Trip Down Nostalgia Street, vol 4

It’s time for another walk down Nostalgia Lane. We’ll come back to the Atari 2600 in some later posts, but for now I’m going to jump ahead in time to 1988, and the second of my electronic childhood companions, the Sega Master System. Ah, the upgrade to 8 bit glory. I can’t remember whether this was a Christmas or Birthday treat, but I do recall that it arrived after transitioning into high school, when Transformers and Legos were no longer cool. Ah, foolish youth…Legos are ALWAYS cool. But I digress.

One of the first Sega games to absorb my time like Borg with a bad habit was Lord of the Sword. A simple side-scrolling adventure, Lord of the Sword featured a young man by the name of Landau attempting to complete three Very Important Tasks, while presumably lording over his sword.

Prepare for 8 bit glory, children!

The tasks must have been named by the Fraggles, I think: find the Tree of Marill, subdue the goblin of “Balala Valley”, and destroy the very, very aptly named “Statue of Evil.” And while the goblin wasn’t singing “Oh, you touch my Balala”, he did have some wicked flaming skulls, if I recall correctly. And whereas the statue was the Statue of Evil, and not merely the Statue of Slight Annoyance or the Statue of Jaywalking, it was a worthy target for annihilation.

Lord of the Sword had some fairly freaky enemies, from floating eyeballs to mutant armadillo badgers to flying devils, not to mention the ninja warriors. The ninjas would stalk you, disappear, and then fall out of the fucking sky to stab you in the back. They were, however, the weakest enemy in the game, and could be defeated with one simple strategy: just keep walking. Dumbest. Ninjas. Ever. (Side note: keep walking away from a pirate, and he’ll shoot you in the fucking back.)

Stupid ninja summons batscorpion. It is super effective.

You’d stop in various villages, earn various rewards, and kill various enemies. Seriously, I mean various enemies. In addition to those mentioned previously, there were also wolves, pterodactyls, scorpions, skeletons, caterpillars, bursting seed-pods, and more. It was as if the game designers had rolled through an old Fiend Folio or Monster Manual and decided it was the perfect roster for their own evil kickball team.

Always picked last for Kickball. Always.

Boss fights were enjoyable, including the swamp spirit, a twisted version of the Great Pumpkin with a rotating mirror for a body, which you had to shoot with your bow, while knocking back an invincible samurai before he cut your face off. (The before was the hard part.) Then there’s the Beast of Fire who looked like Harvey Birdman’s stunt double, or the giant Pirate with a sword for a hand. (Scoffed at a mere hook, he did.) Come to think of it, somebody was definitely smoking some meth on the design team.

Things we've all seen while smoking meth.

But usually kicking the little angel off our other shoulder.

The final battle consisted of a throw down with the evil Ra Goan, a name that sounded suspiciously like the sound you’d make after losing the fight for the 853^rd freaking time in a goddamn row. Eventually, though, I did beat the big bastage, and thus won the crown of the kingdom. A final story board progression told the tale of your peaceful reign, and finished off with the words “The End”. How quaint. And vaguely anticlimactic.

While fun, this game would fail to inspire my imagination as much as other games I'd played before and since...I didn't really want to BE Landau, I just wanted to beat the game.

The 8 bit revolution improved gaming a great deal, bringing story and conclusion to games, where Atari titles had typically just featured “get a good score before you die” as their plotlines. And I’m not going to lie, Marge, I spent a lot of time wiggling my thumbs on that controller, and didn’t put the controller down willingly…until the 16 bit revolution came to call, invading the peace and quiet of Nostalgia Street.

Junk in the Very Tall Trunk

My family and I, like many, have a running gag. I used to love going to the zoo, and in fact I still do. Seeing animals that are rare, wondrous, precious, or just plain there is a treat that I’ll be sharing with Little Danger for sure.

On this particular once-upon-a-time, I sat quietly in my stroller as my parents wheeled me along the pathways at the St. Louis Zoo. We spent a bit of time watching the giraffes in the sweltering heat of an August summer day. I was fascinated by the way the giraffe would swish its tail, shooing the flies away from itself with its very own built-in flyswatter. Of course, being only 5 or so, I didn’t quite have the vocabulary or patience to properly articulate such a sentiment. Instead, I happily chirped out “Gee, I like that giraffe’s butt!”

