I'm a Patriot

It's a scientific fact that growing up, boys played with action figures and girls played with faux cooking sets and barbie dolls. The boys who didn't play with action figures are currently trying to figure out their sexuality and the girls who didn't play with barbie dolls and easy-bake ovens are probably aspiring to be in the WNBA. Like I said... it's science.

As for myself, I was BIG into the superhero action figure scene. And I'm not saying that just to convince you that I'm confident in my sexuality (which I am.... I'm straight). Anyway, I probably owned 97% of all action figures known on Planet Earth.

They lived in my basement where I spent countless hours separating the bad guys from the good guys, creating intriguing plots, and ultimately playing them all out. Every day was another drawn out movie/war that I created with exceptional precision. I created some really thrilling storylines. In fact, I'd be willing to bet that I saw movies such as Batman, Spiderman, The Hulk, Iron Man, Transformers, and Pearl Harbor way before they were ever actually created. I know this because I made those movies with my little action figurines when I was ten. Fact.

I put a lot of elbow grease and props into those epic battles I created. I did some work on my sister's old doll house (which was huge) and made that the Super Hero mansion where all my favorite good guys lived. I had a log cabin set up behind the pool in the backyard for the rest of the good guys that didn't quite deserve a room in the big house. Everyone got along nicely there.

In the darkest corners of the basement resided the bad guys; such as Shredder, Joker, Kingpin, Venom, and the good guys' perma-mole: The Punisher. As the stories typically went, I would have the Punisher on the inside trying to find out information about the bad guys' plans. Unfortunately for him, he would always do something stupid that would get him caught, usually spurring the legendary wars. For example, one time the Joker caught him having ice cream with good girl reporter, April O'Neil. Naturally, all hell broke loose after that. Since this scenario was based loosely off the Mighty Ducks 2 movie, I think you know exactly what happened in the end...

USA won.

I should have you know that when I say 'USA,' I clearly mean Captain America. That was always the end result. No matter what happened in my stories, I would always have Captain America, driving in his kick ass red, white, and blue sportscar, run shit and come out in the end as the sole surviving hero.

Let me give you an example of one of the endings.

One time, I tried very very hard to set the Super Hero mansion ablaze. I was young and naive so I rubbed sticks together for hours trying to spark something for the best special effects possible; unfortunately, I was unable to ignite it. I don't remember exactly what I did instead, but I'm sure I created the ambiance by using glowing logs with rolling embers or something. Anyway, I had everyone still alive from before burn alive inside, except of course for Captain America, who during this particular scene, carried April O'Neil away from the flames as well.

Back at her place. (which happened to be inside a glass book case turned apartment) she was depressed because the Punisher was ritualistically shoved into a VCR by Abomination earlier in the battle. To make her feel better, and for the sake of mankind, I put Captain America and her in compromising positions hoping they would procreate smart, super hero babies. All leading to a sequal and trilogy.

I think that all just goes to show that I'm a true patriot. I love my country and I always have. Captain America is symbolic of that love. I sacrificed some mighty fine superheroes, just so America would prevail in the end. You could safely say that I love America more than David Dachovny loves sex and more than fat kids love cake. Proven.

America. Fuck Yeah.

Rodney Atkins widget by 6L & Daxii

Alone Came Me

Like this old man, I once saw a movie by myself.

It was "Along Came Polly." I wanted to get away from things so I went to the midnight showing, but not before I went to the nearest gas station and bought me some cherry skoal tobacco. (I know you are probably thinking, ew that's disgusting, and I agree. The memory of it alone makes me nauseous.) Anyway, I bought my ticket and proceeded to the respective floor in the palladium movie theater where my flick would be shown. I aggressively approached the concession stand and asked for a water cup to spit in from the pimply faced, generic, 'I hate my life' guy that always seems to be working behind the counter there. He got a solo cup, handed it to me hesitantly with a peculiar look. Like I wanted to give him a urine sample or something. I thought about it, but I decided not to pee (R. Kelly) on him.

I walked to a seat in the last row in front of the projector, whipped out my tin, packed it, opened it, and put a pinch behind my bottom lip. I slouched in my seat and let the juices kick in. I wanted a buzz and some Ben Stiller/Jennifer Anniston action to help get me away from what was a rough patch in my life. Syracuse was 0-2 and I recently found out one of my friends "woke up naked" next to my main squeeze at the time.....

Let me elaborate on the latter.

