So there's this guy at work, we call him Kilt Boy!
If you haven't figured it out, his nickname is because he wears kilts to work, complete with sporrans to boot. Some furry, some leather. Now the crazy thing is, he's not Scottish nor Irish. (that I can tell) He aint got an arcent or says aye or talks aboot things. The best thing I can tell he's a LARPer or some Ren Fair fanatic.
I've met the type before. This is the guy that sits in his mother's basement and goes on six hour raids via the Internet and drinks Red Bull followed by Mountain Dew Game Fuel. He reads every fantasy novel the moment they hit the bookstore shelves. He's not reading them for fun but checking them for historical accuracy. He criticizes the author's use of a halberd vs a claymore. Chastises the choice of goblin over a kobold. He only drinks from pewter goblets and munches on greasy turkey legs.
Not sure how he gets away with wearing kilts to the office. Perhaps he threatened religious or cultural discrimination. Or maybe he gets off on wearing skirts? What scares me is: if he wears them true Scottish style. Y'know, commando joe-- only a thin piece of polyester between us and his fun gun. He wears those little moccassin boots and Jesus sandals (in the summer). His hair is long and pulled into a pony tail. Not sure who's weirder him or 80s Dude (this guy that still wears cotton pants and topsiders).
The guy intrigues me only because he has the balls to be different. I've tried to bribe some young ladies in the office to talk to him and get his story. They've refused. Maybe I need to offer more than $20 bucks. One day I'll be stuck in the elevator with him and I'll be forced to get the tale. Until then, we'll keep callin him Kilt Boy!
Denver Comic Con
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Can a 40 Year Old Party like a 20 Something?
Do you know what happens when four high school friends get back together for a weekend of reminiscing?
At least one night of excessive alcohol consumption and at least one morning regretting the night before.
But it was worth it!
So, I drove down to Red River, New Mexico, the first time I've been in New Mexico in ten years, on a cold Saturday morning. There, I met three high school friends, two that I've not seen in those ten years and one that it's been twenty. Arriving there in a power outage, I met the guys at the Bull O' the Wild Saloon. We hugged liked bros and immediately picked up like there was no ten year gap, or twenty. Just then the power retuned to the little town. Steve drove us to his cabin, only to find that no power still plagued it. One really begins to miss electricity when it controls the water in a cabin and it means no toilets. Three beers each (plus the one from the bar) later, and a guy's gotta pee. Let's just say that four guys bonded that night by peeing off the balcony. And no, we didn't cross the streams.
The power returned to the cabin, to which four guys high five'd and yelled like they just scored but fifteen minutes later, it's off again. Then, ten minutes passed, it comes back on again. We again cheered. But the victory was bitter short. Less than five minutes, the power was lost again. The power company was teasing us like a cheap hooker- and she gave us blue balls. So, we stoked the fire and broke out the camping lanterns. We sat, in the dark, with no power and told stories about the last decade.
As midnight rolled around, the power returned for good. Now that water was restored, we hit the head and all showered—together. (GAG, Yuck, no way! Just checking to see if you’re still reading along. Okay back to the story…) We headed to our rooms. Yet, another hour passed as we chatted, standing in our doors like college students. Guys acted like guys; guys talked like guys. We offended the tender hearted; we offended the easily offended. Oh, and that we did. One of us even farted with pride and without prejudice.
Waking early Sunday, we headed into town. Our mission was to find food. We found it at a place called Shotgun Willies (in Denver this is a titty bar). We sat there eating French toast and Willie specials (sounds perverted if you think about its Denver cousin). While we drank coffee and orange juice, we talked about a project that brought us together that weekend--a collaboration of friends writing a incredible story.
We waited in town for the tiny market, which had a fondness to give change in $2 bills, to allow alcohol sales. (noon on a Sunday) I bought a sixer of Fat Tire. With booze in plastic bags, we drove back to the cabin. I say cabin, but it was nothing of the kind. This thing could sleep about 47. Second floor had an Arcade—complete with a Dragon’s Layer machine and pinball. But before the party could start we worked on our project and character building.
That afternoon, Steve, worked his magic on smoking some ribs. The best freaking ribs I’ve had in a long while. We watched movies, listened to music and drank our beer. The afternoon turned to early evening and with the work out of the way. The party began.
I’m not sure where it got out of control. And when I say out of control, I mean out of control for a bunch of nearly 40 year olds. Oh I remember— it’s called hard alcohol. Shots of Crown Royal. Mixed Captain Morgan Lime into Dr. Pepper. That was our first mistake. Mixed the boozes. What do we think we are? Twentysomethings. We wanted to play poker. Steve had instructed us he was going to take all our money. We almost played strip poker just for the shock and awe it would have caused the two females staying in the cabin. We didn’t. Yet, music and drink kept us distracted. Not sure if I should admit it but we danced. We danced like crazy teenagers. I’m surprised we didn’t throw out a hip or blow out some knees.
Just like teenagers, we invited girls over to the cabin. We could hear them across the river so we yelled for them to come over. Then my disclaimer statement, “only if you’re 18 or older.” Their response was, “we’re legal!” In our minds, they were going to be hot blond Texas A&M girls or perhaps the girls that were in town during the Oktoberfest wearing the little German lederhosen. They said they’d be over in half an hour. Try like an hour and a half. When they showed up, I was pretty blitzed and the booze goggles were kinda foggy. I couldn’t tell if they were calendar girls or Russian weightlifters. I looked to Shawn, no let’s call him Ray (to protect his identity), Ray gave me the head shake of “negative, Ghost Rider. The pattern is full!” They went to get a “friend” and be “right back” but we turned off the lights and prayed they couldn’t find their way back.
The night drifted into blurriness and Steve hit the Netflix to play Weird Science. Even tanked, we all ran the lines word for word. Then about half way through, Ray puked in the sink. Alright! It wasn’t Ray. It was me. It was me okay!! You happy. I’m not no young college frat boy. But, the bright side, it made the next day much more bearable. Then, I only remember cleaning it up and going to bed.
8AM and coffee . Watched Regis and Kelly. Forced a waffle down. Drank some water. We said our goodbyes and took some photos. Steve drove us to our cars and the weekend was over. I drove home. Only pulled off the side of the road to wiz once. The weather was beautiful. I’ve talked to these guys a few times since. The plan is to meet down there again. To Ski. Next time, I’ll skip the booze and remember I'm too old for that shit....
At least one night of excessive alcohol consumption and at least one morning regretting the night before.
But it was worth it!
So, I drove down to Red River, New Mexico, the first time I've been in New Mexico in ten years, on a cold Saturday morning. There, I met three high school friends, two that I've not seen in those ten years and one that it's been twenty. Arriving there in a power outage, I met the guys at the Bull O' the Wild Saloon. We hugged liked bros and immediately picked up like there was no ten year gap, or twenty. Just then the power retuned to the little town. Steve drove us to his cabin, only to find that no power still plagued it. One really begins to miss electricity when it controls the water in a cabin and it means no toilets. Three beers each (plus the one from the bar) later, and a guy's gotta pee. Let's just say that four guys bonded that night by peeing off the balcony. And no, we didn't cross the streams.
The power returned to the cabin, to which four guys high five'd and yelled like they just scored but fifteen minutes later, it's off again. Then, ten minutes passed, it comes back on again. We again cheered. But the victory was bitter short. Less than five minutes, the power was lost again. The power company was teasing us like a cheap hooker- and she gave us blue balls. So, we stoked the fire and broke out the camping lanterns. We sat, in the dark, with no power and told stories about the last decade.
As midnight rolled around, the power returned for good. Now that water was restored, we hit the head and all showered—together. (GAG, Yuck, no way! Just checking to see if you’re still reading along. Okay back to the story…) We headed to our rooms. Yet, another hour passed as we chatted, standing in our doors like college students. Guys acted like guys; guys talked like guys. We offended the tender hearted; we offended the easily offended. Oh, and that we did. One of us even farted with pride and without prejudice.
Waking early Sunday, we headed into town. Our mission was to find food. We found it at a place called Shotgun Willies (in Denver this is a titty bar). We sat there eating French toast and Willie specials (sounds perverted if you think about its Denver cousin). While we drank coffee and orange juice, we talked about a project that brought us together that weekend--a collaboration of friends writing a incredible story.
We waited in town for the tiny market, which had a fondness to give change in $2 bills, to allow alcohol sales. (noon on a Sunday) I bought a sixer of Fat Tire. With booze in plastic bags, we drove back to the cabin. I say cabin, but it was nothing of the kind. This thing could sleep about 47. Second floor had an Arcade—complete with a Dragon’s Layer machine and pinball. But before the party could start we worked on our project and character building.
That afternoon, Steve, worked his magic on smoking some ribs. The best freaking ribs I’ve had in a long while. We watched movies, listened to music and drank our beer. The afternoon turned to early evening and with the work out of the way. The party began.
I’m not sure where it got out of control. And when I say out of control, I mean out of control for a bunch of nearly 40 year olds. Oh I remember— it’s called hard alcohol. Shots of Crown Royal. Mixed Captain Morgan Lime into Dr. Pepper. That was our first mistake. Mixed the boozes. What do we think we are? Twentysomethings. We wanted to play poker. Steve had instructed us he was going to take all our money. We almost played strip poker just for the shock and awe it would have caused the two females staying in the cabin. We didn’t. Yet, music and drink kept us distracted. Not sure if I should admit it but we danced. We danced like crazy teenagers. I’m surprised we didn’t throw out a hip or blow out some knees.
Just like teenagers, we invited girls over to the cabin. We could hear them across the river so we yelled for them to come over. Then my disclaimer statement, “only if you’re 18 or older.” Their response was, “we’re legal!” In our minds, they were going to be hot blond Texas A&M girls or perhaps the girls that were in town during the Oktoberfest wearing the little German lederhosen. They said they’d be over in half an hour. Try like an hour and a half. When they showed up, I was pretty blitzed and the booze goggles were kinda foggy. I couldn’t tell if they were calendar girls or Russian weightlifters. I looked to Shawn, no let’s call him Ray (to protect his identity), Ray gave me the head shake of “negative, Ghost Rider. The pattern is full!” They went to get a “friend” and be “right back” but we turned off the lights and prayed they couldn’t find their way back.
The night drifted into blurriness and Steve hit the Netflix to play Weird Science. Even tanked, we all ran the lines word for word. Then about half way through, Ray puked in the sink. Alright! It wasn’t Ray. It was me. It was me okay!! You happy. I’m not no young college frat boy. But, the bright side, it made the next day much more bearable. Then, I only remember cleaning it up and going to bed.
8AM and coffee . Watched Regis and Kelly. Forced a waffle down. Drank some water. We said our goodbyes and took some photos. Steve drove us to our cars and the weekend was over. I drove home. Only pulled off the side of the road to wiz once. The weather was beautiful. I’ve talked to these guys a few times since. The plan is to meet down there again. To Ski. Next time, I’ll skip the booze and remember I'm too old for that shit....
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Superman wore his on the outside!
Unless you were Amish, every kid of the 1980s owned a pair of Underroos. I distinctly remember owning several pairs. And I’m pretty sure every boy and girl at one time owned at least one pair. Even if they will never admit it.
I leapt and swung off the couch in my Spider-mans. I jumped over my bed in the Superman ‘roos. And I may have even stalked the darkness in Batman undies. Although I was roaming and playing in the apartment in my underwear, I felt like those superheroes. It was the closest thing we had to role play costumes. And you could buy them year-round. Halloween had some good costumes. But they were just plastic crap. The little rubber bands on the masks broke within minutes and the jumpsuits always tore.
I remember they advertised them during Saturday Morning Cartoons. During the Muppet Show. I recently saw one and the pre-teen girl is running around in Wonder Woman panties and tank top. Her friend joins her while sporting the Supergirl version-with sports bra and all. Then a boy arrives to show off his Incredible Hulk ‘roos. It was like porn for 10 year olds. Where else would a a couple boys and girls hang out in the underpants. One could say it was kinda creepy to watch little boys and girls so happy to be running around in their underwear.
I wonder why they don’t show these commercials anymore. Some would say that it would only give creepy old men perverted ideas when the little pre-pubescent girls and boys are running around in their skivvies. Yet, why should it be any different today. I see half a dozen boner medication commercials a day. Try explaining one of those to your 11 yr old daughter as we watch Ninja Warriors.
Friday, September 2, 2011
What are you F’ing thinking George?
I want to believe that some of your “new” tweaks to the Original Trilogy were the brain child of some hippy ILMer who wanted to kiss your ass. But if you personally sat down and decided these changes on your own, then shame on you.
With the news breaking on all the fan sites and social networks that you added [SPOILER] additional dialog to Vader as he tosses the Emperor down the shaft is not only idiotic but destroys the power of the scene. Sorry George, but I think you have lost your creative genius. You’re too worried that a 5 year old won’t understand your films. Sorry these films aren’t for them! That’s the Clone Wars!
The Star Wars fans wanted these timeless movies on Blu-ray. We never asked for you to continue to alter them or flat out ruining them with fucking ridiculous lines like, “NOOOOOOOOO!”. In case you forgot, it was the generation of the late 1970s and early 1980s that loved these movies and made your trillion dollar empire. The Original Trilogy should be left alone outside small technical upgrades. Rearranging and adding dialog actually destroys the original artistic power of both the characters and story.
Want to know why that scene at the end of Return of the Jedi is so moving and so incredible? It was that we could actually see the emotion in Vader’s mask. We can’t even seen any human features. Instead we get a piece of metal and plastic. Yet, through the magic of filmmaking we see the sorrow, torment, remorse and compassion that Darth Vader , now turned back to Anakin Skywalker, is feeling as the Emperor tortures his son. When he makes that silent commitment to grab his former master and destroy him, he finalizes his redemption. A redemption that needs no verbal acknowledgement. It simply works off the muscial cues. Way to fuck it up, George!
I do not want to present myself as one of those purists as I do believe continued improvements can enhance the magic of a movie and these films. Yet when the changes involve alterations to the motives of the characters (Han not shooting first) or the core story elements (Jabba in New Hope), I find it not only annoying but destructive to the original magic you created over 30 years ago.
This makes the fourth time a change to these movies has brought me to Sith-like anger! First it was Greedo shooting first (WTF). Why not make Han a pacifist too! Next were two scenes in Empire – Vader talking to the hologram Emperor (remember when the Emperor says, "Luke Skywalker that kid that destroyed the Death Star that is Rebel that is also your son that you don’t know about and all" Yeah, that shit) and Darth Vader not ordering his men “Bring my Shuttle!” but “To alert my Star destroyer of my arrival and have them have my slippers and hot cocoa ready” bullshit. And now, adding dialog to Vader again in ROTJ. Who knows what else I'll see on Sept 16th.
This brings me back to the alteration of sticking Ian McDiarmid in as the Emperor in ESB-- I’m okay with it. It makes the continuity with the following films work yet the added dialog was unnecessary and you lead the audience to conclusions. Adding a digital Yoda in The Phantom Menance makes sense since the puppet in Episode I did not look or feel like the Yoda we were used to. Although I do like the Clive Revill version of the Emperor as it was more scary and I felt the hologram generator was causing the deformities in his appearance. Yet, as for other changes, I’m not sure I really need to see eyes blinking on Ewoks.
Unfortunately, this news has put another strike on my fandom. I will continue to hold my pre-order for the blu-rays. I will give them a watch and see how bad the new alterations piss me off. Or maybe I’ll wake up from this nightmare and the movies will be how I remember them but only in 1080p.
The sad story realization here is my fandom slipping. George has not raped my childhood as I still have my memories and a copy of the original teatrical films. But. I definitely have bought the last version of these movies. Sorry George, I liked it more the original way. You don’t change Coke cuz you think more will drink it. You don’t change the Big Mac and you don’t change the smile on the Mona Lisa. How many versions are there of the classics Casablanca and Citizen Kane? Oh, yeah. Precisely!!
With the news breaking on all the fan sites and social networks that you added [SPOILER] additional dialog to Vader as he tosses the Emperor down the shaft is not only idiotic but destroys the power of the scene. Sorry George, but I think you have lost your creative genius. You’re too worried that a 5 year old won’t understand your films. Sorry these films aren’t for them! That’s the Clone Wars!
The Star Wars fans wanted these timeless movies on Blu-ray. We never asked for you to continue to alter them or flat out ruining them with fucking ridiculous lines like, “NOOOOOOOOO!”. In case you forgot, it was the generation of the late 1970s and early 1980s that loved these movies and made your trillion dollar empire. The Original Trilogy should be left alone outside small technical upgrades. Rearranging and adding dialog actually destroys the original artistic power of both the characters and story.
Want to know why that scene at the end of Return of the Jedi is so moving and so incredible? It was that we could actually see the emotion in Vader’s mask. We can’t even seen any human features. Instead we get a piece of metal and plastic. Yet, through the magic of filmmaking we see the sorrow, torment, remorse and compassion that Darth Vader , now turned back to Anakin Skywalker, is feeling as the Emperor tortures his son. When he makes that silent commitment to grab his former master and destroy him, he finalizes his redemption. A redemption that needs no verbal acknowledgement. It simply works off the muscial cues. Way to fuck it up, George!
I do not want to present myself as one of those purists as I do believe continued improvements can enhance the magic of a movie and these films. Yet when the changes involve alterations to the motives of the characters (Han not shooting first) or the core story elements (Jabba in New Hope), I find it not only annoying but destructive to the original magic you created over 30 years ago.
This makes the fourth time a change to these movies has brought me to Sith-like anger! First it was Greedo shooting first (WTF). Why not make Han a pacifist too! Next were two scenes in Empire – Vader talking to the hologram Emperor (remember when the Emperor says, "Luke Skywalker that kid that destroyed the Death Star that is Rebel that is also your son that you don’t know about and all" Yeah, that shit) and Darth Vader not ordering his men “Bring my Shuttle!” but “To alert my Star destroyer of my arrival and have them have my slippers and hot cocoa ready” bullshit. And now, adding dialog to Vader again in ROTJ. Who knows what else I'll see on Sept 16th.
This brings me back to the alteration of sticking Ian McDiarmid in as the Emperor in ESB-- I’m okay with it. It makes the continuity with the following films work yet the added dialog was unnecessary and you lead the audience to conclusions. Adding a digital Yoda in The Phantom Menance makes sense since the puppet in Episode I did not look or feel like the Yoda we were used to. Although I do like the Clive Revill version of the Emperor as it was more scary and I felt the hologram generator was causing the deformities in his appearance. Yet, as for other changes, I’m not sure I really need to see eyes blinking on Ewoks.
Unfortunately, this news has put another strike on my fandom. I will continue to hold my pre-order for the blu-rays. I will give them a watch and see how bad the new alterations piss me off. Or maybe I’ll wake up from this nightmare and the movies will be how I remember them but only in 1080p.
The sad story realization here is my fandom slipping. George has not raped my childhood as I still have my memories and a copy of the original teatrical films. But. I definitely have bought the last version of these movies. Sorry George, I liked it more the original way. You don’t change Coke cuz you think more will drink it. You don’t change the Big Mac and you don’t change the smile on the Mona Lisa. How many versions are there of the classics Casablanca and Citizen Kane? Oh, yeah. Precisely!!
Sunday, July 17, 2011
They Think He's a Righteous Dude!
Last Thursday night at Midnight. My Daughter had to be at the premiere screening of the last Harry Potter movie--ever! We bought tickets for a Deathly Hollows double feature. With them leaving to stand in line around 5pm for a 9pm show, I knew she was devoted to watch this movie.