Thus began a long and endearing (though occasionally embarrassing) run of giraffe butt jokes that has persisted for 3 decades. It’s still possible for me to make my mom giggle by the mere mention of a giraffe butt, and I try to make sure I do so every now and then. For instance, finding myself in London’s largest toy store, I staged a shot of me grabbing a giraffe by the tail…and I submit to you that if you can afford a life-sized stuffed giraffe, you can fuck right off. Some of us outside of the rarified airs actually have to struggle to make ends meet.

Dangerboy conquers Girafficus Bythetailicus

I’ve always been a fan of little in jokes like this, secret ways of saying things within a couple, family, or group of friends. They build a secret language of shared experience, humor, and love. What’s your favorite family in-joke?

Jumping on the Grenade

There are times, when faced with an imminent asskicking, that we learn just how far we might go for our fellow man. How far will you go? Let me share with you a story, of a time I came *this* close to jumping on the grenade.

I was on a deployment at Keesler, and hanging out with Kit quite often. (See the Slidell Saga) Of a Saturday night, we’d do whatever adventure we were doing, and hit the Denny’s on the beachfront for late night breakfast.

A midnight Denny’s crowd can be a group of regulars, and such had become the case at this location. We had a regular waitress, a regular table, even though we weren’t entirely regular ourselves. Sort of off-normal, which suited us just fine…there was a section where nerds and geeks would regularly be seated, and the rest of the restaurant for the late night drunkard crowd. You can probably guess which section we frequented.

On this particular night, we were just being served when the large table behind us was invaded and conquered by a bunch of teenagers, fresh out of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. As you might imagine, they were dressed quite strangely…one young lady in a clear skirt and gold lame’ panties, a young man in a dress…I’m pretty sure they had played Rocky and Janet that night, but gender-switched. Both were probably 16, at the most. The rest of the table was equally as wild, and Kit and I smiled at each other, reminiscing about our own Saturday night floor shows, truly beautiful to behold.

Don't dream it...be it.

We finished our meal, chatting and enjoying ourselves…even when the boy with the Mohawk asked Kit for the rest of her sausage. Some may have been bothered, but we just smiled at his boldness and rewarded it with the sausage. Michael Rennie might have been ill, but we were just having a good time.

Unfortunately, what would have been a lovely evening started getting murky as I noticed 4 military meatheads at another booth, giving the kids the stink-eye. My danger sense was tingling so hard I started looking around for radioactive spiders. I’ve been military myself, and proudly, but these guys took me straight back to high school in a hurry…I can recognize a dung beetle when I see one, and I was looking at four of them.

Kit noticed me go quiet, as I started truly listening to the Fucktastic Four. The kids were gathering up and getting ready to leave, when I heard the lead douchemuppet utter “I swore an oath against all enemies foreign and domestic, and that looks like a domestic enemy to me” all the while giving the boy in a dress (a knee length floral number, by the way) his best Deathglare. (I'm not sure who writes southern villain dialogue, but they need to be fired.) He looked like a stocky version of Dolph Lundgren, a true poster boy for the Aryan Nation. I swiveled my legs out to the side so I could get up quickly, and called for the waitress.

“Crystal, you need to call the cops, there’s about to be trouble in your lot.” She didn’t even question me, just went for the phone. The kids left. Two of the four meatheads followed. Our waitress dialed the phone, while Kit went a bit pale.

I stood and quickly crossed to the booth, addressing the remaining two. “You guys need to stop your friends before they do something stupid” I exclaimed. Neither looked up from their Grand Slams, gazing into their plates as if divining the future in their scrambled eggs. Or maybe they just couldn’t lift their eyes under the colossal weight of their shame.

Some quick calculations went through my head, and I was worried these two would follow me out the door if I went. I knew the scrawny kid wouldn’t have a chance, though, and I remembered all too well the years I had been targeted like that. Somewhere within, a flame grew hot. I hit a quick about face and headed for the door, figuring to grab my mag-light out of my trunk on the way. When I can, I try to avoid a 4-on-1 without some sort of equalizer.

