There’s something to be said about articulation, about how essential it is for proper play. As much as I go on about the “power of imagination,” about the ability of child to take something as bland as a block of wood and turn it into a wonderland, I will also be the first to admit that an awkwardly posed, generally inflexible figure delivers nothing but agitation and frustration to the holder. Case in point: The solid rubber WWF toys put out in 1984 by LJN that were oh-so-popular with the shoulder punching, crotch kicking, ear biting boys my age. It never made a lick of sense, even back then when logic played a very minor role in my life, for a figure based on the masters of the squared circle to be incapable of performing the moves that made them famous in the first place. No amount of twisting or forcing could change their position. No body slam was possible when the wrestler in question was frozen in middle of doing the hokey pokey.Jake the Snake Roberts’ finishing move was the DDT. Yet his figure had both arms permanently affixed in the air (waving like he just didn’t care). How in the hell is he going to drive someone’s head into the mat when he’s stuck, for lack of a better description, raising the roof? The same held true for Hogan. The most his figure could do to the Iron Shiek was give him a piggy back ride around the ring. And don’t even get me started on the lackadaisical runway styling of Adrian Adonis. Surely you can understand and empathize with my disappoint, both then and now. Is it any wonder why each one of those figures underwent a hideous transformation by my tiny, idle hands? If the toys weren’t going to perform properly, I would force them down the right path with cybernetic implants made from office supplies. A shoulder can pivot easily when the arm has been lopped off and reattached with a wood screw. Sure, they looked like shit, but damn it, they were functional.
I recently bought my son some Tron figures from the new movie (yay, bargain bin mark-downs - yay, for my son being old enough to play with and appreciate cool toys). The damn things are amazing. They offer countless points of articulation: ball jointed neck, shoulders and hips; swivel wrists and biceps; peg and hinge elbows and knees. These figures are capable of anything, any pose, any action, any kung-fu chop and kick, and that’s all without even mentioning illuminated chest panels. [Ed. Note: Yes, that was as dorky as it sounds. I have nerd drool on my chin].
Like I said, imagination will only take you so far but at some point the play will falter when your figure is stuck seemingly in mid-jig. The Ultimate Warrior was meant to dominate, not spell out the first letter in YMCA. The Big Bossman shouldn’t be frozen while flexing muscles he never had.
Remember, if you want to help me recapture my youth, feel free to send                        me money at spaderboy@aol.com via PayPal. I would    love    to     own      even     one     of the things listed on this    Tumblr     Account.

There’s something to be said about articulation, about how essential it is for proper play. As much as I go on about the “power of imagination,” about the ability of child to take something as bland as a block of wood and turn it into a wonderland, I will also be the first to admit that an awkwardly posed, generally inflexible figure delivers nothing but agitation and frustration to the holder. Case in point: The solid rubber WWF toys put out in 1984 by LJN that were oh-so-popular with the shoulder punching, crotch kicking, ear biting boys my age. It never made a lick of sense, even back then when logic played a very minor role in my life, for a figure based on the masters of the squared circle to be incapable of performing the moves that made them famous in the first place. No amount of twisting or forcing could change their position. No body slam was possible when the wrestler in question was frozen in middle of doing the hokey pokey.

Jake the Snake Roberts’ finishing move was the DDT. Yet his figure had both arms permanently affixed in the air (waving like he just didn’t care). How in the hell is he going to drive someone’s head into the mat when he’s stuck, for lack of a better description, raising the roof? The same held true for Hogan. The most his figure could do to the Iron Shiek was give him a piggy back ride around the ring. And don’t even get me started on the lackadaisical runway styling of Adrian Adonis. Surely you can understand and empathize with my disappoint, both then and now. Is it any wonder why each one of those figures underwent a hideous transformation by my tiny, idle hands? If the toys weren’t going to perform properly, I would force them down the right path with cybernetic implants made from office supplies. A shoulder can pivot easily when the arm has been lopped off and reattached with a wood screw. Sure, they looked like shit, but damn it, they were functional.

I recently bought my son some Tron figures from the new movie (yay, bargain bin mark-downs - yay, for my son being old enough to play with and appreciate cool toys). The damn things are amazing. They offer countless points of articulation: ball jointed neck, shoulders and hips; swivel wrists and biceps; peg and hinge elbows and knees. These figures are capable of anything, any pose, any action, any kung-fu chop and kick, and that’s all without even mentioning illuminated chest panels. [Ed. Note: Yes, that was as dorky as it sounds. I have nerd drool on my chin].

