On Dolph.

(NB: These were written in 2004 and I’m enjoying the pompous little shit persona I was attempting to carve out on LiveJournal, at very least).

Earlier, in the grip of video clip-making mania, I nicked down to the local SafeWay.

Supplies safely in tow, I propped myself up with a NW (‘Posh Fat/ Human Too!’) in the Ultra Slow Lane.

This being Collingwood SafeWay, you expect the odd deluge of nutters. Also keep in mind that this could also have been mild psychosis induced by the inhalation of one too many lines of Moccona Classic.

Behind me in the line? An old duffer dressed in full Franciscan monk regalia- rope, hooded brown cassock, sandals, the lot.

And, of course, he was purchasing some white hi-fibre bread and a tin of Safcol tuna.

So- this pious encounter got me thinking about Dolph Lundgren.

Which isn’t as tenuous a segue as it may at first appear.

‘Cos The Dolph played a zealous, cybernetically enhanced God-bothering type in the Keanu starring bog-fest Johnny Mnemonic, didn’t he?

Sadly, I remember these sorts of things.

I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for poor old Dolph; he was the much maligned Scandinavian fifth wheel of ’80s action movies, languishing somewhere just behind everyone’s favourite serial-groping Belgian, Jean Claude, on the ‘roidhead totem pole.

And while I can cheerfully admit to not having borne witness to the majority of Dolph’s output in the last, say, ten years, I can’t help but feel that Dolph’s been treated unfairly by the fickle whims of LaLaLand.

After all, is Dolph not the very embodiment of the contemporary Renaissance Man?

Is he not a Chemical Engineer of repute? In possession of a 160 odd IQ? Toter of a tool of allegedly Biblical proportions? Was he not World karate Champ? Do these achievements not scream out for acknowledgement?

More’s to the point- can Arnie, Sly, hell, Brian Bosworth lay claim to such feats?

That’d be a definitive no.

(The tackle thing is a little (*ahem*) harder (*ahem*) to quantify, unfortunately.)

Further- consider, if you will, The Dolph’s many exemplary contributions to the bottom shelves of video stores across the globe: Blackjack, Red Dawn, Dark Angel, Pentathlon, Masters of the Universe, Rocky IV, and the cruelly derided Punisher (1989).

Y’see, I doubt anyone ever referred to The Dolph as ‘like Schwarzenegger- on speed!!’ *.

The man’s a unique entity amongst action thickheads- well educated; can actually hand your pitiful arse to you in a dustup; seemingly dresses self.

You know that bit in an article, otherwise known as a ‘conclusion’, where the author wraps everything up neatly with a few pithy rejoinders and a clever clever reference to the opening paragraph?

Well, it’s s’posed to go here.

Sadly, however, my skull and its contents ache ever so much- this last week or so of production line video construction have done me over in fine style.

Instead, I’ll leave you with an observation wrapped in a homoerotic zinger, delivered by the late, great Brandon Lee in the seminal Showdown in Little Tokyo.

The scene? A particularly dubious spot of hot-tub based bonding.

Brandon, the ‘japester’ cop, gets an extended squizz at Dolph’s plumbing as he inexplicably enters said tub nude.

As I’m sure most LA-based rozzers are wont to do when they’re not planting evidence and bludgeoning itinerant types.

Anyway, Brandon, he says:

Kenner (Dolph), just in case we get killed, I wanted to tell you that you have the biggest dick I’ve ever seen on a man.’

There you have it, then.

Dolph Lundgren: Renaissance Man.

END.

I guess I’ve almost filled that whole ‘concluding paragraph’ brief, in a terribly conceived, deconstructionist sort of way, haven’t I?

Shit.

*This thing originally began with a weird tangential link to the following popular critical phrase of the era. So the link there is presented here in embarrassing full for posterity’s sake:

But first, I’d like to air a minor quibble.

And then hang, draw, quarter and possibly spread its greasy black innards around a bit.

There’s a turn of phrase currently in widespread use that is so completely devoid of meaning, invention and overall value to the lexicon that, well, it foments an almost homicidal mania deep within my English language-revering soul.

What heinous sequence of verbs and nouns could inspire such rabid ire?

‘Like (insert name of moderately successful, hipster-cred garnering artist here) on speed.’

Critics, street press types et al- if you use this expression, you are in no way ‘indie’, ‘hip’ or edgy’. You are, in fact, using a hackneyed anachronism, thus exposing yourself as the fraudulent manipulator of the verbiage you truly are.

What truly positive effects does speed have ? You can’t get it up, become an OCD’d wreck and do that ridiculous fish lip thing.

Not the greatest endorsement ever.