It was the morning following a party. I was sleep-driving to a baseball game early in the morning when I received a phone call. I have no recollection who the call was from. Either a really good friend, or someone who wanted to sabotage my game because the call could have definitely waited until around noon, a normal weekend time. The conversation went something like this:

"I have no idea what happened and I hate to be the one to tell you this, but _____ woke up naked next to ____ this morning."

I was wide awake now. "Really? Well, we're not dating, but thanks." I started to laugh. "That funny slut. You know she blew me earlier in the night? Then she goes and sleeps with another guy after I leave? Does she have no shame? Welp, good for her I guess. Thanks for telling me. Later."

I played surprisingly well that day and was surprisingly mature about the situation. Normally, I probably would have burned her house down or started a really nasty and unforgiving rumor. Instead, I merely went to school the following Monday and confronted them both. 'My friend' lied to me about it, claiming it was true they woke up naked in the same room, but it was innocent and nothing happened. I believed that about as much as I believed that the Easter Bunny was delivering Christmas presents that year because Santa Clause had SARS. I looked to _____ and her cheeks blushing as red as the cherry she lost some years ago was the only confirmation I needed. I laughed and walked away. End of that story. No grudge or anything. In fact, throughout the rest of the year, I continued to talk to both of them as if nothing ever happened.

I'm not heartless, though. I'm a human being with feelings and by golly it stung. She was cool and we were having fun. However, to be fair, we weren't officially dating. Facebook didn't exist to make it official and I would hardly call weekend guitar lessons and tonsil hockey a firm base to build a healthy relationship off of.

At the same time though, it (the mysterious naked wake up) didn't sit right with me. We weren't in LA or Vegas where any type of sexually deviant behavior flies as a societal norm. Or so I think. My thoughts exactly are: If you put your lips around one dick at 10:30 PM, you don't put them around a different one within 24 hours, much less within a couple hours. It's not right, and probably not healthy. Way too much protein.

So this obviously perturbed me and naturally, I needed to see a good ole' fashioned RoCo (Romantic Comedy) to get my thoughts in order. At the time, there was no better way to do that then by getting fucked up on something as disgusting as tiny fiber glass filled tobacco pieces and a movie by my lonesome. (The movie was great by the way).

(Little disclaimer: I'm not the only person in America to see a movie alone. In fact, my buddy witnessed Kobe Bryant at "Harry Potter" by himself when the Lakers were in town to play the Pistons during the 2004 NBA Finals. PeeWee Herman once saw a movie by himself too, but that was to 'grope his rope.' That's a completely unrelated story, though.)

POGS to Blogs

What do Eric Montross, Rashaan Salaam, Kyle Brady, and Eek! the Cat all have in common?

These sub-par professional athletes and that crazy, poor-man's Garfield were apart of my illustrious POGS collection back in third grade. Growing up, my school would go through phases where all the kids would get hip with the times and buy into all the propaganda bullshit that TV spoon fed us during the commercials of our favorite shows (Price is Right, Pinky and the Brain, and Ricky Lake if my mom wasn't home.) I bought into it like it was kiddie-crack...It wasn't crack though. They were decorated cardboard circles. They were what communion breads would look like if they let Van Gohg or Monet paint them. They were my religion until its time passed.

This was the case for everyone. (Although I'm pretty sure I was the only child who avidly watched Ricky Lake).

Just about every year something new and cooler would take over as the new trend and everything else became "so last year." For example, third grade was POGS, fourth grade was trading sports cards, fifth grade was a mix of Fireball Yo-Yos and Tomagotchies, and sixth grade was my personal favorite: the split-right-down-the-middle, butt-crack hairstyle with a squirt of product. To this day, I'd like to believe I had the best butt-crack in middle school. I got a lot of positive comments. (Side note regarding the Fireball Yo-yo: I screamed like a girl that just got a pony on Christmas morning when I saw that in my stocking. I walked the dog for days.)

It is amazing how these trends can really run your lives. I remember trading POGS for homework answers and Dunkaroo snacks at lunch. Weekends would consist of me either sitting Indian style (PC: legs crossed) in my room re-organizing them in all imaginable ways, or me sitting in front of Ricky Lake practicing my slammer skills. (Here is a link of how to play the game in case you are forgetful and/or stupid).