I have never understood the fascination with the Harry Potter franchise. A boy who attends a wizard academy and fights an evil wizard who has deep roots in the boys very life. It's unique. But not that unique. It's the first time I have ever heard of people waiting in lines and waiting hours to buy a book at midnight. Not a movie. A BOOK!
So a series of movies based on those books would only launch this fandom and popularity into freakin outer space. The movies have made billions. That's a lot of millions. Made its author richer than the royal family of her home nation. Sold more books than Bible. What the Hell!?
Now, I've been to a many midnight movies. Star Wars, Indiana Jones, Star Trek, Spider-man 3, Superman Returns and so many others I can't even recall them all. Yet, the one thing that fascinates me most about a Harry Potter movie is the wide range of people that attended this sucker. Star Wars crosses many social demographics; so does Star Trek. Trekkers and Star Woids don't compare though. Harry Potter takes the cake. These Potter Heads (my own description of Harry Potter Fans) are diverse! I had more fun people watching than watching the flick.
There was a couple gay guys sitting next to us, both wearing Harry Potter costumes. If Harry was flaming gay, these guys pulled it off perfectly. The punker chick with body piercings and tats all over her arms. The 40-ish year old Filipino woman wearing her Hogwarts sweater and scarf, reading a worn copy of Chamber of Secrets. The smoking hot twenty-something blond with her jock boyfriend. The middle-age mother of three waving a toy wand that lit up at the end. The cowboy with dirty boots and the shield-like belt buckle. Skinny people. Fat people. Young and old. Hispanic. Black. Asian. And Muggles. They all know Harry Potter. The sportos, the motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, waistoids, dweebies, dickheads - they all adore him. They think he's a righteous dude!
Harry Potter brings them all together...
I have never understood the fascination with the Harry Potter franchise. A boy who attends a wizard academy and fights an evil wizard who has deep roots in the boys very life. It's unique. But not that unique. It's the first time I have ever heard of people waiting in lines and waiting hours to buy a book at midnight. Not a movie. A BOOK!
So a series of movies based on those books would only launch this fandom and popularity into freakin outer space. The movies have made billions. That's a lot of millions. Made its author richer than the royal family of her home nation. Sold more books than Bible. What the Hell!?
Now, I've been to a many midnight movies. Star Wars, Indiana Jones, Star Trek, Spider-man 3, Superman Returns and so many others I can't even recall them all. Yet, the one thing that fascinates me most about a Harry Potter movie is the wide range of people that attended this sucker. Star Wars crosses many social demographics; so does Star Trek. Trekkers and Star Woids don't compare though. Harry Potter takes the cake. These Potter Heads (my own description of Harry Potter Fans) are diverse! I had more fun people watching than watching the flick.
There was a couple gay guys sitting next to us, both wearing Harry Potter costumes. If Harry was flaming gay, these guys pulled it off perfectly. The punker chick with body piercings and tats all over her arms. The 40-ish year old Filipino woman wearing her Hogwarts sweater and scarf, reading a worn copy of Chamber of Secrets. The smoking hot twenty-something blond with her jock boyfriend. The middle-age mother of three waving a toy wand that lit up at the end. The cowboy with dirty boots and the shield-like belt buckle. Skinny people. Fat people. Young and old. Hispanic. Black. Asian. And Muggles. They all know Harry Potter. The sportos, the motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, waistoids, dweebies, dickheads - they all adore him. They think he's a righteous dude!
Harry Potter brings them all together...
Thursday, July 14, 2011
In my day it was called Star Wars, dammit!!
Here I am. Working over my computer. Trying to get midnight tickets. Shows are selling out faster than fat people grabbing free donuts at the Krispy Kreme.
The theater is promising to show the moving in every theater if needed. It’s a Megaplex with 18 screens. 18 F’ing screens!! All may be sold out.
The line was rumored to have started weeks, or in the least, days before the lights will go down. It’s madness. Complete madness. There are thousands of screaming fans. Some are dressed up. Most are wearing T-shirts and waiving props around. They spend hours speaking geek about the movies; the characters; the creatures; the love triangle.
Don’t get me started on the merchandising. There are action figures; clothing; magazines; posters; key chains; pillow cases; underwear; sticker books; Dixie cups and card games.
Oh, did you think I was talking about Star Wars? Hell no! This insanity is Harry Fraking Potter. Where and how did it all start? In my day, this kind of excitement was called Star Wars, dammit!!
So, I got the tickets purchased. My daughter has been bouncing off walls for weeks. This is her Woodstock. Mine was a dual trilogy in a galaxy far, far away. I want to piss all over this Hogwarts stuff. It ticks me off its bigger than Star Wars. Amazed, how a little book about wizards became a trillion dollar empire. And an EVIL one at that!
The bright side: I’ll be waiting in line while reading a Star Wars book. Take that Harry!
The theater is promising to show the moving in every theater if needed. It’s a Megaplex with 18 screens. 18 F’ing screens!! All may be sold out.
The line was rumored to have started weeks, or in the least, days before the lights will go down. It’s madness. Complete madness. There are thousands of screaming fans. Some are dressed up. Most are wearing T-shirts and waiving props around. They spend hours speaking geek about the movies; the characters; the creatures; the love triangle.
Don’t get me started on the merchandising. There are action figures; clothing; magazines; posters; key chains; pillow cases; underwear; sticker books; Dixie cups and card games.
Oh, did you think I was talking about Star Wars? Hell no! This insanity is Harry Fraking Potter. Where and how did it all start? In my day, this kind of excitement was called Star Wars, dammit!!
So, I got the tickets purchased. My daughter has been bouncing off walls for weeks. This is her Woodstock. Mine was a dual trilogy in a galaxy far, far away. I want to piss all over this Hogwarts stuff. It ticks me off its bigger than Star Wars. Amazed, how a little book about wizards became a trillion dollar empire. And an EVIL one at that!
The bright side: I’ll be waiting in line while reading a Star Wars book. Take that Harry!
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
After the Show: Autobots, Decepticons and Cybertron, oh my!
After the Show: Autobots, Decepticons and Cybertron, oh my!
7/3/2011
First thing first: Dark of the Moon was much better than Revenge of the Fallen. Not saying it was the best film of the summer but it was definitely a fun movie! How can cars that turn into freaking robots not be!?
If one can get past the idea that a fresh out of college, jobless and klutzy Sam Witwicky can score a Victoria Secrets super-model, then you'll be okay. I mean I believe the concept of a transforming alien robot to be more true!
The movie is still plagued with some issues that the first two had: a hot girl that does nothing (well this one actually does something in the last ten minutes), ridiculously long robot battles that do nothing to move the story along and plot holes that leave the viewer wondering "did I miss something?"
To say the least, I do want to see this one again. It opens with the same feeling as X-men First Class-- that 60's nostalgia. But it quickly turns to Michael Bay-all-out-action going Mach 2! Someone musta heard my complaint about how the robots all looked alike as I could actually tell who the Autobots vs the Decepticons were this time. Even though I think some of the fighting is ridiculously over exaggerated still.
Will there be a 4th one? Oh definitely! But I'll be curious if it's a Bay film and if Shia Labeouf returns again. The real highlight of this movie is Leonard Nimoy voicing Sentinel Prime! And there is some geekery connecting it back to Spock!
If you got 2 1/2 hours to kill, go see this fun 80s toy movie! You won't regret it (not too much anyways).
7/3/2011
First thing first: Dark of the Moon was much better than Revenge of the Fallen. Not saying it was the best film of the summer but it was definitely a fun movie! How can cars that turn into freaking robots not be!?
If one can get past the idea that a fresh out of college, jobless and klutzy Sam Witwicky can score a Victoria Secrets super-model, then you'll be okay. I mean I believe the concept of a transforming alien robot to be more true!
The movie is still plagued with some issues that the first two had: a hot girl that does nothing (well this one actually does something in the last ten minutes), ridiculously long robot battles that do nothing to move the story along and plot holes that leave the viewer wondering "did I miss something?"
To say the least, I do want to see this one again. It opens with the same feeling as X-men First Class-- that 60's nostalgia. But it quickly turns to Michael Bay-all-out-action going Mach 2! Someone musta heard my complaint about how the robots all looked alike as I could actually tell who the Autobots vs the Decepticons were this time. Even though I think some of the fighting is ridiculously over exaggerated still.
Will there be a 4th one? Oh definitely! But I'll be curious if it's a Bay film and if Shia Labeouf returns again. The real highlight of this movie is Leonard Nimoy voicing Sentinel Prime! And there is some geekery connecting it back to Spock!
If you got 2 1/2 hours to kill, go see this fun 80s toy movie! You won't regret it (not too much anyways).
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Before the Show: Let’s Hope There’s More Than Meets the Eye
Before the Show: Let’s Hope There’s More Than Meets the Eye
7/2/2011
Being a child of the 80s, I watched the Transformers cartoon. I remember when it debuted as a 1-week mini-series very similar to the G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero mini-series. The cartoon became a daily event—a 30 minute commercial to sell toys. I watched from time to time. I owned a few of the robots. But then in 2007, Michael Bay debuted a live-action Transformers movie.
I was really excited. I knew the characters. I read a few comics. Considering CGI in 2007, this should be a freakin’ good movie. And it was. The problem was with its sequel. Revenge of the Fallen was an attempt to make every explosion bigger and every robot fight more ridiculous. And they forgot one thing -- a story! It was a mess. We went back to the desert to have more robots fights. LA got destroyed again! The robots were so complex, they all looked the same. And the audience got lost on the whole point of the movie. And it was like 2 hours too long.
Now we get Dark of the Moon. Promised to be better than the prior film. Reports that there’s actually a story. The trailer looks very similar to the last two. Robots racing down a highway, transforming while crawling up buildings and Shia LaBeouf falling and saving the girl. One disappointing factor: no Megan Fox. But, then again she’s over rated. She was only good for fan service— short shorts bending over a crotch rocket.
So, I’m off to the theater to see this latest chapter. If anything surprises me, it’ll be that there really is more than meets the eye…
7/2/2011
Being a child of the 80s, I watched the Transformers cartoon. I remember when it debuted as a 1-week mini-series very similar to the G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero mini-series. The cartoon became a daily event—a 30 minute commercial to sell toys. I watched from time to time. I owned a few of the robots. But then in 2007, Michael Bay debuted a live-action Transformers movie.
I was really excited. I knew the characters. I read a few comics. Considering CGI in 2007, this should be a freakin’ good movie. And it was. The problem was with its sequel. Revenge of the Fallen was an attempt to make every explosion bigger and every robot fight more ridiculous. And they forgot one thing -- a story! It was a mess. We went back to the desert to have more robots fights. LA got destroyed again! The robots were so complex, they all looked the same. And the audience got lost on the whole point of the movie. And it was like 2 hours too long.
Now we get Dark of the Moon. Promised to be better than the prior film. Reports that there’s actually a story. The trailer looks very similar to the last two. Robots racing down a highway, transforming while crawling up buildings and Shia LaBeouf falling and saving the girl. One disappointing factor: no Megan Fox. But, then again she’s over rated. She was only good for fan service— short shorts bending over a crotch rocket.
So, I’m off to the theater to see this latest chapter. If anything surprises me, it’ll be that there really is more than meets the eye…
Monday, July 11, 2011
200 words a day
That's the goal. 200 words a day. To write. 200 words.
I will do it. I must do it.
I hope readers will return. I will try to make each item entertaining. I hope to tie it with other projects and a rebooted website.
Share with friends.
This will be the foundation. The result will be a nice high rise!
I will do it. I must do it.
I hope readers will return. I will try to make each item entertaining. I hope to tie it with other projects and a rebooted website.
Share with friends.
This will be the foundation. The result will be a nice high rise!
Monday, June 20, 2011
Rain - it clears the dust from the air.
My mind is filled with tons of memories of waking up to rain. Those days being so memorable. Living in back-ass-wards Roswell, rainy days were rare. It was a fuckin desert after all.
Listening to the pitter-pat-tapping of rain falling on the windows soothing my soul.
Once it rained for three straight days in Roswell. The streets flooded and sidewalks got washed away. I remember my mother driving her tiny Toyota Tercel down 2nd street to go to a charity pancake breakfast. The car hitting these huge puddles, spraying water in all directions. Dragging it down. The other cars sprayed water on us and blinded us from the road for a few heart pounding seconds.
Moving away and waking up in the big city. Driving to Toys R Us in the rain to find Star Wars Micro Machine playsets.
Attending Star Wars Celebration in the rain. Rained for three straight days again. Mud everywhere. Wet Leias. Soaked Stormtroopers. And all though water was everywhere, it made that weekend memorable.
Dusty Ayres once said in episode of Robotech, "I like the rain. It clears the dust from the air."
And I find myself saying that every time it rains.
Listening to the pitter-pat-tapping of rain falling on the windows soothing my soul.
Once it rained for three straight days in Roswell. The streets flooded and sidewalks got washed away. I remember my mother driving her tiny Toyota Tercel down 2nd street to go to a charity pancake breakfast. The car hitting these huge puddles, spraying water in all directions. Dragging it down. The other cars sprayed water on us and blinded us from the road for a few heart pounding seconds.
Moving away and waking up in the big city. Driving to Toys R Us in the rain to find Star Wars Micro Machine playsets.
Attending Star Wars Celebration in the rain. Rained for three straight days again. Mud everywhere. Wet Leias. Soaked Stormtroopers. And all though water was everywhere, it made that weekend memorable.
Dusty Ayres once said in episode of Robotech, "I like the rain. It clears the dust from the air."
And I find myself saying that every time it rains.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Dreaming of the Perfect Dad
Father's Day 2011. I'm a father. Daughter and I spend the day watching a super-hero movie. But I don't have a father to call, to wish a happy father's day.
I never knew my father. I know his name. I know where he lives. Yet, life never gave me the opportunity to know him, build a model kit with him, go fishing, throw a football back and forth or gather advice from his wisdom.
And I'm okay with that.
To wish differently, I would have been someone else. Perhaps, I would not like movies, comics books, baseball or art. I may have been a grease head or a cocky jock asshole. I may have become a simplistic farmer instead of a dreamer.
But I like how I turned out. So, I don't mind not knowing him.
Growing up in the 1970s, it seemed many always asked, where's your father? I was like fuckin' 7 years old. How'd the hell I know? He wasn't in our tiny apartment that I knew. So, I created a father to respond to all the questions. I said, he was a test pilot for the Air Force. He had a crash in an experimental aircraft. He was hurt really bad but the government rebuilt him: better, faster and stronger than before. And he had to go on missions and be away a lot.
The crazy shit?
People bought it. I basically gave them the premise for the Six Fuckin' Million Dollar Man and they flippin' bought it! They probably just felt sorry for me. Either, I had no daddy or that I couldn't separate fiction from reality. I'm surprised that I didn't end up in a insane asylum with rubber walls!
By the 1980s, the questions stopped. Yet if they hadn't, I would have created another. Perhaps, he would have been a cop who had to change his identity, drive a cool Trans-Am and help those less fortunate. (One man can make a difference.) Or maybe he would have been an ex-Vietnam soldier looking for his MIA brother while flying a suped-up secret government helicopter. Or hell, maybe I would have shrugged my shoulders and walked away...
I never knew my father. I know his name. I know where he lives. Yet, life never gave me the opportunity to know him, build a model kit with him, go fishing, throw a football back and forth or gather advice from his wisdom.
And I'm okay with that.
To wish differently, I would have been someone else. Perhaps, I would not like movies, comics books, baseball or art. I may have been a grease head or a cocky jock asshole. I may have become a simplistic farmer instead of a dreamer.
But I like how I turned out. So, I don't mind not knowing him.
Growing up in the 1970s, it seemed many always asked, where's your father? I was like fuckin' 7 years old. How'd the hell I know? He wasn't in our tiny apartment that I knew. So, I created a father to respond to all the questions. I said, he was a test pilot for the Air Force. He had a crash in an experimental aircraft. He was hurt really bad but the government rebuilt him: better, faster and stronger than before. And he had to go on missions and be away a lot.
The crazy shit?
People bought it. I basically gave them the premise for the Six Fuckin' Million Dollar Man and they flippin' bought it! They probably just felt sorry for me. Either, I had no daddy or that I couldn't separate fiction from reality. I'm surprised that I didn't end up in a insane asylum with rubber walls!
By the 1980s, the questions stopped. Yet if they hadn't, I would have created another. Perhaps, he would have been a cop who had to change his identity, drive a cool Trans-Am and help those less fortunate. (One man can make a difference.) Or maybe he would have been an ex-Vietnam soldier looking for his MIA brother while flying a suped-up secret government helicopter. Or hell, maybe I would have shrugged my shoulders and walked away...
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
After the Show: Arr Maties!
After the Show: Arr Maties!
5/23/2011
Yo Ho Yo Ho, It’s a pirate’s life for me!
First off: much better than the two messes that proceeded it. The plot was straight forward. I had no trouble understanding what was happening or where it was going. I will say the beginning was slow. I felt like I was waiting in line for the ride at Disneyland and I have no Fast Pass. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel and wanted the line to move faster.
Once the sails dropped on Blackbeard’s ship, Jolly Roger, the movie picked up pace and the action followed. Jack Sparrow was classic Sparrow. The stunts were spectacular but not over the top. Blackbeard, mysterious and possibly driven by a dark magic, was frightening. Penelope Cruz was stunning and doable. Zombies, Mermaids and a Spanish Armada combined make a fun and entertaining movie.
Pirates are always cool. Only Ninjas and Vikings can rival the coolness. Well, maybe half naked Mermaids. It’s worth every dollar.
I want to see this movie again as I felt I missed many clues, i.e. the homage to the ride. Although I think it’s the bar scene. (note: 5/25 I've been informed its the balance act in the captain's quarters scene). I think it as good as the first and the final scene after the credits hint at another. Oops Spoiler. (always stay for the credits!) We can only hope that it arrives before the next high tide!
5/23/2011
Yo Ho Yo Ho, It’s a pirate’s life for me!
First off: much better than the two messes that proceeded it. The plot was straight forward. I had no trouble understanding what was happening or where it was going. I will say the beginning was slow. I felt like I was waiting in line for the ride at Disneyland and I have no Fast Pass. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel and wanted the line to move faster.
Once the sails dropped on Blackbeard’s ship, Jolly Roger, the movie picked up pace and the action followed. Jack Sparrow was classic Sparrow. The stunts were spectacular but not over the top. Blackbeard, mysterious and possibly driven by a dark magic, was frightening. Penelope Cruz was stunning and doable. Zombies, Mermaids and a Spanish Armada combined make a fun and entertaining movie.
Pirates are always cool. Only Ninjas and Vikings can rival the coolness. Well, maybe half naked Mermaids. It’s worth every dollar.
I want to see this movie again as I felt I missed many clues, i.e. the homage to the ride. Although I think it’s the bar scene. (note: 5/25 I've been informed its the balance act in the captain's quarters scene). I think it as good as the first and the final scene after the credits hint at another. Oops Spoiler. (always stay for the credits!) We can only hope that it arrives before the next high tide!
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Before the Show: Batten down the hatches!
Before the Show: Batten down the hatches!
5/19/2011
Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides opens tonight at 12:01 midnight. Will I be there? No, I’ll be eating at 4:30 and in bed by 8:30. And no, I’m not getting old!
Disney has promoted this film quite heavily. I think the first teaser came out last summer. So now, the test is: will it fall victim to Godzilla Disease? Remember when in 1998 when there was a Godzilla trailer on every movie for a year, then we saw that pile of lizard poo. Sorry, leave Godzilla to the Japanese (you should have said no Ferris Bueller?)!