Like I said, imagination will only take you so far but at some point the play will falter when your figure is stuck seemingly in mid-jig. The Ultimate Warrior was meant to dominate, not spell out the first letter in YMCA. The Big Bossman shouldn’t be frozen while flexing muscles he never had.

Remember, if you want to help me recapture my youth, feel free to send me money at spaderboy@aol.com via PayPal. I would love to own even one of the things listed on this Tumblr Account.

The World’s Only Shoes With Pockets, or so the advertisement boasted, as if having such a feature on your sneakers was useful in the least. At best, the pocket could hold a quarter, maybe two if you were lucky, and while things were cheaper back in the day (yes, I remember penny gumball machines, you young whippersnappers), that kind of secret cache wouldn’t serve you well on an extended adventure. The purpose of a pocket, in the most literal sense, is to serve as a means of storage. Unless you were blessed with Jetsons technology (the kind that can reduce the mass of a full size hovercar into that of a briefcase), the storage options were limited. At least for coins. Paper money, if folded into a compact origami square, would fit but let’s be honest, we were young and paper money was but a pipe dream. Paper money wouldn’t come until much later and by then, we were far too hip (at least in our own minds) for such silly gimmicks.
That’s not to say I didn’t have a pair of Kangaroos. In fact, they were one of the few brand name sneakers I owned during my no-frills childhood. Oh how I strutted the halls that first day back at school, making sure each footstep echoed louder than the previous, making sure the soles squeaked during the unnecessary sharp turns and pivots. I got the compliments I sought; the pats on the back, the cool head nods, the envious stares. Who wasn’t jealous of He Who Wears the Kangaroos? But I flew too close to the sun, so to speak. I exceeded the noted dimensions of the pocket and tore the fabric free from the sneaker. I knew the cookie wouldn’t fit. Everyone else knew it too. But still I shoved. The Chip Ahoy crumbled. My fingernail snagged the stitching. The whole damn thing came apart when I tried to yank free.
Needless to say, they weren’t quite as cool the next day with electrical tape holding the pocket in place.
Remember, if you want to help me recapture my youth, feel free to send                       me money at spaderboy@aol.com via PayPal. I would   love    to     own      even     one     of the things listed on this   Tumblr     Account.

The World’s Only Shoes With Pockets, or so the advertisement boasted, as if having such a feature on your sneakers was useful in the least. At best, the pocket could hold a quarter, maybe two if you were lucky, and while things were cheaper back in the day (yes, I remember penny gumball machines, you young whippersnappers), that kind of secret cache wouldn’t serve you well on an extended adventure. The purpose of a pocket, in the most literal sense, is to serve as a means of storage. Unless you were blessed with Jetsons technology (the kind that can reduce the mass of a full size hovercar into that of a briefcase), the storage options were limited. At least for coins. Paper money, if folded into a compact origami square, would fit but let’s be honest, we were young and paper money was but a pipe dream. Paper money wouldn’t come until much later and by then, we were far too hip (at least in our own minds) for such silly gimmicks.

That’s not to say I didn’t have a pair of Kangaroos. In fact, they were one of the few brand name sneakers I owned during my no-frills childhood. Oh how I strutted the halls that first day back at school, making sure each footstep echoed louder than the previous, making sure the soles squeaked during the unnecessary sharp turns and pivots. I got the compliments I sought; the pats on the back, the cool head nods, the envious stares. Who wasn’t jealous of He Who Wears the Kangaroos?

But I flew too close to the sun, so to speak. I exceeded the noted dimensions of the pocket and tore the fabric free from the sneaker. I knew the cookie wouldn’t fit. Everyone else knew it too. But still I shoved. The Chip Ahoy crumbled. My fingernail snagged the stitching. The whole damn thing came apart when I tried to yank free.

Needless to say, they weren’t quite as cool the next day with electrical tape holding the pocket in place.

Remember, if you want to help me recapture my youth, feel free to send me money at spaderboy@aol.com via PayPal. I would love to own even one of the things listed on this Tumblr Account.

