Yesterday was Brody's third birthday. The big 0-3. We decided to get him a neat-o sand table with which he can have all the construction-themed adventures he wants.
He loves digging and scooping, and now that it's almost summer, it's the perfect outside toy.
So before all the birthday revelry began, I put together the table on the back patio -- while it was raining. In May. In California. But did the rain get Brody the Builder down? Heck no. That's all he wanted to do -- just dig in the sand, wearing his hard hat.
Then he took a break.
"It's raining!"
If he could've, he would have probably stayed outside playing in the sand all day. But we're mean parents, and we made him come inside to open presents and stuff like that.
And unless the present in question had wheels, he wasn't interested. Unless it was a book about trucks with wheels. That was okay.
I think next year he might have more of an idea of what's going on. Heck, next year he might even try some ice cream cake, which he typically refuses the way most people react to rat poison or "Xanadu."
Still, it was nice to have the family over for Brody's birthday.
I know I say it a lot, but man-o-man, I loves me some Internet.
I was going through a few boxes in the massive Siftin Artifact Archive, and I came across some old Super Pac-Man Rub-Off Game cards. Alas, the cards are so old, the dots won't rub off anymore. Well, actually, they will, but they'll take a few layers of the card with them, so they're not as much fun.
It'll be hard explaining the fun of these things when my son grows up. Actually, it's hard to say that we played "Rub-Off games" without my inner 12-year-old smirking. But fortunately, you can't see me and you'll be none the wiser about how immature I am.
This was the cool thing back in the day; the idea was to rub off (huh-huh-huh...) one circle at a time and tally the points earned for whatever was under the dot. Blue monsters, for example, were worth 10 points. You had to go in a line; you couldn't skip around willy-nilly. If you found three regular non-blue ghost monsters, your game was over. It was like a small paper version of Super Pac-Man.
Step 7 in the instructions tells you to "Use SUPER PAC-MAN stickers as prizes, for trading or collecting."
Here's your prize:
If you want to learn more, check out this cool page. Not only are the Super Pac-Man cards featured, but also regular Pac-Man, Ms. Pac-Man, Donkey Kong, Dragon's Lair and Robot Wars.
I also remember Video City cards, which featured a few other games.
And while we're on the subject of dubious attempts to cash in on the video game craze, this also came from one of the catacombs in the archives.
Yes, a Defender board game.
I had the Pac-Man board game when I was younger, and I actually had fun moving my plastic Pac around the board, gobbling marbles with it.
This game, well, it cost me 99 cents at a thrift store.
I just found out that a movie I've been wanting to see for a long time is coming out on DVD next month, thanks to Anchor Bay (who also made it possible for me to see a special edition DVD of "Supergirl").
I first read about "Cemetery Man" (also known as "Dellamorte Dellamore") in one of the many cult/sci-fi/horror movie review books I have, and it really intrigued me. Alas, the video store selection at the time was not as diverse as I'd've liked, and (this was before Netflix) I didn't end up getting to check it out.
What's it about? Well, quoth the press release:
Directed by Michele Soavi, Cemetery Man stars Rupert Everett (My Best Friend's Wedding and the voice of Prince Charming in Shrek 2 ) as Francesco Dellamore, a cemetery caretaker who finds that his seemingly dead-end job has recently become a little harder. Along with his sidekick Gnaghi (Francois Hadji-Lazaro), Francesco spends his days interning corpses and his nights killing “returners” – those who have risen from their grave seven days after burial. Life changes for Francesco when he falls for a beautiful, mysterious widow (Anna Falchi). When fate intervenes, Francesco must choose between Love Eternal and the Living Dead…
I'm not a huge zombie fan, but this sounded pretty cool. It hits your favorite movie store shelf on June 13.
Well, that's great, Sparkman, you're probably saying, but are there any special features on the disc?
* Widescreen Presentation (1.66:1), enhanced for 16x9 TVs * Dolby Digital 5.1 Surround Sound * Death is Beautiful: The Making of Cemetery Man featuring all-new cast and crew interviews including director Michele Soavi, star Anna Falchi and more * Michele Soavi Bio * Trailers
It looks like a cool flick, and I'm looking forward to checking it out.
This Mother's Day, I made a shocking discovery about mothers. They're like superheroes. No capes or anything like that, but they have amazing powers and abilities that you don't realize until you start thinking about it.
Their hugs can soothe wounds both physical and mental (except maybe severed limbs, but they'll try).
They can alter the flow of time in a fashion that seems to defy the laws of physics, such as when you mention that you're supposed to bring cupcakes for the whole class that day, and you're supposed to leave for school in 5 minutes.
Their saliva is a powerful solvent applied by thumb that can remove dirt from just about any child's face.
They possess seemingly infinite patience, even when faced with children who chase the cat so relentlessly that it poops on the wall in the hallway.
Heightened senses that would put Daredevil to shame (they can tell if you roll your eyes at them, even when they're not looking at you).
I can't imagine anyone more grateful for moms than children, with the possible exception of Hallmark. And See's.
A friend asked me a question the other day, and it got me thinking: In what order should the Star Wars movies be watched?
It's hard to decide, but I think I'd have to go for watching them in the order they were released. I know it defeats the point of numbering them Episodes 1-6, but bear with me.
Part of the reason, obviously, is that's how I saw them: 4-6, then 1-3.
But I think watching Eps. 1-3 first could diminish the enjoyment of watching 4-6. For starters, by the time you get to "Star Wars," you already know how Darth Vader became Darth Vader. He's not as mysterious.
Okay, if you haven't seen all the movies, you might want to stop here, lest I spoil them for you.
Part of the fun for me watching the original trilogy (OT) was that you got only bits and pieces of Vader's story. Obi-Wan tells Luke that Anakin Skywalker was killed by Darth Vader. That's what made that scene ("No, I am your father!) in "Empire" such a jaw-dropper. We talked about that at school forever. But if you've already seen the new trilogy (NT), you already know who Vader is.
Not only that, but then you're wondering why Vader doesn't sense who Luke is during the first movie.
Or why Obi-Wan says that Yoda trained him instead of Qui-Gonn Jinn.
