Thursday, June 23, 2005

The Casualties of Competition

Many proponents of modern capitalist society will pipe up very quickly and tell you how competition is a wonderful thing. In theory, it is. It encourages companies to be more efficient and effective, lower their prices, and so on and so forth. However, in the vicious world of corporate competition, we often forget the victims. Yes, just like that scrawny kid with red hair and thick glasses at school, there are those that are forced to fade into obscurity as the merciless corporate giants walk all over them.

Fear the Gobots, heathen!
In the 1980s, a number of robot cartoons sprung up. Macross held the attention of the Asian market, while Transformers dominated the Western market. As usual, there was competition, but only one proved a significant challenge to the Transformers' rule of the robot cartoon world. It was called Challenge of the Gobots, a show which actually existed before Transformers. Last week I travelled out to the remnants of Gobot HQ and interviewed Leader-1, one of the few remaining Gobots. At his prime, Leader-1 was the leader (natch), mentor and best backgammon player of the Gobots. He could also transform into a jet, which opened up his job opportunities since he had his own transport.

Leader-1 in his salad days.
As the time of our meeting quickly approached, I quickly surveyed the remnants of Gobot HQ. Years of overuse by the Gobots had seen tires, oil and jet fumes kill off most of the plant life. The sheds and bunkers of the Guardians that had once stood as symbols of good in the fight against Cy-Kill and the evil Renegades were now decrepit skeletons of what they once were. I stepped into the main compound of Gobot HQ and made my way through the ghostly metallic halls and into the control room. I was immediately hit with the stench of cigarettes, LRP and exhaust fumes. Scattered around the room were machine parts, spare tires and jerry cans. It looked like Leader-1 had hired Ghengis Khan as his maid. Slumped in a chair by the filthy windows was Leader-1 himself. I looked upon him and was immediately hit with pangs of sadness and guilt. I was one of the Transformers converts, and before me was the ruin I had helped contribute to. In one hand, he held a cigarette, which he would occasionally take a puff from. This would occasionally be followed by a violent coughing and hacking spell. In his other hand was a large jerry can that he would occasionally take a swig from.

"Grab a seat," slurred Leader-1, lazily pushing a chair in my direction. His robotic eyes had the faintest glow, and he stank of LRP.

"Thank you," I quietly replied.

"You want some?" Leader-1 gently thrust the jerry can in my direction. "It's only LRP. Not as good as the ol' leaded stuff, but it does the trick," he added, drunkenly chuckling to himself.

"No, thank you," I replied. "I don't drink."

"So," began Leader-1. "You wanna know about the Gobots. Whaddya wanna know?"

"Well, tell me about yourself. How did you come to be leader of the Gobots?"

Leader-1 laughed a sad laugh. "The rise and fall of Leader-1, eh?" His words echoed in the uneasy silence of the control room. After a brief coughing fit and a swig of his LRP, he began his tale.

"I used to be a bright young Gobot with a promising future. My mother and father became famous working on the Japanese series Machine Robo. They were my role-models. You know - fighting evil, transforming, red carpet appearances. It was my goal since I was a kid to have a robot TV series of my own. Maybe even have a joint human protagonist, probably played by David Hasselhoff.

"Do I turn you on, baby?"
In my early years, while I was trying to get a contract for a TV series, I did a bit of work at the local airport. I can transform into a jet plane you see. Or at least I could. Sold one of my jet engines for three cartons of cigarettes and a couple hundred litres of leaded petrol. Anyway, I did a bit of courier work, joyflights, that sort of thing. Then one of the scouts from Hanna-Barbera thought that a transforming Jet/Robot was kind of cool. We had a chat and before long, I was secured as the lead for Challenge of the Gobots. I sat in on a few auditions for the other characters, but we couldn't get David Hasselhoff unfortunately. For a while we were actually going to get Bumblebee of Transformers fame instead of Scooter. God I hated Scooter. He was such an annoying little jerk. Unfortunately, the audition board voted two to one against me."

Seriously, what the fuck is that?
Leader-1 took a long drag from his cigarette and sculled the rest of his LRP. With a spiteful scowl, he hurled the empty jerry can across the control room, hitting a poster of Scooter that he had turned into a makeshift dartboard. I shuffled in my seat, eager to continue the interview. "So what happened with the series?" I asked, to break the silence.

"Well," said Leader-1 finally. The word was long and exasperated, like he was crawling out of bed after a hard night on the LRP. "We went well for quite a while. Regular morning cartoon spot, endorsements. I think McDonald's jumped in on the franchise for a while as well. Then Tonka came in and started making action figures. For a few years, I was at the top of the world. Nothing could stop me. I was wrong.
Evil trembles with fear when the Guardians arrive!
When Hasbro's Transformers came onto the scene, we got along pretty well; back in those days, the cameraderie in the robot cartoon genre was great. I started dating Arcee for a while. However, after a while, it became apparent that the Transformers had the goal of dominating the scene. But my love for Arcee had blinded me. Turbo and Smallfoot tried to make me see the light, to no avail. We really fucked up with the Rock Lords line of toys. I mean, come on! They transformed into rocks. Fucking rocks. Tonka bailed shortly after that. Our action figure line was discontinued in 1987, the same year I found out that Arcee had been sleeping with fellow Transformer, Hot Rod. I tried to save the Gobots, but it was too late. By 1990, Hasbro had bought us out, and the Gobots were no more."

