Kick me, I'm Irish

To some people of Irish descent (here in the States, anyway), St. Patrick's Day means corned beef and cabbage and wearing something green.

To me, it means paranoia and a sore arm or leg.

I'm colorblind.

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."

This would've been remotely funny had I thought of it before the Oscars

"I wish I could quit you."

Superman or Green Lantern ain't got nothin' on me

This seems to be the kind of thing people who know me think I'd be jumping to do: "Who Wants to Be a Superhero?"

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.

Just don't give away my secret identity, okay?

The Mane Problem 2: Electric Boogaloo

My friend Ken (who has just started a blog) took time from his obviously busy schedule to offer up some hairstyle suggestions. You be the judge:


Mr. T


Jean-Luc Picard


Just plain bald


Charlie Brown


Mr. Clean

Thanks, buddy. At least I didn't ride a unicycle to school.

The mane problem

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.

Microwave Massacre unbound!

Woo-hoo!

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.

It's not easy being cheesy

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 Hostess Pudding 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:

BAKED! CHEETOS Crunchy 100 Calorie Mini Bites Cheese Flavored Snacks
BAKED! CHEETOS Crunchy Cheese Flavored Snacks
BAKED! CHEETOS FLAMIN' HOT® Cheese Flavored Snacks
CHEETOS ASTEROIDS® 100 Calorie Mini Bites Cheese Flavored Snacks
CHEETOS ASTEROIDS® FLAMIN' HOT® Mini Cheese Flavored Snacks
CHEETOS ASTEROIDS® Mini Cheese Flavored Snacks
CHEETOS ASTEROIDS® XXTRA FLAMIN' HOT® Mini Cheese Flavored Snacks
CHEETOS Crunchy Cheddar Jalapeno Flavored Snacks
CHEETOS Crunchy Cheese Flavored Snacks
CHEETOS Crunchy Twisted Cheese Flavored Snacks
CHEETOS FLAMIN' HOT® Cheese Flavored Snacks
CHEETOS FLAMIN' HOT® Limon Cheese Flavored Snacks
CHEETOS Jumbo Puffs Cheese Flavored Snacks
CHEETOS Jumbo Puffs Flamin' Hot Cheese Flavored Snacks
CHEETOS Natural White Cheddar Puffs Cheese Flavored Snacks
CHEETOS Puffs Cheese Flavored Snacks
CHEETOS TWISTED Cheese Flavored Snacks

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.

Act naturally

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.

This game is no fun

Nothing can kill the Grimace: Tales of a clumsy younger brother

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.

Pointing may not have been necessary, though.

There is such thing as a free breakfast*

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.

(via Metafilter

Men of many faces

Don Knotts died Friday at the age of 81.

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.

---

Abe Vigoda is still alive. He turned 85 on Friday.

From the "Oh, well that makes much more sense" department:

There's a follow-up to the story about the microwaved manhood I mentioned yesterday.

Turns out that the tidbit in question was fake. Apparently, "a man and a woman had inserted urine into a fake penis that the woman was planning to use to pass a drug test."

The whiz kids needed the microwave -- which has since been thrown away -- to heat the pee up to normal body temperature.

This, I think, illustrates the perils of drug use much more effectively than the episode of "Saved By the Bell" where Jessie gets hooked on caffeine pills ("I'm so excited, I'm so excited, I'm so...scared!").

I mean, honestly, what series of decisions do you have to make before nuking a pee-filled mock member in a microwave seems like a logical thing to do?

"This isn't funny. What am I supposed to eat?"

Oh my.

Quite possibly the most disturbing thing I've read this week (and that's including plans for a new "Friday the 13th").

Apparently, some guy decided to forgo the Hot Pockets and opted to microwave a different kind of snack.

You know, maybe I was paying more attention to the Superfriends than to the news when I was a kid, but I don't think I ever read a story that had both "microwave" and "genitalia" as key words.

The worst part (don't read if you're about to eat): "After the clerk noticed a strange smell coming from the microwave..."

The article also mentions that there was blood found on the floor of the bathroom, which is actually a little more disturbing.

No Bagel Dog for lunch today.

(via Obscure Store)

Lesson learned

Mine might be the last generation of students to have watched educational movies via an actual film projector. The switch to VHS was pretty much final by my junior year in high school. And even my sophomore year, we only saw a few in Drivers Ed.

When I was in elementary school, we had these filmloop cartridges that you plugged in to a small viewer. I only remember watching one about polar bears because the bear took a pretty nasty fall, and being 7, I thought that was pretty hysterical.

But it was one I saw in fifth grade that has always stuck with me. It was shortly after we moved to Tracy, and I don't even remember why we were seeing the movie.

It was to educate us about the perils of vandalism. The only part that I really recall clearly is a scene where two kids decide to hurl a rock (or brick or cinder block) off an overpass. It smashes through some guy's windshield, and we get to see him all cut up and covered in very unconvincing stage blood whining something like "I'm blind! Aaaaaaa!"

Cheesy though it was, I've never chucked a cinder block off an overpass.

I've bought a handful of discs from the Educational Archives series and I've perused the Prelinger and AV Geeks collections at The Internet Archive, but I have yet to find out what this is called.

I'm usually pretty good at finding these kinds of things, but so far, no luck.

A father-and-son moment

A sunny blue day in Tracy, California. Though relatively early in the day, the heat was already building, strengthening the already pungent aroma from the nearby dairies.

My dad was going to show me how to properly fly one of those little balsa wood gliders. Fortunately, on the other side of the mobile home park where we lived, there was a vacant lot. The lot has since become a shopping center complete with a grocery store, eateries and roughly 8 million nail salons.

