I cannot believe it, but I am nostalgic for Blockbuster.

This video is everything. And you didn't even have to leave your house to watch it.

3,000 hits and one right answer.

Last night my friend Fran and I went to meet some people she knew from work for Trivia Night at a local bar and grill. Ah, how it made me nostalgic for trivia at the Windber Hotel, when you weren't sure if the amazing dish you had last week would be awful the next week and Melis kept trying beers hoping to find one similar to what we drank at Oktoberfest and we crammed on current events and Eric became more and more infuriated that half the pink Christmas lights were burned out. I miss those days.

In the middle of round 2, they hit us with a sports question: “What baseball player had exactly 3,000 hits when his career was cut short?” Oh my stars and garters. I knew it. I knew a sports question. And not even, like, an Olympic question or a “sports question” that is actually a movie question like “Who did Lawrence Taylor play in Any Given Sunday?” This was a real, actual sports question. And the three men at the table didn't have a clue. But I had a clue. I had recently watched a documentary program on this man with Dad and Uncle Jimmy and I remembered Dad telling me about those 3,000 hits.

At first I couldn't remember his name, so I hissed at the self-declared “sports expert” at the table, “It’s that guy! That guy who has a bridge in Pittsburgh named after him! The bridge with the blue lights!” My teammate looked at me blankly. Undeterred, I went on. “That guy who was a Pittsburgh Pirate and he was Puerto Rican and he was taking humanitarian supplies to Nicaragua and his plane crashed.” More blank stares.

Now, I think if you can’t pull Clemente's name from that pile of info, you are no “sports expert,” but it seemed impolitic to point that out to a man I had only met 20 minutes ago. I like people to know me for a least a week before they realize I am insufferable.

I knew I was on my own, so I closed my eyes and thought about that beautiful bridge and Clemente's name finally came to me. Then I resolved to call everyone I know, especially my boy cousins, and tell them I had answered a sports question that had stumped three actual men, but I settled for posting it on Facebook because I am lazy and that is a lot of calls to make.

We had a good night, but the round that destroyed us was the pictorial quiz of obscure beer logos. Fran and I don’t really drink, but I thought the three guys would have this covered. Then they dropped it on me: all three were Mormons from Utah. They could tell me all about the show Sister Wives but not a lick about beer. Alas.

We ended up coming in third. Next time, Gadget. Next time.

What?

Has anyone ever noticed how alike Lucifer from Cinderella and the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland are?

This is like the time I realized one of the Sleeping Beauty fairies had the same voice as Cinderella's fairy godmother. Disney liked to re-use the voice talent. And the animators, apparently.

Well, this just makes me sad.

Thrift store shoppers, hoard your irons. Production has ceased.

Apparently the iron is out and the cat is in.

RIP, iron. Also, a little bit of my childhood.

Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered...

Well, I am elated. I just got back from a midnight showing of the ultimate film about growing up and leaving childish things behind, but still hanging on to your dreams, about using brains and logic to make your own way, trusting what’s inside yourself while learning to rely on true friends, and being strong and smart and not letting your head be turned by pretty, shiny things, and all to an awesome David Bowie soundtrack. Oh yes, that’s right: Labyrinth.

Sir Didymus and Ambrocious are still my favorite.

James and Kristen, do you remember when I visited you for a week in Philly in the late 80s and I made myself odious to you by forcing you to watch that movie every single day? That must be why I was able to sit in the theater and say every line along with the actors.

The theater was packed with my kind of people, all saying the lines (there is no movie theater shushing in situations like these) and belting out the words to “Dance Magic Dance” right along with the goblin king. I was sitting in front of a couple in full Jareth and Sarah costume and, appropriately, he was wearing more eyeliner than she. 

My people.

He moves the stars for no one.

Let the wild rumpus stop

One of my strongest childhood memories was being at my grandmother's house, pulling out her copy of Where the Wild Things Are, and listening to her read it to me. What a great book.

RIP Maurice Sendak.

"I think Maurice's book is the first picture book to recognize the fact that children have powerful emotions, anger and love and hate and only after all that passion, the wanting to be 'where someone loved him best of all.'"

-Ursula Nordstrom, Maurice Sendak's editor

The way the light used to shine...

The skyscrapers that have been built up around it now block the light, but in 1929 this is how glorious it once was to stand in Grand Central.

Sauce Day

It smells like my childhood in here.

Fair warning.

Today my sweet little niece is starting Pre-K. I may have a breakdown.

Sniffle

I haven't seen the final Harry Potter yet. Jen and I are planning to go when our schedules allow, so this gives me time to rewatch the first seven films. All this is to say, I'm sitting here watching Sorcerer's Stone and crying like a teenage girl at a Justin Bieber concert.

