Blue Sunshine (Jeff Lieberman, 1978)

You could look at it as a cautionary tale, one that attempts to shine some light on what could possibly happen if some of the more extravagant excesses of the hippie era ever decided to rise up from their incompetently dug hippie graves to haunt (a.k.a. feast on the brains of...) the denizens of the disco age. I'll admit, looking at Blue Sunshine, a hair-raising thrill ride written and directed by Jeff Lieberman, from that particular angle does make me feel awfully smart and junk. But as most people are acutely aware, appearing smart is not what I'm known for. If you really wanted to, you could look at this film as a sinister effort by wig manufacturers to demonize baldness. Think about it, with the fedora long out of style, the unwashed, shoulder length tresses of the aforementioned hippie era languishing in the dustbin of coiffure history, and, not to mention, the fact that the inexplicable rise of the baseball hat as a non-atheltic fashion accessory is still years away from becoming our national nightmare, the wig is ready to make a comeback. Back in the late 1970s, thick manes of jet black hair were all the rage. Thanks to celebrities like, John Travolta, Sylvester Stallone, Al Pacino, and Bert Convy, men could grow their hair long without having to look like they were auditioning to be America's next top drug-addled roadie for Blue Öyster Cult (a band who, by the way, is probably responsible for the whole non-Germans misusing umlauts trend). But what about the baldies? Well, that's where the wig comes in. Of course, the wigs will cause you to become overly sensitive to loud noises (so you can forget about heading down to your local disco to hear the fresh new sounds of the day), and, oh yeah, you might develop the urge to kill some or all of your loved ones. Actually, that makes no sense at all. If anything, the industrial wig complex would probably hate the idea that their clients might turn into disco-hating psychopaths after using their product. It's funny how that happens. You're carrying on like you know what you're talking about, when all of sudden, blamo! Your theory bursts into flames.

In my defense, the wig manufacturers at the time must have looked at Blue Sunshine with some trepidation. I mean, after all, everyone who wears a wig in the movie does eventually go crazy (some even chase small children around with kitchen knives). Which, from a public relations point-of-view, must have a been a nightmare. In other words, my theory does hold a fair amount of murky water.

The only film, at least the only one that I'm aware of, to cause the viewer to constantly question the follicular integrity of every man, woman, and child who appears onscreen–well, all except the fabulous Deborah Winters (there's no freakin' way her finely coiffed hairdo was anything but au naturale), Blue Sunshine is an extremely off-kilter look at the unexpected consequences of taking one too many hallucinogens during the period of free love, and even freer drugs. You'll notice I said "extremely" off-kilter, as supposed to just plain "off-kilter." Well, that because whenever your movie has Zalman King (Trip with the Teacher) as its star, you're bound to detect a slight upswing when it comes to your film's overall weirdness.

Doing a terrific job of sucking you into its kooky world almost immediately, Jeff Lieberman opens the film with three shots of a full moon that are paired with three separate scenes that may or may not be connected with one another. The first features the headache prone Dr. David Blume (Robert Walden) making the rounds at the hospital he works; the second shows Wendy Flemming (Ann Cooper) sitting on the couch reading the story of Rapunzel to the kids she is babysitting (the scene ends with her losing a strand of hair); and the final one has a stressed out Barbara O'Malley (Adriana Shaw)–she yells, "No More chocolate pudding!" to one of her fridge-raiding children–sitting at the kitchen table complaining to Ritchie (Bill Sorrells), a male companion, about her husband Jonhnny O'Malley (Bill Cameron), whose been acting strange as of late. How strange, you ask? Why don't you ask him? He's standing right over there. Obviously eavesdropping on their conversation, Johnny, whose pet macaw is perched on his left shoulder, seems emotionally disturbed.

Meanwhile, in a cabin located somewhere outside Los Angeles, a group of friends seem to be having a blast. And who can blame them? A man who looks like Brion James is doing an impression of Rodan (a mutated pterosaur), Billy Crystal's brother is singing Frank Sinatra's "Just in Time," Zalman King is wearing a sweater with reindeer on it, and Deborah Winters is looking super-sexy in a cream-coloured dress that literally oozed disco chic. Wow, you're right, that sounds like one killer party. Yeah, tell me about it. Oh-oh, it would seem that Billy Crystal's brother has just lost his wig. And, get this, his friends didn't seem to know that he wore one. Funny thing, though, the way Billy Crystal's brother reacts to his wig being accidentally pulled off was quite unusual. You see, instead of being embarrassed like most people would in a situation like this, Billy Crystal's brother seems borderline psychotic.

