Isn't it ironic...

So on May 2 (my brother's birthday, as he incessantly reminds me), there's this movie coming out.

Iron Man Exclusive Trailer

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Iron Man is one of those superheroes that I tend to enjoy as a concept more than in actual practice. I couldn't tell you the last time I bought an Iron Man comic book.

But I have to say, I'm really looking forward to seeing this. Like a lot.

Facepalm.

Just a quick question: Exactly what did they think was going to happen? I've seen better plans from Wile E. Coyote.

Leap Day! Oh, boy!

Technically, it's not until tomorrow, but since I post so late at night, it's usually the next day by the time anyone sees it, so...

Another February 29th. Wow. Um...

Let's see. Historically, Superman's birthday is said to be on this day.

But since we're talking about leaps, I thought I'd be original and talk about one of my favorite shows, Parker Lewis Can't Lose.

Just kidding.

Next year will mark the 20th anniversary of Quantum Leap's premiere, which makes me feel pretty damn old.

I liked the show a lot, even though it was a crapshoot just trying to find what day it was on at any given point during the season. I've always been interested in time travel, so I'm a sucker for a TV based around it.

Except it wasn't really a hard sci-fi show; aside from the premise of a guy going back in time to fix things that had gone wrong, it was a pretty normal drama.

By the last season, things went "a little caca," and Dr. Sam Beckett found himself inhabiting the bodies of famous people, something we'd been assured up to that point, wouldn't happen. But ratings being the factor they are, it wouldn't have surprised me to see him leap into space or something.

The last episode is one of my favorites, because it doesn't wrap everything up with a happy anding and a nice little bow. At least, not for everyone.

Al's Place has more QL information than you can shake a stick at, and I've been known to just hang out there and read, wondering what could've been.

Not surprisingly, The Sci-Fi Channel has again dropped the ball; according to their schedule, you can expect to watch a metric buttload of Stargate shows, even though Leap Day would make sense to show Quantum Leap. But I also see that there's an episode of Chuck that day, too.

Seriously, Sci-Fi, what the hell?

If you want to destroy my sweater...

My buddy Ken just passed this along to me, and I thought I'd share. Write March 20 on your calendar. It's Sweater Day, in honor of Fred Rogers on what would've been his 80th birthday.

It's actually part of a bigger celebration, as outlined by everyone's favorite postal carrier, Mr. McFeely in the video below:



I've been itching to get a new green cardigan, and now I've got an excuse. Won't you be my neighbor?

Apparently, there is a wrong way to eat a Reese's

I came across Natalie Dee's site a while back, and then I stumbled it today, and I just had to share something that made me giggle a little too much.


nataliedee.com

Go look at the rest of her comics; they're awesome.

Photographic evidence from WonderCon

As promised, here are some pictures from WonderCon.

Me and Karyne outside Moscone Center South, waiting in line to get in.

This line, which wrapped around the side of the building, was for the people who already had tickets and needed to sign in. It was only drizzly at this point, thankfully.


Here's Karyne with two guys who had my favorite costumes at the convention. There were really a lot of displays of cleavage costumes to be found on the showroom floor.



You got used to all the costumes after a while, unless you went outside the convention center to get lunch, and then it was a bit jarring to be behind Black Canary in line to get a steak sandwich.

One of the cool things about having so many people in costume was that when they stopped to talk to each other, it looked like they were just co-workers chatting around the watercooler.



And here's a teeny bit of video. It was hard finding footage of Anne Hathaway where she wasn't distracted by my awesomeness, so be gentle.

Never mind the bollocks...

Some of my memories are more fragments than actual narratives. And every now and then, something will remind me of them.

Doubly weird, it's like I had absolutely no recollection until the memory itself was triggered.

Like when we were in elementary school and at the end of the day, we had to put our chairs up on the tables. I think this was so it was easier for the custodians to clean the classroom after school, but I don't know for sure.

