Pogs

What kind of a child wouldn't adore playing with stacks of bottle caps, delighting in making little wavering leaning towers of Pogsa and later bashing them with a heftier, weightier cap? It's such an attractive option, I can't imagine how it took us 60-odd years since the games conception to discover its true awesomeness. It may have had something to do with printing technology; Pogs featuring psychedelically colorful eight balls and yin yangs are far more attractive to children than plain old guava juice bottle lids. Still, though, we're just hurling a slightly bigger disc at a pile of smaller discs, so something tells me we as 90s children possessed the inherent trait of being incredibly easily amused. You just couldn't sell that to today's kid. They'd be bored out of their minds before you even got to the word "slammer."aa

Pogs quickly achieved cultural phenomenon status, hurdling onto the toy scene in the early 90s. Pog legend (and possibly some factual information I didn't have the initiative to confirm) has it that the game originated in the 1920s/30s era in Hawaii, using milk caps. Decades later, a teacher introduced the game to her students using lids from POG juice: Passion Fruit, Orange, Guava. Get it? Pog? I think you get it, I just wanted to double check.


Pog play is incredibly, almost deceptively simple. In retrospect it almost seems as if a part of the original instructions have been lost somewhere along the way; it's hard to believe this basic game not only held our rapt attention but also lay claim to great chunks of our allowance money and precious limited recess time. The players would build a stack of caps at least four high with all pogs facing down. There are variations, of course; in some games each player built their own stack, but generally it required some buy-in of one's own valued pogs into the high-stakes mix of potential pog loss to superior slammer wielder. Each player takes a turn hurdling the slammer at the stack, claiming the pogs that land upturned and returning the downturned pogs to the original stack.

In some cases, we would play simply for fun, allowing each player to reclaim his or her beloved pogs at the end of the game. In others, though, we were out for keeps. We had to be careful which of our most beloved pog designs we decided to throw into the mix; in many cases, other players would leave the game with their pockets or patented pog stack cases lined with our once-treasured designs. It was sort of gambling 101 for children, and most of us were about three slammer throws away from needing a 12-step program. Each throw felt like this would be our chance to claim our neighbor's rarest and most valuable pog holding, but in most cases the house won and we were SOL. It's hard to look cool when all that remains in your pog case are the reject kitten and education-themed designs. Who's going to want to slam that?

If your memory fails to summon the high-stakes intensity of the game, just watch the following commercial. It will tell you all you need to know about just how hardcore 90s kids were about their pog play. Filled with semi-subliminal messages like "Wanna Play Gotta Play Above All," it's a frightening insight into the level of serious we invested in our pog collecting and gaming.



Pogs and their heavier, more potentially injury-inflicting counterparts Slammers established a ubiquitous presence on playgrounds and in classrooms everywhere. Schools called foul on the game, declaring it a soft form of gambling. Many school districts issued bans on the seemingly innocuous toys, declaring their "playing for keeps" nature to promote unhealthy and immoral gambling habits. Pogs soon went the way of the slap bracelet, reduced to underground, rule-defying secret game play.

The majority of parents pooh-poohed the schools' claims; the pogs weren't inherently dangerous and to many it seemed a reasonable alternative to TV and video games. Kids, after all, do have some inherent right to be kids, no matter how firmly schools push to eliminate it. In the schools' defense, though, they did have some grounds for banning on the same level of the later Tamagotchi craze: these things were distracting. It was tough to convince our teachers the slamming of a large disc into a pile of smaller discs was educational in its own right. Displacement? Physics? I'm still working on a viable explanation. I'm still meaning to get back to my second grade teacher on that one.

The game became so popular that manufacturers were scrambling to get their images plastered onto cardboard discs, releasing a horde of licensed designs and highly coveted collectible pogs onto the skyrocketing game scene. Soon fast food joints were offering pogs alongside children's meals, sports teams issued baseball card-esque designs, and even religious organizations sought to promote their moral messages on these ever more visible youth-accessible miniature billboard space. All types of licensed images found their way onto the fronts of pogs, giving a wide variety of kid-friendly enterprises an entirely new vehicle through which to promote their franchises.