Quickly realizing that his secret's been exposed, Billy Crystal's brother, his eyes looking as if they're about to leap out of their sockets, clutches at his patchy melon with both hands and runs screaming from the cabin. Staring at each other with confused looks on their faces, the rest of the party guests decide that now is a good as any to call it a night. While most of them do leave, Jerry Zipkin (Zalman King) chooses to stay, much to the displeasure of his stylish girlfriend, Alicia Sweeney (Deborah Winters). While Jerry Zipkin, or as Alicia likes to call him, "Zippy," searches the woods for their balding friend, three women, a trio who are not quite as fashion forward as Alicia, but do have their moments (the one in the red dress sitting with her legs crossed had a snotty grace about her that was quite appealing), remain in the cabin just in case if Billy Crystal's brother decides to come back.

Unfortunately, he does come back. Seething with murderous rage, Billy Crystal's brother grabs the woman in the black dress and pushes her into the fireplace. He did what?!? Yeah, I couldn't believe it, either. As he's doing this, the woman in the red dress and her friend in the white dress try to stop Billy Crystal's brother from burning the woman in the black dress in the fireplace. But it's no use, as the three of them eventually end up in the fireplace when all is said and done. After an intense struggle, Billy Crystal's brother is killed by a truck while fighting with Zippy, who came back from his search only to find his female friends roasting in the cabin's spacious fireplace. However, it's Zippy who gets blamed for the murders. And if that weren't enough, he's shot in the arm by a trucker played by Bill Adler (Van Nuys Blvd.), who, from his point-of-view, sees Zippy as the murderer, not Billy Crystal's brother, who, as I have already stated, is currently roadkill.

Fleeing the scene, Zippy is now a fugitive from justice. The still stylish Alicia tries to convince the detectives working the case that he didn't do it, but all the evidence is pointing in his direction. Luckily, Zippy has a doctor friend in the city he can turn to treat his gunshot wound. You'll notice that Zippy's doctor friend, Dr. Blume, is the same doctor from the film's opening scene. Interesting. It's all coming together. Anyway, treating his injury and providing him with a dapper business suit (smart move, since there's an APB out for a man in a sweeter with reindeer on it, not a man dressed like a banker), Zippy begins his quest to clear his name.

One of my favourite parts of Blue Sunshine were the many clandestine rendezvous that take place between Zippy and Alicia throughout the film. Oh, and not for the reasons you're probably thinking. I liked them because they gave us a chance to savour Deborah Winters' urbane fashion sense in the light of day. Up until now, we've only got see Deborah in dim log cabin lighting. But when Zippy starts his life on the lam, things take a turn for the jaunty. Approaching Zippy at their prearranged meeting point with a brash spring in her step, Alicia makes it abundantly clear that she is going to be force to be reckoned with when it comes to exuding high style in this movie. Sporting a striped red and white turtleneck sweater and a pair of tan pants, Alicia tries to tell Zippy that running makes him look guilty, but he seems convinced there's something sinister afoot.

He's absolutely right, there is something sinister afoot. But I don't think he has any idea how dire things are about to get. Learning the details of another homicide involving a bald individual, zippy travels to Glendale to find out more. Holy crap! It would seem that the guy from the opening scene–you know, the guy with the macaw–has just killed himself and his entire family. Does this mean that everyone who is either bald or going to be bald will eventually turn into mindless killer? What about Wendy the babysitter? Her hair is falling out. Is she a killer, too? Fascinating! At any rate, I wonder if he killed his macaw? Actually, it's good thing he didn't, as the bird gave Zippy some vital information regarding the particulars of this wacky mystery.

