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

  1. recapturemyyouth posted this