Bumming around in Jeff Bridges country

Oh, hello there! I didn't see you come in. You're probably wondering what I'm doing here in duo-chrome, digitized and rendered into bits and bytes on the Master Control Program's famed "Game Grid." Well, I'm kind of here to prove a point. First of all, it was only a matter of time before the discussion in this space turned to "Tron," Disney's 1982 colossal failure of a movie that died on the vine. I, for one, am having a great time hanging out here with Bruce Boxleitner and the gang. In fact, here he comes...

Whassa happenin' over in your area of the grid, home-skillet?

*WHOOSH!*


He fucking fronted on me -- fucking Boxleitner just fronted. That guy hasn't worked since, what? "Babylon 5"? Didn't Melissa Gilbert divorce his ass a few months back anyway? Prick didn't even slow down his lightcycle to wave. No goddamn manners on the Game Grid anymore.

Well, I might as well saddle up and take a spin around here as I natter.


Ah, that's more like it. I love the sound this thing makes... WHIRR! WHIRR! WHURRMP! WHEEEE-WURRR! It's totally shmawesome. Getting back on point, there's a purpose behind things like ol' "Tron" here, and that's to illustrate all the things that are good in life. We have families that love us, comfortable existences, a lot of fun on a daily basis, and no Recognizers dispatched by Sark, sent to de-rez us. That's gotta count for something.

Did someone mention my name?


Hey, it's TV and film's David Warner! You all know him -- he's starred in like, a million movies you've seen but never paid attention to. And barely any of them any good.

I put most of my effort into theatre these days. More nuanced roles.

Yeah, yeah, but what about wearing that boss-ass helmet and going shithouse on Jeff Bridges? That mist have been a real fucking thrill. Even the Coen Brothers in "Lebowski" couldn't manage to do what you did to Jeff in this one!

To be honest I haven't paid attention. I do enjoy their work, but... I can't answer your question for sure.

Dude, I want to hear about Tron! Tron-Tron-Tron! I loved this movie since I saw it when I was eight years old, and...

Is that what this is about? Nostalgia? Are you same kind of fellow who accosts Willem Dafoe on the street and goes on about Spider-Man or something?

No... that's... ridiculous. I just... there's...

My career is larger than this one sci-fi lark I did in Los Angeles in 1982. What are you doing in that damned stupid helmet? Don't you have any humility?

I have plenty of pride! I'm not ashamed of being a hobbyist-slash-enthusiast, or whatever the fuck you'd call somebody who relives his past over and over again, every day, like some kind of adolescent power fantasy!

So, I'm to understand that you've plucked one happy memory and based an entire belief system about it?

I don't have to respond to that line of questioning.

Hey, look over there! It's Ricardo Montalban at a comic book convention! Why don't you quiz him on line-readings with Bill Shatner?

I'm starting to not like your tone, Sark. Before you make me look in the mirror and face my problems again, I'm gonna jet out of here on this solar-sailer simulation.


Well, all the fun's been drained out of this little bit of escapism. A little unironic joy has been bleached clean by some duotone jagoff. It was only a matter of minutes before he unearthed "G.I. Joe", or something like that. It's like, I have a little corner of the world that I try to carve out as a safe-area for my inner child, but everyone has to go and wipe their shoes on it.

Well, I guess that's it. Nothing left to say. Reporting live from the Game Grid, it's me, silently soaking my pillow with tears as I drain a bottle of Hiram Walker brandy. Just let me know if/when you're done diminutizing me, David Warner. I'll be the broken man over here, with the electric-blue bodystocking throwing a digital frisbee at Cindy Morgan. Back to you in the newsroom.

Me and Dick Van Dyke

Me and Dick Van Dyke are out to fuck up the shit. DVD calls me and says, "Hey kid, are you busy?" And I say, "No, sir." He says, "What's say you and me go have some fun?" And I say, "Boy howdy, Mr. Van Dyke! Would I ever!"

And sure enough, 45 minutes later, DVD pulls up to my house in a 1998 Porsche Boxster, in great condition save for a nasty gouge trailing across the passenger side.

"Gosh Dick, how did your car get so messed up"

"Never mind that, kid. We're on a tight schedule. We've got to get to Atlantic City."

"WOWWEE! I love Atlantic City!"

And I did. And I was excited that DVDizzle was at the wheel, driving so fast down the Jersey Turnpike that light was bending in the glovebox. As we passed the last rest stop, Dick gave me a bit of sage advice.

"Now, you know I'd never get you in to any trouble, right kid?"

"Sure, Dick. You've always been just swell with me."

"Right -- now I'm going to ask you to do something tonight that you might not be comfortable with, but I'm gonna ask anyway. Is that okay with you, kid?"

I loved when D-to-the-V-back-to-the-D called me 'kid'. He could get me to drop out of the fourth grade if he prefaced the request with 'kid'.

"Sure thing. What can I do?"

And at once, Dick reached into the console and pulled out a blade -- real nasty one.

"Now kid, this is a gravity knife. Not a toy, right?"

"Right, mister."

"Good. When I say the word, I'm going to need you to give this little old thing a strong toss at an old friend of mine, who owes me money. Want you to drive it right into his brainpan, from a distance of three meters. Can you do that for me?"

It was an honor. An honor -- this was Dick, after all. Dear ol' Dick Van Dyke. The childhood hero to millions was asking me if I could throw a blade into the forehead of my fellow man. Of course. Anything for DVD. Anything.

We get to the Borgata, check in at 3 a.m., drop the overnight bags in the player's suite and make our way down to the floor. We're gonna fuck the shit up. Dick makes sure the parking attendant doesn't stash his whip somewheres we can find it in a hurry, should we need to.

We see Willem Dafoe. He waves at Dick, and Dick pretends not to notice.

The Dream Team, the Team Supreme, the Taco Supreme, we get to the wheel -- and it's fucking dead. No action, no luck. Same thing with the dice -- motherfucker is crapping out, left and right. The kind of luck Dick had in El Salvador in ’80.

Looks like we're about to fuck off, when the drink lady appears -- all legs and hair, with a smear of fucking mascara somewhere up where she sees out. Dick gets a blended whiskey with one cube of ice, and I get a rum and grapefruit juice. That's right -- a "Van Dyke." It's no coincidence. My whole life's been leading up to this point.

Without needing to be told, I take the knife out of pocket and drop in into the center of the broad's dirty drink tray. Dick gives me that look... that one look that says Kid, you've done alright. Really, you have. If I had it to do all over again, I'd make sure to take you to that one duck pond for sure, instead of to Milwaukee.

He doesn't have to say it. I just know.

Dick balls his left fist and trembles, ever so slightly, before driving it up into the stomach of the croupier. Dick's right hand belts the barmaid, knocking her over into the sleepy, smokey players to the right.

"Gee whiz, Dick, don't you think they've had enough? You sure gave 'em what's for!"

Dee-Viz-Diz lets a grin lift the corner of his mouth. "You're gosh-darn right. I suppose I have!"

What comes next is seminally important in mine and Dick's night -- fucking-off the bags upstairs, we get his whip out the garage and back over the attendant as he returns to the key closet. Poor bastard moans as Dick spins the wheel up on his upper thigh, reducing it to god-knows-what. I didn't want to look. Poor bastard. Poor bastard.

"Looks like I just made a real boner, huh kid?"

"A real aksey-dent, were there ever one."

"What's say we go home?"

I nodded, but he wasn't looking for my approval. Was I looking for his?

Not this time, no. Certainly not. But we lost the knife, just as we set out to do. And it filled me with such happiness when Dick made that little double-click with his tongue, that he does, as we backed over that kid again, and drove off into the black.