Another clue is acquired while snooping around Billy Crystal's brother's photography studio. Leading him to Edward Flemming (Mark Goddard), an oily politician running for congress and the ex-husband of one Wendy Flemming (the babysitter who is losing her hair), Zippy has a chat with him while he's campaigning in the parking lot of a local mall. On top of introducing us to Edward (whose genial demeanour disappears the moment the words "blue sunshine" leave Zippy's lips), this scene also gives us a chance to meet Wayne Mulligan (Ray Young), Edward's ex-college football star campaign manager, and, of course, allows us to see what fabulous outfit Deborah Winters is wearing today. The ensemble she models over the course of the next couple of scenes is probably my favourite out of all of Alicia's many stylish looks. A black cowboy hat (yeah, that's right, a black motherfucking cowboy hat!), designer shades, a red turtleneck, a striped jacket, and a grey skirt with a slit down the front, this getup is bold yet conservative at the same time (which are the hallmarks of a true style icon).

It's obvious that Wayne Mulligan, despite coming across as a crude jock, knows style and sophistication when he sees it, because he sneaks away from one Edward Flemming's speeches to hit on Alicia by the side of the road. While flattered by the attention, the only reason Alicia decided to humour the hulking ex-football player was to help Zippy's cause. In addition to being a fashionable woman on the go, Alicia is the ultimate girlfriend. In fact, if you look up "girlfriend" in the dictionary, you won't find a picture of Alicia Sweeney. Which is clearly a mistake on the part of the dictionary people, because Alicia's steadfast loyalty and unyielding dedication when it came to trying to exonerate Zippy went way beyond the thinly defined parameters of what constitutes a girlfriend.

As Wayne is asking Alicia to meet him at Big Daddy's, a local discotheque, you can't help but notice that there's something fishy going on with Wayne's hair (his eyebrows seem a little wonky as well). This fishiness carries over to the scene where Zippy attempts to extract some information from Wendy regarding "blue sunshine." Of course, there was no doubt about the genuineness of Zippy's hair; in fact, Zalman King's thick mane of a dark hair was as profound a hair statement you'll ever see in a motion picture). But as for everyone else, there was definitely an air of suspicion surrounding the authenticity of their respective locks.

The only exception I made when it came to scrutinizing the hair of the characters in Blue Sunshine was whenever the gorgeous Marcy Hanson would appear onscreen as a lithesome campaign worker wearing a red vest. The sheer skimpiness of her white pleated skirt must have distracted me, because it took quite some time for me to realize that she even had a head.

Whether trying to memorize the operational mantra that came with his recently purchased Walther LP3 air pistol ("Hold the baby...") or scoring tranquilizers in the park, Zalman King is the definition of unhinged paranoia as Jerry Zipkin, the most unusual "everyman" to grace the silver screen. In most cases, the hero is typically a sane man trying to come to grips with a world gone mad. But in Blue Sunshine, it was like watching an insane man in a world that is just as insane as he is. This unorthodox technique gives the film an eerie quality that might leave some viewers feeling a tad alienated. However, those who can accept Zalman King as a dashing hero, and Deborah Winters as the woman who will do just about anything to help him out (she even utilizes the soul rejuvenating power of disco to get him out of a tight jam at one point), will find much to love in Blue Sunshine, a creepy thriller that manages to demonize baldness and celebrate Barbra Streisand in puppet form simultaneously.

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The Van (Sam Grossman, 1977)

Sporting no gimmicks whatsoever, The Van is about a van and that's that. However, it would be foolhardy to think that this van-centric story is solely about a van, even though I just said that it's about a van. Confused? Well, hop in the back of the van I'm figuratively sitting in right this second and I'll do my best to convince you as to why this particular van tale is not only one of the best van movies ever made, but simply the finest piece of cinema this planet has ever created. A groovy product of its time, the film, directed by Sam Grossman and written by the duo that brought us the totally awesome Malibu Beach, may seem old fashioned by today's excessively strident standards (the more shrill you are, the more successful you seem to become), but there's a liberating purity at work here that transcends style and fashion. Implying that hard work and a profound sense of purpose are worthwhile enterprises, this film is a stark reminder to those who expect everything for nothing. Sure, the aspiration to own a van might sound a tad wonky, but that's beauty of living in an anarchical society; you can blow your wad on anything you see fit, because you've earned it. Now the mythic allure of the four wheeled vehicle known in most cultures as "the van" has been studied by anthropologists for centuries, yet it still manages to baffle and amaze those who seek to unlock its many secrets. It's essentially a giant metal box on wheels propelled by fossil fuels and a whole lot of gumption. That is, of course, the conclusion you'll come to if you look at the van from the point of view of a child or someone who just doesn't know a lot of stuff.