And other things I remember making complete sense at the time, but when I think of it now, it's completely bizarre.

I never understood why they made paste smell like wintergreen if they didn't want kids to eat it. That said, I never actually tasted it, thanks to the admonishments of much older kids (second-graders).

"Don't eat the paste," they told me.

"Why?"

They looked around, making sure the teacher wasn't lurking about. Finally, they told me.

"It'll stick your balls together."

Even as a first-grader, it made no sense to me how the paste would get from your stomach to your, um, ballular area, but I didn't want to take a chance, because I worried that if I ate paste, and my testimonials did get stuck together, I'd go to the doctor, who would look up from his clipboard with a disapproving look because with my luck, the only way in the whole world that would happen is if I did, in fact, eat paste.

Better safe than sorry, I say.

I'm a nut that way.

Don't get testy.

Back from WonderCon

Had a great time at WonderCon.

Anne Hathaway seems very sweet, and to her credit, she managed to restrain herself in my presence. Being three billion rows away probably helped her out on that.

Steve Carell seems really nice, too, and he said that, having served 2 weeks in jury duty, he's thinking of writing an episode of The Office next season in which Michael Scott gets called for jury duty.

There were tons and tons of people, some of whom we got our pictures with. Once we get all the pics sorted out, I'll post a few here.

Right now, my feet are killing me, and I'm very tired.

Time for Nerd Prom!

Tomorrow, I will be up to my eyeballs in pop culture at WonderCon in San Francisco.

Aside from the usual comic book-related stuff, there's also sci-fi stuff, other movie stuff, animation, people in costumes--a whole bunch of stuff.

And Peter (Chewbacca) Mayhew is going to be there again! Yay!

This year, since my brother is supposed to be helping with his newborn son, I am going with my friend, Karyne, who is as socially retarded as I am. But being socially retarded at a comic book convention is akin to being a clown at a circus--no one notices too much because you are one of many.

Now don't get me wrong; most of the attendees are perfectly normal-looking, well-balanced people who like this stuff. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with dressing up in costume either, as far as I'm concerned. It's pretty much the same as painting yourself various colors and rooting for your favorite team.

I like meeting the talented people who are responsible for the pop culture artifacts I absorb. While I'm still shy, I usually manage to work up to a "hi" by the time I get up to them.

This year, I'm keen on attending a feature on two upcoming Warner Bros. movies, 10,000 B.C. and Get Smart. It's the latter that I'm looking forward to, as two of its stars will be in attendance to pimp promote the flick. One is Steve Carell, which is awesome enough. But the other? Anne Hathaway.

Sigh.

Hopefully she can hold herself back if she happens to gaze into my eyes. Cross those fingers, kids.

Retrogaming: Space Taxi

Today's game du jour of the day, Space Taxi, is another favorite from my Commodore 64 days.

In it, you operate a (wait for it) space taxi, taking passengers on presumably interplanetary journeys. There are various landing pads from which you pick up and drop off your fares; some are wide, and others are barely wide enough to land on without smooshing your prospective customer.

Once you pick up your last passenger in a level, he'll say (in passable voice synthesis), "Up, please." Make sure you navigate that portal at the top of the screen, or you will die in a mangled fiery heap.

And you won't get paid.

As the levels progress, it gets harder, with various gimmicks trying to keep you from making an honest space cabbie's salary, such as moving platforms, those pesky block holes, and the bane of many a driver's experience, a giant ping-pong game.

While it seems pretty simple, it can be a pain in the ass when you finally navigate through an 8-bit representation of Godzilla's lower intestine only to forget to drop your landing gear at the pad, and dying in aforementioned mangled fiery heap.

This game taught me to swear more effectively.

The basic gameplay can be found in the more recent Crazy Taxi. Now I'm thinking, here are two games begging for a mashup: Crazy Space Taxi!

Tell me that wouldn't rock out with your wok out.

Instead of traveling from screen to screen, you'd drive in various immersive space sectors, starting in our own solar system. Not only would it have proven gameplay potential, but awesome space graphics, too.