A droplet of oil formed at the corner of Leader-1's faintly glowing eye. Wiping it from his eye, he stood up and went to retrieve another jerry can of LRP. He sat back down and fired up his remaining jet engine to light another cigarette.

"So," I tenderly continued, "where are they all now?"

"The other Gobots?" asked Leader-1 rhetorically. "Well Turbo pursued a career with Porsche. He was doing pretty well. Then he skidded off the road while racing in the Alps and was killed. Smallfoot started working for Linfox, pulling road trains. Last I heard he was in rehab for his speed addiction. My old enemy Cy-Kill doesn't do much. He started working in a local supermarket, and spends most of his time playing Worlds of Warcraft. I hear he's a level 73 warrior, whatever the hell that means. As for his two buddies Crasher and Cop-tur...they were implicated in the September 11 terrorist attacks on New York. I believe they're being held without trial in Guantanamo Bay. As for that asshole, Scooter, he had his fifteen minutes of fame with some crappy techno song, before all the raves and ecstasy fucked him up. He OD'ed last year while trying to transform and pop 5 pills at once."

Leader-1 began coughing violently again. He took a long swig of his LRP to calm his throat. We chatted idly for a few minutes, but I think I realised that the interview was over. I couldn't torment him with memories any longer. It was painful to watch his anguish. I thanked him and bid him farewell.

"Hey," said Leader-1. "You wouldn't happen to have a few dollars for some more cigarettes and LRP, would you?"

"Sure," I replied, tossing him the change I was carrying with pity in my eyes. With those final words, I began to walk out the door.

"Hey," Leader-1 called out again. I glanced back over my shoulder. Leader-1 looked straight at me with his sad, robotic eyes. "Thanks..." he finally mumbled. I nodded and gave him a smile before leaving the remnants of his shattered life behind me.


Will be updated with pictures soon, quit your belly-aching.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

Welcome to the Discombobulatorium.

I can already imagine a number of questions are pervading your mind: How do you pronounce that? What does it mean? Where am I? What is the Matrix? Was Sean Connery or Roger Moore a better James Bond?

Well, deep within my black heart I hold the answers to the questions you seek. However, you must surrender your soul to me if you wish to know the answer, understand? We have a deal!
  • Discombobulatorium n.: 1. A repository for discombobs. 2. Of or relating to awesome. 3. An ever-dull chronicle of the life and times of Gavin, a living testament to mediocrity.
  • The Matrix: The totally awesome first movie in a trilogy of increasingly disappointing and over-hyped movies.
  • Sean Connery is the best James Bond to ever grace the silver screen, as he:
    • Is Scottish, just like Ian Fleming intended.
    • Slapped a bikini-clad lass on the arse and remarked, "Run along now - man talk", making him a testament to all things manly.
    • Doesn't take shit from anyone, even crazy, bald Japanese men with ninja top hats.
So why did I start this "blog" (as all the cool kids are calling them these days) you see before you? Well, it came partly from a combination of jealousy at my arch-nemesis/girlfriend's website, an insecure ego that requires me to seek the approval and attention of others (like most angst-ridden bloggers on this abomination we call the Internet) and to serve as archive for my less-glorious moments, so that I may look back when I'm 50 and see exactly where I went wrong.

By the way: Here's a little plug for Meg's totally awesome website. She is a testament to the Westfield family.

So other then my own egotistical motives, why create a blog? Well, I believe I can bring something new and refreshing to the world of blogs and livejournals. No, I'm not going to update every five minutes telling you what I had in my sandwich or when I had my last nap. No, I'm not going to fill your screen with hollow threats of suicide because my evil parents made me clean my room. No, I'm not going to poison your mind with Simple Plan lyrics about how hard it is to be a financially stable, middle-class child. So you hate your life because you can't deal with the fact that there is nothing wrong with it. Nobody cares. My goal for this blog is to serve as an outlet for stories (fact or fiction), rants and random little tidbits of interest.

To successfully infiltrate the blog community of morbid attention-whores, bored, middle-aged Americans and that Iraqi dude, I had to try a covert approach. If I appeared too revolutionary, then a jealous blogger dabbling in witchcraft may have placed a hex on me for taking attention away from his/her moaning about how he/she is going to commit suicide by placing a noose around their neck, tying it to a door and slamming the door really hard. No, I needed to become one of them. Thus, I chose a suitably grim motif of black and grey for my blog, with an equally depressing "Arial" font. I also had to come up with a long name for my website, because we all know that angsty, gothic teenagers are superior and only use really long, confusing words rather than their practical counterparts.

And what you see before you is Mission: Successful.

Adios barries
Fat Barry