Only in the 1970s could such a thing be considered a good idea: a man in a skintight bodysuit teaching young children about health and hygiene, about the muscle building benefits of good nutrition, all by directing their attention to the various parts of his barely covered body. Even as a young boy, I found it somewhat disconcerting to stare at Slim Goodbody’s stomach (the lesson was Fiber: Your Friend in Digestion) and know, sense and occasionally see that his junk was way too visible. There are certain things a seven year old boy doesn’t need to learn about, especially when the instructor is a hyperactive performance artist with a bad afro.
But like I said, it was the 1970’s and this type of behavior was acceptable. No one thought twice about allowing a grown-up to prance about the wee children in a flesh colored, organ painted bodysuit because the spotlight on child abuse wouldn’t come about until the 1980’s when Gary Coleman almost got molested in a bike store by Arthur Carlson from WKRP in Cincinnati. Which begs the question why, 30-something years later, this fool is still performing his creepy schtick in schools across the nation?
Yes, I can appreciate what Slim is trying to accomplish, what with the children getting fatter and lazier with every year that passes. But surely a pair of shorts would not interfere with the message he is trying to convey. If anything, his franks and beans are distracting. No kid is going to retain the lessons taught during the National Bodyology Tour when their time is being spent avoiding eye-to-groin contact. Would it have been so hard to airbrush the organs and muscles on a actual clothing, on a loose fitting jumpsuit? Maybe some sweatpants? I think not, but then again, I wasn’t developing a show during the heyday of disco dancing and cocaine snorting (because let’s be honest - no sober man would come up with such a half-baked idea).
Maybe it’s just me, but I like my educators to be fully clothed.

Only in the 1970s could such a thing be considered a good idea: a man in a skintight bodysuit teaching young children about health and hygiene, about the muscle building benefits of good nutrition, all by directing their attention to the various parts of his barely covered body. Even as a young boy, I found it somewhat disconcerting to stare at Slim Goodbody’s stomach (the lesson was Fiber: Your Friend in Digestion) and know, sense and occasionally see that his junk was way too visible. There are certain things a seven year old boy doesn’t need to learn about, especially when the instructor is a hyperactive performance artist with a bad afro.

But like I said, it was the 1970’s and this type of behavior was acceptable. No one thought twice about allowing a grown-up to prance about the wee children in a flesh colored, organ painted bodysuit because the spotlight on child abuse wouldn’t come about until the 1980’s when Gary Coleman almost got molested in a bike store by Arthur Carlson from WKRP in Cincinnati. Which begs the question why, 30-something years later, this fool is still performing his creepy schtick in schools across the nation?

Yes, I can appreciate what Slim is trying to accomplish, what with the children getting fatter and lazier with every year that passes. But surely a pair of shorts would not interfere with the message he is trying to convey. If anything, his franks and beans are distracting. No kid is going to retain the lessons taught during the National Bodyology Tour when their time is being spent avoiding eye-to-groin contact. Would it have been so hard to airbrush the organs and muscles on a actual clothing, on a loose fitting jumpsuit? Maybe some sweatpants? I think not, but then again, I wasn’t developing a show during the heyday of disco dancing and cocaine snorting (because let’s be honest - no sober man would come up with such a half-baked idea).

Maybe it’s just me, but I like my educators to be fully clothed.

If I were being honest with myself, I would realize what a fool’s errand this blog is. No matter how hard I try, no matter how many toys I amass, no matter how I choose to drape myself in plastic and rubber nostalgia, there will always be one thing - the most important thing - that I can never recapture: My mother.
She passed away on this very day, taken far to early by a cancer she never had a chance to fight. I miss you, mom.

If I were being honest with myself, I would realize what a fool’s errand this blog is. No matter how hard I try, no matter how many toys I amass, no matter how I choose to drape myself in plastic and rubber nostalgia, there will always be one thing - the most important thing - that I can never recapture: My mother.

She passed away on this very day, taken far to early by a cancer she never had a chance to fight. I miss you, mom.

The secret to my success, and by that I mean my continued survival despite the overwhelming and often daunting circumstances that make up my existence, is my imagination. No matter the abuse I suffered at the hands of savages, no matter the amount of degradation I was forced to endure, I could close my eyes and imagine I was somewhere else, someone else. There was no limit, nothing I couldn’t be or do as long as my brain was still functioning. In my mind, even as the blows rained upon me, even as the spiteful words slipped into my ears, I was incredible. I was the coolest motherfucker to ever strut the streets of my neighborhood. The boys shook their fists in jealousy. The girls swooned as I passed by. I was a superstar. I was a warrior. I was the alpha, the omega and all the cool, sparkly shit in between.
Some might call it delusion. I called it necessary. Personal deception is a far better alternative to a length of rope or razors edge.
But I wonder, watching my son play on the floor with his technologically advanced toys, if the youth of today will be able to do the same. Not that I wish a similar fate upon anyone (well, almost anyone), but there will come a time when misery is in far greater abundance than joy. And when faced with this problem, when faced with a seemingly insurmountable dilemma, what will they do? Will they have the skills necessary to see a brighter future even when reality says otherwise? Will they be able to smile for the crowds without teeth?
My son has a toy bug. It has sensors in its antenna so it knows how to avoid obstacles. Should it come to the wall, it will turn in the appropriate direction to keep the momentum going. Clap your hands and it will react to that too, stopping short in its tracks and then retreating from the source of the sound. Call to it and it will move forward again. In all respects, my son has it “easy”. The toy does all the work for him.
When I was but a wee hyperactive rugrat, I had to shove my hand up the bug’s ass to see any action, had to twiddle my fingers to make the little legs move. If I wanted it to soar, I had to climb on the back of the couch and jump. If I wanted it to move in a certain direction, I had to throw it there.
Who had it better? I think the answer is obvious.
Remember, if you want to help me recapture my youth, feel free to send                      me money at spaderboy@aol.com via PayPal. I would  love    to     own      even     one     of the things listed on this  Tumblr     Account.