I did used to get in trouble for playing with my POGS too much. My mom would hide them from me or yell at me if I was POGing instead of practicing my handwriting on those old-school horizontal papers with the multi-colored lines that were grossly spread out. In fact, POGS, and other fads, could very well be the reason I ended up losing the 5th grade handwriting contest. My handwriting suffers to this day.

I had a lot of great times with the POGS and thinking back on all the games we played with them, I really want to get out the tubes full of POGS, blow my Mighty Ducks whistle to get the 'ole gang together again and play.

Alumni POG game anyone?

Surgeon General's Report

A few things I want to clear up and put out there before I begin posting nostalgia:

1. I can assure you, everything I post here is completely true except maybe for the above warning. You should not get gum disease or tooth loss from reading this product. However, it is still to be determined.
   
2. I will not use any real names without permission from the particular individual(s) when discussing something embarrassing, distasteful, or basically anything that could potentially lose said person a job if their name was Googled and discovered on this site by a potential employer. For example, if you pooped your pants while at an underage drinking party (two no-no's), I will probably refrain from using your name. Unless of course you'd like to be identified...George.
   
3. I will jump all over the place. Nostalgia works in funny ways and there's no telling where my brain will take me. One day I could write about me being bed ridden for an entire day because I swallowed a penny; and the next day I could write about how I used to secretively put meat in the vegetarian kid's lunch all throughout middle school. I think the jumping around will make it more interesting for you, the readers.
   
4. Some stories may flat out suck because they are unfunny, unorganized, and lack any sort of theme. Some stories I post will have a nice tied up ending and others will just be loose rants. Sorry.
5. Leave comments. There's nothing better than to know people are reading and interested. Tell me what's good, what's not so good (in a nice way) and what you think. If you have a story, relevant or even completely unrelated, post it to the comments section. Please do not leave unintelligent messages such as, "You're a fag," or "you're the Detroit Lions of the blogosphere." Thanks.

Now sit back, put your hand in your pants, eat some Doritos, and enjoy "The Chronicles of Nostalgia."

A New Journey

I have begun a new journey tonight. I quested deep inside my soul and explored every nook and cranny of my think tank (my brain) and pulled out an idea that I knew I wanted to follow through with: The Chronicles of Nostalgia.

Some of you might be thinking, "that's the cheesiest name for a blog I have ever seen." Personally, I think it's rather awesome and actually creative, if I don't say so myself. In fact, it's so creative I'm the only person in North America to use it on the public forum we call the internet and just the second person on Planet Earth. That's right. I Googled the shit out of it. Quotations around the phrase, brackets, the whole shabang and sure enough only one person, located in India, beat me to the punch. However, that person only used it in a blog post title. Obviously, I am making much better use of the phrase as it will be the title of my entire web-journal-ey.

Now I'm sure you're at the edge of your seats thinking, "this is a really uncomfortable way to sit on a chair", so I will try to explain briefly what I plan to do with this blog:

First and foremost, I shall get any references to "The Chronicles of Narnia" out of the way right this instant, and never make them again. It's not that I don't like the Narnia series. I just don't want ten-year olds googling it and coming across this blog. It's my sole duty to society to keep them away from here.

At any rate, surely you can view 'nostalgia' as my far out land that I created. Only I'm Brian, not a Lion and this land consists of me, and my nostalgic stories. Unfortunately, the only talking animal will be me and the only magic will come from you clicking the X in the upper right hand corner after you're done reading (or before then, if you truly don't like a thing you see here) to make this all disappear. I would love to think that the magic exists within a group of my words we call phrases and sentences, but I don't claim to be C.S. Lewis; I only envy him. Although I do hope one day this turns into a book and I sell over a hundred million different copies in forty-some different languages. That would be cute.

Good will certainly battle evil on this land, as I have tons of conflicting thoughts running rampantly through my head. There is no telling whether or not my life's innermost details will be regurgitated coherently (good) or gibberishly (bad). That's what is so great about writing: It's like drinking outdated milk. You never know what will come out of it, but you need your fix of nourishment. Writing is my fix, but doing it could result in one of two things (like drinking outdated milk): pure satisfaction from a gutsy, yet smooth digestion or messy, messy diarrhea. Diarrhea of the mouth, of course.

Terrible analogy aside, I will try and evolve the chronicles into different chapters. My childhood, high school, college, and post-college appear to be the most generic and obvious chapters of a normal American's life. I'll come up with something good for each to make it a little more original than that though.

In the meantime, bare with me as I get intergalactic nostalgic on all your asses.