I could go on, but you get the idea. I think you have to pick which trilogy you want to be your trilogy.
"Star Wars" brings you in the middle of action, where the Rebellion is trying to topple the Empire. "The Phantom Menace" begins with a breath-taking tax dispute.
I'm also not a big fan of the fake foreshadowing in the NT, especially lines like Obi-Wan's "Why do I get the feeling you'll be the death of me?" to Anakin.
I'm still not convinced George Lucas had the whole story planned out in his head they way everyone says he did. The general idea, sure, but not the details. Otherwise, why would Leia have kissed Luke twice (once in Star Wars, once in Empire) if George knew they were brother and sister? Ick.
If you want to watch the original trilogy old-school-like, the non-Special Edition Star Wars trilogy will be out on DVD in September, despite assurances that the Special Editions were the definitive version.
And then next year, the Super-Definitive entire Star Wars saga is supposed to be released as a box set, and who knows what versions will be in that monster?
And there's the 3-D version George is working on.
Maybe I should just save my bucks and wait till the immersive holographic version comes out.
As long as Greedo doesn't shoot first, I'll be happy.
The season finale of "The Office" is on tonight, and I can't wait to watch it, and not (as some in my household have speculated) just for Jenna Fischer, who plays Pam. I love this show; it always makes me laugh out loud, no matter how crabby I am.
It even makes me laugh when it's not on. How?
Every now and then, I check the stats for the blog, seeing if the number of visitors has reached double digits, things like that. But my favorite part is seeing how people got here.
A search for "Wonder Twins" usually pops up every week, and fans of "Camp Cucamonga" are apparently not in short supply.
But last week, there was this: "jenna fischer chest."
I love how search engines work. For a day or two, this blog was the top result for that search. And no, it wasn't me making the search, pervs...
This is particularly funny given that the subject of chests had come up on the blog Jenna writes for TVGuide.com.
So to sum up (especially for those readers who are married to me), I don't know her -- even though she's on my MySpace friends list -- and I'm sorry to have disappointed whoever came here looking for something besides pop culture fluff.
While at the grocery store the other day, my son Brody was sitting quietly in the cart until something caught his eye.
"Wow, look at that!" he said. Not loudly, mind you, but I could tell something had really gotten his attention.
I looked at where he was looking, expecting to see a display that featured a car or construction equipment (generally the only thing he notices these days).
Nope. No cars.
A blonde.
My son, the girl-watcher. And he's not even 3 yet.
Free Comic Book Day has come and gone once again, and this year, I had a good time. Not so much because of the free comic books, but every now and then I like getting the chance to be in my local comic book store for more than just a few minutes.
It was neat to see a wide range of people, young and old, male and female, clearly enjoying something they liked. I'm terribly shy, but there's something about being a comic book reader/collector that makes it easy to just fall into conversations with people you've never met.
I was also pleased to get a sketch from artist Ethen Beavers, who is a cool cat. He was very nice, giving advice to budding artists and just talking about what it's like being in the business, not to mention doing free sketches all day. Go check out some of his work here. He also signed my copy of Justice League Unlimited #18, the issue he drew that features one of the funniest characters from DC's Silver Age sci-fi comics, Space Cabby.
Another thing that I really thought was cool was hearing a group of young woman professing their love for the Marv Wolfman-era Teen Titans, which is still one of my favorite comics. It was the first series I tried to collect the whole run of. And I don't remember meeting too many girls who were into comics at the time.
I had more fun in a few hours here than I generally do at giant comic conventions. Whether that's attributable to my dislike of crowds or just that there's almost too much to do at a convention, I don't know.
If you want to see a little bit of what was going on, you should check out this little video piece we did for work. Yes, I was pressed into service in front of a camera. Face for radio, voice for print, if you know what I mean. My part is in the second half.
While rooting around YouTube, I found this outtake. I also have it on a blooper compilation videotape that I got when I was younger.
To this day, it still makes me laugh. Draw your own conclusions about my level of maturity (or lack thereof).
Note: This clip contains one mildly inappropriate word (that I utter roughly a kajillion times during the course of a day, without much provocation) so view at your own peril!
Luckily for you, all you have to do is hop on the computer and check out this nifty little part of the Hasbro Web site. It's a repository of rules and instructions for their games past and present. It's fun to rediscover games you aven't thought about in years.
They even have the instructions for the Super Powers: JLA Skyscraper Caper 3-D Board Game. I had this and brought it to school in sixth grade so my friends and I could play it at lunch. It was too big to carry home in my backpack, so I stashed it in my locker, figuring I could have my mom drive me back to school and pick it up.
I kept forgetting, and eventually came locker cleanup day. My last chance to get it out, and I totally blew it. Some lucky custodian got to keep it, I presume.
Twenty-eight years ago today, I was an only child, and I was happy. While I wasn't spoiled, I did get all the toys for myself. Things were good.
Exactly one year later, I wasn't an only child anymore. I was a big brother. To prepare me for the concept, my parents got me a shirt that read "#1 Son." Despite what I thought, it just meant that of my parents' two children, I was born first. It had nothing to do with quality of said children. Well, that's what they said. I had my doubts.
I remember my dad telling me that Josh looked a lot like me when I was a baby.
"Is he my twin?" I asked. I wasn't really clear on the exact definition of "twin." I was 4.
"No, but he looks a lot like you."
I was excited by the prospect of having a little brother. Not only did it mean a playmate and someone with whom I could share all the wisdom I'd accumulated in my four years on this planet.
It meant that I had someone I could order around. A minion of my very own to do my bidding!
I didn't take long to figure out that wasn't going to work. When he was about 2 years old, he would repeat whatever people would say to him. For minutes at a time.
A devious plan formed in my mind.
So I taught him a swear word, which he instantly and enthusiastically began parroting. Satisfied that the stream (or more appropriately, given the word I taught him, creek) would continue for a while, I corralled him into the kitchen, where my mom was getting ready to make dinner.
It almost worked. I saw the look on my mom's face when she heard what her 2-year-old was saying, and that was pretty funny. But then she asked where he heard that word. Without hesitation, Josh, my sweet baby brother, stretched out his arm and pointed straight at me.
