Once My Looks Go, I've Got Nothing

This probably goes without saying, but just for the sake of posterity, for those future generations that happen upon this post devoid of context (yes, I am an optimist), allow me to set the stage: 2020 is exceptionally messed up. There's a pandemic, widespread civil unrest, constitutional crises, and just generally the ingredients for some fine dystopian fiction in the decades to come. However, the passage of time being what it is, this is this decade, and as such...I've been spending a lot of time indoors. And time indoors being what it is, I have found myself with the free time to both contemplate what I want to be doing and to make it happen. Thus, this article, touching upon a subject I have not dealt with in any significant way in several years: video production. And then, um, another subject. Previously, I have addressed at length my history in public access television production, a fact which in and of itself dates me significantly. I mean, YouTube became a thing like

Sometimes, on an overcast day, when the sun's luminous silhouette struggles mightily to break through the murky clouds and the wind whispers its vague lullaby, I think of my friend and hope that, wherever he may be, he is happy... *** With the recent success of the Pok é mon Go mobile game-such a phenomenon that it has popularized that most base and shameful of activities: walking -the original 151 Pocket Monsters have reentered the popular consciousness with a vengeance. Because of this vengeful reentry, my thoughts of late have turned to my own personal experience with the Pok é mon games of yore, and the untold tragedy of a fallen friend. I first heard of these games through a 1996 issue of Nintendo Power , which at the time was quite fond of  dangling the carrot of Japanese games before ravenous American audiences that would never get to play them. How I longed for Secret of Mana 2 or RPG Maker to hit these shores! Pocket Monsters , while cool-looking, had the air of so

Ah, Nintendo. I cannot overstate the importance of Nintendo to Young Me. Nintendo was the almighty, the most important thing in the world, and I mean this quite literally. Food, love, oxygen...mere impotent sparklers in the face of the massive celestial body that was Nintendo. If you'd like evidence of this, please observe my recently unearthed copy of the rather oddly-named Nintendo Calendar: The Power Game 1993 Calendar . It was the physical manifestation of Nintendo's pixelated tendrils snaking into every single day of the year. I'm rather annoyed that the numbering scheme for the dates ALMOST but not quite matches up with next year (damn leap year, screwing everything up), so I can't put it up on the wall in 2016. But in life, much like in video games, you win some, you lose some, you trade some in to the store in exchange for newer ones. Some numbered stray observations: 1. "The Power Game"? What the hell is that? Sounds like a USA Network origina

         I've been reading the books in the Flowers in the Attic series lately (three down, two to go), thanks to my viewing and enjoyment of the Lifetime original film based on the first book. The jury is still out as to whether or not this was a bad decision, though I will say that summarizing the plots of the second and third book out loud to my mother made me sound like an absolute raving lunatic. Unquestionably, though, the books' subject matter, while largely absurd, is unrelenting in its grim, sordid nature. As such, I'm going for a shift in tone today to talk about the pinnacle of levity: a joke book. Certainly something as mirthful as a textual compilation of time-honored humor must be worlds away from the debilitating trauma of V.C. Andrews's seminal works, right? Well hold the phone there, Ma Bell , because the gears of this joke machine are oiled by tears.      Let's start with the author. Does his name look familiar? If you read this blog regularl

     The nightmare starts the same, every time. I'm out for a stroll in the jungle, and no matter how exhausted I may get, I can never stop walking. Wild animals, insects and weird fish attack me for reasons beyond my comprehension, and I ward them off by throwing that most primitive of weapons: the rock. Eventually, I happen upon a stone axe within some underbrush, and just as I'm starting to feel good about my chances of survival in this savage wilderness, the lily pads appear on the horizon, and my heart fills with despair...      I was seven years old when this photo was taken on Christmas Eve:      For most of my life, my family has been on the lower end of the disposable income spectrum. However, there was a time, so long ago in my youth, when my grandparents were doing pretty well financially. This meant that Christmas would entail a veritable bonanza of gifts from them, which in my case meant several Nintendo games. As you can see, I'm pretty pleased with my