exactly a priority when you've only got five minutes to defeat the Sentient Rock Men of Mykonos, or whoever's causing trouble that week. She was blonde, she wore short togas, and she got kidnapped once a week. End of story.

The Young King of Calidon

I'm sure he had a name in the series, but I can't remember it right now, which is all you need to know about his importance to the plot. Every five minutes, he's being invaded by conquering armies, legendary beasts, and power-mad sorcerers, and his entire defence plan seems to consist of having Hercules on the ancient Grecian equivalent of speed dial. Corrupt politics and intern-related scandals are a small price to pay for the security of knowing we'll never again have to put up with dorks like this winning the leadership lottery.

Daedalus

The unofficial leader of the only three villains in Calidon... which is about as prestigious as being elected treasurer of your bowling team. Straightforward, by-the-book villainy here, usually with a ferocious beast or magic spell providing him with the necessary tools to gain his prize -- the throne of Calidon, which from what I could tell consisted of literally just that. Still, you had to give him some credit – no matter how many times Herc dragged his sorry butt back to an Olympian prison cell, the Daedster kept coming back to scheme anew. Never could figure out the mask, though -- you wouldn't think that cackling, power-mad sorcerers would have an issue with people getting to know the real person inside.
 

The Mask

Speaking of masks that make no sense, here's a candidate for the Darwin Awards if there ever was one. His shtick is that he wears the "Mask of Vulcan," a giant soup tin with eyeholes that makes him invincible. Which is just super-duper, except it kinda doesn't work when you go around telling everyone this little fact!!! It never fails; every time the Mask shows up, Herc bruises his knuckles trying to beat up the guy, and the Mask laughs. "Nothing can harm me," he cackles, "so long as I wear the Mask of Vulcan!" Scene cuts to Herc with a giant stick/magnet/can opener and yoinking it off his head. I mean, really. I know criminals aren't Mensa candidates to begin with, but even pro wrestling fans can see the problem here.
 

Wilamene

Our third entry in the Only-Three-Bad-Guys-in-The-Kingdom Club is, in fact, a woman, created apparently for the sole purpose of giving Helena bigger roles than "Screaming Hostage #1." While the other two baddies content themselves with power and riches, this one chases after Herc's girlfriend and feeds her the Potion of Aging, or some such thing.

Frankly, I'm surprised Naomi Wolf hasn't weighed in on this topic, but

I'm sure she will eventually, so I'll remain mute. The only other thing I couldn't figure out is her repetitive choice of wardrobe. Come to think of it, all three bad guys wore the same full-length purple toga in every episode, even when they were in disguise. Beats me why – though I'm sure an audit of the animation lab's supply closet would have shown someone with a serious overstock of Indigo #9. Just a thought.
 

The Theme Song

April 29

Avery Ant and Lackey

Avery Ant and his creator (no, not God -- not by a long shot!) arrive very early for the Cannes Film Festival.  Could there be the seeds of love in this unlikely relationship?    (Merci Spuddy) 

April 27

Kiwanas Club

Hubert Cole is a real-estate agent and former member of the Parry Mills Kiwanis’s Club.  After supplying testimony to law enforcement officials he was relocated, given a new identity and now lives in seclusion with his wife, mother-in-law and three children.

I remember I was up early that morning.  It was a Saturday, and I was sitting on my front porch sipping a coffee and casually scanning my lawn for renegade dandelions and the street for little red cars. The automated sprinklers at the Robinson place across the street came on and the resulting combination of mist and early morning sun caused a perfect little rainbow to arch itself over the impatience that he had planted next to his wife’s bo-peep lawn ornaments.  It was a hell of a sight. 

It was 10am when I got the call from Larry, the chapter president, my friend and family orthodontist.  My wife Jane, unaware of the danger I had put our family in, handed me the cordless.  Larry had told me that he would be bowling today with Fat Eddie and a couple of mutts from The Elk’s Club.  When I heard the tension in his voice I knew that something big was up and what — no matter how difficult — I had to do about it.