The little creep sold me out!
From then on it was a constant struggle to remind him of his place in the fraternal hierarchy. His job was to do the gruntwork. I'd come up with the plans, and he would execute any part that might cause injury to me.
One constant thing about my brother is that it takes a crane to get him out of bed in the morning. This provided much annoyance to me, especially when I wanted him to do something for me, but it also provided some fun.
So sound a sleeper was he that I, wanting to show him just what a butthead he was for sleeping so late all the time, drew a buttcrack down the middle of his face. Even better, he didn't realize it for a while.
Another time, he refused to get out of bed. Out of ideas (and maybe 10 or 11), I told him that if he didn't get out of bed, I was going to fart on his head.
He didn't believe me.
He did after that.
I really wanted to get him a customized birthday greeting from Captain Zoom, but I didn't get the chance. I mentioned a while back that on his birthday one year, he got the personalized record and was scared to tears that a stranger on a record was wishing him a happy birthday.
Well, here we go again. Like good old Jason Voorhees, Bad Movies A to Z comes back once more. There are so many entries in the "Friday the 13th" series to choose from, but I managed to narrow it down to today's selection: "Friday the 13th Part VI: Jason Lives."
The movie in a nutshell: Nut in a hockey mask slices, dices, juliennes.
The story: Tommy Jarvis (played by Corey Feldman in Part IV) is released from a mental institution; he's been in a few since he killed Jason Voorhees and was traumatized. But he has a feeling that Jason's not really gone, so he and a friend go to where Jason is buried.
Tommy's friend, Hawes (Ron "Horshack" Palillo) joins him in the trek to the cemetery on a stormy night. Tommy plans to destroy Jason's corpse to make sure he's not coming back.
This made me think: Given the problems Jason has caused in the past, wouldn't it be wiser to not have him in a marked grave where anyone could, well, dig him up and try to destroy his body?
In no time flat, Tommy has dug up the coffin. He gets a crowbar from Hawes and pops it open. Ooo, inside is a wormy, maggoty corpse. Yum. Tommy flashes back to when he killed Jason. He gets pissed off and stabs the crap out of the body with a metal fencepost that he rips off the cemetery fence (!). He throws in Jason's mask and turns away to get the gasoline.
Lightning strikes, and before you can say Frankenstein's monster, guess who comes back to life?
Dawes, unaware of Jason's resurrection, says, "My heart can't take any more of this." Hmm. Foreshadowing?
Jason crawls out of the grave and goes after Tommy, who douses him with gas. Alas, the rain kicks in and Tommy can't light a match. Dawes hits Jason with a shovel from behind, and Jason, without too much effort, rips out Dawes' heart. Dawes falls into Jason's casket. Tommy drives away. Jason dons his mask, and we get a closeup of his eye. With a nice homage to the James Bond flicks, the opening credits roll.
Tommy heads to the local sheriff's department and says that Jason is alive. Sheriff Garris thinks it's a prank and has Deputy Rick Cologne lock him up. While Tommy's locked up, the scene shifts to two camp counselors, Darren and Lizbeth, who are heading to Camp Forest Green. There's just one little obstacle in their way -- Jason.
Darren suggests driving at him to scare him away. It doesn't work. Darren reaches over and honks the horn. Jason pops a tire with his blade. Darren gets a gun out of the glovebox and threatens Jason. Jason spear-vaults Darren behind him. Now it's Lizbeth's turn. She offers Jason money, and when she looks up, he's gone -- until he shows up behind her and spears her in the head.
The next morning, some other counselors are asking the sheriff to help look for Darren and Lizbeth. Tommy tells them that Jason is out there. Megan is Garris' daughter, and Paula is Lizbeth's sister. Garris is going to take Tommy to the edge of his jurisdiction, and then Tommy is to get out of town and stay away.
That night, the caretaker of the cemetery is wandering around drunk and singing. Nearby, young lovers Steve and Annette are picnicking/making out. The caretaker says that his booze will be the death of him -- "but what a way to go" -- and lobs the bottle behind him. He notices it doesn't break. He turns around to see that Jason caught it. He breaks the end of the bottle and stabs the caretaker with it. Wah-wah-wahhhhh.
You can't fault this movie for not paying off. Every line serves the story, no matter how mechanically and predictably.
From here on out, the movie settles into a rhythm in which we shift among three focal points:
1. Tommy, who is trying to destroy Jason
2. Jason, who is trying to destroy everyone
3. Sheriff Garris, who is dealing with the other two
At points they overlap, but for the most part, it's a steady rotation. There's an ill-advised comic relief bit thrown in that involves some weekend warrior paintballers, but they end up just being fodder for Jason, so they don't really add up to much.
Near the end of the movie, the pace quickens noticeably, and the shifts speed up accordingly and being to merge.
Tommy and Megan arrive at the camp, ready to put their plan in action. I still don't buy that Megan would be that interested in helping Tommy, but that's just me.
Tommy runs to the dock and throws his bag of supplies in a boat. Megan decides to check to see who's still around. All her friends are gone, and very shortly, so will her dad.
Jason is out looking for Garris, who is also roaming the camp looking for survivors.
Megan all the kids in one cabin -- her dad had herded them all in there when Jason arrived -- and tells them to get back under the beds until she gets back. Tommy tells her to use the squad car radio to call for help. She opens the door, and Sissy's head rolls out.
Megan screams, which gets Jason's attention, but before he can close in on her, Garris ambushes him and beats the crap out of him. Jason fights back, and that's the end of the sheriff.
On the dock, Tommy is getting everything ready. While he's doing that, Jason gets to the kids' cabin, which Megan then runs toward. Jason pops out of the cabin and almost kills Megan. Tommy saves her by calling Jason out on to the dock.
"Come on, maggot head!"
Tommy gets the chains ready to redrown Jason with a big rock. Jason wades out to the boat but disappears before he gets there. Tommy pours gas on the water and lights it, waiting for Jason to resurface. He pops up behind him and wrestles with him on the boat. Tommy struggles to wrap the chains around Jason's neck. Jason cuts Tommy's arm and disappears again. When he pops back up, Tommy lassos him with the chain. The boat breaks, and they both go down. An underwater struggle ensues. Tommy appears to drown, and Jason lets go, letting him rise to the surface.
