Netflix is airing King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters right now, a documentary that follows Steve Wiebe's eventual rise as the highest-scoring Donkey Kong player in history. His tale is not without its villians, wise wizards, and other nerdly folk, so if you're at all into geek couture beyond listening to Weezer and enjoying making McLovin references, this is the movie for you!
Anyway, as the film explores big-glasses-wearing, scraggly- facial- hair- sporting geeks' affinity for classic video games it reignited my undying love for that round little scamp, Pac-Man, and his progressive wife, Ms. Pac-Man. With their big black eyes, super jaundice and insatiable appetite, what isn't there to love? Both Pac-Man and his woman constantly evade death by ghost touch and somehow avoid becoming obese despite their munchies (must be all that running after ghosts, or running away from, depending).
But Ms. Pac-Man is the true hero of the two. She made taking the title of "Ms." acceptable. She faced the same daunting tasks as her husband in the working world, scooting around the same boards as his. She equalized Pac-people and brought to the fore the robust attitude of a can-do working mom, while at the same time embodying the ultrafeminine with her hot legs, lipstick, and a bow in her hair (head?). She's a lady of the '80s, however powerful without shoulderpads and cocaine, beautiful without leg-warmers and off- the- shoulder sweaters.
I don't know where the woman's movement would be without her shining example. God Speed, Ms. Pac-Man. Please take care of your liver.
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