I first met Larry six months after we moved to Parry Mills.  Katie, our eldest, needed braces and a couple of neighbours suggested that we give Dr. Larry a call. I was impressed by his professional manner and the easy way in which he traded barbs with his clients and staff.  Larry was a big fat meat and potatoes lug with a wide smile, colossal forehead and the most massive hands I have ever seen.  I used to wonder why, with hands like that, Larry had chosen orthodontic care as a profession. Larry laughed when, some time later, I put the question to him.  He grabbed me, wedged my lips apart and jammed his entire first into my mouth.  I guess his point was that the mouth was very flexible but I just thought that it hurt like hell.  I laughed though, afterwards. Larry could make anyone laugh, he was just that type of guy.  Our family became regular clients and Larry and I became fast friends.

Larry embodied community spirit, he worshipped our small, but dynamic town and its vast and unspoiled environment.  While Parry Mills owed much of it’s development to it’s extensive natural resources; its pristine lakes and strategic location at the lake head where it boasted a large fresh water port, I felt that it also owed some of it’s famed renown to Larry.  He was almost poetic when he spoke of its “extensive beauty.”  He loved mentioning that Parry Mills was “nestled” on Lake Oragra . Phrases such as “wilderness jewel” actually sprung from his chubby lips, and everyday he seemed to marvel at the majesty and austere beauty of its lakes and trees. All four seasons were eye-dazzling, recreational dreams for Larry to behold.  I sometimes thought my friend was wasting his time in orthodonty and should have been writing the town’s tourist brochures.

Larry was determined that I should be more than just a resident of Parry Mills; that I should take an interest and pride in my new home town.

Back then, Larry was a regular member of the Kiwanis — just one of the rank and file foot soldiers of the organization — but right from the beginning he seemed destined for bigger things.  Larry encouraged me to join up, explaining that it was a good place to make connections, have a beer or two, and maybe even do some good. With Larry’s support, I was an accepted member in no time at all.

It was 1994.  The Parry Mills Kiwanis membership hovered at about 40 guys and had a pretty comfortable lock on the local charity scene.  We did bake sales, food drives, raised money for the school and hospital but Larry wanted more, and he didn’t keep quiet about it.  Our president at the time, Chuck, “The Pie” Helman hated Larry, but I think he also feared him.  Chuck owned the local grocery store and was widely respected as a fair man with a fine eye for produce.  He ran the Kiwanis with an iron fist and the help of a small, but fiercely loyal squad of old-boys who had been with him through his 35 years in the club.  The Pie was strictly by-the-book, and was big into costume, pomp and Kiwanis tradition.  Larry, on the other hand, was more relaxed and was pretty much worshipped by us younger guys.  Frequently he’d go behind “The Pie’s” back and host a kegger or the odd “bring your own meat” barbecue, and for many of us, that was a much needed breath of fresh air.  The tension between the two was palatable, and neither did anything to hide their animosity.

It all came to a head a few months later.  Larry had been running a crown and anchors game for the War Amps without Chuck’s knowledge, but when one of the local wives reported it, “The Pie” was anything but charitable.  Chuck was still very much in control at this point, and while Larry may have had youth and personality on his side, “The Pie” had experience.  Larry was summoned to a private meeting at “Dough-nuts Donuts” to explain himself.  “The Pie” had obviously decided to straighten Larry out and figured that it would be best done out of the meddling eyes of the rest of the brotherhood.  Larry called me and Pete “Golf Shoes” Davidson and asked us to come along as “insurance.”

“Dough-nuts Donuts” was situated by the main harbour and the view from it’s greasy windows was an impressive, if somewhat opaque sight.  Lake Oragra opened up as far as the eye could see and was flanked by thick walls of white pine.  When we got there, Chuck and a half dozen of his cronies were scarfing down bear claws and jumbo coffees.  “The Pie” was not pleased that Larry wasn’t alone.  In his eyes you could see that he read it as Larry’s ultimate, and final act of defiance. He told Larry that he was finished and asked him politely to turn in his vest.  I was devastated.

Larry looked broken hearted, but when he picked up his chair, broke it over Chuck’s back and threw “The Pie’” over the counter and into the coffee machine, everyone in the room knew that the Parry Mills Kiwanis club had changed for good.