Looking at it from a deeper, more philosophical angle, you'll no doubt see the potential the van possess as humanities principal tool for propagating itself in the apocalyptic future of tomorrow.

The lack of shelter and the scarcity of food and water in this future will require that people remain mobile at all times, and the van is the perfect vehicle for this upcoming bleak period of time.

The happy-go-lucky Bobby (Stuart Goetz), a recent high school graduate and car wash attendant, is obviously totally in tune with this desolation to come. In that, he hopes that his acquisition of a van will improve his standing with the ladies that populate his spiritual orbit. And in doing so, spreading his seed and prolonging humanities existence for a little while longer.

Equivalent to a male peacocks feathers, or the massive bulge in and around a ballet dancer's crotch (fives cups of penis with a dash of hubris), the fact that Bobby's van is not only tricked-out to an insane level (water bed, refrigerator, toaster, and an 8-track player), but painted bright yellow with arrows running along the sides is quite telling. For instance, Bobby's mother literally spews a knee-deep deluge of female ejaculate all over driveway when she lays eyes on the gaudy splendour that is the van (she even envisions herself having a romantic evening in its cozy confines).

On the other hand, Bobby's father calls it "obscene" and looks at it with a disdainful glare.

Once the van is obtained, the shy Bobby finds no trouble finding woman to fornicate with in the back of his van. An armada of brunettes with big butts (Lillian McBride, I think) and blondes with big boobs (Connie Hoffman) jump at the chance to press their naked flesh up against the bashful Bobby. As you would expect, this newfound studliness saturates the young van enthusiast with a renewed sense of self.

Only problem is that Tina (Deborah White), the woman he actually loves, doesn't want to fornicate in the back of his van. Every time he tries to paw at her with his hands (the same hands he drives his beloved van with) or invade her personal space with his puckered lips (the same lips he kisses his beloved van with), the self-assertive Tina would gently coat his ego with a slight spurning sensation.

This refusal to engage him on any sort of romantic level confounds the fledgling sex fiend like you wouldn't believe. The very thought of the van's vagina humidifying prowess not working on her causes Bobby to reevaluate his opinion of the boxy behemoth.

This thoughtful period is when The Van breaks free from its seemingly unenlightening trajectory, and steers toward a realm full of subtle nuances. In fact, it starts to boast actual moments of graceful refinement.

The unsophisticated Bobby learns that van ownership alone can't solve all of life's problem, and that conversing with someone, not molesting them before you even say hello, is the best way to get to know a person. It's true, I knew all these things beforehand, but I couldn't help but nod along as the film's succinct message oozed from my viewing screen.

The sight of pre-Taxi era Danny DeVito playing Andy, the owner of the car wash where Bobby works, was a bit of a weirdly distracting thrill. However, his role basically takes a backseat to the grinning mug of Stuart Goetz' Bobby, who does a first-rate job channeling the intensity of a young man who desperately wants to own a van. Also, he excelled during his scenes with the lovely Deborah White, especially the one where they are seen inspecting vans at some kind of van exhibit to the strains of Sammy Jones' "Chevy Van."

Rounding out the cast: The musclebound Steve Oliver plays Dugan Hicks (a role he would reprise in the equally brilliant Malibu Beach), the main antagonist of piece (remember kids, don't ever call Dugan a turd); the Reed Diamond-esque Bill Adler (Bobby from the equally awesome Van Nuys Blvd.) shows up as one of Bobby's dickish co-workers; and Marcie Barkin, who plays Sue, a woman who, unlike the choosy Tina, will pretty much have sex with anyone.

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The Pom Pom Girls (Joseph Ruben, 1976)

Bold, brash, and full of other peoples sticky goo, the characters that inhabit the lackadaisical world of The Pom Pom Girls (a.k.a. Lâche-moi les baskets and Las chicas del Pom Pom) are social misfits of the highest order. Whether stealing a fire truck in broad daylight or brawling openly during the singing of "America the Beautiful," these young rapscallions have no regard for the rules and regulations put in place to keep them in a constant state of passivity. Urinating out the window in the middle of quadratic equations, casually pulling knives on one another, and smearing each other with cafeteria food in a blase manner, it would take me forever to list the amount of mischievous acts Johnie, Sally, Jesse, Laurie, Roxanne, Judy, Sue Ann, and, to some agree, Duane, commit in this superb example of how to properly portray teenagers in their natural habitat. Vandalism and acts of inconsequential criminality were the primary activities of my youth, and this film by Joseph Ruben (The Sister-in-Law and The Stepfather) captures that foolhardy spirit perfectly. As with real life, the plot of this randy endeavour meanders aimlessly in no particular direction, with no particular point, it just exists. Weaving its way through the first few weeks at a California high school, the story is about nothing. On the surface, anyway. However, if you were to put forth the effort and peel back the many layers, you'll discover a rich cornucopia of shapes and colours just waiting to be looked at by eyes with a taste for the avant-garde.