When Hagrid gives Harry his birthday cake, when Harry sees his father's name on the Quidditch plaque, when Neville gets awarded his ten points for standing up to his friends... I am a sad, sad mess.

For pity's sake, get me some kleenex!

Something to think about.

Do you realize we are only four years away from this?




Marty's adventures in Back to the Future: Part II took him 30 years into the future.

To 2015.

Yeah. Where's my hoverboard?

I'm doing 90 down Memory Lane.

I enjoy my iPad in many ways. I read books on it. I fall asleep to my Pandora Stations on it. I watch movies on airplanes with it. I even keep Julia occupied by letting her snap virtual bubble wrap on it. But all of that is nothing compared to my new obsession:


Cousins! It is just like the arcade game Pap had in the Rec Room for us! It plays the songs, the pretzels are worth 700 points, it dings at 10,000 when you get your bonus life, the ghosts stay really long when you get to the first Chase board. It is amazing.

I don't want to do anything or go anywhere. I just want to sit hunched over my coffee table and play like we used to when we had all-night tournaments.

Attempts to recapture nostalgic moments from my childhood so seldom work out for me.

A word of advice: If you're ever at the store and you see a pack of Fruit Stripe gum and you think to yourself, "I loved that stuff when I was a kid. I think I'll buy that pack of gum and put it in my purse," don't. Just don't. This morning my entire bag reeks like Froot Loops.

This is just like the time I ate some Chef Boyardee ravioli in grad school. You can imagine how that went.

What's that stench?

Claire and Bender could be grandparents by now. Think about that.

Sure, Sloth love Chunk. TWENTY FIVE YEARS AGO.

Do you subscribe to Entertainment Weekly? The "20 Years Ago This Week" column regularly horrifies me. Like, worse than the wretched and off-putting "Stephen King's Weird and Freaky Little Opinions" column. (That may not be the exact title.)

This 20 Years column is a weekly shock to my system. Really, Pretty Woman is 20 years old? That was two decades ago I wanted to dye my hair red like Julia Roberts and my mom put the kibosh on that whole scheme? Really, that was 20 long years ago that Milli Vanilli won their bogus Grammy?

I can no longer read the magazine while I'm eating, lest I choke.

My initial shock came last year, when someone mentioned that Say Anything was 20 years old and I scoffed that this must surely be a mistake. Then I realized that not only was Say Anything actually 20 years old, but even worse, it being released in 1989 meant that anything from the 80s was at least twenty years old. Twenty years was the SMALLEST amount of old that 80s stuff could be.

The horror.

And then I turned on some Peter Gabriel and tried not the think about it.

"Donkey!" (said in Scottish ogre voice)

So, it's the shortest day of the year, which makes me think with fondness of Gram and how this day would have made her more cheerful than a day in August, because now we start building up to longer days as opposed to losing increments of light with each passing day. Oh, Gram.

As for me, I'm taking some time today to make a cardboard donkey for one of my colleagues. Don't judge me. My friend at work sent this tidbit to me in an email:

December 21st, the shortest day (longest night/Winter Solstice) of the year, is dubbed St. Thomas Day. In parts of the Sauerland (in Germany), whoever wakes up late or arrives late to work on that day is issued the title "Thomas Donkey." This person is given a cardboard donkey and is the subject of numerous jokes throughout the day. But this gentle abuse ends deliciously with round, iced currant buns called "Thomasplitzchen". In other parts of Germany the day is called other names such as Durchspinn-Nacht or Durchsitz-Nacht. Traditionally a lot of alcohol is consumed and the next day is often called Kotzmorgen (hangover morning).

So, of course we had to make a cardboard donkey and present it to our perpetually late colleague. This was my template:


I love December.

A not so heartwarming tale of Christmas past

I have never believed in Santa Claus. It’s a fun little factoid to whip out when playing “Never Have I Ever” or when you want to tell people something that will cause them to stare, open-mouthed, in abject horror. I told some co-workers this today. There was staring. There was abject horror. It was awesome.

This post isn’t about the question of should you or should you not tell your kids about Santa. I have no kids and never will so I needn’t even weigh in on that. (I do have an opinion, and if you know me well, you know what it is.) No, this post is a diverting little tale of what happens when you take a truth-equipped child who is a bit of a smarty-pants and unleash her upon a classroom of unsuspecting 5-year olds.

It was January of my kindergarten year. We had just returned to school after the Christmas break and my teacher, perhaps wanting to ease us back into the school day, asked us who wanted to stand up and tell the class what Santa had brought him or her for Christmas. My hand shot up. Even at age 5, I was able to immediately recognize an incorrect statement and even more immediately wish to correct it as vociferously as possible. It’s not one of my better qualities, but there it is.

