The Forgotten 90's

Today we are going to take a test. Everyone please pull out a sheet of paper from your crazy Trapper Keeper with 3D shapes if you are a boy, or your Lisa Frank unicorn folder if you are a girl. Also, please only use a number 2 sharpened Yikes! pencil. Now, let's begin...

Trick question! The test is already over. If you read the above paragraph and had no idea what I was talking about, you were not a child of the 90's, and you have failed. But that's okay. Not everyone was meant to be raised in history's most glorious era.

Glory.

I read an article a while back that got me thinking about all the pop culture from the 90's that often gets looked over or forgotten today. Some things have staying power, and some things just don't. My perception of 90's pop culture is admittedly skewed, since I was but a wee lad during most of the decade. For instance, I was bewildered when I learned as an adult that the 1994 movie Little Big League was a box office bomb, because when 8-year-old-me went to see it in theaters with my dad it felt like a big deal. It could have been Star Wars for all I knew, because I didn't have the full cognizance to understand it's impact outside of my small group of baseball-loving 3^rd grade friends. So here are a few things I think back on from the 90's and go “Hey, remember that?” to which the collective seems to reply, “No, not really.”

Crossfire

I wanted this board game so badly as a kid, thanks in large part to this commercial which played between every early 90's Nickelodeon show. I dare you to watch it without weeping at the realization that your life will never be as cool as the kid's in the leather jacket. (I am prepared to triple dog dare you, but I sincerely hope it doesn't come to that.)

If you were too scared or unable (scared) to watch the commercial, it features two kids gliding on hoverboards into a futuristic arena filled with cheering crowds and lightning for a deathmatch while Kenny Freakin' Loggins or a Kenny Freakin' Loggins impersonator wails “Crossfiiiyyyaaaaaaahh!” The actual board game consists of shooting ball bearings at a cog to move it into your opponent's goal, but really the game could have been anything. It could have been a brick you smash your own face with and I still would've begged my parents for it. “Mom, can we please go to the store and get the game where I smash my own face with a brick? Have you even seeeeeen the commercial?”

I have never stumbled upon this game at any thrift store, which means they either didn't sell many copies of it originally (but really, go watch that commercial again) or, the more probable answer, all the ball bearings were immediately lost the same day the game was purchased by begrudging parents and given to their hyper-active and careless kids. Because, looking back with all the acuity of an adult, that's exactly what I would have done.

Zamfir, Master of the Pan Flute

Zamfir, Master of the Pan Flute (not to be confused with Zandar, Master of That Thing Where You Thump Your Cheeks While You Open Your Mouth) sold his inspirational rendition of classic melodies on vinyl, cassette, or compact disc through commercials which ran at all hours of the day on every channel broadcast in America for what felt like twenty years during the 90's. There was no escaping these commercials. Even as a kid I was sick of them, and I had an incredibly high tolerance for crap back then. The US has a policy of not negotiating with terrorists, but I imagine President Clinton finally gave Zamfir a few million dollars and told him to move to Canada and never return, because I have not heard a single note from Zamfir's pan flute in many years. But wherever Zamfir is today, probably in some small, icy town like Sasquatchatoon or Moose Butt, he can take solace in knowing that at least one man bought his albums – my father.

Wish Kid/ProStars

Saturday Morning Cartoons reached their Golden Age in the 90's. Everybody remembers the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Tiny Toon Adventures, and Garfield (my personal favorite), but for the longest time I had slight recollections of a cartoon where Macaulay Culkin would slap his baseball mitt three times to make Michael Jordan, Wayne Gretzky, and Bo Jackson magically appear and save the day with their athletic skill and ingenuity. I brought this cartoon up a few times to people in my general age group, and all I ever got was blank faces and the usual questions as to who I was, how I got into their office building, and why I had interrupted their meeting with trivial nonsense.

“But before security gets here, seriously no one remembers? Culkin? Jordan?...”

It turns out I had remembered it incorrectly. I finally did the internet research, and in my head I had combined two cartoons into one. Wish Kid was the cartoon that starred Culkin as a kid that got wishes from his magical glove, and ProStars was the cartoon that had Jordan, Gretzky, and Jackson battling crime with comically inefficient sports equipment. Both series began in 1991, and both only lasted 13 episodes. I think now is the right timing for gritty live-action reboots starring Kobe Bryant, Tiger Woods, Brett Favre, and Haggard Macaulay Culkin to be aired on HBO long after your children have gone to sleep.

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So what do you remember from the 90's that others have largely forgotten? What didn't quite stick in America's nostalgic mind the way you thought it should have?  These things must be documented. We can't afford to forget the things that subtly shaped us or we risk losing sight of who we were and who we wanted to become.

This kid is the only reason I want to be successful in life.

.....

I'll show him.

Tubular (Limestone Park Canoe and Tube Rentals)

I've decided that I'm going to be an Olympian.