For the second time in the Deep South, Dangerboy was ready to receive a good old-fashioned ass-whoopin’. Hey, Alex, what do you think?

The category: Timely Intervention. The clue: Faster than eggs through a hen.

What is the fastest police response I’ve ever seen without a Krispy Kreme involved?

Correct for $200!

Thank you, Trebec.

As I rounded the corner, I saw the lead meathead reaching into the kids’ car, grasping for the lad with the fashion sense. At the same moment, one of Biloxi’s finest pulled into the lot. They had to have been right next door, as the response time was under a minute from time of call. Seeing the cop hop out of his cruiser, I turned around, heading right back inside. Kit was happy to see me, to be certain...and for that matter, so was I.

The girl in the transparent skirt came back in to retrieve something they’d left at the table, and I noticed she was wearing a rather large shiny pentacle. I caught her eye. “So,” I said, “is that for show, or are you pagan?”

She straightened her back and met my eyes with pride, and said slowly “I’m a witch.”

“Well then, Blessed Be.” I replied. Her eyebrows made a climb for her hairline, as she realized that I wasn’t busting her chops at all. I winked at her as she thanked me and left, and I’d like to think that perhaps she put two and two together there on the whole who-called-the-cops issue.

I called for the check, and decided to finish my coffee and pie. It wasn’t long before the 2 douchehats came back in and sat back down in their booth, and then the glares got heavy. I pointedly ignored them, though truth be told I made a huge mistake not going over and asking for the name of their CO so I could end their careers. Fortunately for them, I had so much adrenaline pumping in my system that rational thought was difficult to maintain.

After about 5 minutes of enduring the stares, Kit and I paid and left. I flashed the dung beetles a wolfish grin on my way out, and you can be sure I kept my eye on the door until after we’d pulled out of the lot.

I’m certain that I would have been hurt, and likely badly, had the balloon gone up, but I’m proud of myself that a young man would have avoided that fate had it happened. Still hyped up on adrenaline and caffeine, I stayed up with Kit for several more hours, playing Mortal Kombat 3 until the wee hours just before dawn. A repeating chorus of “Sub Zero wins” finally serenaded me to relaxation. I’m still just fine that none of the Fucktastic Four managed a “Get over here!” though. I might have broken out in bruises.

Scotchy Scotch, Domo Arigato edition

I have to admit it, I’m a Scotch snob. I don’t typically drink blends, unless they’re part of a mixed drink. I will take straight Laphroaig before I’ll have Johnny Blue. And I’ll like it.

Occasionally, though, I like to try something new and different, but only at the pour-me-one level. I very rarely audition a new booze with a whole bottle, though, as my wallet tends to rebel against such shenanigans like a rag tag alliance on Hoth.

Being a snob of Scotch, I was surprised to learn of an unlikely treat: Japanese single malt whiskey. I was even more surprised to see it on the Scotch shelf at my local Boozehouse. Japanese, you say? Better known for sushi and pleasant baths than bagpipes, says I. And while the bottle of Yamazaki intrigued me, the $54 price tag taunted me like a Vegas hooker. You think it’ll be a good time, but you can’t justify the expense to your wife, and you know it might taste bad no matter how it’s dressed up.

And so, I cruised right on by that bottle on the shelf, and picked up some of the Glenmorangie instead. And out the door I went.

I do travel for business, and so it came to pass that I ended up in a lovely sushi place at Disney’s Swan resort, with Wifefish and Willie, Little Danger in tow in his stroller. While he napped (Little Danger, not Willie), I perused the menu. I may also have perused the waitress in authentic kimono, but my eyes came back to the menu as the familiar Yamazaki caught my eye. I decided I’d give it a try, and the Hibiki as well. Yes, it’s a blend, but I bent my rule on this one so as to experience a traditional whiskey aged in a plum wine cask. Gang, that just sounded too yummy to pass up.