Granted, some of the cross-promotional morally conscious pog marketing got a bit out of hand. While it might be cool to have a pog or two with some deeper meaning, many of the pog producing organizations sought to use the fad as a platform for their mission statement. Groups like anti-drug education program DARE and the US Environmental Protection Agency were soon printing pogs by the stackful, their well-meaning capitalization on a trend sucking a reasonable amount of the fun out of the game.

Like any good childhood fad, as soon as adults get too involved in utilizing the phenomenon to their benefit, it sends a message to kids that its trendiness is on the way out. Once adults have embraced a trend with the "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" attitude, kids' internal coolness radar alerts them it's probably time to find a new favorite pastime. Beanie Babies, anyone?

The "They All Go to the Same Made-Up University to Keep the Show Going" Phenomenon

It's a conundrum, really. Your sitcom or teen drama has maintained high ratings and loyal viewership, but you've stretched the characters' high school reign to the limits of its believability. Since in many cases you've already stacked your cast with barely-believable-as-teenagers 20-something actors, the duration of their high school run is becoming exponentially less credible with each passing season. What's a TV writer to do?

Here's a surefire plan to deal with your aging high school sitcom: invent a university. That's right, you heard me. Just make up a college. It's that easy. In the same way real life high schools never center around six or seven of the most attractive and characteristically disparate students, it's even less likely that this select group of golden boys and girls would all choose to attend the same local university.

Since we've already had to suspend our disbelief in swallowing week after week the fact that our main players are the only people that matter in a high school of thousands, it's not such a flying leap to assume we're willing to believe those kids would all head to college together.. Really, what kind of people go off to college to make new friends? It's much more interested to live studio and/or home audiences if you just stick with the same group of friends we've already grown to love over a series of seasons. Problem solved.

The transition isn't always a smooth one, of course. Major actors may not buy into the switch and will have to be expediently replaced by equally traited newcomers, certain lovable characters may not realistically be a part of the new college environment, and viewers may lose interest at the elimination of the original premise and setting. These hurdles are not insurmountable, though. Once you've decided to take all of your kids to college, you've already narrowed your credibility significantly. At this point, it's pretty much anything goes, as we can see from the following case studies:


Saved by the Bell ---> Saved by the Bell: The College Years (California University)



Saved by the Bell is a great example of a twice-rebranded franchise, though the SbtB team admittedly did a stronger job the first time around. The show was initially conceived as middle school Disney Channel sitcom Good Morning, Miss Bliss and was swiftly transformed into the Bayside, California high school network show we generally think about when referencing the show. After the cast had aged out of their high school years, the producers wanted to keep the wheels turning on their still-popular franchise.

Enter Saved by the Bell: The College Years. Although things had seemingly been resolved at the end of the high school series with everyone accepting admissions to different universities, somehow Zack, Screech, Slater, and Kelly all ended up arbitrarily changing their minds to attend California University. If you've ever watched this show, it has a considerably more stereotypically mid-90s look to it; the flannel, the haircuts, the general malaise. That's about all it had going for it, though, and the show was swiftly canceled after a single season due to lagging ratings. We did get to see a two-hour movie special of Zack and Kelly's Las Vegas wedding for sufficient closure, at least.


The Fresh Prince of Bel Air ---> University of Los Angeles



After four seasons, we just weren't ready to say goodbye to our mismatched pair of Bel Air-based cousins. Carlton and Will both decided to attend ULA and proceed to inhabit a series of new wacky and rite-of-passage scenarios previously inaccessible to them as high school students. Since Carlton and Will make up the show's primary character dynamic, it was necessary for writers to keep them together in order to keep the general scheme of the show intact. While I admit Carlton as the ULA mascot was an amusing visual, the family-centric situations become more forced and less believable as the seasons passed. I'd say between that and the peacock costume, it's something of a toss-up.