The last two Pirates movies were a mess. While watching the second and third, we had to batten down the hatches from all the muddy water that was being flung our way. The first movie was a fun ride. Then 2 and 3 came along trying to make an almighty trilogy but it just plundered. Yet, I am truly excited about this new one!
What’s not to love? We get a solid performance of Captain Jack Sparrow! (no Will Turner to get in the way). There’s a fun and simple plot— pirates searching for the fabled Fountain of Youth. Freakin’ awesome, by the way! Blackbeard – pirate of all pirates! Penelope Cruz! Oh-la-la.
After At Worlds End, I hung up my tricorn and eye patch but with On Stranger Tides, I’ve dusted them off and I’m proud to say, “Arrrr!” once again.
5/19/2011
Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides opens tonight at 12:01 midnight. Will I be there? No, I’ll be eating at 4:30 and in bed by 8:30. And no, I’m not getting old!
Disney has promoted this film quite heavily. I think the first teaser came out last summer. So now, the test is: will it fall victim to Godzilla Disease? Remember when in 1998 when there was a Godzilla trailer on every movie for a year, then we saw that pile of lizard poo. Sorry, leave Godzilla to the Japanese (you should have said no Ferris Bueller?)!
The last two Pirates movies were a mess. While watching the second and third, we had to batten down the hatches from all the muddy water that was being flung our way. The first movie was a fun ride. Then 2 and 3 came along trying to make an almighty trilogy but it just plundered. Yet, I am truly excited about this new one!
What’s not to love? We get a solid performance of Captain Jack Sparrow! (no Will Turner to get in the way). There’s a fun and simple plot— pirates searching for the fabled Fountain of Youth. Freakin’ awesome, by the way! Blackbeard – pirate of all pirates! Penelope Cruz! Oh-la-la.
After At Worlds End, I hung up my tricorn and eye patch but with On Stranger Tides, I’ve dusted them off and I’m proud to say, “Arrrr!” once again.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
After the Show: Found my Thor religion!
After the Show: Found my Thor religion!
5/6/2011
Remember in Lethal Weapon when Murtaugh tells Riggs, “I’m too old for this sh--!” I always say that after I go to a 12:01 Midnight release of a big blockbuster. But, even though the bones creak the next day and I survive on a measly three hours sleep (on a work night to boot!), I still have fun.
THOR was a godly level movie! (pun intended). I kneeled before its breath-taking cinematography and costumes. It sang gospels about Rainbow Bridges and Nine Realms. Thy cup runith over with Frost Giants and Warriors Three. Evil felt the might of Mjolnir (i.e. Thor’s Hammer). The sermon was simplistic but powerful—not complete unless filled with fire and brimstone (and an icicle or two). I gave my $10tithe and I was filled with joy and sunshine. Can I get an Amen!?
And like all good things, it ended way too fast. I prayed for more. (which we got at the end of the credits). Is it the best of the Marvel Universe films? No. (sorry, I might give that nod to Iron Man —well, until Capt. American comes out.) But is it Marvel Entertainment at its best? Yes. If anything, I will remember the line, “This drink... I like it! More!” Oh, and Stan’s cameo, maybe the best yet!! No lie.
5/6/2011
Remember in Lethal Weapon when Murtaugh tells Riggs, “I’m too old for this sh--!” I always say that after I go to a 12:01 Midnight release of a big blockbuster. But, even though the bones creak the next day and I survive on a measly three hours sleep (on a work night to boot!), I still have fun.
THOR was a godly level movie! (pun intended). I kneeled before its breath-taking cinematography and costumes. It sang gospels about Rainbow Bridges and Nine Realms. Thy cup runith over with Frost Giants and Warriors Three. Evil felt the might of Mjolnir (i.e. Thor’s Hammer). The sermon was simplistic but powerful—not complete unless filled with fire and brimstone (and an icicle or two). I gave my $10tithe and I was filled with joy and sunshine. Can I get an Amen!?
And like all good things, it ended way too fast. I prayed for more. (which we got at the end of the credits). Is it the best of the Marvel Universe films? No. (sorry, I might give that nod to Iron Man —well, until Capt. American comes out.) But is it Marvel Entertainment at its best? Yes. If anything, I will remember the line, “This drink... I like it! More!” Oh, and Stan’s cameo, maybe the best yet!! No lie.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Before the Show: Mighty God of Thunder!
Some thoughts on THOR! before the show
Before the Show: Mighty God of Thunder!
5/5/2011
The last time I watched a movie with Thor in it, it was 1987. Chris Parker (Elizabeth Shue) was babysitting Sara Anderson (Maia Brewton), who was the biggest Thor fan. Sara taught me the proper bow and line, “All hail mighty God of Thunder!” while pounding her tiny hammer on the ground two times. Oh wait. I watched the Incredible Hulk Returns in 1988 and that had Thor in it. So nix that first part.
Regardless. In less than 12 hours I will be watching the movie at 12:01 Midnight. By 3:00am I will wish Target was open so I can buy the Role-Play Hammer and Helmet from Hasbro Toys.
How can a movie about a God of Thunder go wrong? Its Asgard has visually pulled me into that mythological world. Seeing average army guys trying to lift a hammer of a god is joy in itself. Actually believing S.H.E.I.D can go toe to toe with a god will be worth all the popcorn in Nebraska. That being said, Marvel Entertainment is really clicking with creating, not only a movie franchise, but a movie universe. Heck, I’m not even turned off by that Star Wars girl being in it.
For those that think a Comic Book movie has to be sophisticated: it does have Anthony Hopkins and it’s directed by Kenneth Branagh (you know the Shakespeare guy). So put that in your pipe and smoke it!
Before the Show: Mighty God of Thunder!
5/5/2011
The last time I watched a movie with Thor in it, it was 1987. Chris Parker (Elizabeth Shue) was babysitting Sara Anderson (Maia Brewton), who was the biggest Thor fan. Sara taught me the proper bow and line, “All hail mighty God of Thunder!” while pounding her tiny hammer on the ground two times. Oh wait. I watched the Incredible Hulk Returns in 1988 and that had Thor in it. So nix that first part.
Regardless. In less than 12 hours I will be watching the movie at 12:01 Midnight. By 3:00am I will wish Target was open so I can buy the Role-Play Hammer and Helmet from Hasbro Toys.
How can a movie about a God of Thunder go wrong? Its Asgard has visually pulled me into that mythological world. Seeing average army guys trying to lift a hammer of a god is joy in itself. Actually believing S.H.E.I.D can go toe to toe with a god will be worth all the popcorn in Nebraska. That being said, Marvel Entertainment is really clicking with creating, not only a movie franchise, but a movie universe. Heck, I’m not even turned off by that Star Wars girl being in it.
For those that think a Comic Book movie has to be sophisticated: it does have Anthony Hopkins and it’s directed by Kenneth Branagh (you know the Shakespeare guy). So put that in your pipe and smoke it!
Thursday, May 5, 2011
After the Show: Fast Five
The first of the "After the Show" reviews.There may be a few scene spoilers but nothing on the overall story or plot twists.
After the show! (A review from a movie lover not a tight ass critic)
5/2/11
Fast Five is a movie that goes great with one of those Monster Truck Announcers-"Sunday,Sunday,Sunday!" as I was on the edge of my seat!
I had no doubts this movie would pay off. How can a fist and knuckle fight between "the Rock" and Vin Diesel not be worth the price of admission?! It gave me what I wanted: street racing in Dodge Hemi-fied police cars; thousands of 7.62 rounds fired; a bank heist that doesn't break into the vault but steal the vault (yeah, the whole frigging vault); and, cops who follow the path of honor even beyond their loyalty to a badge.
The fifth installment delivers no differently than the last four--maybe even more some. Old characters pop up and new ones are introduced. The writers have not forgotten to weave past events and characters throughout.
If you want two hours of fun while eating popcorn and slurping a soda, go see this movie! Oh, and stay through the credits. Like I need to say that nowadays but you'd be surprised how many jumped up and nearly missed the golden Easter Egg at the end…
After the show! (A review from a movie lover not a tight ass critic)
5/2/11
Fast Five is a movie that goes great with one of those Monster Truck Announcers-"Sunday,Sunday,Sunday!" as I was on the edge of my seat!
I had no doubts this movie would pay off. How can a fist and knuckle fight between "the Rock" and Vin Diesel not be worth the price of admission?! It gave me what I wanted: street racing in Dodge Hemi-fied police cars; thousands of 7.62 rounds fired; a bank heist that doesn't break into the vault but steal the vault (yeah, the whole frigging vault); and, cops who follow the path of honor even beyond their loyalty to a badge.
The fifth installment delivers no differently than the last four--maybe even more some. Old characters pop up and new ones are introduced. The writers have not forgotten to weave past events and characters throughout.
If you want two hours of fun while eating popcorn and slurping a soda, go see this movie! Oh, and stay through the credits. Like I need to say that nowadays but you'd be surprised how many jumped up and nearly missed the golden Easter Egg at the end…
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Before the Show
Here is the first of a "Before the Show" or my thoughts before I see a movie and it will be followed by an "After the Show" once I see said movie. This of course was written last week and was about Fast Five.
Before the Show (reviews of a movie using only the trailer)
4/29/2011
Why I think Fast Five will be the fuse to the Summer Movie Explosion.
If there were two kick-ass action stars in 2011, it would be Vin Diesel and Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson. Yeah, they’ve been around a while but unlike the aging action stars of days past like Ah-nold (who needs a shot of Metamucil in the morning) and Bruce Willis (who’s career has shown perhaps he doesn’t Die That Hard after all) they can still run from the explosions. And what can be better than having both of them in the same fraking movie?
Cars, Cops, Bad Guys, More Cars, Thievery (some committed by ex cops), Explosions, Cars Crashing and seeing both Vin and Rock in the same frame of film, is why I will enjoy this action adventure. This is the movie that will cause me to rev my 4 cylinder engine like an Indy Car driver, squeal tires as I leave the theater parking lot, and for about 5 minutes, actually consider quitting my day job and trading in my Saturn for a Nitrous-injected Honda to begin my days as a misunderstood street racer.
That’s all I need outta my $10 bucks! I don’t need this movie to impart wisdom or explain society through light and shadow…
Before the Show (reviews of a movie using only the trailer)
4/29/2011
Why I think Fast Five will be the fuse to the Summer Movie Explosion.
If there were two kick-ass action stars in 2011, it would be Vin Diesel and Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson. Yeah, they’ve been around a while but unlike the aging action stars of days past like Ah-nold (who needs a shot of Metamucil in the morning) and Bruce Willis (who’s career has shown perhaps he doesn’t Die That Hard after all) they can still run from the explosions. And what can be better than having both of them in the same fraking movie?
Cars, Cops, Bad Guys, More Cars, Thievery (some committed by ex cops), Explosions, Cars Crashing and seeing both Vin and Rock in the same frame of film, is why I will enjoy this action adventure. This is the movie that will cause me to rev my 4 cylinder engine like an Indy Car driver, squeal tires as I leave the theater parking lot, and for about 5 minutes, actually consider quitting my day job and trading in my Saturn for a Nitrous-injected Honda to begin my days as a misunderstood street racer.
That’s all I need outta my $10 bucks! I don’t need this movie to impart wisdom or explain society through light and shadow…
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Silver Screen Stuff
A friend wanted me to write a series of 200 word reviews of the 2011 Movies before and after I saw them for a new Geek site due to launch very soon. The following was the sample I provided to see if he liked my writing style. Lets say, I got the job. The site has been delayed but I thought I would share them in the mean time. I will link the site when it is ready to debut.
The Summer Movies 2011
4/26/11
Fast Five. So begins the summer! In less than one week, the movie roller coaster ride will begin. And, it will be a true roller coaster: full of ups and downs, throw in a few loop-dee-loops and a hard brake at the end.
If the 2011 movie season was a date with a beautiful woman, Fast Five would be the icebreaker; Thor would be the pick up line; Pirates 4, the overpriced meal (although very tasty and entertaining); Hangover 2 would be the drinks and dirty talk at the bar; Kung Fu Panda 2 is the awkward filled silence; followed by the hard decision of dessert between X-men First Class or Green Lantern (X-men luring by extreme flavor where Green Lantern only looking gorgeous on the plate); Transformers 3 will be the heavy petting in the car; Captain America is the exciting sex; and depending on stamina, the climax could be a blue ball of the Smurfs, a rough explosion of savage love in Conan or the primal release of Rise of Planets of the Apes.
If this kind of evening is not for you, then avoid the multiplexes. Until then, Fast Five looks to be the smoking hot blonde that just walked in the door….
The Summer Movies 2011
4/26/11
Fast Five. So begins the summer! In less than one week, the movie roller coaster ride will begin. And, it will be a true roller coaster: full of ups and downs, throw in a few loop-dee-loops and a hard brake at the end.
If the 2011 movie season was a date with a beautiful woman, Fast Five would be the icebreaker; Thor would be the pick up line; Pirates 4, the overpriced meal (although very tasty and entertaining); Hangover 2 would be the drinks and dirty talk at the bar; Kung Fu Panda 2 is the awkward filled silence; followed by the hard decision of dessert between X-men First Class or Green Lantern (X-men luring by extreme flavor where Green Lantern only looking gorgeous on the plate); Transformers 3 will be the heavy petting in the car; Captain America is the exciting sex; and depending on stamina, the climax could be a blue ball of the Smurfs, a rough explosion of savage love in Conan or the primal release of Rise of Planets of the Apes.
If this kind of evening is not for you, then avoid the multiplexes. Until then, Fast Five looks to be the smoking hot blonde that just walked in the door….
Monday, April 25, 2011
Smelly Bowling Shoes and Parachute Pants!
There were a few things that inspired my fashion sense growing up. One was Ricky Stratton. The other was Marty McFly. The 80s dominated by two. I look on the bright side and think, at least Mr. T wasn’t involved (never liked gold chains that much).
Living in backasswards Roswell, and no such thing as the internet, the trendsetter was usually prime-time television. So I pleaded with my mother to control the dial on Saturday nights and watch Silver Spoons and Gimme a Break instead of the ex-starship captain on TJ Hooker. And no it wasn’t me that turned over to The Love Boat if there was too much Nell Carter and not enough Samantha. (ok, it was me. Sshhh! There was something appealing about Julie the cruise director.)
Ricky and Derek exposed me to Parachute Pants, Torn Tee Shirts and bright neon colors. Top Siders and Roled Jeans would follow. Who could forget the Reebok high tops with the Velcro on top! If a 10 year old boy had a fashion magazine, that show was it. It still boggles my mind how information turned into commercial products back in the stone age of the 1980s (no internet, no twitter, no social media!). One cold find a few of the fashions at Bealls but the place to be seen at was Miller’s Outpost- a chain store at the time and as popular as any Hot Topic today. It was Millers that I bought: the ultra cool Levi Jean Jacket! To be considered the ultra cool it had to have a lining. And the color and designed mattered. Plaid was the key. Red or blue. Green maybe. If it had little flowers or was satin then you just wore the earring in the wrong ear. The lining mattered as it was the thing to roll the sleeve to expose that lining. Cheerleaders talked to me because of that jacket. (well, that’s how I remember it anyways).
Also, since my mother was a conservative single parent it was hard to convince her that I needed the Parachute Pants in every color, or in one color at the least. My first pair came in as a birthday present from a good friend. They were blue. They rocked! And I wore them every other day. Then I convinced my mother to buy a gray pair and eventually a black pair (Christmas gifts if I recall). If I still had the size and shape of a 10 year old boy, I would want those pants today.
I was in a bowling league back then. It was my mother’s way of getting me out of the house on Saturday mornings and not spend the whole morning watching Saturday Morning Cartoons. (damn I miss those cartoons!!). All the Cools would pair the latest colors. I can’t explain the tinglings I got starring at Heather’s butt in a tight pair of red parachute pants in 1983 – a very strong memory of those days. I laugh as she was like 15 and I was only 11 (somewhere there’s a little Anakin and Padme joke minus the actually getting the girl and falling to the dark side). Noting attracts the babes than smelly bowling shoes and parachute pants. Heather was my real world Samanatha Kanisky.
We had a cool sound effect too. It was swish-swish-swish as we walked. Nothing like na-na- nanananana as I ran.
Then, things changed in 1985. A time traveling high schooler showed me that Levi’s with suspenders and button-down oxfords with a life preserver were cool. I was in the 7th grade and I verbally forced my mother to sew buttons on all my jeans so I could attach suspenders to them. (the clip-on versions were just lame and too Mork-like) This was under the threat that I would be a social reject if I didn’t show up at school on Monday with them. I think I wore that style until Junior Year. (did I forget to mention that I avoided change.)
Living in backasswards Roswell, and no such thing as the internet, the trendsetter was usually prime-time television. So I pleaded with my mother to control the dial on Saturday nights and watch Silver Spoons and Gimme a Break instead of the ex-starship captain on TJ Hooker. And no it wasn’t me that turned over to The Love Boat if there was too much Nell Carter and not enough Samantha. (ok, it was me. Sshhh! There was something appealing about Julie the cruise director.)
Ricky and Derek exposed me to Parachute Pants, Torn Tee Shirts and bright neon colors. Top Siders and Roled Jeans would follow. Who could forget the Reebok high tops with the Velcro on top! If a 10 year old boy had a fashion magazine, that show was it. It still boggles my mind how information turned into commercial products back in the stone age of the 1980s (no internet, no twitter, no social media!). One cold find a few of the fashions at Bealls but the place to be seen at was Miller’s Outpost- a chain store at the time and as popular as any Hot Topic today. It was Millers that I bought: the ultra cool Levi Jean Jacket! To be considered the ultra cool it had to have a lining. And the color and designed mattered. Plaid was the key. Red or blue. Green maybe. If it had little flowers or was satin then you just wore the earring in the wrong ear. The lining mattered as it was the thing to roll the sleeve to expose that lining. Cheerleaders talked to me because of that jacket. (well, that’s how I remember it anyways).
Also, since my mother was a conservative single parent it was hard to convince her that I needed the Parachute Pants in every color, or in one color at the least. My first pair came in as a birthday present from a good friend. They were blue. They rocked! And I wore them every other day. Then I convinced my mother to buy a gray pair and eventually a black pair (Christmas gifts if I recall). If I still had the size and shape of a 10 year old boy, I would want those pants today.
I was in a bowling league back then. It was my mother’s way of getting me out of the house on Saturday mornings and not spend the whole morning watching Saturday Morning Cartoons. (damn I miss those cartoons!!). All the Cools would pair the latest colors. I can’t explain the tinglings I got starring at Heather’s butt in a tight pair of red parachute pants in 1983 – a very strong memory of those days. I laugh as she was like 15 and I was only 11 (somewhere there’s a little Anakin and Padme joke minus the actually getting the girl and falling to the dark side). Noting attracts the babes than smelly bowling shoes and parachute pants. Heather was my real world Samanatha Kanisky.
We had a cool sound effect too. It was swish-swish-swish as we walked. Nothing like na-na- nanananana as I ran.
Then, things changed in 1985. A time traveling high schooler showed me that Levi’s with suspenders and button-down oxfords with a life preserver were cool. I was in the 7th grade and I verbally forced my mother to sew buttons on all my jeans so I could attach suspenders to them. (the clip-on versions were just lame and too Mork-like) This was under the threat that I would be a social reject if I didn’t show up at school on Monday with them. I think I wore that style until Junior Year. (did I forget to mention that I avoided change.)
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Welcome to Gibson’s, you little thief!
In 1982, my Grandmother pulled her green 1966 AMC Rambler into the Gibson’s parking lot. The car was a behemoth piece of iron. The doors were heavy to pull closed. Well, to a 10 year old. It ran rough, had no air conditioning, unless you considered the windows, the driver side door had a big rusty dent and the radio only picked up the AM band, something with Paul Harvey.