Unlike the felonious nimbus of my teenage existence, the characters that populate this particular time period possess souped-up mobile sex wagons (also known in some circles as "vans").

These "vans" helped the young people of the day procure partners for sexual congress and enabled them to fornicate in a dry and moderately sanitary environment without risking embarrassing afflictions such as "pebble butt" or the dreaded "grass stain crotch."

Sure, we had "vans" when I was young and stuff, but they were mostly used for hauling inanimate objects like, carpet samples, speakers, and defective dildos. Anyway, these mobile sex wagons were fundamental to the genital betterment of many citizens at the time.

The fact that I failed to see a single pom pom in The Pom Pom Girls until at least the one hour mark did not bother me one bit. The easy-going nature of the film 'til that point was so dreamy and relaxed, that I didn't seem to care that I hadn't seen a pom pom. Credit has to go to the film's semi-attractive cast. I mean, how they were able to make me forget about pom poms was a mini-miracle. The film's anti-education, anti-athletic, anti-everything stance also did a fine job at keeping my thoughts elsewhere.

Lead by the terrific Robert Carradine (Revenge of the Nerds), who plays the cocksure Johnnie, the film's ensemble is deeply talented across the board: Bill Adler (Van Nuys Blvd.) was great as usual as Duane, Johnnie's hotheaded rival; Lisa Reeves (The San Pedro Bums) was supremely foxy as Sally (Johnnie's forthright love interest); Michael Mullins displayed an appealing form of masculinity as Jesse, a football-playing van owner, and a smooth and creamy Jennifer Ashley (Phantom of the Paradise) frolicked like someone who frolicked professionally.

Others who caught my eye were the exquisitely structured Susan Player (Malibu Beach) as a flirty pom-pom shaker, Diane Lee Hart (Revenge of the Cheerleaders) as a cheerleader with a really nice bottom (while the majority of "the pom pom girls" had boney behinds, Diane's had a lot of oomph to it), and Cheryl "Rainbeaux" Smith (Lemora: A Child's Tale of the Supernatural) as a skinny blonde chick, who, unfortunately, was more of a spectator than a participant.

The lovely Sondra Lowell rocks as the adorably bespectacled Ms. Pritchitt, Rosedale High's embattled geometry teacher trying to impart her knowledge of quadratic equations while wearing a pleated skirt. Proving that teaching teenagers is extremely hard work, Sondra (credited here as Sandra) plays the nervous educator with a sympathetic zeal. Maybe it's because I'm not twelve anymore, but I wanted to slap the brats who dared to disrupt Ms. Pritchitt's class.

No doubt inspired by her therapist's advice to be more assertive with her students, Ms. Pritchitt sexily slinks out from behind her no-nonsense desk and confronts the class in a more direct manner.

Everyone I mentioned, with the exception of Sondra's Ms. Pritchitt (damn teachers and their obsession with clothing), appears naked in some form or another during an impromptu changing sequence (the guys even show a little skin in the shower, some show upper-crack, some show full-crack). The shameless and gratuitous nature of this sudden barrage of nudity helped alleviate the non-nakedness of the film's first third. Which up until then had only been supplied by the spunky Susan Player in a couple of van-centric encounters.