By the way, I have to call out my sushi bars around the nation. I have eaten sushi at many, many places…New York, Vegas, San Diego, Ohio, Indiana, Texas, even New Orleans…and never seen Japanese Whiskey, only sake and Ki-Rin beer. What gives? Why have you hidden this from the Dangerboy? Now I’m going to be looking for it every time, and when I can’t find it I’m going kaiju so far off the deep end you’ll think I was directed by Ishiro Honda, so you’d better have a pair of tiny Japanese girls in your pocket just in case.

That's Yamazaki, not Yamaha, not kamikaze, and damn sure not Hamekameha.

Anyhow, on to the meat of the post…the drinks. The Yamazaki is a product of Suntory distillery, built in 1923. I found it a pleasant drink indeed, a bit sweet like a Highland Scotch, but with a distinct personality and a bit of cherry hiding in the wood. As always, your mileage may vary, but this is a not-scotch that I’ll let wear an honorary kilt with its katana. Pride in whiskey is pride in whiskey, whatever flag it flies.

Hibiki means "harmony", fitting for a blend.

As for the Hibiki, I’m glad I gave it a shot, even though it’s a blend. It is of course smoothed out, but if you’re a fan of blends, you need this in your collection. It’s another Suntory production, and is very smooth and sweet. The plum flavors really come to the fore, and it finishes with a bit of peppery spice. I was pleasantly surprised, to say the least, and I’d allow a bottle of this to grace the shelves of my Pyrate Pub any time.

And so it came to pass that Dangerboy, Celtic heritage intact, did come to enjoy the fruits of the Far East. And I share it with you, now...grab your Pokemon and your bagpipes, and have a wee dram of something a bit different!

Yamazaki and Hibiki. Remember them, and Slainte!…or Kampai!!

My Old Friend...

Looking out the windows, I am greeted by an old, old friend. The first snowfall of this season drifts lazily at times, floats furiously at others, and I watch the fallen leaves slowly disappear beneath a quieting blanket of soft white.

As some of you may know, I have a special place in my heart for the first fall of snow. Despite the fact that it inspires 98% of the drivers around me to revert to their inner moron, it inspires in me memories of staying home from school, snowball fights, hot chocolate, reading a book while watching it fall, and of course snuggling up with my Mom or, on those occasions he was off of work, with Dad.

There's a certain magic that comes with the first snowfall, which the 2nd and 27th snowfalls just can't touch. The 27th snowfall always makes me yearn for the Turks or Bahamas anyway, as by that time I'm ready to choke out a caribou just on principle. But oh, that first snowfall, come to call in its soft embrace and wrap me in all those memories of life's wintry pleasures! The first snowfall is welcomed with open, though freakin' freezin' arms.

While my friend has lost the power to let me have a day home, today's first snow is more special still. Today I'm going to bundle up Little Danger in a big fluffy blanket and carry him outside, and I'm going to introduce my friend. I think I'm going to set aside a vacation day in the coming years, too...his first snow day off from school (still some years down the road), I think I want to take off work and share that with him. My old friend would surely appreciate the company.

Choosy Moms Choose...

It was a beautiful, though sweltering, summer day. My friends D&J were getting married in a local park, amidst the vivid green of a Midwest weekend. The tents were up, the mead chilled, the keg cooling. The dress code was casual and comfortable, and thus I chose to wear my Utilikilt for comfort and style.

The ceremony was lovely, and I was pleased to meet the bride J’s family from out-of-state. Given that the beer was flowing, this was a bit of a treat, for the most part. Little did I know that I was about to enter the annals of Wedding Legends the land over.

Amidst the glow of both the setting sun and a fair amount of mead, I was standing with Wifefish when J’s mom approached me. She looked, as many people do, at the kilt and asked, “Are you wearing it correctly?”

“Of course,” I quickly (and accurately) replied. It was a damn hot day, and some underkilt breeze is a heavenly thing, my friends.

“No you’re not.”

I’ve been party to exchanges like this once or twice before, and so I asserted that I was, in fact, purely Regimental. “I don’t believe you,” she exclaimed, her hands grasping the hem of my garment. She looked at Wifefish, who smiled broadly and said “Go ahead!”