I had moments earlier gotten off the 10:15 Greyhound from Roswell. After the visit to Yucca Newsstand, my Grandmother and I drove down 1st street in Alamogordo New Mexico to shop the Gibson’s. There was a Gibson’s in Roswell yet this one felt much much different. The building looked like two buildings merged into one. The one in Alamo stayed open long after the one in Roswell closed. Walking into the store via the automatic doors that required you to stand on the pressure pad before they swung open, I immediately bolted for the toy department. It was to the back and right. The store was dark and quiet. I looked over the games, puzzles, pushed my way past the display of Glo-worms, the stacks of Rubik’s Cubes and the hordes of E.T. shit. The toys I wanted to look at weren’t in the Toy Department at all.
I walked down a little ramp into the other part of Gibson’s. This section was the Home Improvement, Electronics and Outdoor items. Toward the front was Electronics. Behind the counter, next to portable cassette players and Atari cartridges were the Star Wars figures. All the figures were hanging on J-hooks behind a huge glass display case. I had to tippy-toe just to get a good look at them. If I wanted to look closer or actually touch the things, I would need a parent or guardian. Yet, that didn’t stop me from asking to look at them. Sometimes, the clerk would allow me to hold them. I’d ask to see the AT-AT Driver or Cloud Car Pilot. The zit faced punk behind the counter would hand them to me and then act annoyed. He’d stare at me as if I just farted and filled the area with noxious fumes and ask if I was going to buy it. I’d shake my head and hand them back. Of course I would go find my Grandmother and beg for one. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. I don’t recall if I was able to buy that AT-AT driver that day or another day, but it was exciting to look at the figures and envy them. I would point out the ones to my Grandmother that I really really needed and asked her to share the info with the family and Santa Claus.
Gibson’s wasn’t a kid friendly store, as I remember it. Even much later when I was older (12 or 14) if I wasn’t attended by an adult, the staff would watch you constantly. Follow you around. And sometimes stand in the isle, mere feet from you. I’m surprised I never saw them do a ninja roll or do one of those army man crawls to sneak up on me. Usually, they were sly about it, but mostly they didn’t care and wanted to make you feel like a fuckin thief as you picked up the 1982 G.I. Joe Mobile Missile System with Hawk and heaven forbid wanted to look at the box closer. (I know what you’re thinking. Earlier I stated I was not aware of GI Joe until Fall of 1983. Yet, while searching my memory banks proved I do remember looking at the toys. I just didn’t think they were as cool until I saw the G.I. Joe: An American Hero mini-series cartoon. So I wasn’t lying just hadn’t remembered it as clearly as I would have liked.) To this day, I wonder if Gibson’s spent hours training their employees on how to be douches. Were there slide shows of how to spot an innocent child and assume they would pocket everything in sight? Seminars on Customers are only over 47 and Children are a Nuisance. You might as well used the greeting, “Welcome to Gibson’s, you little thief!”
If my grandmother didn’t need any kitchen bags or laundry soap, we’d leave Gibson’s with little fuss and go back to her little apartment. Lunch would be an early afternoon affair. And if I was lucky, it would include a hot Steak-um sandwich!
I had moments earlier gotten off the 10:15 Greyhound from Roswell. After the visit to Yucca Newsstand, my Grandmother and I drove down 1st street in Alamogordo New Mexico to shop the Gibson’s. There was a Gibson’s in Roswell yet this one felt much much different. The building looked like two buildings merged into one. The one in Alamo stayed open long after the one in Roswell closed. Walking into the store via the automatic doors that required you to stand on the pressure pad before they swung open, I immediately bolted for the toy department. It was to the back and right. The store was dark and quiet. I looked over the games, puzzles, pushed my way past the display of Glo-worms, the stacks of Rubik’s Cubes and the hordes of E.T. shit. The toys I wanted to look at weren’t in the Toy Department at all.
I walked down a little ramp into the other part of Gibson’s. This section was the Home Improvement, Electronics and Outdoor items. Toward the front was Electronics. Behind the counter, next to portable cassette players and Atari cartridges were the Star Wars figures. All the figures were hanging on J-hooks behind a huge glass display case. I had to tippy-toe just to get a good look at them. If I wanted to look closer or actually touch the things, I would need a parent or guardian. Yet, that didn’t stop me from asking to look at them. Sometimes, the clerk would allow me to hold them. I’d ask to see the AT-AT Driver or Cloud Car Pilot. The zit faced punk behind the counter would hand them to me and then act annoyed. He’d stare at me as if I just farted and filled the area with noxious fumes and ask if I was going to buy it. I’d shake my head and hand them back. Of course I would go find my Grandmother and beg for one. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. I don’t recall if I was able to buy that AT-AT driver that day or another day, but it was exciting to look at the figures and envy them. I would point out the ones to my Grandmother that I really really needed and asked her to share the info with the family and Santa Claus.
Gibson’s wasn’t a kid friendly store, as I remember it. Even much later when I was older (12 or 14) if I wasn’t attended by an adult, the staff would watch you constantly. Follow you around. And sometimes stand in the isle, mere feet from you. I’m surprised I never saw them do a ninja roll or do one of those army man crawls to sneak up on me. Usually, they were sly about it, but mostly they didn’t care and wanted to make you feel like a fuckin thief as you picked up the 1982 G.I. Joe Mobile Missile System with Hawk and heaven forbid wanted to look at the box closer. (I know what you’re thinking. Earlier I stated I was not aware of GI Joe until Fall of 1983. Yet, while searching my memory banks proved I do remember looking at the toys. I just didn’t think they were as cool until I saw the G.I. Joe: An American Hero mini-series cartoon. So I wasn’t lying just hadn’t remembered it as clearly as I would have liked.) To this day, I wonder if Gibson’s spent hours training their employees on how to be douches. Were there slide shows of how to spot an innocent child and assume they would pocket everything in sight? Seminars on Customers are only over 47 and Children are a Nuisance. You might as well used the greeting, “Welcome to Gibson’s, you little thief!”
If my grandmother didn’t need any kitchen bags or laundry soap, we’d leave Gibson’s with little fuss and go back to her little apartment. Lunch would be an early afternoon affair. And if I was lucky, it would include a hot Steak-um sandwich!
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Remember the Alamo - gordo!
Every summer and perhaps every Spring Break and Fall Break, my mother would send me off to my Grandmother’s in Alamogordo New Mexico. I never minded. It was always a good thing, except for one summer where I missed the last 10 episodes of Robotech in the early summer days of 1985. I usually anticipated the trip. Simply, it was a time to get my comic books (that my grandmother would buy and save for me) and it meant ice cream before bedtime (which was always a special treat at Grandma’s and no where else.)
With my mother working her butt off and never having any real time off, except two-paid-weeks-during-July, I usually went to Alamogordo on my own. The journey would always begin with my mother dropping me off at the Greyhound Bus Station on Main St. in Roswell. She would buy me a round trip ticket, she would watch me board the bus, watch the bus pull out and wave as it drove down the street. I remember doing this as early as 1982 , maybe 1981. I remember the first time I rode the bus alone to Alamogordo was a bit scary. My mother told the bus driver that I was only 9 years old and if he could keep an eye on me. I remember being embarrassed. The bus driver didn’t give a shit about watching some snot nosed brat for the next two hours. He just wanted to get the bus to its next destination and not play Romper Room Babysitter. I was also instructed, by my mother, I could not sit anywhere but the seat behind the driver or directly across from the driver. I did as I was told and not before too long, I was a hardened veteran and bus rides to Alamogordo were nothing.
The 117 miles to Alamogordo would fly by. I would read my comics, stare out the window and daydream or play my Milton Bradley Microvision game system (think Gameboy but much earlier). Sometimes, I would get off the bus at the pit-stop in Ruidoso and get a soda, even when I was told by my mother not to get off the bus for any reason unless it was on fire. And my Grandmother was always waiting for me when the bus arrived in Alamo. Yet, I do have a vague memory of the bus getting there and not finding her anywhere for almost 10 minutes. It was the scariest 10 minutes a 9-year-old could or would possibly go through. It was just a mild panic attack surrounded by fears of abandonment. Not to mention, it wasn’t like I could just whip out my iPhone and call or text her. I actually had to find a “payphone” and the handsets were always booger nasty. Plus, I used all my quarters on the soda in Ruidoso! Yet, as I started to panic, I turned and there she was. Her explanation was the bus drove too fast and was early. I forgave her. It never happened again, I’m positive.
When I got to Alamogordo, I would ask if we could stop at the Yucca Newsstand. I always wanted it to be my first stop. I wanted to look at the comics. I would buy issues of stuff I normally didn’t ask Grandmother to buy. I loved Yucca Newsstand. It smelled of musty paperback books and tobacco. The floorboards would creak and squeak. Not only the best place for comics that I knew of in 1982, it sold a variety of cigar and pipe tobacco along with coins. It was in Yucca Newsstand that I learned to love the smell of newsprint! I wish I would have been able to visit the store one last time before it closed. It will be missed.
Then, the next stop would usually be Gibson’s. Again, I wanted to look at the Star Wars figures. Oh, how I remember the Star Wars figures at Gibson’s…
more to come!
With my mother working her butt off and never having any real time off, except two-paid-weeks-during-July, I usually went to Alamogordo on my own. The journey would always begin with my mother dropping me off at the Greyhound Bus Station on Main St. in Roswell. She would buy me a round trip ticket, she would watch me board the bus, watch the bus pull out and wave as it drove down the street. I remember doing this as early as 1982 , maybe 1981. I remember the first time I rode the bus alone to Alamogordo was a bit scary. My mother told the bus driver that I was only 9 years old and if he could keep an eye on me. I remember being embarrassed. The bus driver didn’t give a shit about watching some snot nosed brat for the next two hours. He just wanted to get the bus to its next destination and not play Romper Room Babysitter. I was also instructed, by my mother, I could not sit anywhere but the seat behind the driver or directly across from the driver. I did as I was told and not before too long, I was a hardened veteran and bus rides to Alamogordo were nothing.
The 117 miles to Alamogordo would fly by. I would read my comics, stare out the window and daydream or play my Milton Bradley Microvision game system (think Gameboy but much earlier). Sometimes, I would get off the bus at the pit-stop in Ruidoso and get a soda, even when I was told by my mother not to get off the bus for any reason unless it was on fire. And my Grandmother was always waiting for me when the bus arrived in Alamo. Yet, I do have a vague memory of the bus getting there and not finding her anywhere for almost 10 minutes. It was the scariest 10 minutes a 9-year-old could or would possibly go through. It was just a mild panic attack surrounded by fears of abandonment. Not to mention, it wasn’t like I could just whip out my iPhone and call or text her. I actually had to find a “payphone” and the handsets were always booger nasty. Plus, I used all my quarters on the soda in Ruidoso! Yet, as I started to panic, I turned and there she was. Her explanation was the bus drove too fast and was early. I forgave her. It never happened again, I’m positive.
When I got to Alamogordo, I would ask if we could stop at the Yucca Newsstand. I always wanted it to be my first stop. I wanted to look at the comics. I would buy issues of stuff I normally didn’t ask Grandmother to buy. I loved Yucca Newsstand. It smelled of musty paperback books and tobacco. The floorboards would creak and squeak. Not only the best place for comics that I knew of in 1982, it sold a variety of cigar and pipe tobacco along with coins. It was in Yucca Newsstand that I learned to love the smell of newsprint! I wish I would have been able to visit the store one last time before it closed. It will be missed.
Then, the next stop would usually be Gibson’s. Again, I wanted to look at the Star Wars figures. Oh, how I remember the Star Wars figures at Gibson’s…
more to come!
Friday, February 4, 2011
Half the Battle!
At the time, I didn’t know how doomed I was when I started to worship G.I. Joe. I couldn’t get enough. If I could have crushed and snorted G.I. Joe, I might have done it.
While watching the G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero mini-series in 1983, I saw several commercials promoting the battles of G.I. Joe and Destro (a alley of Cobra) in Marvel Comics’ G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero Issue #18. “On sale wherever comic books are sold!,” it said. One problem. I happened to live in back-ass-wards town! Where the hell do they sell f-ing comics in Roswell? I could only think of two places: the Walgreen’s on North Main. (this is where I regularly begged my mother to drive me on Sundays so I could buy an issue of Teen Titans) and the Newsstand on 3rd Street (they had a wobbly wire spinner rack). There was no freaking time to wait. I had to have the comic now! The Newsstand was helluva lot closer than the Walgreen’s. If I told my mother I was going to CBs house, I could make it there and back within an hour and half via my Black n’ Gold Huffy. Riding my bike to and from was all kinds of dangerous and my mother would have definitely whipped my ass with that humungous leather belt of hers if she found out. It was worth the risk. With a pocket of cash (most likely a dollar forty-five in coins; paper money was only for rich kids!) I began my trek.
Two hours later, I laid on my bedroom floor turning pages of that kickass comic. I think I read it three times that day. I had the buzz. I gotta have more. Yet, I had no way of getting every issue. The Walgreen’s never seemed to get a constant selection of comics (Teen Titans may be there one month and it might not). I couldn’t count on the Newsstand either. But there was one place that was more reliable. It was Yucca Newsstand in Alamogordo. I called my Grandmother and asked if she could go down there every week and look for G.I.Joe. She didn’t sound too excited about the request. But she agreed because she loved her little Grandson! I sweetened the deal. I told her that if there wasn’t a G.I. Joe comic there, she could pick up Teen Titans and/or Justice League. She accepted her mission. And I routinely sent my Grandmother an envelope with a few dollars in it to cover the books. (remember, comics back then were only .60 cents!) Thanksgiving weekend was the first time I could visit and she had a handful of comics waiting for me; including, G.I.Joe #20! Unfortunately, I missed #19 in the transition but I didn’t care. I was reading G.I. Joe! This would continue for another 11 years until it ended with issue #155 in 1994. (And I would get all the back issues.)
If G.I. Joe comics were Crack, then the figures were my Heroin. Not sure how I accomplished it but I bought over twenty figures between 1984 and 1985. Almost died trying to take Blowtorch home.
After school one day, I took all my money to ALCO and shuffled through all the figures. The coolest by far was the G.I. Joe team’s flamethrower. He was in this red and gold suit; he had a helmet with mask, tank and the flamethrower! I bought him. Then, I jumped on my bike to go home. He was just too cool for my flipping backpack so I decided to carry him home. One hand on the handlebars, one had holding my little 3 ¾ inch fucking flamethrower! This is wear I almost died. While riding along the side walk, I decided to spin the card around and look at all the other Joes (and Cobras; Cobra was always much more wicked). I dreamed. I drooled. And if not for the nice man racking leaves in his lawn, I would have slammed into a parked 1979 Ford Bronco. In that few nano-seconds, this man saw I was more preoccupied by my new toy, saw the impending disaster, and yelled, “watch it!” His shout snapped me out of a G.I. Joe induced trance and I looked to see the Ford blocking my path. I quickly reversed my peddles and skidded to a stop! Whew! A foot to spare to boot. Slamming into that truck would have been bad. I know. I could have been killed or worse (damaging the action figure of course!) Yet, I avoided death and Blowtorch was safe in his little plastic chamber.
Like all addicts, I denied my problem. I could stop whenever I wanted. I was in control. Wasn’t I? Of course!
The G.I. Joe addiction was only half the battle. It would start a downward spiral of addition after addiction. These addictions would pinnacle twenty years later. But man! It was one helluva a ride! (I’ll get that later…)
While watching the G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero mini-series in 1983, I saw several commercials promoting the battles of G.I. Joe and Destro (a alley of Cobra) in Marvel Comics’ G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero Issue #18. “On sale wherever comic books are sold!,” it said. One problem. I happened to live in back-ass-wards town! Where the hell do they sell f-ing comics in Roswell? I could only think of two places: the Walgreen’s on North Main. (this is where I regularly begged my mother to drive me on Sundays so I could buy an issue of Teen Titans) and the Newsstand on 3rd Street (they had a wobbly wire spinner rack). There was no freaking time to wait. I had to have the comic now! The Newsstand was helluva lot closer than the Walgreen’s. If I told my mother I was going to CBs house, I could make it there and back within an hour and half via my Black n’ Gold Huffy. Riding my bike to and from was all kinds of dangerous and my mother would have definitely whipped my ass with that humungous leather belt of hers if she found out. It was worth the risk. With a pocket of cash (most likely a dollar forty-five in coins; paper money was only for rich kids!) I began my trek.
Two hours later, I laid on my bedroom floor turning pages of that kickass comic. I think I read it three times that day. I had the buzz. I gotta have more. Yet, I had no way of getting every issue. The Walgreen’s never seemed to get a constant selection of comics (Teen Titans may be there one month and it might not). I couldn’t count on the Newsstand either. But there was one place that was more reliable. It was Yucca Newsstand in Alamogordo. I called my Grandmother and asked if she could go down there every week and look for G.I.Joe. She didn’t sound too excited about the request. But she agreed because she loved her little Grandson! I sweetened the deal. I told her that if there wasn’t a G.I. Joe comic there, she could pick up Teen Titans and/or Justice League. She accepted her mission. And I routinely sent my Grandmother an envelope with a few dollars in it to cover the books. (remember, comics back then were only .60 cents!) Thanksgiving weekend was the first time I could visit and she had a handful of comics waiting for me; including, G.I.Joe #20! Unfortunately, I missed #19 in the transition but I didn’t care. I was reading G.I. Joe! This would continue for another 11 years until it ended with issue #155 in 1994. (And I would get all the back issues.)
If G.I. Joe comics were Crack, then the figures were my Heroin. Not sure how I accomplished it but I bought over twenty figures between 1984 and 1985. Almost died trying to take Blowtorch home.
After school one day, I took all my money to ALCO and shuffled through all the figures. The coolest by far was the G.I. Joe team’s flamethrower. He was in this red and gold suit; he had a helmet with mask, tank and the flamethrower! I bought him. Then, I jumped on my bike to go home. He was just too cool for my flipping backpack so I decided to carry him home. One hand on the handlebars, one had holding my little 3 ¾ inch fucking flamethrower! This is wear I almost died. While riding along the side walk, I decided to spin the card around and look at all the other Joes (and Cobras; Cobra was always much more wicked). I dreamed. I drooled. And if not for the nice man racking leaves in his lawn, I would have slammed into a parked 1979 Ford Bronco. In that few nano-seconds, this man saw I was more preoccupied by my new toy, saw the impending disaster, and yelled, “watch it!” His shout snapped me out of a G.I. Joe induced trance and I looked to see the Ford blocking my path. I quickly reversed my peddles and skidded to a stop! Whew! A foot to spare to boot. Slamming into that truck would have been bad. I know. I could have been killed or worse (damaging the action figure of course!) Yet, I avoided death and Blowtorch was safe in his little plastic chamber.
Like all addicts, I denied my problem. I could stop whenever I wanted. I was in control. Wasn’t I? Of course!
The G.I. Joe addiction was only half the battle. It would start a downward spiral of addition after addiction. These addictions would pinnacle twenty years later. But man! It was one helluva a ride! (I’ll get that later…)
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Now you Know!
My refusal to Grow Up and my determination to remain a Toys R Us Kid has guided my preference in hobbies and likes/dislikes even into mid-life adulthood. Although, I have definitely relaxed many of the associated burdens in the last few years (I’ll explain later).