And you could get a passenger to ask you to "Take me to Uranus," thus promoting much puerile giggling. Just be sure, as my pal Karyne observed, not to ram the car upon reaching your destination.

Yes, we're both 12-year-old boys.

You can play an updated version, Space Taxi 2, or, if you're looking for that old-school thrill, there's some gameplay video below.

Oooo, scary!

My wife showed me this video, and I have to say, it's pretty convincing. You be the judge:

Retrogaming: Hard Hat Mack

In sixth grade, I got to be the unofficial teacher's assistant in my computer class.

Partly because I'm just that cool, but mostly because I took the same computer class during summer school.

We had Apple IIes in our class, all with those crappy monochrome screens that were shades of amber or green. I only make note of that because they were impossible for me to see half the time, depending on the light. We did have one or two with full-color monitors, but we generally didn't use those.


So while I was the mad pimp Print Shop designer of the class, I never had much fun playing games in class (with the exception of Oregon Trail, despite the fact that my damn oxen and wagon floated away EVERY SINGLE TIME I tried to ford a river).

Until I showed up one day after school when two kids were using the color monitor to play a game, that to me, looked a lot like Donkey Kong, except different.

The kid playing lost his last man in the game, and it went back to the title screen.


Hard Hat Mack, published by some company called Electronic Arts.

It looked like a fun little game. You were a construction worker who had to achieve various goals -- welding, jumping, collecting lunch boxes -- while avoiding bad guys.

After taking a turn playing it -- and sucking mightily -- I was hooked. I had to beat this game.

Shortly after that, we got it for our computer at home, the Commodore 64. Well, technically, it was the 128, but we almost always ran it in 64 mode.

I was so excited to beat the third level, until I found out that the game just started over at the first level, but faster. But by then, I'd conned my parents into buying a good handful of games in addition to Hard Hat Mack, among them, Skyfox, Space Taxi, and Impossible Mission.

Below is some sample gameplay. Dig the sound effects and music. I can still hear it all even with the speakers turned off.

Fight for your right to party

I was on top of the world.

In a few short days, I'd forever be away from Monte Vista Middle School, and I'd be going into high school.

Even better than that, the big graduation trip to Great America was the next day, and this school day couldn't end soon enough.

As it is, I only had a few classes to go. I went to my locker and got my books. Or tried to, anyway. Once I'd opened my locker door, someone slammed it shut. This was fairly common in middle school; at least it was to me.

I didn't know my tormentor; he was a tall kid with a shock of carroty hair and beady Scut Farkas eyes. After the third time he shut my locker, I figured, ah, to hell with it, I'll just get my stuff later since this moron obviously had some kind of problem.

His problem persisted. As I walked away, Carrothead started kicking the backs of my feet, you know, like when you try to trip a guy? You kick his foot while he's walking, hope it locks in the back of his knee joint, causing him to fall, and hilarity ensues.

Alas, he was kicking my foot only when it was firmly on the ground. Taller than me or not, he was pissing me off.

"You know, that works better when my foot is off the ground, ass," I said without looking behind me.

I made it almost around the corner when he shoved me. Hard.

"What the hell?" I asked, trying to keep my Jiminy Cricket voice as deep as it could go.

"What's your problem?" he asked me, shoving me in the chest.

Ever the diplomat, I replied, "I'm just trying to go to class, and some stupid moron asshole is trying to trip me. That's my problem."

"You think you're tough?" he asked, giving me another shove.

In point of fact, no, I didn't, but this hardly seemed the time to bring it up.

"I don't even know who the hell you are!"

"C'mon, pussy!"

Saying that I'm not good with conflict or confrontation is like saying Amy Winehouse is an occasional social drinker. Though I didn't know who this guy was or why he had this problem with me, I did know that I didn't want to get into a fight the day before the Great America trip; I'd already paid for it, and it be in double trouble if I couldn't go because I got caught fighting at school.