My teacher called on two other students before calling on me, and I listened impatiently as they prattled on about Smurf figurines and tricycles. I had gotten a windfall that Christmas, but I wasn’t planning to tell anyone about it. I had something very particular to say that everyone really needed to hear. Finally my teacher called on me, and I stood up tall and announced in a clear, loud voice, “Santa didn’t bring me anything because Santa’s not real.”

I don’t know what I expected. Perhaps a gasp of shock, followed by a clamoring of questions. Really? He’s not? How do you know? Why do you have this important information and we don’t? How are you so smart? How could I have lived this lie for the past five years!

Instead, I was on the business end of a furor. Hissing and shrieking hurled at me from all sides of the room. “Yes he is SO real!” “Santa DOES exist! He brought me a Matchbox General Lee!” “You’re dumb!” Repeat, repeat, repeat.

I remember being genuinely surprised in that moment. I remember thinking, “Seriously? All of you? Every single one of you? It’s such a burden to be the only know who knows what’s really going on here.” (My internal monologue can be insufferable.)

I looked to my teacher, expecting her to back me up, to confirm what we both knew was happening, but her eyes held only panic, incredulity, and a little fear that she might be attacked by a mob of feral, enraged children. She tried to smooth things over as best she could and I took my seat again, imagining a time in five or six years when my classmates would come to me and tell me I had been right all along (they didn’t) and thank me for being a beacon of truth (they SO didn’t.)

I’m really not sure how my parents didn’t feel the need to tell me not to go trumpeting the truth all over kindergarten. Surely they knew what a loud-mouthed little know-it-all they had on their hands. And even if they didn’t, surely Jennifer would have informed them. Furthermore, what was my teacher thinking when she asked that question? How could she not know she was courting disaster? She totally asked for the mayhem that ensued in the classroom once she sparked that inferno. And for the phone calls that evening from angry parents who were putting out fires of their own.

Incidentally, "Never have I ever not told a room full of kindergarteners that Santa doesn't exist" is a bit of a tongue twister, but effective nonetheless.

Why does Hollywood insist on bastardizing my childhood?

As I sit here, there are wicked plans brewing in Los Angeles. Plans to attack and destroy the memories that we children of the 80s hold dear. Plans to do something so heinous, so vile... Well, let’s just say it: plans to remake Footloose.

I know!

Sacrilege!

I first heard about it several weeks ago, when Zac Efron apparently came to his senses and decided to drop out of the project. I was horrified by the news of a Footloose remake, but I was content (or willfully blind enough) to believe it was an isolated incident. Perhaps an outgrowth of that wretched new 90210 the CW is torturing us with. Turns out no, the insidiousness doesn’t stop there.

A few days ago, I stumbled upon this! An untitled Big Chill remake! You need a title? How about "We’re Out Of Fresh Ideas So We Decided To Decimate Your Most Cherished Memories"? Too wordy? How about this: "Utter Crap!"

Clearly things were getting out of hand, but it all came to a head this morning, when I read a blurb in Entertainment Weekly about the upcoming Red Dawn remake. Oh my stars, you guys, this could not be a worse idea. You can't make that movie now. You need the presence of Cold-War-nuclear-holocaust fear to make this idea work. You can't set it in the 80s and just have the Russians attack. No one is afraid of the Russians anymore. Except maybe the Chechens. So, you're forced to set it in the present day and change the villain to the Chinese or the North Koreans or something. Oh, that’s going to go over well internationally. The British are still angry about The Patriot. (Actually, I’m still angry about The Patriot, but only from a movie critic standpoint.) Also, no one is afraid of the Chinese or the North Koreans. Except maybe the South Koreans. So what else is there? The Pakistanis? Yeah, like they could get it together to hunt down a band of high school students turned guerilla freedom fighters in the Michigan wilderness. And all of this is just politics when what I really want to know is why does Hollywood insist on bastardizing my childhood!

What’s next? I don’t know, but I’ll tell you what: they touch The Goonies, they are DEAD to me. No one touches The Goonies. It’s like putting Baby in a corner.

Sunny day, sweepin' the clouds away...

So, we went to Sesame Place this weekend. It was Julia's day from top to bottom (although Melis and I were pretty psyched to see the replica of Sesame Street with the actual front stoop!) The day started with Breakfast With Elmo. Dearest readers, if you ever have the opportunity to take a Sesame Street obsessed toddler to this park, definitely spring for the breakfast. Not only does Elmo attend, but also Bert, Ernie, Big Bird, and Zoe.

Julia entered the dining hall and turned into one of those screaming girls you see in stock footage of Beatles concerts. She ran around the room shouting, "Elmo!" "Bert!" "Zoooeeeee!" She flew from character to character getting hugs and honking their big orange noses, and basically shoving other kids out of the way like a psychotic, coked-up toddler. (For the record, she is only one of those three things.) Some children were screaming in terror at the characters (which was hilarious) but not my Julesy. She didn't want to eat, she just wanted more hugs




After breakfast, we went out into the park, where Jules continued to spot the famous residents of Sesame Street. I think she was hunting down Cookie Monster in this shot:



And here she's just been held back from shoving another (larger) little girl to the ground and is finally getting her turn to hug Zoe. I honestly didn't realize kids could act this way.