I’ve always been a dreamer. I’ve always looked away and imagined a better world. This can be justified by why movies and TV impacted my life so greatly. The unfortunate fact is: the little box with pictures was a surrogate parent for most of my childhood. Even into teen years and early adulthood, I found it a comfortable crutch to fall back on in tough or stressful times. With a click, I was transported into another world or time. The characters around me were much more interesting than the ordinary people in my life. A sad fact from my early childhood was using every birthday wish, penny into the wishing well wish, prayers and shooting stars wishes asking—no pleading—for the worlds of Star Wars and Battlestar Galactica to magically take me away. (I still wish it from time to time.)
The string of stellar events that would define me would start with the release of Star Wars; jump back to Six Million Dollar Man, move forward with the debut of Battlestar Galactica; Superman: The Movie; G.I. Joe; Robotech and Star Trek: Next Generation. Over the years, each would return and in some ironic set of events repeat my preference for each.
So, as my childhood progressed, Star Wars was interrupted in 1983 by a cartoon known as G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero. Suddenly, there was something just as cool as Star Wars but grounded here on Earth. And there was a Ruthless Terrorist Organization Determined to Rule the World, known as Cobra! The show debuted Fall 1983. It was a five part mini-series based on the Hasbro toy line but at the time, I was just not aware of the toys. I had focused so much on Star Wars, I had missed it. I can’t explain how awesome this show was for me at 10 (going on 11) years old. I raced my bike home every afternoon to catch the next episode. And when it was complete, I begged the TV to play more. KCOP in L.A. would re-run it a couple times along with debuting its mechanized cousin, The Transformers mini-series. The show caused me to box up the Star Wars figures and head out to the store. Kmart had nothing! ALCO had nothing! WTF! I want me some fucking G.I. Joe figures. I know they exist as I saw the commercials. Hell, the show was a glorified toy commercial! There was a little off-the-wall toy store in the mall that mainly sold bears, dolls and constructive toys not the big commercial ones. I found one G.I. Joe figure in there. It was a Short Fuze. It wasn’t even a new 1983 figure. It was an original 1982 version, non swivel grip arm, before there was a Cobra listed on the back of the card, figure. But I didn’t care. I borrowed against my allowance for four consecutive weeks and bought him. (price tag was $3.99!!) This was the very first G.I. Joe figure I ever bought! And it was F-ing rad!
Let me back up just a few weeks. I said the Short Fuze was the first G.I. Joe figure I ever bought. It was. But it wasn’t my first G.I. Joe figure ever. With the cartoon mini-series, I became aware of G.I. Joe toys. One Saturday, SM and me went to ALCO via our bikes. In the toy isle, I held in my hands the ultra rad ninja ass-kicking Cobra known as Storm Shadow. I was 10 and had only a few pennies to my name (to which I would spend down at the Five and Dime on Penny gum later). The price tagged read $2.49! Two dollars and 49 cents was a helluva lot of money. It could have been a million dollars. Yet, SM had a solution. He would take it into the ALCO bathroom. What the Fuck? Does Stormie need to take a dump? I quickly questioned SM why? He told me to shut the fuck up and wait for him in the toy isle. After a few minutes, he returned and said “let’s go.” I followed. We rode our bikes around to the back of the Plains Park Shopping Center where he pulled from his crouch ol’ Stormie! He gave him to me and said “he’s all yours.” At first I was so astonished I forgot that: first:, it was just inside SM’s underwear!! Eww! Second, that he just fucking stole this figure from ALCO. Ahh, that’s why he went to the bathroom! I asked Stormie if SM had molested him in the bathroom but he said he didn’t want to talk about it. I felt it best to just let it go. And thus, he was my first G.I. Joe. (for the record, all of my other Joes were paid for and obtained honestly, ethically and in accordance with local laws!)
And that’s how I got my first two G.I. Joe figures.
Now you Know, and knowing is half the battle!
I’ve always been a dreamer. I’ve always looked away and imagined a better world. This can be justified by why movies and TV impacted my life so greatly. The unfortunate fact is: the little box with pictures was a surrogate parent for most of my childhood. Even into teen years and early adulthood, I found it a comfortable crutch to fall back on in tough or stressful times. With a click, I was transported into another world or time. The characters around me were much more interesting than the ordinary people in my life. A sad fact from my early childhood was using every birthday wish, penny into the wishing well wish, prayers and shooting stars wishes asking—no pleading—for the worlds of Star Wars and Battlestar Galactica to magically take me away. (I still wish it from time to time.)
The string of stellar events that would define me would start with the release of Star Wars; jump back to Six Million Dollar Man, move forward with the debut of Battlestar Galactica; Superman: The Movie; G.I. Joe; Robotech and Star Trek: Next Generation. Over the years, each would return and in some ironic set of events repeat my preference for each.
So, as my childhood progressed, Star Wars was interrupted in 1983 by a cartoon known as G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero. Suddenly, there was something just as cool as Star Wars but grounded here on Earth. And there was a Ruthless Terrorist Organization Determined to Rule the World, known as Cobra! The show debuted Fall 1983. It was a five part mini-series based on the Hasbro toy line but at the time, I was just not aware of the toys. I had focused so much on Star Wars, I had missed it. I can’t explain how awesome this show was for me at 10 (going on 11) years old. I raced my bike home every afternoon to catch the next episode. And when it was complete, I begged the TV to play more. KCOP in L.A. would re-run it a couple times along with debuting its mechanized cousin, The Transformers mini-series. The show caused me to box up the Star Wars figures and head out to the store. Kmart had nothing! ALCO had nothing! WTF! I want me some fucking G.I. Joe figures. I know they exist as I saw the commercials. Hell, the show was a glorified toy commercial! There was a little off-the-wall toy store in the mall that mainly sold bears, dolls and constructive toys not the big commercial ones. I found one G.I. Joe figure in there. It was a Short Fuze. It wasn’t even a new 1983 figure. It was an original 1982 version, non swivel grip arm, before there was a Cobra listed on the back of the card, figure. But I didn’t care. I borrowed against my allowance for four consecutive weeks and bought him. (price tag was $3.99!!) This was the very first G.I. Joe figure I ever bought! And it was F-ing rad!
Let me back up just a few weeks. I said the Short Fuze was the first G.I. Joe figure I ever bought. It was. But it wasn’t my first G.I. Joe figure ever. With the cartoon mini-series, I became aware of G.I. Joe toys. One Saturday, SM and me went to ALCO via our bikes. In the toy isle, I held in my hands the ultra rad ninja ass-kicking Cobra known as Storm Shadow. I was 10 and had only a few pennies to my name (to which I would spend down at the Five and Dime on Penny gum later). The price tagged read $2.49! Two dollars and 49 cents was a helluva lot of money. It could have been a million dollars. Yet, SM had a solution. He would take it into the ALCO bathroom. What the Fuck? Does Stormie need to take a dump? I quickly questioned SM why? He told me to shut the fuck up and wait for him in the toy isle. After a few minutes, he returned and said “let’s go.” I followed. We rode our bikes around to the back of the Plains Park Shopping Center where he pulled from his crouch ol’ Stormie! He gave him to me and said “he’s all yours.” At first I was so astonished I forgot that: first:, it was just inside SM’s underwear!! Eww! Second, that he just fucking stole this figure from ALCO. Ahh, that’s why he went to the bathroom! I asked Stormie if SM had molested him in the bathroom but he said he didn’t want to talk about it. I felt it best to just let it go. And thus, he was my first G.I. Joe. (for the record, all of my other Joes were paid for and obtained honestly, ethically and in accordance with local laws!)
And that’s how I got my first two G.I. Joe figures.
Now you Know, and knowing is half the battle!
Friday, January 28, 2011
Remembering the Challenger!
Twenty five years ago, a historic event imprinted itself on all of our memories. Like the day, John F. Kennedy was assassinated or when the planes hit the towers, most people recall the exact time and place they were when they heard of the Space Shuttle Challenger’s tragedy.
It was January 28, 1986. I was in the seventh grade. I was leaving Social Studies and heading to Ms. Fitzsimmons Language Arts class. The bell had rung and I went to my locker to switch out my books. I opened my locker door and this little kid named Jon who’s locker was next to mine walked up. As he opened his locker, he looked to me and exclaimed that the Shuttle just blew up. I thought he was joking. Being a nerd, I knew the Shuttle was launching that morning and I thought Jon was just being an asshole. I told him to suck it and stop dicking around. He swore he was telling the truth. I slammed my locker and said “whatever!”. I walked into my Language Arts class and sat down. Most of the kids were buzzing about something. Ms. Fitzsimmons walked into the room and told everyone that we would be going to the Library to watch the news. As we strolled into the Library in single file, we were instructed to find a seat, there were chairs but most of us sat in the floor. The TV was already on and footage was playing from Cape Canaveral. Before I knew any details, they were replaying the iconic explosion and the two booster rockers zooming off in opposite directions. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. I was literally in shock. How could the fucking shuttle blow up? It was like it was some scene out of some low budget sci-fi flick. I sat in that Library for another 45 minutes in shock. I didn’t admit it back then but tears ran down my cheek.
The Shuttle program was very personal to me at that time. With my Grandmother living in Alamogordo, I had traveled to International Space Hall of Fame. I had the Shuttle toy, both the version on the 747 transport and the wone with External Fuel Tank and Separate Rocket Boosters. I thought it incredibly cool that we could launch this thing into space and it could glide back to Earth and land like a plane.
In March 1982, the Space Shuttle Columbia STS-3 was having trouble landing at its normal landing site at Edwards Air Force Base in California. The shuttle couldn’t remain in space any longer. Edwards was unsuitable due to weather and an alternate site was needed. White Sands Missile Range was found to be an adequate landing site. This was quite exciting. White Sands was only 30 miles from Alamogordo. I was visiting my Grandmother that week. I don’t recall why unless it was Spring Break. I do remember that week that there was many events going on up at the Space Hall. According to the mission leaders, the shuttle was going to enter the landing window some where over New Mexico, glide over Alamogordo and the Space Hall, making a circle and then landing at White Sands. The Space Hall of Fame had many promotions of how they could celebrate this historic event. The was one idea that Shuttle fans would hold tiny little mirrors and reflect a “hello” message to the Shuttle crew. I still have a picture of my Grandmother and I posing with the tiny mirrors up at the Space Hall of Fame. Yet, this little gimmick was nixed because the thought the reflecting light would cause a possible dangerous distraction to the Shuttle pilots.
For the days leading up to the landing at White Sands, my Grandmother clipped newspaper articles and photos from the local newspaper. Before I knew it she had cut dozens out of the paper. We added them to the dozens she had cut from the newspaper over the last couple years. We had so many now that I started a scrap book in an old photo album. I still have that Scrapbook. I cherish it as I remember my Grandmother taking the time to cut the articles and helped me organize them. Even after the Shuttle landed, she continued to cut the articles. The scrapbook grew. We went back to the Space Hall of Fame and bought some cool Shuttle Sticker to decorate the cover.
There was also an art contest. I can’t recall if it was sponsored by the Space Hall or if it was done by the local library or something. But I drew a drawing of the shuttle landing at White Sands. I even included the White Sands dunes and Yucca plants. I didn’t win anything but a “thank you” for participating. And like the scrap book, I kept the drawing. My mother just recently returned it to me with some other art pieces I had done when I was in grade school.
The days leading up to the landing felt like weeks but I know it was only a few days. I remember watching jets fly over my Grandmothers house. I swore I heard the sonic boom of the Shuttle slowing down over Alamogordo. I searched the sky looking for the white glider. I never physically saw it above her house. But I ran inside and watched the landing live on the small TV inside my Grandmother’s apartment. It was so fucking cool that the Space Shuttle was landing in New Mexico. Before I thought nothing important happened in New Mexico but on that day, something did.
Over the next few weeks, we’d tell Shuttle jokes like: “What did the captain say just before the Shuttle exploded? – What’s this little button do!” “What color were the Shuttle Pilot’s eyes? Blue, one Blew that way and one Blew that way.” “How many astronauts can you fit into a car? Two in the front, two in the back and seven in the ash tray.” We thought they were incredibly funny. Now, it just sounds sick and shit. I have grown incredible respect for those brave souls. America wouldn’t lose any astronauts again for another 17 years. Again we’d lose a Shuttle. One we lost on launch. One we lost on its return. It is so ironic it doesn’t feel like it happened by chance. But either way, I felt great sadness on those days. I look to the future of this year as the Shuttle program and last three shuttles fly their final flights and are retired. I pray to God they crew and ships are kept safe.
We will always remember Shuttle Challenger. Jan 28, 1986 – Jan 28, 2011!
It was January 28, 1986. I was in the seventh grade. I was leaving Social Studies and heading to Ms. Fitzsimmons Language Arts class. The bell had rung and I went to my locker to switch out my books. I opened my locker door and this little kid named Jon who’s locker was next to mine walked up. As he opened his locker, he looked to me and exclaimed that the Shuttle just blew up. I thought he was joking. Being a nerd, I knew the Shuttle was launching that morning and I thought Jon was just being an asshole. I told him to suck it and stop dicking around. He swore he was telling the truth. I slammed my locker and said “whatever!”. I walked into my Language Arts class and sat down. Most of the kids were buzzing about something. Ms. Fitzsimmons walked into the room and told everyone that we would be going to the Library to watch the news. As we strolled into the Library in single file, we were instructed to find a seat, there were chairs but most of us sat in the floor. The TV was already on and footage was playing from Cape Canaveral. Before I knew any details, they were replaying the iconic explosion and the two booster rockers zooming off in opposite directions. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. I was literally in shock. How could the fucking shuttle blow up? It was like it was some scene out of some low budget sci-fi flick. I sat in that Library for another 45 minutes in shock. I didn’t admit it back then but tears ran down my cheek.
The Shuttle program was very personal to me at that time. With my Grandmother living in Alamogordo, I had traveled to International Space Hall of Fame. I had the Shuttle toy, both the version on the 747 transport and the wone with External Fuel Tank and Separate Rocket Boosters. I thought it incredibly cool that we could launch this thing into space and it could glide back to Earth and land like a plane.
In March 1982, the Space Shuttle Columbia STS-3 was having trouble landing at its normal landing site at Edwards Air Force Base in California. The shuttle couldn’t remain in space any longer. Edwards was unsuitable due to weather and an alternate site was needed. White Sands Missile Range was found to be an adequate landing site. This was quite exciting. White Sands was only 30 miles from Alamogordo. I was visiting my Grandmother that week. I don’t recall why unless it was Spring Break. I do remember that week that there was many events going on up at the Space Hall. According to the mission leaders, the shuttle was going to enter the landing window some where over New Mexico, glide over Alamogordo and the Space Hall, making a circle and then landing at White Sands. The Space Hall of Fame had many promotions of how they could celebrate this historic event. The was one idea that Shuttle fans would hold tiny little mirrors and reflect a “hello” message to the Shuttle crew. I still have a picture of my Grandmother and I posing with the tiny mirrors up at the Space Hall of Fame. Yet, this little gimmick was nixed because the thought the reflecting light would cause a possible dangerous distraction to the Shuttle pilots.
For the days leading up to the landing at White Sands, my Grandmother clipped newspaper articles and photos from the local newspaper. Before I knew it she had cut dozens out of the paper. We added them to the dozens she had cut from the newspaper over the last couple years. We had so many now that I started a scrap book in an old photo album. I still have that Scrapbook. I cherish it as I remember my Grandmother taking the time to cut the articles and helped me organize them. Even after the Shuttle landed, she continued to cut the articles. The scrapbook grew. We went back to the Space Hall of Fame and bought some cool Shuttle Sticker to decorate the cover.
There was also an art contest. I can’t recall if it was sponsored by the Space Hall or if it was done by the local library or something. But I drew a drawing of the shuttle landing at White Sands. I even included the White Sands dunes and Yucca plants. I didn’t win anything but a “thank you” for participating. And like the scrap book, I kept the drawing. My mother just recently returned it to me with some other art pieces I had done when I was in grade school.
The days leading up to the landing felt like weeks but I know it was only a few days. I remember watching jets fly over my Grandmothers house. I swore I heard the sonic boom of the Shuttle slowing down over Alamogordo. I searched the sky looking for the white glider. I never physically saw it above her house. But I ran inside and watched the landing live on the small TV inside my Grandmother’s apartment. It was so fucking cool that the Space Shuttle was landing in New Mexico. Before I thought nothing important happened in New Mexico but on that day, something did.
Over the next few weeks, we’d tell Shuttle jokes like: “What did the captain say just before the Shuttle exploded? – What’s this little button do!” “What color were the Shuttle Pilot’s eyes? Blue, one Blew that way and one Blew that way.” “How many astronauts can you fit into a car? Two in the front, two in the back and seven in the ash tray.” We thought they were incredibly funny. Now, it just sounds sick and shit. I have grown incredible respect for those brave souls. America wouldn’t lose any astronauts again for another 17 years. Again we’d lose a Shuttle. One we lost on launch. One we lost on its return. It is so ironic it doesn’t feel like it happened by chance. But either way, I felt great sadness on those days. I look to the future of this year as the Shuttle program and last three shuttles fly their final flights and are retired. I pray to God they crew and ships are kept safe.
We will always remember Shuttle Challenger. Jan 28, 1986 – Jan 28, 2011!
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Root Beer and Oreos Came Out His Nose!
My earliest memory of Roswell dates back to 1975. It was living in our first apartment at Columbia Manor Apartments. It was a dinky one-bedroom that was directly below the L wing that stood on stilts. Thus, the apartment was always dark as the windows never got sunlight. I just remember the soft tangerine glow of the dining room chandelier light.
Not sure why, but we lived at Columbia Manor three separate times between 1975 and 1983. I think it was close to my mothers work. Or perhaps it was affordable.
Since I was only 3 at the time, the memories are very vague but I do remember that apartment. The next memory is from early 1976 or 1977. I remember my mother leaving me with a baby sitter who lived in a mobile home. It wasn’t one of those shitty single-wides but one of the nice deluxe double-wides and I’m pretty sure the wheels had been removed and it sat on a cinder block foundation as if it was a permanent home. The distinct memory is of myself and the other kids taking a nap on thin mats. I was put right next to a heater vent that I swore had a warm fiery glow at the bottom--as if it shot straight down to a horrid dungeon! I couldn’t sleep thinking some beast with drool dripping from his lips was going to burst through the metal vent any moment and eat me!
Then in 1977, another memory hits. My mother put me in my PJs and popped some Jiffy Pop on the stove and we loaded the car to go to the Drive-In to watch Star Wars! The stormtroopers kicked ass and Darth Vader scared the shit out of me. I wondered how the droids were going to get out of the desert and then a bunch of elves found them. Then, I remember a lot of talking in a cantina and it was lights out. I didn’t see the whole movie until 1978 when I saw it in air-conditioned theater. (That was the cool thing back in the 70s and early 80s, some movies were in the theaters for months, even years!)
Mostly scenes from babysitters permeate my memories during the 1970s. It was very traumatic for me. I felt like it was a new place every other week. Sometime in 1977, I remember sitting on a swing outside of a babysitter’s house crying for hours because my mother left me there early one Saturday morning. This was the same babysitters house where one of her daughters told me the bird bath was filled with chocolate milk. She dared me to drink it. Let’s say it wasn’t no fucking chocolate milk. The shit was muddy water. Now do you see why these events were traumatic for a little five year old.
The babysitter blues would end when my mother finally found the noble Grandma Combs. We called her Grandma although none of the kids she watched were actually related to her. She would be my after school daycare from the late ‘79 until 1982 when she retired and I became a Latch Key Kid. The memories were not traumatic. They were milestone memories. Sitting in her floor, watching the huge built-in TV, watching 5 daring young heroes defend Earth from alien invaders in Battle of the Planets, watching Travis laugh at a joke and seeing Root Beer and Oreos come shooting out his nose and fighting off the other kids so I could watch a shortened version of Star Wars on this little movie viewer I checked out from the Valley View Library.