Larry assumed command after quickly dispatching the rest of the dead wood from the ranks.  He wasn’t as brutal as he’d been with Chuck ”The-Pie” but he didn’t need to be — he had already gained our fear and respect.  The violence of the change in guard unnerved us all but I suppose we were too afraid to confront it. For those of us who remained it became, sadly, an accepted and necessary way of doing business.

I was put in charge of recruiting.  Larry made it clear to me that he wanted muscle, not semi-retired music teachers, and I went straight to work.  Over the next year our club’s ranks swelled to over a hundred.  We brought in prison guards, plumbers and taxidermists to add some grit, street smarts and to have the owls restuffed.  Scott “Whizzer” Henderson, Punch “The Clown” Linkletter and Terence “Mortgage” Braund were just a few of the mugs that donned our vest.  The atmosphere at the club changed dramatically.  Gone were the formal ceremonies and meetings; dirty limericks appeared on the bathroom walls, the music got louder and Tuesdays, formerly known as “discussion and debate” night was now “Candy Stripers drink for free.”

Still, over time, the positive aspects of Larry’s reign began to show.  Revenues went through the roof.  We were throwing serious money at charities and reaping the PR benefits.  Larry was a natural leader and photographed well.  He was big on ribbon cutting events; his gigantic hands transforming a pair of scissors into mere nail clippers.  We built a playground, supplied the funds for a new burn wing at the hospital and purchased 150 computers for the local high school.  We were a charitable tour de force.  The press loved him, the police were in his pocket and his orthodontic practice was thriving.  It was what we, here in Parry Mills, called Paradise .  Or it would have been, if not for the Shriners.

The Shriners had traditionally run the north side of town. There was a long-standing, friendly agreement that they didn’t mess with our charities and we didn’t mess with theirs.  As far as I was concerned the Shriners were a bad joke, and while I found their Fez ’s and little cars ludicrous, I knew enough to stay out of their way.  But Larry, well, he really hated them and that, I suppose, was his fatal flaw.  He was hell bent on confrontation and ignored my pleas — and the pleas of the other members — to leave well enough alone.  When it came to the Shriners, Larry only listened to his rage.  As far as he was concerned they were a bunch of pantywaist, peckerless show-offs who cared more about their drunken conventions and old boy network then they did about the charities they supported.

But I think it was more than that.  Larry had tasted power and liked it; it was better than steak, better than orthodonty.  Larry wanted to control Parry Mills and the Shriners were keeping him from running the whole show.  It was time to send them a message.

The Shiners’ annual parade was traditionally held on the third Sunday of August.  As soon as the announcement was made, Larry countered.  There would be a Kiwanis’s picnic on the same day.  Wednesday of that week, five Shriners showed up at the clubhouse.   Skip “Happy” Shand, an eloquent country bumpkin and Shiners’ representative, “gosh, shucked” his way through the whole thing, talking about “unfortunate scheduling” and the need to compromise.  He proposed a rational solution — a Shriners’s parade leading to a Kiwanis’s picnic.  Larry broke his nose with a pool cue.

Larry reasoned that a quick demonstration of force was necessary to show the Shriners that they were no longer needed in Parry Mills.  He assured us that a couple of well planned operations would leave the Shiner’s shaking in their boots, remove the need for any further violence and allow us to get back to the fun-loving ways of our past.  The boys were convinced easily.  I suppose we had begun to see ourselves as tough guys, as charity renegades, and we were ready to rock their world.  We started off with crank phone calls.  Then, when that didn’t work, Larry upped the ante and we started pelting their houses with eggs.  Finally, when it looked like we were getting nowhere, Larry figured we should cut to the chase and start beating the living hell out of them.  Not surprisingly, this plan got results.  Larry took real pleasure in the violence and, while wailing those massive hands of his into some Shiner’s face, he’d laugh out loud and warn them about the dangers of “Shiners’ Affiliation” After the beatings Larry would ask them if they wanted to join up with us.  It was a futile gesture — at this stage they were usually unconscious. When even the beatings failed to stop the Shiner’s from carrying on their charitable works, Larry started moving our men into the north side of town; reasoning that our presence there would break Shiners’ spirit and finish them off for good.  Unfortunately, Larry never really thought about the extent of their organization.  With Shand nursing a broken nose and the rest of them fed up with Larry’s hi-jinks, the formerly happy-go-lucky Shriners made a call, and within a month their brothers from Chicago , New York , Miami and Washington were all over town.  Big city Shriners with plenty of experience protecting their share of the charity scene...and in dealing with the likes of us.

