I feel like I always start off these posts by saying that it’s been a long time and apologizing for my inability to keep up on my own posting schedule, so I’ll skip the formalities this time. Basically, I’m here to provide you with some much-needed, culturally irrelevant nostalgia and you’re going to enjoy every goddamn minute of it.
Recently, I’ve been scouring eBay and flea markets for different sorts of items that I can talk about because I feel like so many of my personal memories are of the same 10 subjects or so. It’s time to expand my horizons. Just recently, I even found a blue M&M dressed like Boba Fett and it sparked my interest in the more obscure promotional items.
As my search continued, I discovered a used, incomplete set of Bill & Ted trading cards that caught my eye. They were cheap, dated, and their subject material was little more than scenes from the movie, but I needed to have them. Movie trading cards are often really rushed and pointless, but they have a certain charm to their laziness the same way that children’s book versions of popular movies do. $5 later and these little beauties were in my possession. After picking out what I consider to be the 5 best subjects in the lot, I decided to write some beautiful fucking prose about them. Continue reading →
I know McDonalds is always an easy target for health nuts and opponents of institutionalized fast food production alike to lambaste for their unhealthy meal offerings, fascist-like corporate culture and worldwide ubiquity, but my latent childhood memories paint those same golden arches with a much more nostalgic palette.
If there’s one thing the 90s did well with their advertising aimed at children, it was their ability to make anything unattainable in life seem perfectly within reach. Drinking a Capri Sun made you turn into a T-1000 / Alex Mack liquid metal badass who could shred some serious ass on a half-pipe. Eating fruit roll-ups made your head turn into an anthropomorphic strawberry. The world was truly your oyster.
My birthday came and went in February and I could not find the motivation necessary to write any kind of coherent post about turning 29. In reality, I’m just happy that it’s not 30.
I’ve been living on the left coast for the better part of 3 months now and my sometimes-overbearing work life has rendered me mostly useless in my few hours of free time. Petty excuses aside, I’ve also just been too goddamn lazy to write anything worth posting.
That is all about to change today with a fantastically engaging article about a new pair of shoes! Are you excited yet?
As much today as in the 90s, it’s quite rare for a sequel to live up to the expectations set by the original. It always seems like a rehash of gags, exposition, character types and plot does little to raise the bar or tread new grounds of storytelling. More often than not, it’s just a complete copy and paste of the first movie in a new locale.
There are the rare occasions, however, when the sequel actually outshines the original. The Godfather: Part 2 is the first one that comes to mind, and I believe this against-all-odds hockey-centric kid’s movie is of the same caliber.
I’m obviously talking about the legendary D2: The Mighty Ducks.
The first part of the formula that Disney gets extremely right in this film is raising the stakes. Abandoning much of the cutesy bullshit from the original film, D2 brings to the table a more interesting and higher-stakes story concept that involves an international event instead of a quaint, small-town regional championship. This time, Coach Bombay and his quacktabular members of the Ducks dynasty are off to the City of Angels to compete in the Jr. Goodwill Games. Rather than just representing their small-town underdog pride, they’re representing AMURRICA against a star-studded stable of racist stereotypes.
Let me start out by saying how terribly sorry I am that I’ve been neglecting the everlasting fuck out of this blog over the last few months. I could come up with a huge list of ridiculous excuses like having my computer hacked by gremlins or being locked in Dave Coulier’s infamous sex dungeon, but I’ll just stick to the facts.