The secret to my success, and by that I mean my continued survival despite the overwhelming and often daunting circumstances that make up my existence, is my imagination. No matter the abuse I suffered at the hands of savages, no matter the amount of degradation I was forced to endure, I could close my eyes and imagine I was somewhere else, someone else. There was no limit, nothing I couldn’t be or do as long as my brain was still functioning. In my mind, even as the blows rained upon me, even as the spiteful words slipped into my ears, I was incredible. I was the coolest motherfucker to ever strut the streets of my neighborhood. The boys shook their fists in jealousy. The girls swooned as I passed by. I was a superstar. I was a warrior. I was the alpha, the omega and all the cool, sparkly shit in between.

Some might call it delusion. I called it necessary. Personal deception is a far better alternative to a length of rope or razors edge.

But I wonder, watching my son play on the floor with his technologically advanced toys, if the youth of today will be able to do the same. Not that I wish a similar fate upon anyone (well, almost anyone), but there will come a time when misery is in far greater abundance than joy. And when faced with this problem, when faced with a seemingly insurmountable dilemma, what will they do? Will they have the skills necessary to see a brighter future even when reality says otherwise? Will they be able to smile for the crowds without teeth?

My son has a toy bug. It has sensors in its antenna so it knows how to avoid obstacles. Should it come to the wall, it will turn in the appropriate direction to keep the momentum going. Clap your hands and it will react to that too, stopping short in its tracks and then retreating from the source of the sound. Call to it and it will move forward again. In all respects, my son has it “easy”. The toy does all the work for him.

When I was but a wee hyperactive rugrat, I had to shove my hand up the bug’s ass to see any action, had to twiddle my fingers to make the little legs move. If I wanted it to soar, I had to climb on the back of the couch and jump. If I wanted it to move in a certain direction, I had to throw it there.

Who had it better? I think the answer is obvious.

Remember, if you want to help me recapture my youth, feel free to send me money at spaderboy@aol.com via PayPal. I would love to own even one of the things listed on this Tumblr Account.

I’m not here to debate the finer points of The Incredible Hulk TV show. I don’t think there’s much doubt among us that the program, which spanned an epic 5 seasons, was anything but pure genius. Rather, I’m here to talk about the defining moment of the show, those few seconds of footage that drew this wee boy in week after week, even after the series ended and the studios thought it best to trot out three very questionable movies. It was all about the shoes. There was nothing that made me squeal more than seeing Bruce Banner’s little loafers split at the seams during the transformation, to see his giant green piggies peek out through the torn leather.
If you asked me why, I’m not sure I could come up with a coherent answer. It’s confusing to say the least, especially when you consider how utterly repulsed I am by feet and all things feet related. If I had my way, no foot would go uncovered. Sandal would be banned. Open toed shoes would be burned in a public pyre. Socks would be worn no matter the weather.
But the Hulk’s feet, at least during the monster’s television metamorphosis, seems to have skirted my obsessive disgust. I not only tolerated but longed to see the shoes burst, enduring haphazard story arcs and ill-fitting guest stars (I’m looking at you Mackenzie Phillips) just so I could watch the tennis sneakers explode.
The Hulk Rage Cage (manufactured by Fun Stuf in 1978) was the personification of all that I loved about the Hulk. It was a one-trick pony but the solitary action performed by the rubber figure was all that really mattered to me. I played for hours with it, lost in the repetition of pumping air into the big, green machine’s back. Hulk get mad. Hulk grow. Hulk’s clothes tear away. Hulk smashes cage. Yes, I know shoes weren’t included (the technology was limited back then), but it still fulfilled my needs.
Remember, if you want to help me recapture my youth, feel free to send                     me money at spaderboy@aol.com via PayPal. I would love    to     own      even     one     of the things listed on this Tumblr     Account.

