I was fascinated by Bobby Fischer. It is true that I don't have much interest in chess anymore (I loved setting up intricate and complex battle formations on the board as a child, only to have my father crush me resoundingly like ol' Dolphy's tanks whuppin' ass on the Polish cavalry), and I haven't ever read a book about Mr. Fischer. Nor have I ever seen Searching for Bobby Fischer, which, I'm told, doesn't actually directly concern him anyway. All of these things are true, but I have followed Mr. Fischer's career closely, if generally; not much fascinates me more than an unhinged half-maniac. Or whole maniac, if I can find one.
Though not a muppet, Bobby Fischer was an anti-Semite. He lived in Iceland, pissed off the U.s. and defied the U.N., married a Japanese woman (I think), and bitch-slapped a bunch of Russians to the delight of freedom-loving, flag-humping Americans everywhere (or at least the ones who love a good-old-fashioned sweaty chess BATTLE).
It is sad to see him go. Although powers that be have not, as of this writing, disclosed the cause of Mr. Fischer's death, I like to think of him climbing the jagged slopes of some dark Icelandic Mt. Doom and hurling himself into the volcano's gaping maw, his hand-carved (from Icelandic crystals) chess set clutched closely to his breast.
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