We went to the "Elmo Live!" show, which Jules loved, but I only saw it as an opportunity to nap in air conditioning. Below you'll see the two hardest-working employees at Sesame Place. The guy in the red suit is only the second- hardest worker. It's the khaki-shorted dude next to him who has to control the crowds of children desperate to see Elmo, choose the lucky few who will dance on stage with Elmo, and MC the wretched show, all while displaying the poise and pep of a Rancho-Carne Toro cheerleader, who is the real star. I was exhausted just watching him.

Also, was anyone else disappointed when the much talked-about "Mr. Noodle" appeared and he wasn't at all a puppet noodle? Missed opportunity, that.



I couldn't resist this cupcake. Unfortunately it was inedible. I'm certain its creation caused a sugar shortage somewhere in the world.



We ended the day with the parade down Sesame Street. The characters ride by on floats and jump down to dance and mingle with the crowd. Julia was utterly starstruck. She screamed and waved and giggled like a 13-year-old at a Jonas Brothers concert. It was awesome.

I've been Rickrolled!

Fear me!

So, Josh recently Punk’d me. Do the kids still say that? I wouldn’t know because I’m old enough to remember Rick Astley videos, which brings me full circle back to Josh’s little practical joke. He emailed me with a link to a supposed Nastase Reunion video he’d uploaded to You Tube. Like a fool, I followed it and was greeted by the sights and sounds of the whitest white man in Whitonia attempting to get down. Gah! Apparently the phenomenon is called Rickrolling and this puts me in company with the Scientologists. Well played, Mehall. Well played.

Ah, Never Gonna Give You Up. Has anyone ever noticed how repetitive that song is? There are like two lines, and Rick just repeats them over and over while performing his “stylish” “dance moves” for us. I was horrified, yet transfixed. I found I could not take my eyes from the screen. The hair. The clothes. The embarrassing hip wiggling from our carrot-topped leading man. I sat entranced, unable to look away, and this gave me a chance to analyze the video.

What is going on here? We’re at the country club, then we’re down at the docks? What was Rick doing down there, at night, in his dapper white trench coat? And then there’s the outdoor chain link fence scenes. I especially enjoy the all-denim outfit. I think he’s wearing Mom Jeans. And they’re doing nothing to hide his unfortunate lady-hips.

Who are these blonde women dancing behind Rick? The objects of his affection? Have their hearts been aching, but they’re too shy to say it? Inside do they both know what’s been going on? Do they know the game and they’re gonna play it? And more importantly, why are they dressed like extras from the Thunder Road drag racing scene in Grease?

Apparently all of this is terribly inspiring to the bartender, who has no choice but to leap across the bar and perform some actual dancing, Fosse style. I think there may have been jazz hands. And I don’t know what the deal is with this blonde guy who shows up at the end of the video. Is he competing with Rick for the affections of one of the girls? Is he after the affections of Rick himself? What is he doing there and why is he only just showing up for the final verse? To dance. Down by the docks. At night.

In the end, I was left with more questions than answers. Which brings us back to Scientology. See how it all comes full circle?

The twists and turns of Memory Lane

Does anyone remember Hostess Pudding Pies? They were just like their fruit pies, but filled with pudding instead. I loved them when I was a kid, but I hadn’t seen them for years. Then I walked into Sheetz the other day and there they were, wedged in between the Ho-Hos and the Ding Dongs: Hostess Pudding Pies!


I was so excited to see them, I exclaimed, “Holy crap! Are you serious?” right out loud, which earned me a few of those strange looks that I am so accustomed to receiving. So of course I had to buy one. When I got home, I gingerly tore open the crinkly paper and smelled the pie shell. Memories of childhood came rushing back.


With anticipation, I broke the pie apart to reveal the familiar sight of smooth chocolate pudding inside.


I took the first magnificent bite and... nearly gagged on how sweet the thing was. (Wrrrrrrkkkk! The needle comes off the record!) Can I just say, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that the nation has been thrown into a sugar shortage since production of these things started up again. I imagine we’ll soon be rationing like during WWII. I took a second bite, because I am stubborn and clearly insane, and I had to spit it out.

The sad truth is some things are better left in your childhood. Orange drink, Spaghetti-Os, The Love Boat. These are all better enjoyed through hazy reminiscences than up close. (Trust me, Gopher was not that cute.) The Hostess Pudding Pie is no different. It ages about as well as a beach party movie. You’re better off with a Debbie Cake.