I was looking over his shoulder, expecting to see a teacher or school security type show up and break things up before they got to involved; that's how it usually went. You almost never saw an actual full-blown fight.

So the one time in my life I was in the situation, there was no one to be seen. Except for the flocks of kids gathering around to see what was going to happen next.

In this case, it was him repeating himself with various insults, punctuating each one with a shove. I shoved him back.

"Just leave me the hell alone! What the hell is your problem?" I spat.

"Oh, are you gonna cry?" he asked, shoving me yet again. Still there were no authority figures around. Time seemed to stretch. Everything stopped. I had an open shot. His arms were down; he obviously wasn't expecting me to do anything.

But with everyone looking at me, I knew I had to do something in my defense. I watched as my arm shot out reflexively toward his head, at which point I --

-- gave him the Vulcan nerve pinch.

Sigh.

While my instinctive attack did not render my opponent unconscious, it did give me a second to brace myself for the next few seconds while he asked, "What the hell?"

Capitalizing on his size difference, he grabbed my leg to flip me backward. But since I weighed all of 90 pounds with a loaded backpack, I kept my balance, watching as he pretty much lifted me straight up.

For about two seconds, and then we both collapsed. More catcalls from the crowd, mixed with laughter.

I turned around to get up, thinking that I should get up before him just in case he tries something else.

I'd almost gotten to one knee when I saw the word NIKE briefly before the bottom of his shoe connected with my face. The left lens of my glasses fell to the ground, partially from the impact, and partially because the screw had been loose for the last few weeks.

Either way, it looked dramatic as all hell, based on the gasps from the crowd. One of my classmates, Miguel, pushed his way in between us.

"What are you doing, Brian?" he asked. "He's littler than you!"

"But he's older than me," he said. Insult to injury: I got kicked in the face by a seventh-grader. I suck.

"Yeah," Miguel agreed, "but...look at him..."

Blindsided by this tremendous logic, the douche that walked like a boy was distracted long enough to forget why he was bothering with me in the first place. He backed off, and the crowd dispersed.

Fuming with anger that was probably radiating in visible lines from my head, I picked up my backpack, slung it over my shoulder, trying to ignore the stares I felt from all angles.

The bell rang, and I trudged to class, launching my backpack at my seat once I entered the classroom. My teacher looked up to say something, but she apparently saw the look in my eyes and went back to her gradebook.

I waited for the inevitable taunts, but aside from a few questions (Oh, that tall guy? He's an ass. Are you okay?), no one said anything, which made me feel better and worse about it.

At least I got to go to Great America, and that schmuck didn't. Petty? I suppose, but ultimately satisfying.

Vulcan nerve pinch.

Sigh.

Taking a small break

I was going to write about this epic childhood tale, but Jen and I are watching a movie, and I'm laughing too much to really focus on writing.

Later.

I love classic commercials

I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but I love old TV commercials. One of the places I buy the commercials in my collection is TvDays.com. Archivist Ira Gallen is my hero! Thanks to him, there's a treasure trove of television that I otherwise would never have been able to see.

I usually get a tape or two for either my birthday or Christmas. If you are at all interested in seeing how things were sold in the 50s and 60s, you should buy a tape or DVD from TVDays. I highly recommend them.

I could watch the commercials all day long. Maybe that makes me weird. It sure is weird when I have jingles stuck in my head and they're for products that don't exist anymore.

400!

Well, much to my surprise, this is the 400th post on Siftin'. I will use the occasion to tell one of my favorite jokes:

A guy walks into a bar--and he says, "Ow!"

Thanks, folks, I'll be here all week.

Festive festivities! Huzzah!

First, there's the teaser trailer that came out today for the new Indiana Jones movie (W00t!):



In other exciting news, the Siftin' family of blog entertainment (Our motto: More than just crap) has expanded. Yep, now you can double your pleasure by coming here first, and then going to The Dynamic Adventures of Dork Dad, where I am migrating my parenting-related content.