I’ll take the Scottish Flower for $1000 Alex.

The answer: proudly displayed by Scotsmen and other Celts for ages.

What is “My Prickly Thistle”.

Correct!

Thank you, Alex.

Up went the kilt. Wide went the eyes of J’s mom. Time seemed to stop, her hand frozen for an eternal second of disbelief until she released the kilt, allowing gravity to reassert my modesty. Wifefish laughed heartily, as did J. The mother of the bride then ran from me, face flushed red in embarrassment and humor, laughing all the way. “I thought he was lying!” she nearly shrieked. The laughter rang out loudly, as we continued our reveling.

The time came for me to make our goodbyes and head home for the evening, and I ended up speaking briefly to J’s mom. I told her how glad we all were for her daughter, knowing she missed her now that she’s moved here, but that we are all better for her presence.

“Thank you,” she said. She started to walk away, then hesitated. With an impish grin, she turned to me and said “Nice penis, by the way!” I couldn’t help but laugh, and it was my turn to blush a bit. Dad always told me that I’d be rewarded if I told the truth, and this day was no exception.

Needless to say, J and I now have a special connection, and a great story that we love to share.

Trip Down Nostalgia Street, vol 3

It’s time for another walk down Nostalgia Street. This time, we’re visiting 8 year old me again, for another of the Atari 2600 treats. This week’s game was another Activision hit, Chopper Command.

8 year old me, and in fact now year old me, was/is obsessed with action packed flight games. The pickings were slim in ’82, but Chopper Command fit the bill quite nicely indeed. Here was a game in which I could pretend to be a pilot, escorting convoys through the desert, splashing MiGs and enemy choppers with frickin’ laser beams! Pew Pew!!! Er…I mean…ahem. Moving on…

My Code Name is Wild Bill, Muthafucka!

This was a fairly advanced concept for early 2600 games, a side-scroller that introduced a wrinkle to the classic “blow everything else the fuck up while you twitch like a mongoose on meth avoiding enemy missiles and try not to fucking die” formula. That wrinkle was the introduction of a friendly convoy crawling at ¼ the speed of smell across the bottom of the screen, serving as target practice for the enemy fighters. Your mission was to protect said convoy of militarized slugs as it inched across the bottom of the screen in ominous black vehicles.

This mission was made all the more challenging by the imaginative way enemy shots split in two and fired straight up and down. This of course defied all concepts of physics, merely existing to inspire thrown controllers to crash against walls in households everywhere. Wired controllers did have one advantage, ladies and gentlemen…they stopped before they hit the wall.

Chopper Command was accompanied by a slew of marketing peripherals, and in fact I’ve given you a gift here…that’s an actual mobile you can print out and fold up to have your very own Chopper to…well, command. As with many other Activision games, you could take a picture of your screen and send it in to get a groovy patch to try to beg mom to sew onto your jacket. (Blog tip #347…overuse of preposition? CHECK.) The Chopper Command patch was infinitely cooler than some of the other patches, for instance the Short Order Squad patch, which wouldn’t have been cool if it came with a pack of candy cigarettes.

Awesome on denim...

Granted, acing Chopper Command for the coveted end game score of 999,999 made you only slightly cooler than Barry Bostwick in a bodysuit and blue headband, but for an 8 year old, it’s the little victories in cool that matter, that push just a little more toward "awesome". Gameplay was repetitive, but then so was virtually every video game in the early 80’s. Story driven games just hadn’t been invented yet, and so it was up to a child’s imagination to create said story every time the power switch got flipped to “ON.”

And so it was, dressed in the flightsuit of my thermal-knit long underwear, that I would scramble fresh from a bowl of Count Chocula, climb into my cockpit, flip on the switches, and take control of a futuristic laser armed chopper to protect vanloads of loosely-defined “goodguys” against the privations of the dastardly and aptly named “badguys”. Even though the cockpit bore a striking resemblance to my bedroom, the scramble didn’t start until after I cleaned up the table, and the chopper existed mostly in my mind, there was a lot of fun and adventure to be had flying that two dimensional chopper, commanding a spot in the airspace over Nostalgia Street.