Megan goes to check on Tommy. She dives in and swims toward him. While she tries to bring him back to shore, Jason grabs her leg and tries to pull her under. She starts the motor on the boat, and Jason gets a propeller to the head/neck/chest. That's gotta smart. A bunch of bloody goo rises, and Megan brings Tommy back on dry land. Is he dead?
I know I'm supposed to care during this very tense moment, but I swear, the only thing that occurs to me is that one of the kids standing near Tommy is wearing a Masters of the Universe shirt with Mekanek on it! Sweet.
Tommy lives!
"It's over. It's finally over. Jason's home."
But if you think about it, it's not quite over. Megan still doesn't know her dad is dead.
Cut to: a sunny day. Beneath the lake's surface, Jason rests. We cut close and he opens his eye. He's still alive. So what the hell was all that blood? A bad cough?
The Alice Cooper song ("The Man Behind the Mask") at the end credits, while dated, is still kinda catchy.
Afterthoughts: I picked this one because at one time, it was my favorite of the series. Watching it now is, not surprisingly, not as much fun. The comedy elements for the most part are OK, with the exception of the paintballers I mentioned earlier. One of them is killed when Jason grabs him by the arm and whirls him into a tree face first. As the victim falls, we see the spot where he hit is a bloody smiley face on the tree. That's just a bit much for me.
One of the kid campers reading "No Exit" was better because it was funny without really interrupting what limited dark mood the movie had going.
And that's probably one of the big problems. This just didn't feel scary at all. It's too paint-by-numbers, I think. Even as a youngster, I knew that this was just to highlight the gore effects and body count. You end up just counting the beats, wondering how each victim is going to get dispatched. But since each death is telegraphed by a mile, even that isn't much fun. There's a big difference between suspense and impassioned anticipation.
There was also a lot of exposition, which I think added to the lack of suspense. It seems as though they felt obligated to explain Jason's history. On one hand, I appreciate this -- just like comic books, every installment is someone's first -- but how much do you really need to explain Jason? He's a nut in a hockey mask who kills people. It's nice to know his motivation, but since it really has no bearing on anything in the movie -- other than him killing everyone at the camp -- it just slows things down.
I didn't notice this back in the day, but the music in the movie just isn't working for me. I don't fault Harry Manfredini, who also did the music for all the other "Friday the 13th" flicks up to this point. I blame the choice of one instrument -- the electric piano. The score is a victim of its time. The normally spooky, atmospheric music, which is quite effective in other parts of the movie, just sounds like a TV Movie of the Week once that electric piano comes in. A minor complaint to be sure, but added to the other things I mentioned, makes the movie a touch less scary.
On the good side, I liked Sheriff Garris. He was one of the few characters who came across more like a person than a placeholder. Seriously, when I was taking note while watching this, I had to go back and forth, pausing so I could get the characters' names. They're usually mentioned at the beginning of the movie, and only a few times after that.
Also, this is the first one where I got the feeling that Jason was really the central character in the series. This really went a long way in building a mythology for the character, something that other movies would build on later.
It's not as much fun as it was when I was younger, but is still a solid entry worth checking out. I found the trailer on YouTube. Check it out for a taste of the fun.
This contraption, the Fisher-Price Talk-To-Me Player, is essentially a teeny-tiny upside-down record player.
It was used to play the not-coincidentally named Talk-To-Me Books, a collection of children's books that featured such stars as Mickey Mouse, Bugs Bunny and the Muppets.
You plunked the player on the part of the page that had a mini-record embossed on it. While technically a simple operation, those kids with less than stellar hand-eye coordination had a hard time lining it up properly.
I fondly remember the click-and-coiling-spring sound it made when you pressed the play button. Then the page would come to life, reading everything on the page.
It was a cool (but mildly time-consuming) way to listen to stories, especially for the kids who couldn't read yet.
Being a nerd, I had a hard time not reading ahead to the end of the page.
If you come across these books at a garage sale or thrift shop, odds are you'll catch #2: Disney's "Ghost Chasers," an adaptation of the 1937 cartoon "Lonesome Ghosts." That was the one that came with the player.
My brother and I gave ours to our cousins once we outgrew them. Thanks to my aunt, I reclaimed the books once my cousins had outgrown them and I had decided to archive my childhood.
I've had them in storage for the past few years, but now I'm thinking of cracking them open for my son so he can enjoy them before he gets old enough to openly mock technology from my youth.
When I looked these up on the Internet to find more information, I found this page on Wikipedia. The technology for this toy was developed by Reynold B. Johnson, who among other things, appears to be the reason we all had to use No. 2 pencils on our test forms.
But the article said he also brought us the disk drive and the videocassette, so I guess that makes up for it.
Just because I'm a nerd, I took the player off the shelf and tested it on a Bugs Bunny book, "The Desert Island." Nada. Well that just wouldn't do, so I popped it open and MacGyvered it with (no kidding) a rubber band.
Granted, it didn't work well, but it played the record. Slowly. I hooked a mic into the computer, recorded the playback off the player's speaker and ran it through Audacity. Speeding it up about 15% seemed to do the trick. You can listen to the first page below.
I spend way too much time on YouTube, but one of my weaknesses is intermission clips from the golden age of the drive-in theater.
I have one of Something Weird Video's "Hey, Folks! It's Intermission Time!" compilations, and I love it. It's about 2 hours of nothing but clips -- no actual movie trailers -- and I've watched it a kajillion times. I need to get others in the series just so I can see some new stuff.
Some of the ads for the concession stand are amazing in the fact that the food looks quite repulsive. Part of this is the age and discoloration of the clips, but some of them are just gross-looking.
I saw one that advertised pizza -- back when everyone apparently called them "pizza pies" -- and it really doesn't resemble pizza at all. I've seen roadkill that looks more like pizza than in some of these ads.
This one and this one. I mentioned offhand that on "The Superfriends," the Wonder Twins didn't touch rings together, despite what everyone else in the free world seemed to remember. Then I got some responses and had to piece together the puzzle.