Tell a friend!

The best export from the Garden State

Slightly more uplifting than yesterday's post, I promise.

One day in high school, I complained to my friend Ken about the paucity of dates occupying my spare time. Seriously. Michael Jackson got more baby-sitting offers than I got dates.

Already used to my near-daily lament, Ken, ever the optimist, would tell me, "There's someone out there for everybody."

"Yeah," I said, "and with my luck, she's on the other side of the country now."

"Could be."

"I scarcely see how that's helping me now."

And while I went on to recite the usual litany of gripes to my pal in sunny California, my wife-to-be was attending high school in South Jersey.

Okay, technically, she was probably already home, what with the time difference, but that's not really important.

What matters is that, despite my pessimism, I was right.

I just had to wait another 7 or 8 years to meet her. Had I known that then, I might not have been so damned moody.

All right, maybe not all the time.

Putting the 'hopeless' in 'hopeless romantic'

I don't know what the hell I was thinking.

Having bailed on the Halloween dance after getting slammed at the door by a wave of heat and too much perfume and cologne, I decided I'd try the whole school dance thing again.

On Valentine's Day.

Lost to the mists of time is any logical reason 11-year-old me thought this was a good idea.

Let me draw you a quick sketch:

It's 1986, and I've only been 11 for a few months. I'm short, have shaggy brown hair that tends to get greasy within a few hours of washing it (thanks so much, puberty), and though I know I wanted to dance in theory -- I had a mental list of songs that I'd hear on the radio and think that someday, I'd dance to them with a pretty girl -- I'd never actually danced. I had no idea how.

On top of that, I'm socially retarded, and I don't mean that in a pejorative sense. I can't read body language that well, and to make matters worse, I'm completely uncoordinated even when I know what I want to do.

And the pickle on the crap sandwich that was preteen alienation: Given the chance, I'd rather draw superheroes or read than play football. As you can imagine, living in a small football-centric town, this didn't make me the slightest bit popular with my peers, except as an easy target.

Maybe it was nothing but morbid curiosity; wanting to see what "normal" kids did. I'd become increasingly aware that I was different from my classmates -- or was at least perceived as such. Maybe I could mimic normal behavior enough to not stick out so much. Who knows?

While I was still blasted by a tangible wave of heat at the multipurpose room door, this time I paid my money, waved off my mom, who had dropped me off, and attended my first school dance.

I was given a slip of paper with a number -- 17 -- on it. This, the chaperon explained, was one of two like numbers. The other belonged to one of the girls attending. Over the course of the dance, I had to try to find my counterpart, which meant I'd have to mingle and ask girls I didn't know (pretty much all of them, really) to dance.

I frowned. I'm shy. Like really shy. Best-case scenario, I got a mad case of the stuttering duhs trying to make small talk. Keep in mind, I hadn't been in town quite a year yet, and I didn't know hardly anyone my age, let alone the older kids, let alone pretty girls with their makeup, their perfume, and in some cases, their boobs.

How was I going to interrupt their good time to make them talk to a short, dorky kid wearing floods?

I immediately needed a drink. I spied a table on the other side of the multipurpose room that had a giant orange jug with a haphazard assortment of cups next to it.

Upon closer inspection, I saw that it was the mystical McDonald's-sponsored orange drink of victory. Devoid of carbonation and watered down more than a cocktail at a cheap casino, it was barely a step above Bug Juice.

Still, it was wet, and it kept me from having to interact with anyone.

"Hey."

I looked up from my drink, wiped the orange moustache off my lip, and saw an eighth-grade couple.

"Huh?"

Had I taken his drink? Was I standing in the wrong place? Ohcrapohcrapohcrap.

"What number do you have?"

"17."

They looked at each other and smiled.

"That's my girlfriend's number. Trade with me."