“But Nathan,” you're probably saying to yourself under your breath, “there isn't an Olympic sport that suits your failing joints and outright contempt for practice or dedication.”

“Shut your face!” I am definitely yelling to a random, confused person who happens to be standing nearest me as you read this. “I know that, and I'm petitioning the International Olympic Committee for the inclusion of a new sport more tailored to my unique lack-of-talents and apathy!”

I, of course, am yelling about the “sport” of tubing, or sitting on an inflatable device and letting the current take you wherever the current wants. It combines two of my favorite things – being abhorrently lazy and floating while being abhorrently lazy. I'm not really sure how a winner would be chosen, since making it into a race would defeat the essence of the sport, so maybe there will be style judges like in ice skating.

"Just look at those slouched shoulders, slack jaw, and vacant stare. The judges have deliberated. Tens across the board!"

I went for a tubing test run last weekend. Meredith and I had been looking for a new place to try, and I had heard about Limestone Park Canoe and Tube Rentals near Montevallo. A quick internet search revealed that they did not have a website, which should have tipped us off. After a drive deep into the boonies of Bibb County, we found that Limestone Park is not a state or city funded leisure refuge as I had assumed, but some guy's land with several dozen freight truck tire tubes. The office looks like an outhouse, and the man in charge seemed less than thrilled to be dealing with city slickers. Limestone Park Canoe and Tube Rentals is a decidedly small and amusingly Southern operation, and it is my hope that by typing Limestone Park Canoe and Tube Rentals enough in this blog that I will be the first search engine result so that I can demand the owners give me a kickback in exchange for a favorable review. BWAHAHAHAHA! (Limestone Park Canoe and Tube Rentals)

We met up with Janna and Canella, picked our tubes, and hopped in the back of the "shuttle" to head upriver.

"Don't worry. We've wrecked the shuttle twice, but only one of those resulted in any customer deaths."

After a short ride through some pastures, we climbed out of the shuttle and down the river embankment. We cast our tubes into the cool water, but I was literally confused as to which direction was downriver. There was no current to speak of, and if we had not started paddling we would still be at the launch site having Deliverance nightmares.

Despite having to paddle, it was a fun trip. It was over 100 degrees that day, so the water was relaxing as we floated and talked. The smooth stretch of river was broken up by five sets of rapids that were actually drops just big enough to hurl you butt-first into rocks. I found that the best way to tackle these rapids was to straighten out perfectly flat, what I like to call the "Emery Board Sitting on a Donut Method". Every true Olympian has their signature technique I suppose.

The river led us past scenic Alabama backwoods, beautiful rising bluffs, and 1,000 Coors Light cans. There are signs all over the place about not bringing alcohol on the trip, but clearly many people have disregarded these signs, and in a show of defiance have discarded their empty cans onto low hanging limbs so that a couple of trees look like it naturally bears blissful alcoholic fruit that shines in the sun. The river also led us through some cow farms, the stench of which hits our nostrils like a methane orchestra. The animals all seemed indifferent to our presence, though.

"You realize you're floating in my toilet right now, don't you?"

It took almost three hours to reach our cars. It would've taken an Ivy League rowing team to complete the trip in the operator's estimated two hours, but maybe the river was just unusually slow that day. Wanting to cap off our Southern adventure with a delicious Southern meal, I suggested we have lunch at a random dive restaurant in a nearby town. We turned to Yelp, found some place called Tin Top, and decided that with a name like that it would probably not be fine dining.

We were not disappointed.

The cashier at Tin Top was kind of surly. She was also the cook, and there was a line, so I can see where her frustrations would come from. After taking an order, she would grab a hunk of meat and hack at it wildly with a cleaver, like an angry Swedish Chef or a normal Jeffrey Dahmer. The food, unfortunately, was not delicious. The chopped pork I ordered was all connected by a system of fat, so that when I picked up one small piece of meat the entire sandwich followed in a glob.

Basically I had a rat king sandwich.

We made the hour drive home, and I immediately took a shower to wash the Cahaba River off of me and then fell asleep. It may seem like I've been complaining in this post, but really I had a great day. I enjoy Alabama's nuances, and it was nice to get out into nature and spend time with friends. Also, it was good experience for my new goal in life. After all, the Chinese aren't going to beat themselves.

 The US Olympic Tubing Team - Rio de Jeneiro 2016

(Limestone Park Canoe and Tube Rentals)

Creep for the Stars

I'd like to preface this blog post by stating that I swear I'm not a creeper. Actually, no, that's exactly what a creeper would say. I'm going to use reverse-psychology and state that I definitely am a creeper.