Lest you doubt me, here is a crappy picture of them initiating the change merely by touching their fingertips.
If I remember correctly, they are being held by a giant robot version of their space monkey Gleek.
I got this week's issue of Star in the mail today.
Shut up, I had frequent flyer miles to cash in before they expired.
Anyway, I'm flipping through it, Tom Cruise, bla-bla, Nick and Jessica, yawn, etc.
In a feature on the return of the fashionable hair band (the accessory, not Whitesnake), I read the following caption:
Forties, Twenties, what's two decades?
This is only my second week of the Star. Last week's issue got a passing grade if just for the picture of Jenna Fischer from "The Office."
That sound you just heard was my wife's eyes rolling.
We'll see if the Star can redeem itself in the weeks to come. I'd like to think I made the right choice spending my points on this magazine instead of The Wall Street Journal or Men's Health.
On Monday (well, Tuesday morning, technically) at midnight, Cartoon Network is offering the following program to its vast legion of animation enthusiasts:
"Saved by the Bell."
Seriously, what the hell, Cartoon Network?
It's bad enough that sister channel Boomerang, "Your 24-Hour Network for Classic Cartoons," has shows such as "A Pup Named Scooby-Doo," "Baby Looney Tunes" and "Tom and Jerry Kids" on the schedule, but "Saved by the Bell" on Cartoon Network? Really?
For crap's sake, you could just blow the late-night slot with "Cartoon Network's Crappy Cartoon Cavalcade" and give those reruns of "The Gary Coleman Show" and "Chuck Norris Karate Commandos" a breather. God knows there are plenty of crappy cartoons in the collective vaults at Cartoon Network.
learned very early on that when it came to Easter egg hunts, I just plain sucked. I guess I didn't take it very well. On the back of this picture, my grandmother made the following notation: Well, surely once I'd started kindergarten, my egg-seeking skills would have improved, right?
One of the things I enjoy the most about being a dad is watching my son develop his taste in music.
I'm constantly surprised by what he likes to listen to. He and I spend a lot of our day listening to or playing music, so he's exposed to a lot.
He used to be content laughing at me when I'd sing the high parts of a song, but now he's joining in the fun.
The other day, I was going through some Beach Boys songs, and I played "Dance, Dance, Dance." Brody started rocking out and smiling. By the end of the song, he was singing the "Dance...dance...dance!" part.
When he really likes a song and doesn't know all the words yet, he just will repeat two words over and over to the tune of the song.
It cracks me up listening to him sing the Beatles' "Because." He only knows a few words, but he goes to town on the oohs and ahhs. He also prefers the Elliott Smith version, which I think is pretty cool.
I played Brian Wilson's "Smile" album a lot when Brody was really little, and the first song I saw him take an interest in was the opening track, "Our Prayer." I played it a month or two ago and was surprised when Brody started singing it -- ahh-ing where there was ahh-ing, and ooh-ing where there was ooh-ing.
Even more surprising, he was picking out the bass vocal parts. I would've thought he'd go for the high parts -- wouldn't that be easier for him? He also likes humming the bass lines in other songs.
It pleases me to no end that he'll actually ask to sing or to play "Dance, Dance, Dance." I hope music stays a big part of his life as he gets older.
I'd also like to express my admiration and appreciation for They Might Be Giants. "Here Come the ABCs" is Brody's favorite album, and it's one that both of us can listen to over and over. If you don't already have it, go get it.
Other favorite artists: Harry Nilsson, Paul McCartney, The Wiggles and Franz Ferdinand. You haven't seen funny until you see a 2-year-old singing "Do You Want To."
I love going to the dollar stores because I never know exactly what I might find, whether it's a "BMX Bandits/Evel Knieval" double-feature DVD or a 27-year-old Fotonovel.
This time, it was a special commemorative pack of Pop Rocks. To celebrate 30 years of everyone's favorite soda chaser, we are treated to the packaging from the 70s -- the one I remember so fondly.
It's no "Ice Castles" Fotonovel, but hey, what is, right?
I keep seeing ads for GM's "Live Green, Go Yellow" campaign for its FlexFuel vehicles. They're really pushing the corn angle -- not only can you see how many barrels of oil that would be saved annually if you switched, but you can also see how many cobs of corn would be used in its place.
So I was thinking that they might come up with different grades of the fuel. E85 is 85% ethanol and 15% gasoline.
But you know, E85 doesn't really say anything to me. If you want ordinary slobs like me to get the idea, you should come up with a system I can relate to while still hyping the corn element. Maybe stations of the future will look like this:
That also means that in less than two months, it will be a year since my son Harry died. It seems like both an eternity and a few days ago. We're having a little mini-family vacation this week in Harry's honor. I wanted it to be more of a celebration than a mourning.
So if blogging seems a little light this week, it's not laziness, I promise.
I was tidying up in the old Siftin' archives and came across something I wrote in the early-90s when I could be found occupying the ticket booth at my local theater.
Working box, as it was called, was often fairly solitary. While I sat in the ticket booth, my co-workers manned the concession stand down the hall.
In between shows, there wasn't much to do aside from helping the occasional "When's the next showing of 'Dumb and Dumbler'?" customer.
And no, I didn't misspell that. That's what she asked. She also asked about "Richie Richie" as well as another title that was just so wrong, I'm not going to mention it.
Anyhow, I passed the time by writing. Armed with either a notebook, or scroll-like on a roll of rough and amazingly water-resistant brown paper towels, I scribbled furiously.
One day, much to my amazement, I wrote a poem. Now keep in mind, I'm not a poet at all. My best work up to that point was
Roses are swell
Violets are nifty
I got your valentine
For a quarter at Thrifty
Real poetry was over my head with its use of symbolism and abstract imagery. So when I read what I had written, I wondered just what the hell happened. Did I zone out that much? Was I tripping on the Windex fumes after cleaning the box office window?
Beats me. Even now, a dozen or so years later, I still can't imagine having written it if I didn't have the hard copy in my own writing.
I see references to commercials and Michael Jackson's marriage to Lisa Marie Presley, but everything else is just a mishmash of images, almost like flipping through channels late at night.