I’m not here to debate the finer points of The Incredible Hulk TV show. I don’t think there’s much doubt among us that the program, which spanned an epic 5 seasons, was anything but pure genius. Rather, I’m here to talk about the defining moment of the show, those few seconds of footage that drew this wee boy in week after week, even after the series ended and the studios thought it best to trot out three very questionable movies. It was all about the shoes. There was nothing that made me squeal more than seeing Bruce Banner’s little loafers split at the seams during the transformation, to see his giant green piggies peek out through the torn leather.

If you asked me why, I’m not sure I could come up with a coherent answer. It’s confusing to say the least, especially when you consider how utterly repulsed I am by feet and all things feet related. If I had my way, no foot would go uncovered. Sandal would be banned. Open toed shoes would be burned in a public pyre. Socks would be worn no matter the weather.

But the Hulk’s feet, at least during the monster’s television metamorphosis, seems to have skirted my obsessive disgust. I not only tolerated but longed to see the shoes burst, enduring haphazard story arcs and ill-fitting guest stars (I’m looking at you Mackenzie Phillips) just so I could watch the tennis sneakers explode.

The Hulk Rage Cage (manufactured by Fun Stuf in 1978) was the personification of all that I loved about the Hulk. It was a one-trick pony but the solitary action performed by the rubber figure was all that really mattered to me. I played for hours with it, lost in the repetition of pumping air into the big, green machine’s back. Hulk get mad. Hulk grow. Hulk’s clothes tear away. Hulk smashes cage. Yes, I know shoes weren’t included (the technology was limited back then), but it still fulfilled my needs.

Remember, if you want to help me recapture my youth, feel free to send me money at spaderboy@aol.com via PayPal. I would love to own even one of the things listed on this Tumblr Account.

Luke stayed in my pocket every day for nearly six months. From the moment I tore the bubble from the card driving home from Toys R Us with my mom, he was with me. He was under the pillow at night. He stood sentry next to my glass of juice at dinner. He hid in my jeans when I left the house, nestled among the crumpled tissues and torn bits of paper, occasionally digging into my thigh when I sat down, serving as a reminder that I was breaking the rules. I was forbidden from bringing toys to school by my mother, told that I got in enough trouble on my own, that I didn’t need an action figure serving as an excuse for yet another trip to the principal’s office.
But Luke was my worry stone. Even as a kid, I was a bundle of paranoid nerves. I couldn’t shut my brain off, couldn’t stop making connections and associations that may or may not have been there. The patterns called out to me, demanded that I pay attention, that I solve the riddle. It was like a physical weight pushing down on my tiny frame. What the teachers took as insolence, as a lack of respect and concentration, was actually me performing a primitive form of meditation. With Luke as my center. With Luke as an amulet against the wandering spirits.
I know it doesn’t make sense to most of you. It way seem silly for a child to ascribe a higher power to a piece of plastic manufactured in Hong Kong, even sillier when such faith is being placed in the object by an adult. But I don’t fear judgment from man anymore. Point and laugh. Call me the fool. I’ve heard far worse in my day. To be considered queer or odd for my quirks only serves to reinforce my conviction. I am the sum total of my crazy parts. No amount of introspection or therapy will make the slightest dent in who I am.
Perception only changes the man only when he gives in the force behind it. After 36 years, I know what works and what doesn’t. If an action figure of Luke Skywalker gives me a certain degree of comfort, who am I to fight it? The Lord works in mysterious ways for his mysterious followers.
I sold my talisman. I need it back. That’s why I started this site.
Question answered?
Remember, if you want to help me recapture my youth, feel free to send                    me money at spaderboy@aol.com via PayPal. I would love   to     own      even     one     of the things listed on this Tumblr    Account.

Luke stayed in my pocket every day for nearly six months. From the moment I tore the bubble from the card driving home from Toys R Us with my mom, he was with me. He was under the pillow at night. He stood sentry next to my glass of juice at dinner. He hid in my jeans when I left the house, nestled among the crumpled tissues and torn bits of paper, occasionally digging into my thigh when I sat down, serving as a reminder that I was breaking the rules. I was forbidden from bringing toys to school by my mother, told that I got in enough trouble on my own, that I didn’t need an action figure serving as an excuse for yet another trip to the principal’s office.