The first sign of retaliation was a drive by shooting — unheard of in Parry Mills, and reportedly the first to involve a tiny, red, motorized vehicle.  Luther Pinkerton took two in the leg.  The police said he would have bought the farm if the driver had been taller.  And that was only the beginning. The big city Shriners played by a whole set of different rules, when it came to violence, they preferred knives and guns over dirt bombs and pool cues.

Larry became morose and, I think, realized that we had gotten in over our heads.  He refused to give in however, and announced that the Kiwanis were going to war.  At that moment, I knew everything had changed.  Our clubhouse became our fortress, the owls suddenly vanished and I was sleeping with one eye open.  The town and the local charities were quickly hacked into Shiners’ and Kiwanis “hoods”; and crossing the wrong street at the wrong time, or attending the wrong Bingo, was tantamount to committing suicide.

There was an initial flurry of hits, retaliations and counter-retaliations.  The streets were dripping with the blood of middle-age community volunteers.  When it became clear that there was going to be no decisive victory, both sides dug in their heels and prepared for the long haul. Of course, the charities were caught in the middle.  In some ways they benefited from the increase in charitable events (both sides were determined to edge the other out) but in many ways they were hurt.  The giant cheques we handed over to the clothing drives and day camps were tainted with the blood of Shriners and everyone knew it.

Our town became a parody of its former self.  Everyday citizens were afraid to leave their houses. “Civvies” as we called them, kept away from anyone associated with either of the gangs.  Lawns fell into disrepair, front porches went unused and children no longer played hockey on the streets.  I thought that after the initial dust settled everyone would sit back and realize that we were engaged in madness; that we were destroying the very things we had set out to protect, but I was wrong.

Larry and the new inner core became increasingly fanatical; caught up in a lust for revenge and power.  I tried to talk to Larry about my concerns but the “Orthodontist Don” as he was now called was beyond reason.  He was concerned only with loyalty and I could tell that he viewed my questions as a type of betrayal.  He probably would have had me executed if it weren’t for the fact that I was helping him drywall his basement.

Weeks settled into months, settled into years and still the war raged on.  By my count we lost over 20 guys, many to seasonal activity “accidents.”  They died while boating and swimming, cross-country skiing and folk dancing.  After 6 years of struggle morale was shot and Parry Mills resembled a ghost town.   I remember one particularly gruesome Xmas; it got so bad that Salvation Army Santas were afraid to shake their bells after nightfall. Every tiny bit of charitable donation was coveted and fought over, and worth dying for.

To be honest, the Shriners were winning. They had slowly edged us out of everything and while our ranks were depleting, theirs continued to grow.  We had only the St. Armand Seniors Home left as a charity and rumour was that the Shriners were preparing to make their move.  Larry recognized the danger we faced and desperately tried to get the Elk’s Club on side, but they wanted nothing to do with us -- no one did.  There was desperate talk among the club faithful that we should meet with the Shriners to discuss a cease-fire, but Larry was too proud for that and he vowed that we would go down in flames first.

I became increasingly depressed and while I wanted to leave the group there was just no way out.  I was sick of the violence, sick of the fear and sick of Larry.  I just wanted my life back, but it was too late.  I had gone from real-estate agent with a trunk full of “for sale” signs to sub-lieutenant who packed a 6 iron and beat Shriners with a sock filled with pennies.  I think the real turning point for me came when I got out of my car one day when I heard a voice behind me call out.  I drew my sock, spun around and came face to face with a kid, maybe 6 years old.  I saw the fear in his face and felt ashamed, but when he said “Hey Mister, when I’m in my 50's I’m gonna be a Kiwanis-banger just like you.” my heart broke.