On the other edge of the lot, there was a chain-link fence and some Dumpster-like containers. But there was plenty of room and enough mounds of dirt for most of the neighborhood kids to play and do a little dirt biking.

I'd tried flying the gliders before without much success. Since I was in the early stages of puberty my already deficient coordination level was now hovering somewhere between wingless albatross and drunken downhill skier.

My dad opened the package with the pair of scissors he always had with him. He worked for the phone company, and as a result, always carried the scissors -- his "snips' -- and a small blade on a little holster attached to his belt.

Any time there was packaging that was reluctant to open or errant tactical warheads that needed defusing, my dad was there to MacGyver it with his snips.

In recent years, probably due in no small part to teasing from my brother and me, he doesn't carry them all the time now.

We assembled the glider in short order. I awaited my aviation lesson.

My dad adjusted his Pacific Bell ball cap to block the sun from his eyes and gripped the glider with his right index finger and thumb. Then he made a few practice swoops to show me the arc I should use to throw it for maximum glide.

"Check this out," he said. He cocked his arm back and let the glider fly. It went up, seeming to float lazily over the vacant lot. It silhouetted against the bright blue sky, arced down and went right over the chain-link fence into a Dumpster, where it landed with a faint thunk.

"Oops," my dad said. "We'll, uh, have to get you another one."

I never got another balsa glider. Instead, we all went to the bookstore, where my anguish over the loss of my plane was alleviated by the stack of comic books my brother and I got.

Up, up and away, indeed.

Thanks for nothing, Mr. Roboto.

After listening to my K-Tel comp yesterday, "Mr. Roboto" is now stuck in my head. Well, that was good thinking, wasn't it?

If you translated the lyrics to Mr. Roboto into Japanese, would "Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto" be "Domo arigato Roboto-san," which messes up the "clever" rhyme?

It's really hard to pick the one thing about the song that really annoys me. I mean, there's the song itself. But then there's the constant use of "modren," as in "I am the modren man."

Plus, it's part of a rock opera.

And like I always (since about a minute ago) say, you can't spell rock opera without c, r, a and p.

Lines of obsessive strangeness converge at one point

The great thing about having roughly a krillion things going through your head at any given time is that you often get to test the laws of probability as a result of obsessing over some morsel from yesteryear.

Lately, I've been wanting to listen to some of the music from my youth. The classic 80s stuff and the early 90s grunge are well-spoken for in my music collection, but there's a gap of a few years -- when I graduated from middle school and started high school.

I tended to buy my music on 45s; I didn't have a CD player (nor did most everyone I knew at that point; they were still new and expensive), and I didn't know enough about the rest of the songs on the albums to justify forking out the dough. So the albums I listened to were from my parents.

So now I'm tracking down records that I ordinarily wouldn't go looking for on my own. One of them was Kenny Loggins' "Back to Avalon." Found that one OK; I asked my parents if they had it on CD and they did. Score!

This leads me to Mr. Mister. You can barely pick up some 80s compilation without getting "Kyrie" or "Broken Wings," but because I like doing things the hard way, I was looking for the album after that -- "...Go On."

I think one of the songs, "Something Real," got some airplay on MTV, but very briefly. Still, I have fond memories of being on a weekend trip in the car, reading a recent week's comic books and listening to that tape on the car stereo.

It seems that the only way to exorcise the song demons from my head is to acquire the songs in question.

But iTunes didn't even have the album. I envisioned having to scour used CD racks to no avail. And then I got smart. Remembering how I got the Kenny Loggins album, I phoned my mom, who had indeed procured the Mr. Mister CD -- via the used CD racks.

I went out to pick up the CD today and meet my mom for lunch so she could see Brody. I arrived a bit early, so I decided to kill time by hitting a thrift store. I like that I can pick up entire albums for a dollar or less. I scored another K-Tel compilation, "Hot Tracks," which features the unforgettable "Mr. Roboto" from Styx.

I pored over the cassette tapes in the same bin and picked up one that was put in backwards so I could see what it was.

Mr. Mister "...Go On."

And this, only days after I found Cherry Pez when I wasn't even looking for it and about a week after I finally found the apple chips I was looking for. Do you think I bought enough?

These are the things I need to remember when it feels like the whole world is out to get me.

Happy Valentine's Day

More fun here and here.

If I could only have one food for the rest of my life? That's easy.

Holy cow!

While at Target today, we strolled down the candy aisle, and I happened to glance at a 10-roll refill pack of Pez. My eyes hit the bottom of the package, where there were two rolls of CHERRY?!?

Clearly I was hallucinating.

But no, there it was, as red as a monkey's behind and, as it turns out, significantly tastier. Cherry Pez. Formerly discontinued. In my hand.

I remembered a pact I had with a friend -- whoever found Cherry Pez first would send some to the other. Before posting this, I checked my e-mail, and as it turns out, we both found it on the same day.

A cool Pez coincidence, don't you think?

That's great, Sparkman, you're probably thinking, but how does it taste?

I don't have a memory of Cherry Pez to compare this to, but what I got today reminds me of two things: Robitussen and scratch-and-sniff stickers.

That sounds kinda bad, but they're good. Underneath the strong cherry flavor, there's that base Pez flavor that you really notice when you eat a whole roll at once.

So there's another thing to check off on my "Man, I wish they'd bring back this cool stuff" list. Still on the list are Nacho Cheese Cheetos and Hostess Pudding Pies. But hope springs eternal...