But Luke was my worry stone. Even as a kid, I was a bundle of paranoid nerves. I couldn’t shut my brain off, couldn’t stop making connections and associations that may or may not have been there. The patterns called out to me, demanded that I pay attention, that I solve the riddle. It was like a physical weight pushing down on my tiny frame. What the teachers took as insolence, as a lack of respect and concentration, was actually me performing a primitive form of meditation. With Luke as my center. With Luke as an amulet against the wandering spirits.

I know it doesn’t make sense to most of you. It way seem silly for a child to ascribe a higher power to a piece of plastic manufactured in Hong Kong, even sillier when such faith is being placed in the object by an adult. But I don’t fear judgment from man anymore. Point and laugh. Call me the fool. I’ve heard far worse in my day. To be considered queer or odd for my quirks only serves to reinforce my conviction. I am the sum total of my crazy parts. No amount of introspection or therapy will make the slightest dent in who I am.

Perception only changes the man only when he gives in the force behind it. After 36 years, I know what works and what doesn’t. If an action figure of Luke Skywalker gives me a certain degree of comfort, who am I to fight it? The Lord works in mysterious ways for his mysterious followers.

I sold my talisman. I need it back. That’s why I started this site.

Question answered?

Remember, if you want to help me recapture my youth, feel free to send me money at spaderboy@aol.com via PayPal. I would love to own even one of the things listed on this Tumblr Account.

Well over 10 years ago (heading closer to 15, though the actual date, like most of my attempts at cognitive recall, escapes me), I made the decision to become a vegetarian. The empathy and love I feel for not only my pets but animals in general precludes me from dining upon their flesh, from tearing a large chunk out of their cute, squishy faces for my own personal gratification. I’m just crazy that way. In many other ways too but that’s a story for another day, for another post.Ed. Note: I love you Tumblr. You are far superior to actual, qualified psychiatric care.
But I would be lying if I said the lifestyle choice was completely absent of regret. Because I have a tendency to overdo things, because I’m rather obsessive in the choices I make, I have gone the hardcore vegetarian route, making sure to avoid the hidden animal additives in the most unlikely of products. You would be surprised (and slightly horrified) at where the corporations sneak in dead farm stock to save a buck. You have to be on the ball to avoid it.
Like marshmallows. Sweet, sweet marshmallows. For those not in the culinary know, marshmallows are made from gelatin. Gelatin is made from the collagen inside animal bones and skin, specifically pork hide and cow hooves. Nothing says sweet treat like dining upon an animal’s foot. Disgusted yet? I know I am. But still my heart longs for it because I have been denied my favorite of foods since turning vegetarian. I miss my cereal.
Obviously not all do but some of my favorite brands are the ones containing marshmallows. If I could I would bathe in a giant bowl of Frankenberry. I would swim about in a pool of Count Chocula. Hell, I would even settle for a simple spoonful of the now defunct and questionably flavored Fruit Brute. But those days are behind me, forever out of my reach because of corporate greed, because General Mills is too lazy to develop a marshmallow alternative that doesn’t rely on the slaughter of Bessie and her bovine pals.
So despite the name of this blog, this is sadly one portion of my youth that shall never be recovered. Remember me fondly, Mr. Booberry. For I shall do the same of you. Sigh.

Well over 10 years ago (heading closer to 15, though the actual date, like most of my attempts at cognitive recall, escapes me), I made the decision to become a vegetarian. The empathy and love I feel for not only my pets but animals in general precludes me from dining upon their flesh, from tearing a large chunk out of their cute, squishy faces for my own personal gratification. I’m just crazy that way. In many other ways too but that’s a story for another day, for another post.

Ed. Note: I love you Tumblr. You are far superior to actual, qualified psychiatric care.

But I would be lying if I said the lifestyle choice was completely absent of regret. Because I have a tendency to overdo things, because I’m rather obsessive in the choices I make, I have gone the hardcore vegetarian route, making sure to avoid the hidden animal additives in the most unlikely of products. You would be surprised (and slightly horrified) at where the corporations sneak in dead farm stock to save a buck. You have to be on the ball to avoid it.

Like marshmallows. Sweet, sweet marshmallows. For those not in the culinary know, marshmallows are made from gelatin. Gelatin is made from the collagen inside animal bones and skin, specifically pork hide and cow hooves. Nothing says sweet treat like dining upon an animal’s foot. Disgusted yet? I know I am. But still my heart longs for it because I have been denied my favorite of foods since turning vegetarian. I miss my cereal.