It was two weeks later when the FBI walked into my office and dropped a file full of photos and transcripts of wiretaps onto my desk.  I was almost relieved it was over.  They had me, dead to rights.  But it wasn’t me they wanted, they wanted Larry.  The Bureau knew that Larry was planning something big.  They figured that things were so desperate that he was capable of doing anything.  They weren’t wrong.  Larry had been telling us to stay ready for action, that he had a master plan in the works that would rid Parry Mills of the Shriners once and for all.  What that was exactly, he wouldn’t say, but his big, evil smile led me to believe it would probably involve the extracting of teeth.  I agreed to wear a wire.  All I had to do was wait for the call.

That Saturday, at 10 a.m., the day of that perfect little rainbow; when my wife, Jane, handed me the cordless, I knew that the time had arrived.   Larry told me to meet him and a few of the others at the clubhouse after supper, for a beer and an emergency meeting of the war council.  I told him he could count on me, hung up and then called the FBI 

Getting wired for the meeting was the hardest thing I have ever had to do but my wife and kids needed me, and to be honest, I had lost my taste for charity.

I drove past our town’s gracious homes, stone bridges, picturesque churches and harbour on my way to the clubhouse and realized just how much of its old charm had faded.  Bullet holes, overturned trashcans and burned out cars replaced the daisies, ice cream carts and tandem bicycles of just a few, short years ago.  There were no lights on at the club, no sign of activity, but plenty of Shiners’ tags gratified all over it’s walls. I decided to enter through the back way, keeping my eyes wide open for Shriners ready to swarm. 

Inside, seated around the head table were Larry, Fat Eddie, Punch “The Clown” and Little Stinky, the Irish enforcer.  Larry was agitated, he complained that he had lost all feelings in his hands. He kept rubbing at his huge meaty fists as he rocked back and forth in his chair, seemingly oblivious to the sound of the wood bending and groaning under his weight. He was paranoid, he was delusional, he was making me nervous.  When he kept asking me the same question again and again (it was, what did you have for dinner?) I started to get very self-conscious of the wire.  Finally, when he was convinced that I had a steak with potatoes, he told us of his master plan.

Any qualms I may have had about turning Larry in vanished the moment he unveiled his plan.  It was simple. It was terrifying.  Larry had proof that the St. Armand Home for seniors had accepted a big screen TV for their activity room from the Shriners and decided that the time had come to move.  He explained to us that battling the Shriners directly was getting us nowhere, that we had to go to the source.  I couldn’t believe my ears.  Larry was suggesting that we target charities directly, all charities, and intimidate them into turning their back on Shiners’ support.  Larry opened a case of baseball bats and invited us all to go kick Kiwanis sense into the seniors.

My mind was reeling, both with the details of his insane plan and the knowledge that my betrayal would ensure it was never realized.  It was sheer lunacy, and it never would have worked, but Larry’s thugs seemed very encouraged by its potential. 

It was moments later that the door was kicked in.  It was the FBI of course, not the Shriners, but Larry, reaching for a bat, wasn’t going to be taken without a fight…

My only solace in all of this is that I never had to testify against Larry.  He had a heart attack when he realized he was being arrested.  I did testify against my other brothers however, and I have to live with that shame and guilt.  I also have to live in a different community, with a new name and police protection, but what are you gonna do? 

On Friday nights I read to the blind, it’s not as glamorous as being a member of the Kiwanis, but it keeps me out of trouble.

April 26

Avery Ant's Academy Award/ OR
Oh, the things I’ll steal…


I hooked up with Philip Seymour Hoffman last night.  Sweet guy.  Very talented… and trusting. 
I said, “Say, Phil, I can see your Academy Award?”

He smiled and replied, “Well, sure, okay as long as you don’t brain me with and then steal it.”

”I wouldn’t do that,” I reassured him, “trust me…”

What a gullible sap.  And what a head wound and headache he must have today!

This Week's 10 Fun Search Terms for Avery Ant

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Last Christmas is so 2005...


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