*overt winky face*

*elbow nudge*

* serious face *

Now that my character and motives are no longer in question, let me start at the beginning of how my friend and I came to design Creep for the Stars - The World's First Stalker-Themed Board Game™ (patent pending, illegal in several regions including Hawaii, Alaska, and all contiguous U.S. states). Really it was the confluence of two powerful forces. Much like how the White Nile and the Blue Nile merge to become the mighty Nile - source of life for millions of plants, animals, and people - Creep for the Stars was born of an inside joke and a board game for preschoolers that would become a source of mild amusement and awkwardness for my immediate social group. I am in the midst of setting up business meetings with some respectable board game manufacturers, however, so people all over the world will soon be able to experience that very same oddly enjoyable queasiness!

The backstory: Many of my friends are from my church group - single men and women from the ages of 18 - 30. I and several of my male friends are in the upper half of this age range, especially since the actual ages skew younger and girlier. It became a running joke that we were creepy old men. A few of us ran with this joke and would find it amusing to “creep” on our friends. (We are almost certain they get the joke, and we are also almost certain we are joking.) We even adopted monikers – my friend Derek was the Argyle Creeper, named after his penchant for argyle socks, and I was Creepy Longstalkings, which in no way indicates the fashion of my footwear. Our victim of choice was Hannah, an easy-going freshman with a similarly odd sense of humor whose dorm room at BYU-Idaho I am currently sitting outside of while typing this blog. (Hannah, if you're reading this, I like your new desk lamp!)

So the creeper vibe was already going when my friend Meredith thought it would be fun to get a group and play an old board game for preschoolers called Reach for the Stars. In it you draw cards and have to do tasks like hugging people and whispering compliments into their ear. I'm sure it's adorable when four-year-olds do that, but with a bunch of twenty-somethings, it just felt...awkward. It was designed to build self-esteem, but Derek and I realized its true potential to tear that self-esteem down. All it needed was a few modifications. We told our idea to some friends, got surprisingly positive feedback, and then met at a Barnes & Noble to hash out the basic premise of our new game while dozens of confused cafe patrons presumably debated calling the police.

Some people just like to watch the world burn.

Each character in Creep for the Stars represents a stalker that has broken out of jail. The stalker's goal is to reach Creep Nirvana without getting caught and sent back to prison. Players roll a die and move around different sections of the board – a park, the mall, a university - while drawing cards. Many of the cards have creeper tasks written on them to be kept secret and then performed at a later time, preferably when the victim least expects it. The goal in performing the task is to creep your target out, and if you do you get an extra die roll and become closer to obtaining Creep Nirvana. The tasks are things that might be tried at a bus stop by that homeless man you thought was asleep. For example, one card states “Give target player a forward-facing shoulder massage.” Another says “Breathe down target player's neck”. One of my favorite cards, and one of the most successful during the course of play, is “Rub target player's earlobe.” These things may not seem all that weird while reading them, but the game can be a bit chaotic, and it's easy to forget to keep your guard up while you're playing. If you're not convinced, the next time you're standing around some friends just casually reach over and start gently caressing one of their ears and see what their reaction is. If it's a quick shudder and a verbal threat, my point has been proven. If it's purring noises and a reciprocal ear massage, you are now considered to be courting by many Amazonian tribes.

There are other types of cards to draw. Some make you move backwards (“You fell out of your peepin' tree and broke your night vision goggles. Move back three spaces”) and some give you the power to place a restraining order on another player, which impedes their progress and could ultimately land them back in the slammer. There are also cards that call for a “Creep-Off”. When this is drawn, the player picks his opponent for a duel, where instead of taking paces away from each other and then firing guns you're taking paces toward each other and then firing inappropriate pick-up lines. It usually ends up nose to nose, and I've seen contestants just about break down. Like when Derek waited patiently for Jared, an inch away, to open his mouth...so he could blow into it. As far as I know the two are still friends, but I have a feeling Jared is secretly plotting Derek's demise by some sort of demeaning, awkward blaze of ignominy.

"How does it feel, Derek? HOW DOES IT FEEL!?"

Creep for the Stars is only limited in absurdity by its players. It could easily get out of hand, because it's a silly game with ill-defined rules about stalking. But generally I've found it to run smoothly, although I've only played it within my group of friends. And clearly I have disturbed friends, because, after explaining the game thoroughly to them, they still want to play. And then after they've played the game and someone has given them a dry willie and then someone else has had a conversation with them through a dirty sock puppet, they want to play again. We've play-tested several times so far, most recently about a week ago when we had about a dozen stalkers.

My friend Lily designed the board, and I am currently suing her for libel and using my likeness without my permission.

So, America, are you ready for a board game that makes light of a terrorizing and illegal activity? Well, you better be, because when you wake up tomorrow morning you're going to find it tied to your dog.

Your move, Parker Brothers!  