If you want to sample this oddity for yourself, have at it. It's long, and I can't say that it's particularly good (I wouldn't really know, honestly), but it is weird, and that's what we're all about at this blog, right? I would like to clarify that I was stone sober when I wrote this (I was at work, after all).
I bask in the glory of my Barka Lounger
Because I'm not a La Z Boy
Overdub a Jack in the Box springing
Or falling or summering — no matter
I sing the words because I can't hum
The darn thing has wings — so I can fly
To my Craftmatic Adjustable Coffin
And sleep restfully forever or at least
Until the Bunch comes back on because
Marcia was the cutest — ow, my nose!
What is that noise trip-trapping at the olfactory?
Y'know, I was almost going to let this one go without comment.
For some reason, they were selling tiny stockings in the gumball machines at the store when we were kids. I don't think that was the main draw -- we were probably trying to get one of those giant sticky things that it's fun to smack people with.
At first we were bummed out with our purchase. I mean, what can you do with a tiny stocking?
"I bet you can't fit it over your head," I said to my brother, Josh.
No sooner said than done. The fun part came when he tried to take it off -- and couldn't.
We just had to save this one for posterity.
Now, I don't know what's funnier -- the twin runs in the stocking that line up with his front teeth or his Bear Whiz Beer shirt.
Ever since I found that Twinkies were originally filled with banana creme (I was doing a report on the food groups), I always wondered what that would taste like.
They should be on store shelves now, so we'll see if I can find them and try them out before their limited time is up.
It's a tie-in with the DVD release of "King Kong," which, like every movie since "Batman Begins," I have yet to see.
The last time they had a King Kong movie, the ill-fated "King Kong Lives," with Linda Hamilton, I thought I had the perfect product tie-in.
Pez dispensers.
Check it out -- this is sort of how it could've worked had they consulted me and planned it ahead of time:
1. Early in movie, have a scene where Kong sees a kid with a soldier Pez dispenser. He sees the kid pull the head back and grab some candy. Maybe even throw in a funny reaction from Kong. 2. Later in movie when encountering soldiers, Kong remembers the Pez dispenser. He tries to flip the guy's head back, but there's no candy. Kong sad.
3. Have tie-in dispensers with packs of white and red Pez.
In my defense, I was 12. But you'd definitely remember the movie, wouldn't you?
I have issues with "American Idol" judge Paula Abdul. It's not about how she's nice to practically everyone, and it's not about how what she says doesn't always seem to make sense ("... the moth who finds the melon ...").
It's simply this: It's the fifth season of American Idol, and MC Skat Kat has yet to be featured as a celebrity judge.
Has she forgotten about her old friend? I mean, they were in a video together, they collaborated on a song -- doesn't that mean anything?
In sixth grade, we all got fake awards at the end of the year. I got one for "Most Interesting Brother," because of all the goofy things I told my classmates about my brother, most of which were actually true.
In that spirit, I thought I would share some of the highlights from time to time.
Today, we'll start with something simple.
For some reason, Josh makes goofy faces in pictures. This is partly because he has a goofy face (rimshot), and partly because I think he wasn't paying attention when someone would whip out the camera.
That's how you get pictures like this:
Yeah, you know, your guess is as good as mine on that one.
Josh would probably tell you that he was slyly flipping the bird, but I'm not buying it.
Just as my wife pretends to see my coveted Nacho Cheese Cheetos on the shelves, I catch her with "Hey, isn't that Jell-O 1-2-3?"
Except when I do it, I'm a jerk.
Well, we were jonesing for some of the aforementioned dessert, so we decided to make it ourselves. Apparently so many people have asked about it that the Kraft Web site actually has a recipe for it.
I made a few modifications -- I used the regular Jell-O and Cool Whip instead of low-calorie. But after a few minutes, this is what I ended up with. On first glance, it looked like I'd made Jell-O 1-2. But if you look close, there's a third layer in the middle. I've labeled them for your convenience.
So you're saying, "That's amazing, Jeff! I am constantly amazed at the seemingly unending list of things at which you excel (with the exception of growing hair, which, as it's not your fault, doesn't count against you). But how did it taste?"
It was pretty good. I don't really have a concrete memory of what it's supposed to taste like, but it tasted like something I'd eaten before, and that was good enough for me. Look, I'm even smiling.
Of course, just after Jen took this picture, I realized that it hadn't quite set yet. But after a little bit in the freezer (I'm impatient, sue me), it was fine.
Since I used the mixed fruit flavor, the bottom layer had a color similar to raw chicken, which was a little disturbing. So let that be a little tip to you -- consider the resulting color when you pick your flavor.
More importantly, my classmates found out that I was colorblind.
"Hey, you're not wearing green!"
"Ow!" I said, recoiling from the pinch. "I am too!"
A flurry of Am Nots and Are Toos got us a debriefing with our teacher, whom I thought would come to my aid.
Alas, she said that I was, in fact, not wearing anything green. Shortly after, my classmates were told that I had trouble telling green from red.
So the next year, when St. Patrick's Day came around again, I made sure I was wearing green.
"Hey, you're not wearing green!"
"Ow!" I said, rubbing my arm where I'd been socked. "I am too wearing green! I even asked this time!"
"How do you know?" Smack!
So yeah, St. Patrick's Day, not so much a happy holiday for me.
Plus, I hate corned beef and cabbage.
The degree of my St. Pat's celebration is limited to driving the snakes from Modesto and imbibing the occasional Shamrock Shake from McDonald's, should I stop at one where they actually know what the hell I'm talking about.
"A what?"
"Shamrock Shake. You know, it's mint-flavored. And green. For St. Patrick's Day."
"I don't think we have that kind of thing here. We have McFlurries."
"Uh, never mind."
"Thank you. I'll have your total at the first window."
Truth be told, superhero was my first dream job. I have the perfect superhero name -- Sparkman.
Alas, I have two weaknesses standing in my way: a bad knee and about 25 extra pounds. Plus, I'd have to design and sew up a costume, and I don't think anyone wants to see that.