Not sure why, but we lived at Columbia Manor three separate times between 1975 and 1983. I think it was close to my mothers work. Or perhaps it was affordable.
Since I was only 3 at the time, the memories are very vague but I do remember that apartment. The next memory is from early 1976 or 1977. I remember my mother leaving me with a baby sitter who lived in a mobile home. It wasn’t one of those shitty single-wides but one of the nice deluxe double-wides and I’m pretty sure the wheels had been removed and it sat on a cinder block foundation as if it was a permanent home. The distinct memory is of myself and the other kids taking a nap on thin mats. I was put right next to a heater vent that I swore had a warm fiery glow at the bottom--as if it shot straight down to a horrid dungeon! I couldn’t sleep thinking some beast with drool dripping from his lips was going to burst through the metal vent any moment and eat me!
Then in 1977, another memory hits. My mother put me in my PJs and popped some Jiffy Pop on the stove and we loaded the car to go to the Drive-In to watch Star Wars! The stormtroopers kicked ass and Darth Vader scared the shit out of me. I wondered how the droids were going to get out of the desert and then a bunch of elves found them. Then, I remember a lot of talking in a cantina and it was lights out. I didn’t see the whole movie until 1978 when I saw it in air-conditioned theater. (That was the cool thing back in the 70s and early 80s, some movies were in the theaters for months, even years!)
Mostly scenes from babysitters permeate my memories during the 1970s. It was very traumatic for me. I felt like it was a new place every other week. Sometime in 1977, I remember sitting on a swing outside of a babysitter’s house crying for hours because my mother left me there early one Saturday morning. This was the same babysitters house where one of her daughters told me the bird bath was filled with chocolate milk. She dared me to drink it. Let’s say it wasn’t no fucking chocolate milk. The shit was muddy water. Now do you see why these events were traumatic for a little five year old.
The babysitter blues would end when my mother finally found the noble Grandma Combs. We called her Grandma although none of the kids she watched were actually related to her. She would be my after school daycare from the late ‘79 until 1982 when she retired and I became a Latch Key Kid. The memories were not traumatic. They were milestone memories. Sitting in her floor, watching the huge built-in TV, watching 5 daring young heroes defend Earth from alien invaders in Battle of the Planets, watching Travis laugh at a joke and seeing Root Beer and Oreos come shooting out his nose and fighting off the other kids so I could watch a shortened version of Star Wars on this little movie viewer I checked out from the Valley View Library.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
VCRs and Softy Porn
I recall our first VCR arrived the Christmas of 1985. It wasn’t anything fancy. Heck, it wasn’t even a name brand. It was the Sears brand SR-3000. I didn’t care. The machine held great power. And with great power came great responsibility. It allowed me to record television and replay it back whenever I wanted. I wasn’t a social outcast at school any longer. I could tell my friends that I now had a membership card to the Plains Park Video Store.
The technology wasn’t anything new. I can recall several friends having VCRs dating back to early 1982 or 1983. CB had one. It was a top loader—most likely from Panasonic or RCA. Sony was still pissed that their Betamax didn’t take off. He would record Friday Night Videos from NBC and we’d watch them after school the following week. We wanted our MTV but our little conservative town that MTV was a product of the devil and would rot our souls. Friday Night Videos was the next best thing. Blondie. Cars. Dire Straits. (For the record: Roswell would finally get MTV the summer of 1988.)
The SR-3000 was wickedly cool. It was a side loader thus I could push the tapes in and whoosh they would disappear inside. No need to push down a tape like those old ’82 models. Ours even had Right and Left equalizer lights. It was fucking kewl! And did I break in that membership card at the video store in 1986. Weird Science. My Science Project. Empire Strikes Back for the first time since 1981!
1985 wasn’t the first year I recorded TV. I had been doing it for several years. The problem was: it was on audio tape not video tape. I wanted to remember my favorite shows so much in 1983 and 1984, that I used my little black tape recorder to record shows like G.I. Joe A Real American Hero, Transformers the mini-series, Go-Bots, He-man and Tranzor Z. I would listen to them over and over again. The experience was very much like listening to my old Star Wars Adventure records and radio dramas. It used the most advanced visual technology- that of the imagination! I would beg my mother to take me to Kmart so I could buy more blank Memorex tapes (more like I got the cheap Kmart brand tapes). Before I knew it I had a shoe box full of TV episodes for my listening pleasure. Yet, I quickly traded it all away for the chance to record TV on video tape!
I even remember buying my first licensed video (VHS) tape too. It was G.I. Joe: The Revenge of Cobra mini-series. A video store in Alamogordo sold it to me used for $24 in 1986. My grandmother thought I was being robbed— $24 was outrageous! What was Vi. De. O. Tape? But damn, I could now watch GI Joe when I wanted! A few months later, Pepsi would introduce the mass marketed retail video tape of Top Gun. That was VHS tape number two! I wanted to buy the Star Wars Trilogy but remember it being like hundreds of dollars. In 1989, I think I got them free with a CBS Video club membership. Not sure if I ever finished my obligation to that membership. Dumb bastards should have known I was only 16 and had no job.
Oh, and I also learned my lesson on trying to rent softy porn that year, 1986. If you’re going to do it, make sure you rent it after lunch. Especially if your mother goes to the video store on her lunch hour to rent you Goonies and Real Genius for some afternoon movie watching. See, in small towns, the business owners usually know their customers. They informed my mother that I just left an hour or so earlier with a copy of The Lonely Lady starring Pia Zadora. Now, they didn’t stop me from renting the softy porn but they sure were willing to share that piece of information to my mother. Assholes! I had just got home and was about to pop it into the VCR and watch it when I heard my mothers car pull up. Eject. Back in the case. Under the bed. My mother enters says, “I rented you some movies,” to which I reply with “cool.” She then asked if I wanted to share anything. (Damn mind games!) I said, “no” to which she quickly replied, “I know you rented the movie.” She wanted to know where it was as she was going to take it back to the store before going back to work. I slowly admitted guilt and gave her the tape. I then, had to sit, for twenty minutes, while my mother asked if I rented the movie because I had questions about sex and love. I said no. I wanted to say, CB has HBO. I already know all this stuff. The simple truth was: I just wanted to see titties, mom!
Thus, never did I rent the softy porn again. But it didn’t stop me from recording it when we got free Cinemax for the weekend! (wink wink!) That’s a story for another day….
The technology wasn’t anything new. I can recall several friends having VCRs dating back to early 1982 or 1983. CB had one. It was a top loader—most likely from Panasonic or RCA. Sony was still pissed that their Betamax didn’t take off. He would record Friday Night Videos from NBC and we’d watch them after school the following week. We wanted our MTV but our little conservative town that MTV was a product of the devil and would rot our souls. Friday Night Videos was the next best thing. Blondie. Cars. Dire Straits. (For the record: Roswell would finally get MTV the summer of 1988.)
The SR-3000 was wickedly cool. It was a side loader thus I could push the tapes in and whoosh they would disappear inside. No need to push down a tape like those old ’82 models. Ours even had Right and Left equalizer lights. It was fucking kewl! And did I break in that membership card at the video store in 1986. Weird Science. My Science Project. Empire Strikes Back for the first time since 1981!
1985 wasn’t the first year I recorded TV. I had been doing it for several years. The problem was: it was on audio tape not video tape. I wanted to remember my favorite shows so much in 1983 and 1984, that I used my little black tape recorder to record shows like G.I. Joe A Real American Hero, Transformers the mini-series, Go-Bots, He-man and Tranzor Z. I would listen to them over and over again. The experience was very much like listening to my old Star Wars Adventure records and radio dramas. It used the most advanced visual technology- that of the imagination! I would beg my mother to take me to Kmart so I could buy more blank Memorex tapes (more like I got the cheap Kmart brand tapes). Before I knew it I had a shoe box full of TV episodes for my listening pleasure. Yet, I quickly traded it all away for the chance to record TV on video tape!
I even remember buying my first licensed video (VHS) tape too. It was G.I. Joe: The Revenge of Cobra mini-series. A video store in Alamogordo sold it to me used for $24 in 1986. My grandmother thought I was being robbed— $24 was outrageous! What was Vi. De. O. Tape? But damn, I could now watch GI Joe when I wanted! A few months later, Pepsi would introduce the mass marketed retail video tape of Top Gun. That was VHS tape number two! I wanted to buy the Star Wars Trilogy but remember it being like hundreds of dollars. In 1989, I think I got them free with a CBS Video club membership. Not sure if I ever finished my obligation to that membership. Dumb bastards should have known I was only 16 and had no job.
Oh, and I also learned my lesson on trying to rent softy porn that year, 1986. If you’re going to do it, make sure you rent it after lunch. Especially if your mother goes to the video store on her lunch hour to rent you Goonies and Real Genius for some afternoon movie watching. See, in small towns, the business owners usually know their customers. They informed my mother that I just left an hour or so earlier with a copy of The Lonely Lady starring Pia Zadora. Now, they didn’t stop me from renting the softy porn but they sure were willing to share that piece of information to my mother. Assholes! I had just got home and was about to pop it into the VCR and watch it when I heard my mothers car pull up. Eject. Back in the case. Under the bed. My mother enters says, “I rented you some movies,” to which I reply with “cool.” She then asked if I wanted to share anything. (Damn mind games!) I said, “no” to which she quickly replied, “I know you rented the movie.” She wanted to know where it was as she was going to take it back to the store before going back to work. I slowly admitted guilt and gave her the tape. I then, had to sit, for twenty minutes, while my mother asked if I rented the movie because I had questions about sex and love. I said no. I wanted to say, CB has HBO. I already know all this stuff. The simple truth was: I just wanted to see titties, mom!
Thus, never did I rent the softy porn again. But it didn’t stop me from recording it when we got free Cinemax for the weekend! (wink wink!) That’s a story for another day….
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Viking Years Pt. II
Valley View. Home of the Fighting Vikings. I always wondered who we were fighting? There were no athletic titles to defend. (I don’t think “500” counted) Were we, as these Norse Barbarians, fighting for academic superiority? Or were we defending our awesomeness? Maybe.
As Vikings, we told ourselves we were fighting the likes of the Monterrey Jaguars. Or possibly the Pecos Ponies. School pride was everything. I know. I was there. And I got the t-shirt! (Seriously, I had the Valley View Vikings t-shirt. I think I still have it somewhere.)
Although, I didn’t end my grade school days at Valley View, I will always be a Viking! I will be a Viking because that’s where my memories are (from 1979 to early 1985). That’s where my friends are.
Pretty sure things are a lot different at Valley View today than they were back in 1980s. Pretty sure, there are no more atomic bomb drills. Pretty sure, there are no more gigantic wooden paddles (with holes in it) hanging in the principle's office. Pretty sure, there are no more 25 cent cartons of milk. Pretty sure, those were the best times, regardless.
Some flash memories through the years:
First Grade:
The year that thought me that life is sometimes short. I remember the day when we were told as a class that a classmate had been killed by a drunk driver as she sat on the curb in front of her house.
Second Grade:
Girls. (do I need to say more?)
Third Grade:
Becoming a Latch Key Kid. After missing the van to the Building Bears Learning Center (no relation to the stuffed toy company), I refused to go to the after school day care after that. My mother took a chance and gave me a key to our apartment at Columbia Manor. A new chapter of life began: learn phone code of one ring, hang up, two rings, and its safe to answer; no you can’t make tea without turning on a stove; and, run to turn off TV when the door bell rings so strangers think no one’s home alone.
Fourth Grade:
The Math and Science teacher tears up when I respect him enough to call him by his real name. All the kids called him Mr. Boring. (get it? Like he’s boring and shit). I clearly remember when my mother informed me his name is Mr. BOREM. I was so embarrassed by it that I never called him Boring again. Let’s say that an average C Math student got a B that year!
Fifth Grade:
Mr. Cannon would tell stories from World War Two or as he said it, “double-u double-u 2”. He told stories of how he had to “kill the Japs” and fought in the “jungles of Saipan.” He would regale us with stories of how his thumb got blown off by a “jap grenade” and he could now remove it and put it back (this was followed by a visual demonstration).
Sixth Grade:
The year that broke the streak. My home room teacher that the kids had nicknamed Ms. Whore hated me. Or at least judged me for being a trouble maker and I was nothing of the kind. For the record I was a good kid. Yet, like any boy, there were incidents of mischief. (It’s not my fault that she groped herself as she read the book, Summer of the Monkeys) My mother tried to get her to change her opinion and give me a break. That failed. In the end, I would be transferred to the “other” school. I still wish she hadn’t done it.
As Vikings, we told ourselves we were fighting the likes of the Monterrey Jaguars. Or possibly the Pecos Ponies. School pride was everything. I know. I was there. And I got the t-shirt! (Seriously, I had the Valley View Vikings t-shirt. I think I still have it somewhere.)
Although, I didn’t end my grade school days at Valley View, I will always be a Viking! I will be a Viking because that’s where my memories are (from 1979 to early 1985). That’s where my friends are.
Pretty sure things are a lot different at Valley View today than they were back in 1980s. Pretty sure, there are no more atomic bomb drills. Pretty sure, there are no more gigantic wooden paddles (with holes in it) hanging in the principle's office. Pretty sure, there are no more 25 cent cartons of milk. Pretty sure, those were the best times, regardless.
Some flash memories through the years:
First Grade:
The year that thought me that life is sometimes short. I remember the day when we were told as a class that a classmate had been killed by a drunk driver as she sat on the curb in front of her house.
Second Grade:
Girls. (do I need to say more?)
Third Grade:
Becoming a Latch Key Kid. After missing the van to the Building Bears Learning Center (no relation to the stuffed toy company), I refused to go to the after school day care after that. My mother took a chance and gave me a key to our apartment at Columbia Manor. A new chapter of life began: learn phone code of one ring, hang up, two rings, and its safe to answer; no you can’t make tea without turning on a stove; and, run to turn off TV when the door bell rings so strangers think no one’s home alone.
Fourth Grade:
The Math and Science teacher tears up when I respect him enough to call him by his real name. All the kids called him Mr. Boring. (get it? Like he’s boring and shit). I clearly remember when my mother informed me his name is Mr. BOREM. I was so embarrassed by it that I never called him Boring again. Let’s say that an average C Math student got a B that year!
Fifth Grade:
Mr. Cannon would tell stories from World War Two or as he said it, “double-u double-u 2”. He told stories of how he had to “kill the Japs” and fought in the “jungles of Saipan.” He would regale us with stories of how his thumb got blown off by a “jap grenade” and he could now remove it and put it back (this was followed by a visual demonstration).
Sixth Grade:
The year that broke the streak. My home room teacher that the kids had nicknamed Ms. Whore hated me. Or at least judged me for being a trouble maker and I was nothing of the kind. For the record I was a good kid. Yet, like any boy, there were incidents of mischief. (It’s not my fault that she groped herself as she read the book, Summer of the Monkeys) My mother tried to get her to change her opinion and give me a break. That failed. In the end, I would be transferred to the “other” school. I still wish she hadn’t done it.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Two Girls at One Time!
I discovered girls quite early. Did I really discover them? It wasn’t like I was wearing a dusty leather jacket, bull whip and felt fedora searching some ancient desert looking for them. Nor was I reading legendary hieroglyphics about how to unlock some treasure known as “girls.” The discovery more or less found me. And then, there would be the times, the many times, these so-called “discoveries” would trigger some deathly booty trap (you mean booby trap). Yeah, booby trap! Forcing me to run, run away fast and fight for my sanity. Looking back, it would have been easier to avoid large rolling balls and half-naked murderous natives — a lot easier!
Yet, I know for a fact that I was consciously aware of girls, their Mary Janes and knee socks, as early as the Second Grade. 1980. I silently observed them from afar. One had definitely caught my attention. She had long blond hair, dimples and blue eyes. Yeah, those sparklers were blue.
Saturday nights, I would sneak back to my room to watch Barbara Mandrell and Mandrell Sisters Show. Although Barbara was a blond, it was her sisters Louise and Irlene that floated my boat. I thought Irene was HAWT! The three of them would wear those skin tight pants and wear really glossy lip gloss. Irene was goofy and a bit ditsy but she had that Colonel Wilma Deering flare to her. My mother caught me watching the show once. She asked about it and I quickly replied I was waiting for CHiPs. She bought it. Yet, she reminded me that CHiPs was on Sunday night.
Then, like Howard Carter, a major discovery found me. Sitting in Mrs. Carrell’s Second Grade classroom, Jenny and Katie began to stare. (Technically, their names were not Jenny and Katie. I have changed their names to protect their innocence or possibly protect mine. wink- wink.) The two girls flanked me; one on the right, one on the left. I was biting the eraser of my number two pencil, trying to ponder the answer to the difficult mathematical problem of 124 divided by 2, or something like that, when I noticed both girls looking at me and giggling. I rubbed my nose making sure I wasn’t dangling a booger and went back to my math problem. After they continued to stare, giggle and point in my direction, I lifted my hand forming a self-conscious point to my chest and mouthed the word, “me?” The two girls nodded. I immediately became paranoid. I checked my shoe laces. Damn! Velcro! Laughable, I know, but why today? I checked my hair. It was its usual bowl cut mop. It felt normal. I checked my zipper. Docking bay door was closed. Why were these chicks looking at me?
The rest of the events are vague so I’ll try and recall them the best I can. I think the answer would come in the form of a passed note. The two girls had scribbled on a small piece of wide ruled paper the question, “Can we be your girlfriend?” Hell yeah! I thought. But my body reacted differently. I acted dumbfounded. My heart pounded. My mind raced. I closed the note and opened it again. I looked to both Jenny and Katie. Both smiled like those girls on the Price Is Right. I looked to them and nodded. Jenny and Katie’s eyes blossomed with happiness.
An hour later, I sat on the playground and Jenny and Katie walked up and joined me. We laughed. We joked. I played hard to get. I tried to sneak a peek at their underwear. Damn shorts-under-skirts rule! I told them I’d walk them home. She smiled and both girls pecked me on the cheek.
As I walked back into Valley View, Shawn asked why I was hanging out with Jenny and Katie. I turned, tugged at my cuff, as only James Bond could do and responded, because I’m one sexy bitch! (okay, that’s not what I said.) My real response was “’cuz I always do two girls at one time.”
Yet, I know for a fact that I was consciously aware of girls, their Mary Janes and knee socks, as early as the Second Grade. 1980. I silently observed them from afar. One had definitely caught my attention. She had long blond hair, dimples and blue eyes. Yeah, those sparklers were blue.
Saturday nights, I would sneak back to my room to watch Barbara Mandrell and Mandrell Sisters Show. Although Barbara was a blond, it was her sisters Louise and Irlene that floated my boat. I thought Irene was HAWT! The three of them would wear those skin tight pants and wear really glossy lip gloss. Irene was goofy and a bit ditsy but she had that Colonel Wilma Deering flare to her. My mother caught me watching the show once. She asked about it and I quickly replied I was waiting for CHiPs. She bought it. Yet, she reminded me that CHiPs was on Sunday night.
Then, like Howard Carter, a major discovery found me. Sitting in Mrs. Carrell’s Second Grade classroom, Jenny and Katie began to stare. (Technically, their names were not Jenny and Katie. I have changed their names to protect their innocence or possibly protect mine. wink- wink.) The two girls flanked me; one on the right, one on the left. I was biting the eraser of my number two pencil, trying to ponder the answer to the difficult mathematical problem of 124 divided by 2, or something like that, when I noticed both girls looking at me and giggling. I rubbed my nose making sure I wasn’t dangling a booger and went back to my math problem. After they continued to stare, giggle and point in my direction, I lifted my hand forming a self-conscious point to my chest and mouthed the word, “me?” The two girls nodded. I immediately became paranoid. I checked my shoe laces. Damn! Velcro! Laughable, I know, but why today? I checked my hair. It was its usual bowl cut mop. It felt normal. I checked my zipper. Docking bay door was closed. Why were these chicks looking at me?