Obviously not all do but some of my favorite brands are the ones containing marshmallows. If I could I would bathe in a giant bowl of Frankenberry. I would swim about in a pool of Count Chocula. Hell, I would even settle for a simple spoonful of the now defunct and questionably flavored Fruit Brute. But those days are behind me, forever out of my reach because of corporate greed, because General Mills is too lazy to develop a marshmallow alternative that doesn’t rely on the slaughter of Bessie and her bovine pals.

So despite the name of this blog, this is sadly one portion of my youth that shall never be recovered. Remember me fondly, Mr. Booberry. For I shall do the same of you. Sigh.

I am the perpetual curmudgeon, even at the supposed tender age of 36. I am the old man standing on his porch, clad only in boxers and a robe. I shake my liver-spotted fist at the neighborhood kids and tell them to get the hell off my lawn. I keep any balls or frisbees that happen to fall on my property. I turn my lights off on Halloween. I am the old codger sitting in his rocking chair, afghan over my atrophied legs, bored grandchildren at my feet, suffering through my dull stories.
Okay, perhaps I’m exaggerating. My flair for the dramatic is to blame. It makes me prone to outlandish statements and theatrics. In truth, I’m none of those things. Sure, I’m feeling my years but with all that has happened, with all that I have endured, I think I’m holding up pretty well. Better than most would, says the egotistical man. But I do have my moments where I stubbornly cling to nostalgia, as some of you may have gathered from my 40-something previous posts.
I don’t like change. I tend to embrace nostalgia and, like most stereotypical grumpy old men, consider the accomplishments and products of my generation to be the best. My toys were better. My sitcoms were better. My candy and snacks were better. But I am man enough to admit that certain technological advancements are for the best, specifically when it deals with the conservation of space.
My bedroom was stacked with video tapes. Perhaps, if you’re old enough, if you were born before the 1990s started to suck the soul from the glorious 80s, you might remember those cumbersome plastic bricks. They held about 60 minutes, if you wanted any degree of quality, much more if you didn’t give a shit for the longevity of your recording. After watching the tape three or four times, the movie or TV show would diminish. The picture would jump. The actors started to sound like they were underwater. It was shit.
DVDs came along and improved the game. They took up less space. They held more information. Sure, they scratched pretty easy and skipped with every fingerprint, but those little discs lasted a hell of a lot longer than VHS. Still the shelves filled up fast and forced a movie loving fellow to pick and chose among his favorites, to cull the lot for ones that would not stand up to repeated viewing (I’m looking at you Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - Ninja Rap my ass).
That’s why I’ve jumped on the Netflix bandwagon. Streaming video is the greatest thing to ever happen. Fuck the discovery of penicillin. I will take a broadband library of 80’s classics over the ability to fight infection any day of the week. Everything is at my fingertips and none of it is needlessly cluttering my home. I no longer wish to be a media hoarder. I want one little box and nothing more.
Plus, how can I not throw my support behind a product that has brought the long out of print Legend of Billie Jean back into my home. FAIR IS FAIR!!!! WOOOO

I am the perpetual curmudgeon, even at the supposed tender age of 36. I am the old man standing on his porch, clad only in boxers and a robe. I shake my liver-spotted fist at the neighborhood kids and tell them to get the hell off my lawn. I keep any balls or frisbees that happen to fall on my property. I turn my lights off on Halloween. I am the old codger sitting in his rocking chair, afghan over my atrophied legs, bored grandchildren at my feet, suffering through my dull stories.

Okay, perhaps I’m exaggerating. My flair for the dramatic is to blame. It makes me prone to outlandish statements and theatrics. In truth, I’m none of those things. Sure, I’m feeling my years but with all that has happened, with all that I have endured, I think I’m holding up pretty well. Better than most would, says the egotistical man. But I do have my moments where I stubbornly cling to nostalgia, as some of you may have gathered from my 40-something previous posts.

I don’t like change. I tend to embrace nostalgia and, like most stereotypical grumpy old men, consider the accomplishments and products of my generation to be the best. My toys were better. My sitcoms were better. My candy and snacks were better. But I am man enough to admit that certain technological advancements are for the best, specifically when it deals with the conservation of space.

My bedroom was stacked with video tapes. Perhaps, if you’re old enough, if you were born before the 1990s started to suck the soul from the glorious 80s, you might remember those cumbersome plastic bricks. They held about 60 minutes, if you wanted any degree of quality, much more if you didn’t give a shit for the longevity of your recording. After watching the tape three or four times, the movie or TV show would diminish. The picture would jump. The actors started to sound like they were underwater. It was shit.