Maybe if this is successful, they'll do another one. Or maybe even "Who Wants to Be a Supervillain?"
That would give me a chance to find another excuse get in shape.
I'm always complaining about my hair's endangered species status. I used to have a lot of hair, and it was thick. Now, not so much.
Lately, my wife has been suggesting that I just go all the way and shave my head completely. This is due mostly to the fact that one of the dreamy "American Idol" contestants has done the same thing.
That's great and all, but I don't think she's seeing the whole picture.
My wife, bless her heart, thinks I'll look like this:
And my mental picture of the same situation:
My two objections to shaving my head: I don't get out in the sun much and am consequently a bit pasty, and I need to lose a few pounds.
I mean really, if I shave my head now, all I need is a little chef's hat and people will start poking my belly and asking for fresh croissants.
In less than a week, one of my favorite bad movies finally makes it to DVD!
The folks at Anthem Pictures are releasing "Microwave Massacre" with Jackie Vernon.
I'm not going to say much about the movie -- it's on my list to review later -- but I will say that this DVD is being billed as an unrated and uncut version. It gives the running time as 76 minutes, which is the same found on IMDB.com, so I don't know what exactly they mean by "uncut."
They're also pushing this as having been billed as "The Worst Horror Movie of All Time." It certainly isn't a great movie, it's quite bad. But I've never heard of anyone refer to it as the worst.
In fact, I have met few people who've even heard of it. Go figure.
Despite that, I'll be looking forward to Tuesday. I'm hoping the DVD print is less muddy than my old VHS copy.
My brain is working in cahoots with my stomach, and they're both against me.
While I'm doing something important (working, watching my son or delicate scratching), my brain and stomach decide that I'm in need of torment and give me random food cravings.
These can range from the inconvenient (a pastrami Hot Hat, which I could procure after a brief trip to a Straw Hat Pizza in Tracy) to the impossible (the tag-team treat of a HostessPudding Pie and Nacho Cheese Cheetos).
What did I ever do to them to make them hate me so much?
And more importantly, what's a guy have to do to get some good snack food to return to the shelves? I'm not the only one pining for the Pudding Pie.
And Frito-Lay seems to have room for every permutation of Cheetos imaginable. Here's the list from their Web site:
All of that and no Nacho Cheese Cheetos? I think not. For those of you who have not sampled such a taste delight, it's like if you ate a regular Cheeto and a Nacho Cheese Dorito at the same time.
I first saw them when I was a kid vacationing in Southern California with my family. I guess it was some kind of test marketing thing, because I didn't see them back home, and no one believed my stories about them.
Many years later, I was hanging out after class at Stan State, and I checked the little store for some suitable snacks.
There on a shelf, shining like a bounty of gold, were bags of Nacho Cheese Cheetos. I moved so fast toward them that you could still see my afterimage at the end of the aisle.
I only had enough money on me to buy one bag, but I was able to snag a few more bags at a nearby grocery store.
But I had to be rational about this. They disappeared once before; they could vanish again.
I called the customer service line at Frito-Lay and expressed my joy at finding my coveted snacks.
"I'm just curious, though," I said. "Is this just a test marketing thing, or are they a permanent addition?"
"Oh no, they're here for good," the friendly woman at Frito-Lay told me.
Lies!
I like to think that she was misinformed. I'd hate to think that she was deliberately lying to me just so she could rip my heart out and --
Sorry. Got a bit carried away.
I had my battle chest of Cheetos, but even I can plow my way through a big bag only so quickly. By the time I was ready for more, they glittered on the shelves no more.
But every time we go grocery shopping, I look for them. Just in case. My wife helps, too -- by testing my reflexes.
"Hey, are those Nacho Cheese Cheetos?" she'll ask, pointing to a random spot on the shelves. I look for them so quickly that I often miss the evil gleam in her eyes.
Should you want to help rectify this situation, you can call Frito-Lay at 1-800-352-4477, Monday through Friday from 9 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. Central Standard Time or write to them at: Frito-Lay, P.O. Box 660634, Dallas, TX 75266-0634
And if you want Pudding Pies to make a comeback, you can try contacting Hostess via e-mail form here or mail Interstate Brands Corporation, Consumer Affairs, 12 E. Armour Blvd., Kansas City, MO 64111. Their number is 1-800-483-7253.
And don't mention me; I might be blacklisted or something for having perhaps made disparaging comments about Twinkie the Kid in my passionate plea for the return of Pudding Pies.
I'd just like to state for the record that I have nothing but respect for Twinkie the Kid, and I'd never do anything to harm him or his hat.
Watching the Oscars the other day reminded me of my own limited acting career.
I'd never thought much of being an actor. Even as a kid, I think I knew I had a face for radio. I had yet to discover I also had a voice for print, but at that point, I was plenty happy just being the kid who made you laugh.
So when my friend Felicia, who lived across the street, mentioned she wanted to put on a play for the neighborhood, I didn't know if it was something I wanted to do.
When she said that I'd be the lead, I decided that maybe I should give it a shot.
It was a short little story. I don't know if it had an official title; if it did, it probably was something like "My Dog."
The story: A kid (me) wants a dog. His mom and dad (Felicia and her brother, Nathaniel) say that he needs to work to improve his grades. Our studious student buckles down and brings up his grades. His efforts are rewarded with a new puppy (my brother Josh, in his debut role).
I think I had about the easiest role. I didn't have to dress up, and I basically got to be myself. My brother had to look remotely like a dog, which meant that he got to don a pair of pantyhose on his head for ears. We had to color in part of the pantyhose with a Magic Marker so it all matched.
The hardest part for me was being able to emote on cue. In rehearsal, I had a big problem. Felicia said that I wasn't excited enough. I would have felt dumb jumping up and down about a dog, especially since I didn't like dogs.
During the performance, it came time for my big line. I decided at the last minute to take a different kind of approach.
"Oh boy," I said, completely deadpan, "a dog." The crowd -- our parents, a neighbor or two and a few other kids -- laughed. Getting the biggest laugh was the high point for me, and we decided that we should come up with another play -- maybe something a little longer.