"Um," I said, taking another sip of Orange Death to buy time to think of a response. The chaperon said we weren't allowed to swap numbers with anyone. Why he couldn't just dance with her anyway, I didn't know, but he was adamant about wanting to trade.

"Well, who has your number?"

"I don't know; I've just been asking about both of our numbers. C'mon, buddy, help us out, wouldja?"

"Okay," I said, forking over my paper. I didn't want to stand in the way of true love, and I certainly didn't want to get my ass kicked. I got a 9 in place of my 17. The happy couple mumbled thank you and disappeared into the ocean of people.

Meanwhile, I had to find the other number 9.

I wandered among the groups of people while The Beastie Boys' "Brass Monkey" played, knocking the crap out of the auditorium's feeble speakers. I tried thinking of ways to find Miss 9 without having to, you know, actually talk to anyone.

I got a tap on the shoulder. I turned around; it was the new Mr. 17, and I had no idea what he wanted.

"Hey, little dude, I found the other 9. I think she's your age."

"Oh yeah?" That sounded promising.

"She's over there," he said, hefting a thumb at the area behind him.

"Okay. Um, thanks," I said.

Well that certainly solved that problem. Maybe it wasn't a bad idea to come to the dance after all. A girl my age had my matching number. Maybe it was one of the cute girls I saw in the hallway every day after lunch.

You all know where this is going, right?

Following "Brass Monkey" was Run-DMC's "You Be Illin'," which, in retrospect, was more than a little fitting. As various people got into the music, the crowds parted, just like in the movies, and without asking, I knew precisely who had the other number 9.

She was standing near the stairs to the stage area, her hands folded together in front of her at the waist: one of the girls in my homeroom class who didn't like me. Not that this distinction narrowed it down much, but still. She must have read it on my face, because she broke out into laughter.

"You have number 9?"

I felt the heat rise above my collar; I was embarrassed, mortified and pissed off like only an 11-year-old social pariah could be.

"Don't worry," I said over the booming bass, "You don't have to dance with me."

As the song ended, I walked away -- before she could say anything else -- and out the door, at which point I was reminded that there were no in-and-out privileges.

I silently nodded my head, afraid that if I tried to talk, my voice would crack.

I trudged to the pay phone, dropped in my dimes and called my mom for a ride, making sure to put on my best voice.

"Hi," I said evenly when my mom answered. "I'm ready. Yeah, it was pretty boring. Okay, thanks. Bye."

Before I parked my carcass on a cement planter to wait for my ride, I peered through the open door of the multipurpose room, seeing everyone dancing and having a good time, and hoping that someday I would fit in.

From me to you

Valentines were an important undertaking in elementary school. Teachers had gotten wise and sent home class lists to ensure that no one got left out.

But you first had to pick cool valentines, and for me, that usually meant ones that featured Superman and his pals. And then you had to worry about which superhero was on which valentine you gave to which classmate.

Seriously, you would just about get your ass kicked if you gave a Catwoman valentine to one of the tough kids.

After getting tired of having to write and rewrite envelopes because I lost my place on the class list, I eventually resorted to addressing them all like this:

To: You

From: Me

All I had to do was make sure I had enough, and I was all set. And since it was plain to see that they weren't addressed to anyone in particular, I could get away with a tough guy getting a Wonder Woman valentine. Pretty clever, no?

Oh, sure, it probably seemed impersonal, but really you just wanted to make sure you got one. Some kids would make them by hand, and some would include little candy hearts, but I didn't want anyone to notice any favoritism directed toward my female classmates, as it was, you know, not cool for boys to like girls.

Well, not cool to admit it; I didn't know many guys who didn't think at least one or two girls were cute despite our protestations. I got enough crap trying to explain how, despite being a really fast runner, girls usually managed to catch me when they chased me at recess.

Luckily, I came up with the Cootie Effect, and they agreed that science really ought to come up with a cure for that.

Because I'm a caring individual, here's a free valentine you can print out and give to your pals, cooties notwithstanding.