Things That Burn My Biscuits: Public Bathroom Edition

I feel tense. A familiar pressure rumbles in my bowels. No, it's not the fact that I just ate a hamburger from Waffle House and then half my weight in donut holes .Well, it's kind of that. But it's also that I haven't vented all of the minor, irrational frustrations that every day life has to offer me. I've just let them fester and swell, and now I'm all bloaty and cranky. So you, unfortunate reader, are about to be on the receiving end of a trivial crapstorm I like to call Things That Burn My Biscuits. And in keeping with this paragraph's uncomfortable allusions, this will be the Public Bathroom Edition.

A good public restroom should do three basic things: 1) Allow you to relieve bodily waste, 2) Minimize awkwardness, and 3) Not give you the ebola virus. Sometimes it's very easy to guess when a public restroom is not going to fulfill some or all of these requirements before going in. For example, if you have to request a special key from the Circle K cashier, and it's attached to a hubcap, you can reasonably guess that you are about to stumble upon an active heroin den with an out-of-order commode. If you're lucky you will be mugged for the hubcap before you accidentally become witness to more heinous crimes.

But at least you know what you're getting into before hand. My complaints have to do with respectable establishments who enjoy punishing you for ordering that venti at Starbucks knowing good and well you wouldn't be home for another three hours. They purposefully ignore the Three Basic Public Bathroom Requirements (I just made that a thing. Let's push this amendment through Congress). These elements are the biggest perpetrators:

The Stall Doors

If you pick a random bathroom and take a survey of the stall doors, 4 out of every 5 of them will not close because the door exceeds the frame. However, that last randomly selected door will not properly close because the frame exceeds the door, forcing the occupant to make intermittent eye contact with the mirror images of everyone using the sinks. If you do find a door that is properly measured (statistically, you have a better chance of finding an albino sasquatch), the sliding lock will be approximately four inches higher than the catch.

Holy crap! It's an albino sasqu-...oh wait, that's just Gregg Allman.

How hard is it to correctly measure and install a door? I mean, I could probably never do it, which is why no smart person would ever pay me to do so. But someone's job was to install that door, and they took a look at it afterward and thought, “No one should have given me tools. I am bad at my job. Hey look, breaktime!”

The Entrance

Some public restrooms don't even wait until you get in the door before they make you regret your body's stupid natural processes. Some bathrooms don't utilize a courtesy wall. This is a wall that greets you immediately upon entering that you have to walk around to get to the actual bathroom, thus blocking the view of everyone walking by as someone else opens the door. And people look when doors open. “What's behind that door currently opening?” everyone wonders. “Is it a secret room with a chocolate syrup pool? Is it a room filled with wall-to-wall trampolines? Gosh, I hope it's a room filled with wall-to-wall trampolines.” All of these thoughts take a split second. That's just long enough for someone to glance over and see an old man at a urinal who may or may not be smiling at them. The only way I know to assure privacy in this type of bathroom is to strike up an agreement with everyone else in the restroom that no one else leaves or opens the door, and if anyone tries to come in they are to be attacked ferociously with whatever bathroom utensil can best be wielded for bludgeoning. Basically, I am advocating holding hostages and using violence, because that's how much I like my privacy.

Have you ever beaten someone unconscious in a grocery store bathroom with a toilet brush?

Uhhhh....me either. Just, um, forget I asked.

The Faucets

So you've done your business and now you're ready to wash your hands, or at the very least run water over them to give others the appearance that you are not a disgusting wildebeest teaming with contagions. But alas, the faucet spout only extends beyond the frame of the sink by a couple of centimeters, causing you to contort your hands, trying to get every inch of them under the stream. Why?! Why is the water trickling down the back of the sink!? Because the same guy who installed the stall doors also installed the faucet, probably.

This man. This is the man I blame.

I like for there to be plenty of room for my hands when I'm washing them. Ideally I'd be standing in the middle of a large meadow with an isolated stream of water flowing miraculously down from the heavens. I'd flail my arms around wildly while sarcastically exclaiming “WHERE'S THE BACK OF THE SINK NOW, HUH?” Sadly, this is not a valid option while using a public restroom, nor is it even a sane desire. I would settle for a faucet that extended no less than three inches from the sink wall.

Runner up in this category belongs to the sinks at most Wal-Marts. They are fine sinks, with the faucets providing adequate hand washing room. The problem is that they are motion sensored, but to trigger them you have to stick your hands past the faucet spout. The water promptly sprays your wrists, and the instant you try to move your hands back into the stream, the sensors turn off and the water stops. This results in about 5 minutes of me trying to be quicker than the faucet before I give up and rinse my hands with my own bitter tears of rage.

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Whew! I feel much better now. Thanks for letting me vent for a moment. I'm really not this petty in person, I promise. And if you've ever been in a store and opened a bathroom door only to have me threaten you with a plunger or thrown Ajax cleaner in your eyes, I'm very sorry. It's just that public bathrooms make me a little crazy sometimes. I'm sure you understand.