Nevertheless, this bit of exposed naughty flesh was strictly for the benefit of the perverts in the audience. While, the rest of us "normal people" enjoyed the film on a more cerebral level. In other words, appreciating it for its intelligence and not just its lewdness. A brilliant film that is almost ruined by unnecessary nudity, The Pom Pom Girls is intellectual cinema at its finest

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Van Nuys Blvd. (William Sachs, 1979)

On the surface, it looked like just another strip of nondescript asphalt baking in the midday sun. Yet to the sexy residents of Southern California circa 1979 (the last days of disco), it was the road to paradise. Piercing the darkness like an iridescent dashboard, the titular roadway in the righteous masterwork Van Nuys Blvd. (a.k.a. Kadun kulkurit), the crowning achievement in the cinematic realm of hot chicks and cool vans, represented a shining beacon to the countess number of disaffected and apathetic citizens that populated the tight-panted morass that was the known universe. Skillfully depicting the aimlessness of youth with an understated panache, writer-director William Sachs (Galaxina) has created not only an extremely playful film, but also a surprisingly insightful one. Letting us tag along with a casually assembled group of leggy van enthusiasts, over the hill hot rod junkies, svelte car-hops, and lustful half-Italians, the rambunctious film perfectly captures the flighty tone and attitude of the era. Teeming with a life affirming message and sporting a spontaneous outlook when it came to affairs of the heart, I couldn't help but be transfixed by these dopey characters and their staunchly anti-fascist views when it came to personal freedom.

The lure of the infamous boulevard literally pulls Bobby (Bill Adler from The Van and The Pom Pom Girls) off the glistening body of his perennially naked trailer park girlfriend (Susanne Severeid) and into warm embrace of the street that doesn't know the meaning of the expression "fuel efficient." A van lover, who dreams of souped-up engines and consensual intercourse, the wide-eyed Bobby arrives on Van Nuys with his head full of metaphysical vinegar (a pseudo substance that nourishes adolescent woolgathering).

After a food-based sexual encounter with Wanda (Tara Strohmeier), a lithesome waitress, Bobby meets Moon (Cynthia Wood from Apocalypse Now) and Camille (Melissa Prophet), a couple of fellow van drivers (sexy female van drivers) and challenges them to a drag race. (Every conversation, by the way, usually ends with a drag race challenge.)

Thrown in the slammer by the power-tripping Officer Zass (Dana Gladstone), Bobby and the girls meet the moustache-adorned Chooch (David Hayward), an aging rebel in a hot rod, and Dennis Bowen's adventurous Greg, a character who had already tried hitting on Camille earlier in the evening, so he sees this co-ed jail cell reunion as fate.

Anyway, Bobby and Moon start to make goo goo eyes with one another in-between their van-centric posturing; Greg's flirting with Camille intensifies; and the easy-going Chooch is, for now, just content with being Chooch. The unlikely fivesome eventually become a mirthful force of nature and embark on a freewheeling adventure that will change their lives forever.

The moment this freewheeling adventure is implemented is the moment when Van Nuys Blvd. really comes alive and breaks out of its shell. That's not to say that the film was tedious beforehand. I mean, I wouldn't call Greg's guileless sexual encounter with "Motorcycle Girl" (Di Anne Monaco) tedious, or the car smash up scene, for that matter. It's just that when we see these people riding roller coasters, merry-go-rounds, and winning stuffed animals, it brings a fair amount of perspective to the proceedings.

Amusement park rides as a metaphor for life's ups and downs are terrific, but it's when the foursome (Chooch is done for the day) enter the discotheque and we see The Kansas City Kings Glitter Girls hit the floor, that whimsy level goes through the roof. The film as a whole depicts disco music in a positive light, but once in the nightclub, the positivity is downright groovy, baby.

This sequence is brilliantly directed, as simple camera angles capture all the disco action. The fact that the strobe lights were allowed to blink unfettered was also a deft move on Mr. Sach's part. I'd definitely rank this as one of the finest portrayals of disco music and culture in a modern motion picture.

The rivalry between Bobby and Moon dominates the film, and rightly so, it's the film's emotional centrepiece. Coming in second in terms of importance is Camille's desire to fuck Greg in her parents' house (with them home of course). These story-based nuggets are well acted and contain enough romance and humour to fill up a smallish jar.

However, the character I enjoyed the most was Wanda. Played by the insanely gorgeous Tara Strohmeier (the angel in the gold lamé jacket from Malibu Beach), the character of Wanda may not have been in the original quintette that met in prison, but she is integral to the lives of the main participants during their night of fun.

Using her striking beauty and propensity for deviant sex, Wanda manipulates Bobby and Officer Zass to get what she wants. Yet, in the process, she causes them to evolve, to grow. Which, when you think about it, is what the film is all about.

Oh, and the relationship Wanda develops with Chooch was freaking adorable. I could watch them play air hockey and Super Bug together until the end of time.

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