Beverly Hills 90210 ---> California University



Strange, isn't it, that the 90210 gang and the kids from Saved by the Bell all attended the same university and never once bumped into one another in some sort of ill-conceived crossover? Apparently creativity in the college naming department is scarce among TV writers, as "California University" was the best that the crack teams at both SbtB and 90210 could come up with. It seems both shows' casts attended separate versions of the same lazily decided inversion of the University of California. Who knew?


Boy Meets World ---> Pennbrook College



In the ultimate "they all go to the same college" offense, Boy Meets World went so far as to drag their wisdom-spouting teacher/mentor with them in the transition to university. Yes, apparently all it takes as credentials for professorhood these days is having a profound impact on a few incoming freshmen. Things took a bit of a sordid turn when they cast Cory's real life brother Fred Savage as a lecherous professor. Between this and his Lifetime movie with DJ Tanner, how was I supposed to maintain my image of sweet Kevin Arnold? For shame.

The Boy Meets World college episodes still held the attention of loyal viewers, but as is the case of in many these scenarios, the situation part of the situation comedy became more forced. The storylines got a bit wackier, Cory and Topanga managed to make it all the way to their still-in-college marriae before having relations, and we were supposed to be convinced that everyone the cast had picked up along the way (Angela, Jack, Eric, Mr. Feeny) had nothing better to do than to follow Shawn, Cory, and Topanga to college. I still love the show, so I'm willing to overlook the glaring forcedness of it all. You've just sort of got to go with it. Don't question, just watch.


Sweet Valley High ---> Sweet Valley University


This one may not be a TV show, but Francine Pascal's ghostwriters employed a similarly shameless college sendoff in the Sweet Valley series. At least in this version, they introduce slew of new characters into the mix. The storylines are far from probable--Lila marrying a count, Jessica randomly marrying a guy who later becomes paralyzed, Jessica's professor's wife is a homicidal nutcase. It's not a huge jump from the original series at least: these plots are fairly tame compared to werewolves and face-stealing plastic surgeon spa proprietors.


There's a reason these we allow these shows some creative license in manipulating our beloved characters and settings: they're fictional. As much as some over-zealous fans may try to fill in the blanks with all sorts of justifications, at the end of the day we can chalk it up to a last plea for sustained high ratings.

For any of us who have been to real colleges, we know the squeaky-clean veneer characteristic of preachy high school shows would be pretty out of place at a college kegger. The college shift keeps our characters in a sort of limbo between teen role model and carefree college student. While some of these characters may outlast their welcome or general believability, the most loyal of fans will generally power through to the very end. You know, the one where their middle school teacher is now their professor and their roommates all happen to be their former high school classmates or new characters with extremely similar characteristics to their former friends? Yep, that one. It's not always easy, but someone's got to keep watching. How else would we possibly snark on it fifteen years down the road?

The Matrix

In case you were unaware, your sense of reality is totally false. You're really just fuel for soul-sucking robots who keep you sentient in a simulated reality environment. Oh, shoot, I probably should have prefaced that with a "spoiler alert," shouldn't I? For those of you who haven't seen The Matrix, that cold hard truth will probably come as a bit of a shock. I'll give you some time to digest that one.

Now that you've had some time to process it--and by process, I mean that our solar-powered robot overlords have seen fit to utilize your protein compounds for their own evil purposes--you see that the only way to combat this docile, whitewashed existence is to learn some kick-ass martial arts moves and develop some serious bullet dodging capabilities. It's pretty much the only way. Believe me, they've checked and rechecked this one. Don't worry, though; you've got your posse of trusty marginalized cyberpunk hackers to keep you company. It may not be as cushy and comfortable as the simulated world, but hey, it's real.

Facetiousness aside, serious manifestations of these themes make up The Matrix, an innovative and visually appealing 1999 science fiction film. While the movie explores a number of well-tread science fiction ideas and motifs, it does so in a way that resonated strongly with audiences and critics alike upon its late-90s release. It is by no means a perfect film, but its masterminds the Wachowski brothers manage to entertain us with Hong Kong action-style action and dazzling visual effects. These guys must be some class of genius. After all, they finally found a fitting role for Keanu Reeves' expressionless deadpan in which his flat affect makes perfect sense. Well done, Wachowski brothers. Well done, indeed.