The rest of the events are vague so I’ll try and recall them the best I can. I think the answer would come in the form of a passed note. The two girls had scribbled on a small piece of wide ruled paper the question, “Can we be your girlfriend?” Hell yeah! I thought. But my body reacted differently. I acted dumbfounded. My heart pounded. My mind raced. I closed the note and opened it again. I looked to both Jenny and Katie. Both smiled like those girls on the Price Is Right. I looked to them and nodded. Jenny and Katie’s eyes blossomed with happiness.
An hour later, I sat on the playground and Jenny and Katie walked up and joined me. We laughed. We joked. I played hard to get. I tried to sneak a peek at their underwear. Damn shorts-under-skirts rule! I told them I’d walk them home. She smiled and both girls pecked me on the cheek.
As I walked back into Valley View, Shawn asked why I was hanging out with Jenny and Katie. I turned, tugged at my cuff, as only James Bond could do and responded, because I’m one sexy bitch! (okay, that’s not what I said.) My real response was “’cuz I always do two girls at one time.”
Friday, January 21, 2011
Where’s his Head, Shawn!?
When I was 6 years old, there was only one thing I cared about. Star Wars. I had only seen the movie maybe two times by mid-1978. But I had the Storybook, 45 record and the coloring books. I was a Star Wars expert (for a 6 year old anyways).
During the summer of 1978, my great Aunt and Uncle Viv and Wade made their annual visit to New Mexico from Peoria Illinois. They knew how much I loved Star Wars so my Uncle Wade drove me over to the Kmart on Hobbs and Main and gently walked me to the toy department. He had heard that Star Wars had some new action figure toys out. We entered the toy isle to find hundreds of action figures on the pegs and in displays around the toy department. I started to look through them and got really excited that I could get Darth Vader (with a lightsaber that slid out from his arm) or a Stormtrooper. Per the back of the card, there were 12 different figures in all. He didn’t buy me a few. He bought them all. It wasn’t even Christmas. We left that store with all 12 figures and that was one of the happiest days of my life.
We went back to our apartment (a duplex-style house on the old Walker Air Force Base now converted into Roswell Industrial Air Center). The place was always cold even in the summer. It was cinder block and had black tile floors. No amount of rugs would keep the floors warm to bare feet. It was hard to hang posters and pictures because the walls felt and looked like concrete. I remember sitting in the living room in front of our new 1977 Zenith and ripping all those carded figures open and proceeding to have large gun and lightsaber battles. Even little Jawas weren’t safe from Darth Vader’s blade. (If I could go back in time, I’d convince my Uncle that he needed to buy me a second set to leave Mint on the Card, but I digress).
Across the street, a friend of my mother (who she worked with) and her son lived in a similar but larger version of our duplex concrete apartment. Thus, for the early parts of my childhood he was my best friend. We’d ride bikes and explore the train tracks that were just outside the fence line of RIAC. We bragged about new toys. I would show off the Star Wars figures. He would show off either the Space 1999 starship or Micronauts. During one afternoon while I was playing with one of his Micronauts and he was happy having gun battles with Han Solo, he asked if he could borrow it. My first response was “hell no!” Star Wars was the world to me. There was nothing I loved more than those figures. I also didn’t loan many toys as I didn’t have much and took great care in my toys. Yet, after him begging and saying I could borrow all of his Micronauts, I reluctantly agreed.
Days went by. I was worried about my Han Solo but I convinced myself that he was in good hands and I had his toys thus we'd be all good, right?
I went outside and saw him playing. I walked over and asked nicely, "Can I have my Han Solo back?" He looked at me with concern. He stumbled and slowly replied, "sure." My blood pressure rose but I was anxious to get my Han Solo back. Besides, Luke and Ben were not able to rescue the Princess without him. He went inside and returned a few minutes later. He extended his arm and I opened my hand ready to get my beloved Han Solo figure back. Plop. Han Solo fell to my palm. "Where's his Head, Shawn!!??" Han Solo had been beheaded. Shock then anger then sorrow. Shawn shook his head. "You're kidding me, right?" I said. (now the following may or may not have been said. remember I was only 6.) "I loan you one of my most favorite figures and you have the balls to return him with no fuckin' head!" I repeated myself. "Where's his fuckin' head!?" As I started to inspect the rest of Han Solo, his arm fell off. Jesus! Han Solo just lost his fuckin' arm!! Moving his legs back and forth, his left leg fell to the ground. Shit! Han Solo is now a paraplegic! What horrors did this action figure go through to suffer such violence and damage.
He knew I was not only sad but angry. He told me I could keep his Micronauts. Thing was, I didn't want is farking Micronauts. I wanted my Han Solo. I was so distraught that I dropped Han Solo and ran home. I told my mother and then I cried. She promised to get me a new one but that day never came. It taught me a lesson and forced me to be a selfish bastard that never shared his toys again. There were many many times that I said, "no way Jose" when someone wanted to borrow my Snake Eyes (the one with two Uzis) or Go-bots.
This sad story would get a happy ending. 15 years later, I would find a Han Solo at Starbase 10 in Albuquerque. He cost $20 bucks but he was worth it. He's in my displace case right now. And no, you can't borrow him!
During the summer of 1978, my great Aunt and Uncle Viv and Wade made their annual visit to New Mexico from Peoria Illinois. They knew how much I loved Star Wars so my Uncle Wade drove me over to the Kmart on Hobbs and Main and gently walked me to the toy department. He had heard that Star Wars had some new action figure toys out. We entered the toy isle to find hundreds of action figures on the pegs and in displays around the toy department. I started to look through them and got really excited that I could get Darth Vader (with a lightsaber that slid out from his arm) or a Stormtrooper. Per the back of the card, there were 12 different figures in all. He didn’t buy me a few. He bought them all. It wasn’t even Christmas. We left that store with all 12 figures and that was one of the happiest days of my life.
We went back to our apartment (a duplex-style house on the old Walker Air Force Base now converted into Roswell Industrial Air Center). The place was always cold even in the summer. It was cinder block and had black tile floors. No amount of rugs would keep the floors warm to bare feet. It was hard to hang posters and pictures because the walls felt and looked like concrete. I remember sitting in the living room in front of our new 1977 Zenith and ripping all those carded figures open and proceeding to have large gun and lightsaber battles. Even little Jawas weren’t safe from Darth Vader’s blade. (If I could go back in time, I’d convince my Uncle that he needed to buy me a second set to leave Mint on the Card, but I digress).
Across the street, a friend of my mother (who she worked with) and her son lived in a similar but larger version of our duplex concrete apartment. Thus, for the early parts of my childhood he was my best friend. We’d ride bikes and explore the train tracks that were just outside the fence line of RIAC. We bragged about new toys. I would show off the Star Wars figures. He would show off either the Space 1999 starship or Micronauts. During one afternoon while I was playing with one of his Micronauts and he was happy having gun battles with Han Solo, he asked if he could borrow it. My first response was “hell no!” Star Wars was the world to me. There was nothing I loved more than those figures. I also didn’t loan many toys as I didn’t have much and took great care in my toys. Yet, after him begging and saying I could borrow all of his Micronauts, I reluctantly agreed.
Days went by. I was worried about my Han Solo but I convinced myself that he was in good hands and I had his toys thus we'd be all good, right?
I went outside and saw him playing. I walked over and asked nicely, "Can I have my Han Solo back?" He looked at me with concern. He stumbled and slowly replied, "sure." My blood pressure rose but I was anxious to get my Han Solo back. Besides, Luke and Ben were not able to rescue the Princess without him. He went inside and returned a few minutes later. He extended his arm and I opened my hand ready to get my beloved Han Solo figure back. Plop. Han Solo fell to my palm. "Where's his Head, Shawn!!??" Han Solo had been beheaded. Shock then anger then sorrow. Shawn shook his head. "You're kidding me, right?" I said. (now the following may or may not have been said. remember I was only 6.) "I loan you one of my most favorite figures and you have the balls to return him with no fuckin' head!" I repeated myself. "Where's his fuckin' head!?" As I started to inspect the rest of Han Solo, his arm fell off. Jesus! Han Solo just lost his fuckin' arm!! Moving his legs back and forth, his left leg fell to the ground. Shit! Han Solo is now a paraplegic! What horrors did this action figure go through to suffer such violence and damage.
He knew I was not only sad but angry. He told me I could keep his Micronauts. Thing was, I didn't want is farking Micronauts. I wanted my Han Solo. I was so distraught that I dropped Han Solo and ran home. I told my mother and then I cried. She promised to get me a new one but that day never came. It taught me a lesson and forced me to be a selfish bastard that never shared his toys again. There were many many times that I said, "no way Jose" when someone wanted to borrow my Snake Eyes (the one with two Uzis) or Go-bots.
This sad story would get a happy ending. 15 years later, I would find a Han Solo at Starbase 10 in Albuquerque. He cost $20 bucks but he was worth it. He's in my displace case right now. And no, you can't borrow him!
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Give me my Bear Claw, Dammit!
Growing up, we weren’t the wealthiest family on the block. As I stated before, I was raised by a single mother who worked her butt off to support us. Since my mother worked six days a week, I was raised by a good helping from my Grandmother, babysitters, surrogate grandparents (i.e. the great and wonderful Grandma Combs) and reruns of Happy Days.
During the early 1980s, we lived in an aging apartment complex named Columbia Manor. It was flanked by two open fields and sat across the street from Roswell High School. The complex looked as if it was possibly two different buildings converted into one larger entity. The architecture was a blending of Colonial meets 1960’s flare and angles. Part of the building stood on stilts above a lower part, making a lower case t. Between the two major buildings was a football field sized court yard with twelve large oak trees. (Several were climbing favorites and I would hide in them from time to time.) The swimming pool sat at the far end of the courtyard, next to the management office. Outside the small laundry room, a Dr.Pepper machine sold cans of soda for only 25 cents. That machine is why my favorite soda growing up was Dr. Pepper. Never was a Pepsi drinker although Roswell was the site of a large Pepsi bottling plant and employed most of the area. The manager was this wrinkly old lady with short silver hair that looked like Jane Wyman and the mother on Bewitched. Her office was dark and smelled of cigarette smoke. It always scared me a bit to go inside. She had an affinity for clocks. I remember one in particular; it was a clock of a wino leaning on a light post and he would sip from his bottle in sync with the second hand. The bottle and Lamp Post were lit with an eerie pale orange. I would stare at it for minutes. It was the first time I’d ever seen something like that. (she also had one of a cat, that the eyes would go back in forth, along with the tail.)
The one thing that made this apartment complex memorable was its proximity to Tastee Freeze, Long John Silvers and a Doughnut Shop. I can’t remember the name of the Doughnut Shop so I’ll call it Sunrise Doughnuts. This name may actually be the name but I can not state that for fact. The shop would later get beat out by the Daylight Doughnuts that would open down the street in the old Kentucky Fried Chicken building. Yet, during those early years of the 1980s, my mother would give me a couple bucks every Sunday Morning before Church and I would walk over to Sunrise Doughnuts to get a Bavarian Crème Long John and a Bear Claw. (Mine was the Bear Claw of course!)
On one of those Sunday mornings, I walked over to Sunrise Doughnuts and waited to be called on. I waited. And waited. I must also preface that I wasn’t a very outgoing little kid. I was quite shy and very rarely spoke out. I wasn’t more than 8 years old at this time. So, there I stood, standing there in my pressed collar shirt and clip-on tie. (We were going to church after all.) The two old ladies behind the glass case were the same two old ladies there every Sunday. With my two dollars in hand, I would look to them and wait for the all important cue: “Can I help you?” “Yes, please, one Baffarian (kid’s lisp) Crème Long John and one chocolate Bear Claw.” But that morning, the cue never happened. I looked at the two crusty wenches. They looked right at me and then directed their, “Can I help you?” to the stupid adults behind me. I grew angry and upset. I knew those dumb doughnut slingers recognized me. I was the same cute Norman Rockwell kid that patronized your establishment every fucking Sunday! (again, I don’t think this was the actual language in my 8 year old mind but we’ll pretend.) I waited. And I waited longer. I stepped closer to the glass case. I stepped to the counter. Each and every time, those D-holes ignored me. Give me my Bear Claw Dammit!
I ran from the Doughnut Shop. I ran home, across the dirt field and through the chain link fence of the court yard. Running through the sliding glass door of the apartment’s patio, my mother asked, “what took so long?” I had been gone nearly thirty minutes. (Sunrise Doughnuts was only 100 feet away.) Tears were forming in my eyes. My mother knew I was upset. She looked to my hands and saw the two dollars still clutched in my little fist. She asked me what happened. I shouted, “they wouldn’t help me!” She said “what?!” I explained that I waited and waited. Now, she was angry. She told me to get in the car. “We’re driving over there right now!” My mother yanked the steering wheel and entered their small lot with a sharp turn, flipped the engine off and pulled the emergency break. She hopped out and I instinctively followed behind. I still had the two dollars in my hand. When the lady asked her “can I help you?” within moments of us walking through the door she said, “yeah, where’s your manager?” Once the manager appeared, my mother became a bulldog. She spoke loudly so all the customers could hear. She ripped into them like a blaster goes through Stormtrooper Armor. If that moment had a soundtrack, it would have been calked full of slapping and punching noises of any Bruce Lee movie. She verbally. Kicked. Their. ASS! She spun on her heel and grabbed my hand and we left.
I don’t recall how long it was before I got the courage to go back and try it again. But I know, I was never ignored there again. The way I remember it was, those old crows always said, “sorry for making you wait Mr. Whitfield. Your Bear Claw is coming right up, Mr. Whitfield. It’s still warm and gooey, Mr Whitfield.“ Yeah. Take that Bitches!!
During the early 1980s, we lived in an aging apartment complex named Columbia Manor. It was flanked by two open fields and sat across the street from Roswell High School. The complex looked as if it was possibly two different buildings converted into one larger entity. The architecture was a blending of Colonial meets 1960’s flare and angles. Part of the building stood on stilts above a lower part, making a lower case t. Between the two major buildings was a football field sized court yard with twelve large oak trees. (Several were climbing favorites and I would hide in them from time to time.) The swimming pool sat at the far end of the courtyard, next to the management office. Outside the small laundry room, a Dr.Pepper machine sold cans of soda for only 25 cents. That machine is why my favorite soda growing up was Dr. Pepper. Never was a Pepsi drinker although Roswell was the site of a large Pepsi bottling plant and employed most of the area. The manager was this wrinkly old lady with short silver hair that looked like Jane Wyman and the mother on Bewitched. Her office was dark and smelled of cigarette smoke. It always scared me a bit to go inside. She had an affinity for clocks. I remember one in particular; it was a clock of a wino leaning on a light post and he would sip from his bottle in sync with the second hand. The bottle and Lamp Post were lit with an eerie pale orange. I would stare at it for minutes. It was the first time I’d ever seen something like that. (she also had one of a cat, that the eyes would go back in forth, along with the tail.)
The one thing that made this apartment complex memorable was its proximity to Tastee Freeze, Long John Silvers and a Doughnut Shop. I can’t remember the name of the Doughnut Shop so I’ll call it Sunrise Doughnuts. This name may actually be the name but I can not state that for fact. The shop would later get beat out by the Daylight Doughnuts that would open down the street in the old Kentucky Fried Chicken building. Yet, during those early years of the 1980s, my mother would give me a couple bucks every Sunday Morning before Church and I would walk over to Sunrise Doughnuts to get a Bavarian Crème Long John and a Bear Claw. (Mine was the Bear Claw of course!)
On one of those Sunday mornings, I walked over to Sunrise Doughnuts and waited to be called on. I waited. And waited. I must also preface that I wasn’t a very outgoing little kid. I was quite shy and very rarely spoke out. I wasn’t more than 8 years old at this time. So, there I stood, standing there in my pressed collar shirt and clip-on tie. (We were going to church after all.) The two old ladies behind the glass case were the same two old ladies there every Sunday. With my two dollars in hand, I would look to them and wait for the all important cue: “Can I help you?” “Yes, please, one Baffarian (kid’s lisp) Crème Long John and one chocolate Bear Claw.” But that morning, the cue never happened. I looked at the two crusty wenches. They looked right at me and then directed their, “Can I help you?” to the stupid adults behind me. I grew angry and upset. I knew those dumb doughnut slingers recognized me. I was the same cute Norman Rockwell kid that patronized your establishment every fucking Sunday! (again, I don’t think this was the actual language in my 8 year old mind but we’ll pretend.) I waited. And I waited longer. I stepped closer to the glass case. I stepped to the counter. Each and every time, those D-holes ignored me. Give me my Bear Claw Dammit!
I ran from the Doughnut Shop. I ran home, across the dirt field and through the chain link fence of the court yard. Running through the sliding glass door of the apartment’s patio, my mother asked, “what took so long?” I had been gone nearly thirty minutes. (Sunrise Doughnuts was only 100 feet away.) Tears were forming in my eyes. My mother knew I was upset. She looked to my hands and saw the two dollars still clutched in my little fist. She asked me what happened. I shouted, “they wouldn’t help me!” She said “what?!” I explained that I waited and waited. Now, she was angry. She told me to get in the car. “We’re driving over there right now!” My mother yanked the steering wheel and entered their small lot with a sharp turn, flipped the engine off and pulled the emergency break. She hopped out and I instinctively followed behind. I still had the two dollars in my hand. When the lady asked her “can I help you?” within moments of us walking through the door she said, “yeah, where’s your manager?” Once the manager appeared, my mother became a bulldog. She spoke loudly so all the customers could hear. She ripped into them like a blaster goes through Stormtrooper Armor. If that moment had a soundtrack, it would have been calked full of slapping and punching noises of any Bruce Lee movie. She verbally. Kicked. Their. ASS! She spun on her heel and grabbed my hand and we left.
I don’t recall how long it was before I got the courage to go back and try it again. But I know, I was never ignored there again. The way I remember it was, those old crows always said, “sorry for making you wait Mr. Whitfield. Your Bear Claw is coming right up, Mr. Whitfield. It’s still warm and gooey, Mr Whitfield.“ Yeah. Take that Bitches!!
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
One RAD BMX!!
It was the RAD-est BMX racer ever! It was smoke silver with red pads and black mag wheels. It arrived one Christmas. 1984. No, maybe 1983. Yeah, 1983! Either way, the bike was my most precious possession. For the first time, I had something other kids didn’t. They envied it and I was proud.
I took the bike to the pits on Sunset Ave. I raced it behind the ALCO. Rode it home from school everyday and went to friends’ houses on the weekends. For an eleven year old boy, it was the closest thing to a car that any sixteen-year-old would envy. It gave me freedom to ride to the Five and Dime to buy gum for only a penny. Blazed through empty fields on dusty dirt trails. Popped curbs around Roswell High School and hopped down the steps in the back of the school. I would peddle as fast as I could through the Fire Lane and shoot out into the parking lot by the apartment complex we lived in.
One Sunday in 1984, it would be taken from me. It would haunt my days and fueled my nightmares.
Riding back from CB’s house one Sunday afternoon, unknown to me, I was being followed. My care free attitude and naïve love for life at eleven. I rode home like any other: down Roswell High’s fire lane, through the lot, across Penn Ave and into the long parking lot of Columbia Manor Apartments. I circled around the end of the building and up on the sidewalk, weaved through the gate and popped the kickstand. I opened the sliding glass door to find my mother on the couch watching some old western on KCAL.