DVDs came along and improved the game. They took up less space. They held more information. Sure, they scratched pretty easy and skipped with every fingerprint, but those little discs lasted a hell of a lot longer than VHS. Still the shelves filled up fast and forced a movie loving fellow to pick and chose among his favorites, to cull the lot for ones that would not stand up to repeated viewing (I’m looking at you Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - Ninja Rap my ass).

That’s why I’ve jumped on the Netflix bandwagon. Streaming video is the greatest thing to ever happen. Fuck the discovery of penicillin. I will take a broadband library of 80’s classics over the ability to fight infection any day of the week. Everything is at my fingertips and none of it is needlessly cluttering my home. I no longer wish to be a media hoarder. I want one little box and nothing more.

Plus, how can I not throw my support behind a product that has brought the long out of print Legend of Billie Jean back into my home. FAIR IS FAIR!!!! WOOOO

The children of today are spoiled because they know nothing of anticipation. There are hundreds of channels on television to choose from, all available at the mere twitch of a finger (or click of a mouse button) and a good chunk of those stations are dedicated to cartoons. No longer do the wee ones have to wait until Saturday morning to see their favorite animated icons. No longer do they have to jiggle the bunny ears or wait for the airplane to pass in hopes of getting better reception. It’s there 24-7, waiting to be consumed, to be absorbed quick and forgotten. There are too many talking blobs of poorly rendered pixels to remain memorable.
Please don’t misunderstand the intention of this update. The post (and by association, the poster) may sound bitter but that’s not what I am trying to convey, intentionally or otherwise. If anything, my heart is filed with pity. I feel bad for my son and the lot of his booger eating peers because they don’t understand having to wait, because they don’t know what it’s like to have limited options. For him, Spongebob was always there. At any given point during the day, you could find him on Nick or one of the other Nick owned channels. And if, by chance, the spastic yellow square wasn’t on, you could order up an episode via Netflix streaming or Comcast OnDemand.
It wasn’t like that for us, we children of the 70’s and 80’s. We had to drag through the week in order to get to the new stuff. Sure, they had cartoons on after school but they were usually repeats and rarely lasted beyond the hour after we made our break. The new stuff only came on between 7am and noon on Saturday. Wake up late and you missed it. Two shows come in conflict with one another and you are forced to choose. And somehow, that made us appreciate it all the more. We didn’t take it for granted.
Plus, before the beginning of the fall season, we were able to watch the preview show (which was usually hosted by one of the Cosby kids or the latest sitcom flavor of the month). I remember getting all hyper and giddy at the announcement that Dragon’s Lair and Space Ace were getting the 30 minute treatment. Anticipation. It’s a beautiful thing.

The children of today are spoiled because they know nothing of anticipation. There are hundreds of channels on television to choose from, all available at the mere twitch of a finger (or click of a mouse button) and a good chunk of those stations are dedicated to cartoons. No longer do the wee ones have to wait until Saturday morning to see their favorite animated icons. No longer do they have to jiggle the bunny ears or wait for the airplane to pass in hopes of getting better reception. It’s there 24-7, waiting to be consumed, to be absorbed quick and forgotten. There are too many talking blobs of poorly rendered pixels to remain memorable.

Please don’t misunderstand the intention of this update. The post (and by association, the poster) may sound bitter but that’s not what I am trying to convey, intentionally or otherwise. If anything, my heart is filed with pity. I feel bad for my son and the lot of his booger eating peers because they don’t understand having to wait, because they don’t know what it’s like to have limited options. For him, Spongebob was always there. At any given point during the day, you could find him on Nick or one of the other Nick owned channels. And if, by chance, the spastic yellow square wasn’t on, you could order up an episode via Netflix streaming or Comcast OnDemand.

It wasn’t like that for us, we children of the 70’s and 80’s. We had to drag through the week in order to get to the new stuff. Sure, they had cartoons on after school but they were usually repeats and rarely lasted beyond the hour after we made our break. The new stuff only came on between 7am and noon on Saturday. Wake up late and you missed it. Two shows come in conflict with one another and you are forced to choose. And somehow, that made us appreciate it all the more. We didn’t take it for granted.

Plus, before the beginning of the fall season, we were able to watch the preview show (which was usually hosted by one of the Cosby kids or the latest sitcom flavor of the month). I remember getting all hyper and giddy at the announcement that Dragon’s Lair and Space Ace were getting the 30 minute treatment.

Anticipation. It’s a beautiful thing.