Now that I've managed to ruin much of the suspense and plot anticipation for any of you who have yet to see the film, I'll feel free to go further into spoiler territory. There you, that was your alert. Heed if necessary before delving into expository plot territory.

The Matrix stars Keanu Reeves as Thomas Anderson, a quiet, mild software programmer who moonlights as a hacker with the alias Neo. As Neo, Anderson is "guilty of nearly every computer crime [there's] a law for." In a state of being probably not a huge stretch for the monotone Reeves, Anderson is disillusioned with his life and its apparent lack of meaningfulness. Our rogue heroes contact Anderson's alter-ego Neo Ghostwriter style through his computer, telling him to wake up, realize the Matrix has him, and to follow the white rabbit. A little cryptic, sure, but if anyone can crack something like this, it's a renegade hacker.

Neo discovers Trinity, a leather-laden cyber-rebel kung fu master (mistress?) who brings him to leader Morpheus. First, though, she has to de-bug him: the anonymously evil sunglass-wearing agents implanted in Neo a tracking device in hopes he would bring them to Morpheus. I didn't realize it would be an actual bug, of course, so I was thoroughly disgusted to find a giant insect suctioned from Neo's body. It's cool, though. Later I learned his body isn't even real, so it's probably not as bad as it seems.

Morpheus reveals the truth: Neo has been living in a false reality. He informs Neo that the Matrix is "the wool that has been pulled over your eyes" and that he is merely a slave to the system. Morpheus offers Neo a choice; as no one can explain the Matrix, the only means of comprehending it is to experience its impact firsthand. In an iconic gesture, Morpheus reveals two brightly hued pills: a blue one with the power to close this chapter and allow Neo to resume his quietly meaningless existence, or a red one that will enable him to see the true world outside the bounds of his current reality.



Of course Neo picks the red one, because it wouldn't be much of a movie if after twenty minutes he threw in the towel and we got to watch him program software for another hour and a half. No, Neo chooses the harsh darkness of enlightened reality, only to find himself encased in a wire-laden pod of goo. Not exactly the warm welcome he may have hoped for, but it certainly made its point. He hops aboard Morpheus' spacecraft Nebuchadnezzar with a group of cyber terrorists who are among the few with the power to unplug themselves from the system. It turns out the year is not 1999, but 2199, and the 1999 in which Neo lives is simply a recreated construct meant to keep humans in pacified captivity while machines feed off their life force. Bummer.

Neo quickly learns that the system of the Matrix is not as it seems, challenging all of the perceptions he's spent a lifetime developing and ingraining. Morpheus and the gang train Neo in how to fight agents and live a life unplugged. Neo develops the skills of a trained fighter, building up his defenses against computer programmed agents.



The pressure's on in a big way, though, as the group believes Neo might be "the One," a thinly veiled Jesus reference pointing to Neo as the potential savior of the enslaved human race. To test their theory, they bring Neo to the Oracle for screening purposes. The Oracle turns out to be a kindly cookie-baking black grandmother, but her appearance belies her wisdom and insight. Those cookies do look delicious, though.


In a classic Judas move, group member Cypher commits the ultimate betrayal: he trades Morpheus for a return to his once-blissful ignorance permanently plugged into the system. After a series of intense trials and tribulations, the remaining crew members play out an ultimate showdown in a simulated subway system. The agents were clearly not prepared for Neo's surge of belief in his own ability and possible One-ness, during which he proceeds to kick ass and take names.



Neo's down, but not out, as he ascends to oneness with his, well, One-ness. He stops bullets mid-air and emerges victorious in a kinetic climactic battle with the agents. The Wachowskis leave us hanging a bit at the end, giving them ample room to expand into a trilogy. The Matrix leaves us wanting more in a way that few suspense-filled thrillers manage to achieve. Whether or not you feel the second and third films lived up to this promise is subjective, but they certainly set a strong baseline. If this movie didn't leave you craving a black trench coat, dark glasses, and the ability to stop racing bullets, I suspect you're just not cut out to be the red pill type.