I was inside no more than a few minutes. Maybe only 2 minutes. My mother was asking if I wanted to go over to Tastee Freeze and get a couple Banana Splits. The phone rang. It was a guy that my mother worked with and happened to live six apartments down. I can’t remember his name, so I’ll call him Danny. Danny was asking if I knew where my bike was. He spoke really fast. He stated he saw me ride home a few minutes earlier. My mother asked me to get my bike. Danny is talking hurriedly saying he’s looking at two Hispanic men loading what appears to be my bike into their late model Chevy Monte Carlo. I pull the curtains back to find my bike GONE! Someone took my bike! My mother panicked. She hung up the phone but not before Danny said he was calling 911.
I ran outside, looking for my bike. Who would have done this? Tears rolled down my face. My mother tried to calm me down. Within minutes, a police car sat in front of our apartment. Danny was talking to them. The police officer was talking on the radio. Danny had given the police not only the car description but the license plate and descriptions of the two men. The officer took the report and within 15 minutes had the suspects. My heart raced. Thank God! My bike was found! I looked to the officer with eager anticipation. He shook his head as the other officer on the radio stated, “negative on silver BMX bike.” Where is my bike? What did the assholes do with it? (I don’t think I was using that language in my 11-year-old mind but I will say I was.) Within minutes, these dildo-heads had stolen my bike and ditched it somewhere. My sorrow and anger returned. The officer left stating they would continue to search the area looking for my bike.
Hours turned to days. Days turned to weeks. I never saw the bike again. I still, to this day, wish I could find those dipshits and punch them in the face until my knuckles bleed. Those shit-eaters not only stole but they scarred a little boy’s view of the world. Those days after it was stolen, my mind raced. What could have I done differently? Should I have brought it inside? Or just left the curtains open to the patio. I internalized the trauma with daydreams of Batman and Robin swinging down to stop the thieves. I envisioned myself as a dark vigilante catching them in the act and throwing ninja stars into their chest and arms. As the years went on, I healed. But I still think about that bike and that day, even 27 years later. And I still wish I could knee the little pig fuckers in the balls!!
I took the bike to the pits on Sunset Ave. I raced it behind the ALCO. Rode it home from school everyday and went to friends’ houses on the weekends. For an eleven year old boy, it was the closest thing to a car that any sixteen-year-old would envy. It gave me freedom to ride to the Five and Dime to buy gum for only a penny. Blazed through empty fields on dusty dirt trails. Popped curbs around Roswell High School and hopped down the steps in the back of the school. I would peddle as fast as I could through the Fire Lane and shoot out into the parking lot by the apartment complex we lived in.
One Sunday in 1984, it would be taken from me. It would haunt my days and fueled my nightmares.
Riding back from CB’s house one Sunday afternoon, unknown to me, I was being followed. My care free attitude and naïve love for life at eleven. I rode home like any other: down Roswell High’s fire lane, through the lot, across Penn Ave and into the long parking lot of Columbia Manor Apartments. I circled around the end of the building and up on the sidewalk, weaved through the gate and popped the kickstand. I opened the sliding glass door to find my mother on the couch watching some old western on KCAL.
I was inside no more than a few minutes. Maybe only 2 minutes. My mother was asking if I wanted to go over to Tastee Freeze and get a couple Banana Splits. The phone rang. It was a guy that my mother worked with and happened to live six apartments down. I can’t remember his name, so I’ll call him Danny. Danny was asking if I knew where my bike was. He spoke really fast. He stated he saw me ride home a few minutes earlier. My mother asked me to get my bike. Danny is talking hurriedly saying he’s looking at two Hispanic men loading what appears to be my bike into their late model Chevy Monte Carlo. I pull the curtains back to find my bike GONE! Someone took my bike! My mother panicked. She hung up the phone but not before Danny said he was calling 911.
I ran outside, looking for my bike. Who would have done this? Tears rolled down my face. My mother tried to calm me down. Within minutes, a police car sat in front of our apartment. Danny was talking to them. The police officer was talking on the radio. Danny had given the police not only the car description but the license plate and descriptions of the two men. The officer took the report and within 15 minutes had the suspects. My heart raced. Thank God! My bike was found! I looked to the officer with eager anticipation. He shook his head as the other officer on the radio stated, “negative on silver BMX bike.” Where is my bike? What did the assholes do with it? (I don’t think I was using that language in my 11-year-old mind but I will say I was.) Within minutes, these dildo-heads had stolen my bike and ditched it somewhere. My sorrow and anger returned. The officer left stating they would continue to search the area looking for my bike.
Hours turned to days. Days turned to weeks. I never saw the bike again. I still, to this day, wish I could find those dipshits and punch them in the face until my knuckles bleed. Those shit-eaters not only stole but they scarred a little boy’s view of the world. Those days after it was stolen, my mind raced. What could have I done differently? Should I have brought it inside? Or just left the curtains open to the patio. I internalized the trauma with daydreams of Batman and Robin swinging down to stop the thieves. I envisioned myself as a dark vigilante catching them in the act and throwing ninja stars into their chest and arms. As the years went on, I healed. But I still think about that bike and that day, even 27 years later. And I still wish I could knee the little pig fuckers in the balls!!
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
The Viking Years Pt. 1
I attended Valley View Elementary from the years 1979 to 1985. It was a K-6 Grade School. Starting in the First Grade and ending just shy of completing the Sixth Grade, I was a proud Viking. Valley View Vikings. I did not attend Kindergarten there as my mother had sent me to a private school called Child Garden(?). (the only memory of that school was witnessing my first solar eclipse while playing on the playground.)
The school was a L-shaped building with the grades 1-3 in the lower part of the L and 4-6 grade in the upper part of the L. Made from red brick and having the features of large windows in every room, the school smelled like the 1960s. The bricks gave it a sturdy construction and security to the hallways, when in the 2nd and 3rd grade, we ran and ducked in part of our Nuclear Disaster Drills. Those were the years when the USA had boycotted the Olympics in the USSR. And the Russians would do the same in 1984. Tensions were high. Soviets were great bad guys. Second only to Nazis. (back on track) The fire alarm were sound more like a klaxon and we'd run to the halls and squat in the fetal position. Not sure if we'd have survived a nuclear attack but I was only 8 or so.
I once told someone that story and they thought it odd we had Nuclear War Emergency procedures in such a small cowboy town like Roswell New Mexico. The theory and ideology was Roswell, although Walker Air Force Base had closed in the late 60s, was still a target on Russian, uh I mean Soviet, missile charts. The reason was Roswell's I A C or Industrial Air Center, had one of the longest commercial runways in the world at the time. It had been built decades earlier to compliment the B-29 Bombers that were part of the 509th Strategic Bombing Wing. During the 1970s and 1980s the runways were still being used to test commercial and military aircraft. In the end, it made a bunch of kids from a forgotten town feel like they were important, I guess.
Sometime in the early 1980s, 3rd or 4th grade, construction on a gymnasium was completed. I remember everyone being really excited as we could have PE indoors during cold spells and we could move away from the very small cafeteria. I remember it was so vast and huge. (not so much when I would return in my High School years) The north wall had the folded bench tables and wall painted in a Rainbow scheme. (I wonder now what the PC decor would be as rainbows aren't just known for Unicorn riding little girls) Even had our 5th Grade Class Photo shot inside it, moving it from the Library where we had the pictures taken in the past. Ropes hung from the rafter beams; Dodge ball wars were fought; lunch was served on segmented trays there everyday; it was the site of the 1982 staged musical with CB as E.T.;and, it housed after-school Break Dance challenges, where spinning on your back and crawling like a centipede on cardboard gave boys cool reputations.
The school was a L-shaped building with the grades 1-3 in the lower part of the L and 4-6 grade in the upper part of the L. Made from red brick and having the features of large windows in every room, the school smelled like the 1960s. The bricks gave it a sturdy construction and security to the hallways, when in the 2nd and 3rd grade, we ran and ducked in part of our Nuclear Disaster Drills. Those were the years when the USA had boycotted the Olympics in the USSR. And the Russians would do the same in 1984. Tensions were high. Soviets were great bad guys. Second only to Nazis. (back on track) The fire alarm were sound more like a klaxon and we'd run to the halls and squat in the fetal position. Not sure if we'd have survived a nuclear attack but I was only 8 or so.
I once told someone that story and they thought it odd we had Nuclear War Emergency procedures in such a small cowboy town like Roswell New Mexico. The theory and ideology was Roswell, although Walker Air Force Base had closed in the late 60s, was still a target on Russian, uh I mean Soviet, missile charts. The reason was Roswell's I A C or Industrial Air Center, had one of the longest commercial runways in the world at the time. It had been built decades earlier to compliment the B-29 Bombers that were part of the 509th Strategic Bombing Wing. During the 1970s and 1980s the runways were still being used to test commercial and military aircraft. In the end, it made a bunch of kids from a forgotten town feel like they were important, I guess.
Sometime in the early 1980s, 3rd or 4th grade, construction on a gymnasium was completed. I remember everyone being really excited as we could have PE indoors during cold spells and we could move away from the very small cafeteria. I remember it was so vast and huge. (not so much when I would return in my High School years) The north wall had the folded bench tables and wall painted in a Rainbow scheme. (I wonder now what the PC decor would be as rainbows aren't just known for Unicorn riding little girls) Even had our 5th Grade Class Photo shot inside it, moving it from the Library where we had the pictures taken in the past. Ropes hung from the rafter beams; Dodge ball wars were fought; lunch was served on segmented trays there everyday; it was the site of the 1982 staged musical with CB as E.T.;and, it housed after-school Break Dance challenges, where spinning on your back and crawling like a centipede on cardboard gave boys cool reputations.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Geek is Good!
I heard today that Geek is Good. Geek is In. Geek is Cool.
Well, its about time!
Although, I wouldn't trade my childhood for anything (besides maybe changing a few things that I know now of course. Oh, and buying some stock in Starbucks or Apple Computers) But maybe Geek could have been popular when I was a kid.
I can't recall how many times that prissy girls or sporty guys on the playground would make fun of me because I wanted to play Justice League over 500 (a game of one person throwing a football at a crowd of recievers. The thrower would yell how much its worth. If caught, thats the points you'd earn. The first person to 500 would become the thrower.)
The cool dudes and the popular chicks would make fun of my Superman II lunch box or Star Wars velco sneakers. The names were usually just nerd or goober. It was okay. I loved my lunch box and my shoes more than them.
There was a time when I was about 23ish (say 1995). I was collecting Star Wars toys and selling my leftovers at a thing called a Toy Show (eBay eventually killed the novelty of selling toys at Holiday Inns) and looking up to find someone asking a question on a near mint 1979 Star Wars Jawa figure, complete with "cloth" cape and gun. The voice was rather soft for a guy. To my surprise, it was a rather attractive girl. We started talking and let's say flirting. Then the guy behind her (I would learn was her boyfriend) was totally giving her the "I'm bored can we go now babe?" vibe. I pondered this paradox like feeling that I found the first instance of a hawt girl liking Star Wars and the boyfriend thinking it lame and nerdy. (for the record I had come across other girls that liked Star Wars and Comics, but this one was actually good looking!) If I had the balls back then I would have asked for her phone number. Who cares what the boyfriend thought?
Fast forward 15 years. Now everywhere I turn around, there's actually runway model hot girls liking Star Wars and comics. And they don't hide it. Geek is the new Cool. We aren't the minority anymore.
I do admit that I was so blinded by the fact that the really cute girls didn't like the things that I liked, that I actually overlooked one in High School. And she was captain of the Varisty Cheerleading Squad. Who'd thunk, eh?
Well, its about time!
Although, I wouldn't trade my childhood for anything (besides maybe changing a few things that I know now of course. Oh, and buying some stock in Starbucks or Apple Computers) But maybe Geek could have been popular when I was a kid.
I can't recall how many times that prissy girls or sporty guys on the playground would make fun of me because I wanted to play Justice League over 500 (a game of one person throwing a football at a crowd of recievers. The thrower would yell how much its worth. If caught, thats the points you'd earn. The first person to 500 would become the thrower.)
The cool dudes and the popular chicks would make fun of my Superman II lunch box or Star Wars velco sneakers. The names were usually just nerd or goober. It was okay. I loved my lunch box and my shoes more than them.
There was a time when I was about 23ish (say 1995). I was collecting Star Wars toys and selling my leftovers at a thing called a Toy Show (eBay eventually killed the novelty of selling toys at Holiday Inns) and looking up to find someone asking a question on a near mint 1979 Star Wars Jawa figure, complete with "cloth" cape and gun. The voice was rather soft for a guy. To my surprise, it was a rather attractive girl. We started talking and let's say flirting. Then the guy behind her (I would learn was her boyfriend) was totally giving her the "I'm bored can we go now babe?" vibe. I pondered this paradox like feeling that I found the first instance of a hawt girl liking Star Wars and the boyfriend thinking it lame and nerdy. (for the record I had come across other girls that liked Star Wars and Comics, but this one was actually good looking!) If I had the balls back then I would have asked for her phone number. Who cares what the boyfriend thought?
Fast forward 15 years. Now everywhere I turn around, there's actually runway model hot girls liking Star Wars and comics. And they don't hide it. Geek is the new Cool. We aren't the minority anymore.
I do admit that I was so blinded by the fact that the really cute girls didn't like the things that I liked, that I actually overlooked one in High School. And she was captain of the Varisty Cheerleading Squad. Who'd thunk, eh?
Monday, January 10, 2011
It's Slick as Snot Out There!
Waking up to snow was, and always will be, the best part of growing up. Why was it such a big deal? Well, growing up in Roswell New Mexico meant it didn't happen very often. Second, it usually meant that we didn't need much to bring the town to its knees and for school to be cancelled.
I was spoiled when it came to snow. This is something that my daughter will not enjoy as Denver is much more familiar to the fluffy white powder. See, unless Denver gets over 24 inches, they don't even notice. Golf courses still book tee times. And cute girls still wear cutoff jeans with a parka. And thus today, with nearly 10 inches on the sidewalks and streets, Denver Public Schools were still running like nothing happened. Not so, when I was young.
I don't remember the specific dates but usually the snow fell in a few inches. We'd quickly turn on KBIM Channel 10. The big story would be the 2 or 3 inches of snow that hit the ground and it was always followed by "schools will be closed today." This statement was normally followed by a quick arm tuck followed by a exclamation of "yes!" I would run back to my room and throw Pitfall into the Coleco Gemini(side story: yes, I had a Coleco Gemini. I like every other 10 year old wanted an Atari 2600. Yet the dang thing was too expensive. But Santa (or Santa's proxy) brought me a Coleco Gemini. Basically a Atari 2600 clone. It took Atari cartridges and other than a different controller design it played no different. What can you do, right?)
As I was playing my game and trying to get Pitfall Harry over the crocodiles, my mother still was preparing to go to work. Although schools closed, the business world did not. She would leave and I would ask if I could go outside later. She would agree but only on the promise I would "bundle up."
Snow days were the coolest.
One that I do remember more than others when the area was blanketed by at least 6 inches. Thinking it was early 80s, 1983 or 1984. My mother had gone off to Chewnings to work and not only was it a "snow day" but with so much snow, the next day was looking to be a "snow day" too! I bundled up as I promised and first tried riding my bike over to CB's house. That didn't work out to well as even BMX tires wont cut through snow pack. His house was about four or five blocks away. I ditched the bike and set out on foot. The journey included but not limited to: sidewalks, streets, an open field and alleys. As I started across the field, I began to reenact the classic scene from Empire Strikes Back. I struggled through the snow drifts. Fell to the ground. Crawling and lifting my head, "Ben? Ben!?" Luke, you will go to the Dagobah system and learn from the Jedi Master who instructed me. I laugh at the memory wondering if anyone was watching this 12 year old kid falling in the snow and thinking I was really in trouble.
It took about an hour to trek through the white stuff. Once at CB's house, we prepared his front yard for the ultimate snow ball fight. We built trenches, snow walls and cache of snowballs. Hours of preparation and the battle lasted exactly 3 minutes 47 seconds. (obviously we didn't time it but it was very quick) Covered in snow. Our jeans and clothes soaked with icy water. We raced inside to warm up by the crackling fire. Once dried out and warmed, I would head home.
In the days prior to cell phones, I called my mother before I left, when I arrived at CB's, when I left CB's and when I arrived back home. Each time I called to inform my mother I was safe and leaving, she would say, be careful out there, "It's as slick as snot." She said this when it snowed regardless if I was walking, riding a bike or catching a ride from someone's parents. And she continues to say it even today as I load my daughter in the car to get her to school. "Be careful, it's slick as snot out there!"
I was spoiled when it came to snow. This is something that my daughter will not enjoy as Denver is much more familiar to the fluffy white powder. See, unless Denver gets over 24 inches, they don't even notice. Golf courses still book tee times. And cute girls still wear cutoff jeans with a parka. And thus today, with nearly 10 inches on the sidewalks and streets, Denver Public Schools were still running like nothing happened. Not so, when I was young.
I don't remember the specific dates but usually the snow fell in a few inches. We'd quickly turn on KBIM Channel 10. The big story would be the 2 or 3 inches of snow that hit the ground and it was always followed by "schools will be closed today." This statement was normally followed by a quick arm tuck followed by a exclamation of "yes!" I would run back to my room and throw Pitfall into the Coleco Gemini(side story: yes, I had a Coleco Gemini. I like every other 10 year old wanted an Atari 2600. Yet the dang thing was too expensive. But Santa (or Santa's proxy) brought me a Coleco Gemini. Basically a Atari 2600 clone. It took Atari cartridges and other than a different controller design it played no different. What can you do, right?)
As I was playing my game and trying to get Pitfall Harry over the crocodiles, my mother still was preparing to go to work. Although schools closed, the business world did not. She would leave and I would ask if I could go outside later. She would agree but only on the promise I would "bundle up."
Snow days were the coolest.
One that I do remember more than others when the area was blanketed by at least 6 inches. Thinking it was early 80s, 1983 or 1984. My mother had gone off to Chewnings to work and not only was it a "snow day" but with so much snow, the next day was looking to be a "snow day" too! I bundled up as I promised and first tried riding my bike over to CB's house. That didn't work out to well as even BMX tires wont cut through snow pack. His house was about four or five blocks away. I ditched the bike and set out on foot. The journey included but not limited to: sidewalks, streets, an open field and alleys. As I started across the field, I began to reenact the classic scene from Empire Strikes Back. I struggled through the snow drifts. Fell to the ground. Crawling and lifting my head, "Ben? Ben!?" Luke, you will go to the Dagobah system and learn from the Jedi Master who instructed me. I laugh at the memory wondering if anyone was watching this 12 year old kid falling in the snow and thinking I was really in trouble.
It took about an hour to trek through the white stuff. Once at CB's house, we prepared his front yard for the ultimate snow ball fight. We built trenches, snow walls and cache of snowballs. Hours of preparation and the battle lasted exactly 3 minutes 47 seconds. (obviously we didn't time it but it was very quick) Covered in snow. Our jeans and clothes soaked with icy water. We raced inside to warm up by the crackling fire. Once dried out and warmed, I would head home.
In the days prior to cell phones, I called my mother before I left, when I arrived at CB's, when I left CB's and when I arrived back home. Each time I called to inform my mother I was safe and leaving, she would say, be careful out there, "It's as slick as snot." She said this when it snowed regardless if I was walking, riding a bike or catching a ride from someone's parents. And she continues to say it even today as I load my daughter in the car to get her to school. "Be careful, it's slick as snot out there!"
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