So, just a week or so before my 10th birthday, our second effort made its debut in Felicia and Nathaniel's front yard. Such seasoned veterans were much too experienced for simple things like "My Dog," so we came up with a blockbuster. Add equal parts "Ghostbusters," "Strange Brew" and "Magnum, P.I.," and you had our play: "McKenzies, G.I." (Ghost Investigators).
I love that we predated the Sci-Fi Channel by a good decade or so for coming up with features ripped off of other popular movies.
Again, I was one of the leads. I don't remember much of the story, but I know the subplot involved a reunion with a girl from my past. How much of a past a 9-year-old had, I don't know, but that's what we came up with. My brother played the ghost in this one, a step up from being a puppy.
"McKenzies, G.I." was another success, but it was our last play. On our limited effects budget, we couldn't really top ourselves. It did give me the idea to try out for the school play a few months later. I'd toyed with the idea each time they announced one.
I'd never auditioned before, so I didn't know if I'd done well or not. I found out when they announced the cast over the intercom system. I'd made it. I didn't know what role I had, but I knew that I could make it funny.
I don't think I made it to even the first meeting. That's when my parents broke the news to me that we were moving soon. I had to quit the play.
And aside from a few school projects, I never acted again.
Aside from acting like I was paying attention in class.
It was probably my fault; I was the one who taught him.
I took pride in the fact that after some initial work from my parents, I was able to teach my younger brother, Josh, how to ride a bike. I thought I'd done a good job, but there were a few things that made me wonder.
Clyde Crashcup strikes
One day, not too long after I taught him, Josh was riding near the house. While pedaling happily along the road, he managed to hit a pebble the size of a bit of gravel; the kind that makes an annoying scraping sound on the ground when it gets stuck in the treads of your sneakers.
This little pebble caused him to twist up his handlebars and flip over them, landing on his chin. Back to the house he went, dripping a little trail of blood. I had to collect his bike.
My mom saw him, and it was off to the emergency room. The doctor sewed him up with a few stitches and he was as good as new. Except for the giant fat lip (which, strangely, has never gone back down) and the divot on his chin, that is.
The Race
One neat thing about our neighborhood was that the streets were separated from most of the real traffic outside the mobile home park. Obviously, people had to drive in to get home, but for the most part, the streets were pretty quiet. This allowed us to ride our bikes around without having to dodge traffic.
My brother, his friend and I were on the other side of the park with our bikes when we got an idea.
"Hey, we should have a race!"
I was all for it; as the oldest, I was the most likely to win.
We lined up our bikes, with me on the outside, Josh's friend David in the middle, and Josh nearest the curb. We'd barely begun when I saw Josh teetering away from us, being drawn to the curb like a moth to a lightbulb. If he didn't aim left, he'd --
Crash.
Since the curbs were the flat kind that taper into the street, Josh went right into a driveway that was occupied by a large pickup truck.
I was a little confused. I heard the crash, I saw the dent in the side of the truck and the bits of plastic from the shattered turn signal light, but Josh's bike was still out in the street.
Josh was trying to get up, and he was holding his head. That's when I figured it out. He'd busted up some guy's truck with his head. Before I could wrap my own head around that, a door opened and a guy walked out. He looked briefly at his truck and then at Josh.
"Hey, are you okay?" He looked to me. "What happened?"
"He ran into the truck with his head."
"His head?"
The guy helped us cart Josh back home. He knocked on our front door. My dad answered.
"This your boy?" the guy asked.
My dad looked down at Josh, who was holding his head and sniffling. The guy didn't even ask my parents to fix the truck as far as I remember. He was just worried that Josh was hurt. I knew he was okay because he'd only hit his head.
My parents didn't think that was funny. Neither did Josh.
For the next decade, Josh seemed to always be tripping or falling over something. Sure, sometimes I'd give him a little help (what are big brothers for, right?), but he seemed to do all right on his own. And boy, was he resilient. It was like having a stuntman for a little brother.
What's up?
We were trick-or-treating one year, and I'd just come down a flight of stairs after getting my candy. Josh was starting his way down when one of his friends saw him.
"Hey Josh, what's up?"
Josh missed a step and tumbled down the stairs.
My first reaction (and I'm not entirely proud, mind you): "Not him."
After a quick stop at home to get all Bactined up, Josh was back on the road ready for more candy. That, I should mention, was the second bad spill he'd taken that day.
See? Unstoppable.
I felt a little bad for laughing so hard at him, you can't see the Grim Reaper take a header down a flight of stairs and not laugh.
It's National Pancake Day tomorrow, according to the fine folks at IHOP.
Sez the website: "On February 28, 2006 from 7 AM to 2 PM IHOPs across the country will celebrate National Pancake Day (also known as Shrove Tuesday) by offering our guests a free short stack of pancakes*. This is going to be our biggest one day celebration in our history."
That little * you might have noticed is for this part here: "Limit one free short stack per guest. Valid for dine-in only, no to go orders. Not valid with any other offer, special, coupon, or discount. Valid at participating restaurants only, while supplies last."
So if your IHOP isn't participating (and shame on them if they aren't), don't blame me. I'm just the messenger.
They also suggest that you make a charitable donation, which isn't a bad idea.
I like my pancakes in the shape of a J or a Mickey Mouse head, but for free, plain ol' circles are just fine.
To my parents' generation, he was Barney Fife. To me, he was Barney Fife, Ralph Furley, The Incredible Mr. Limpet, a funny guy in damn near every Disney movie from the 70s (or so it seemed), a guest on Scooby-Doo and The Muppet Show, and, well, you get the idea.
He was everywhere.
And no matter what, he was making me laugh. As a kid, I had the most respect for people who made me laugh. I look forward to sharing Don's body of work with my son, who already has a pretty healthy appreciation for comedy.
Darren McGavin, who starred with Don Knotts in "No Deposit, No Return" and "Hot Lead and Cold Feet," died Saturday. He was 83, which surprised me. For some reason, I thought he was a bit younger.
I'd bet it's because 90% of the time I see him on TV, it's as Ralphie's crusty dad in "A Christmas Story."
"Not a finga!"
Brody isn't even 3 yet, but I think he's seen this movie about 12,000 times.
