L o b a B l a n c a {dot} c o m

I know this is going to sound strange coming from someone so eager to talk about her anthropomorphized car (hi, Sammy!), but anthropomorphized food really creeps me out. All I can think when I see talking food is that we’ve given personalities to things we’re going to eat. Not only that, but we’ve given them personalities as a means of encouraging us to eat them. It feels eerily cannibalistic to me.

But that’s exactly what happened back in 1986 when the California Raisin Advisory Board introduced us to the Claymation Sensation known as the California Raisins. The first commercial was the California Raisins singing the Marvin Gaye song, “I Heard It Through the Grapevine.”

I always liked this one better:

I don’t know who else voiced the rest of the Raisins, but the “lead” Raisin was voiced by Buddy Miles, probably most famous for being the drummer from Jimi Hendrix’s Band of Gypsys. Jimi Hendrix to Raisin? Eh, whatever pays the bills, right?

A whole bunch (hehe) of these commercials hit the airwaves over the next several years, some featuring just the generic raisin group. Some, however, featured recognizable popular artists, like Ray Charles and even this classic, featuring…well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out on your own:

And, of course, there was the marketing blitz. Albums, lunchboxes, T-shirts, posters, school supplies, even a Saturday morning cartoon (sigh…what the hell happened to Saturday morning cartoons?). I think there might have even been a video game. I can’t even fathom the hours of fun that must have provided! Also, if you look back at the top of this post, you’ll see my little collection of the promotional figures from Hardee’s. Mmm, Hardee’s.

All this worked wonders for both the California Raisin Advisory Board and, ironically, the Toilet Paper Makers of America, who noticed a significant increase in the sale of their products, especially whenever a new California Raisins commercial hit the airwaves.

Sorry. That was graphic and probably only funny to people with potty humor. Might cheer someone up if they’re down in the dumps though. Okay, I’ll stop now. These are shit jokes anyway.

Heehee…

Nothing too profound this week, denizens. Kind of swamped by…everything, really, and dreaming of the joy of that summer I spent in Mickey Mouse Ears.

Late on the posting today. I hit the road early this morning and I haven’t really had much of a chance to stop since 5 a.m. Spent a large portion of the day driving, Sammy burning up the miles in high style as I burned my way through several of my favorite podcasts.

In between a couple episodes, however, I hit some of my favorite playlists. One is called “Old Skool Happy.” It’s filled with some of my favorite old school rap and go-go music. Fun, bouncy, and nothing like a lot of the negative, derogatory, misogynistic crap that passes as rap these days. No, these songs are from greats like Big Daddy Kane, Salt-n-Pepa, Eric B. and Rakim, MC Lyte, Biz Markie, Queen Latifah, EU, Junkyard Band, Grandmaster Flash, Heavy D, Whodini, Sugar Hill Gang, Sir Mix-a-Lot…Old Skool Happy.

Then there’s Kool Moe Dee’s “Wild, Wild West.” I don’t know why, but there’s something about this particular song that represents perfectly the part of my life in which these were the only artists that I listened to. It’s strange with a catchy beat, an easy-to-remember chorus, and a video that gives a whole new meaning to “Urban Cowboy.” I remember standing around with friends while waiting for our turn at kickball during PhysEd, rapping all the lyrics to this song over and over. A few years later, it would be the lyrics to “Tom’s Diner,” whispered during study hall. Such is the life of teendom.

It is with mixed pride and embarrassment that I admit now that I can still rap almost all the lyrics to this song. This and MC Lyte’s “Lyte As a Rock” are two songs that I can break out any time, any place. In fact, a spontaneous rendition of “Wild, Wild West” at the back of a martini bar in Chicago secured my nickname of “K-Dub” with my boss and coworkers. Before you ask, no, it wasn’t a karaoke bar. Who needs karaoke when you’ve got martinis?

Will Smith tried to ruin this song just like he tried to ruin the television series of the same name with that crapfest of a movie he and Kevin Kline made back in the 90s (for which Smith did a version of this song, sampling parts of the original). Thankfully, I successfully avoided ever spoiling my memories of the original by ever listening to the full version of Smith’s “remake.” I am a purist, dammit, and it’s either the original or nothing.

So, here for your listening and viewing pleasure, Kool Moe Dee’s “Wild, Wild West”…

And, because I’m in a particularly giving mood this evening, here is the video to MC Lyte’s “Lyte as a Rock.” Meh to the video, but I absolutely heart this song.

“T double-E double-R double-R double-I double-F double-I double C, C, C!”

What an appropriate (if not mildly confusing to a child learning to spell) description of this classic tale! I’ve loved this E.B. White story since I was 6 years old. Our first grade teacher started reading the book to us toward the end of our school year, as a reward for how well we were all doing in our studies and our behavior. I remember being completely captivated by the tale she spun for us every day during our lunch break (and, yes, I did just make a cheesy spider web joke).

I also remember that the ultimate lesson from Charlotte’s Web about friendship and loss took on a more poignant meaning for us when our teacher had to leave before the school year or the book was finished. Her father had become critically ill and she needed to return home to China to take care of him.

So we got our first lesson in geography when we asked why she couldn’t just visit with her father in the evenings after school, and many of us got our first lesson in how much it stinks to have to say goodbye to someone we’ve grown to care about. She did return the following school year to resume her duties, but I remember the rest of our year was one far less bright. The substitute teacher brought in to take her place was fine and even finished reading Charlotte’s Web for us, but it wasn’t the same. Some teachers are simply irreplaceable.

Skip ahead a few years…actually, skip ahead several years to the first time I ever saw the 1973 animated version of Charlotte’s Web. I was well into my teens by the time I first saw this movie. Thank goodness I’ve yet to lose my ability to appreciate things that most people would deem “silly” or “childish” as they get older. I love this movie! First, it’s a veritable smorgasbord of 70s talent: Paul Lynde, Agnes Moorehead, Henry Gibson, Danny Bonaduce, Dave Madden, and the mellifluous voice of Debbie Reynolds. Plus, the movie was animated by Hanna-Barbera, co-directed by Scooby Doo creator Iwao Takomoto, and featured voice artist Don Messick, the original voice of that groovy Great Dane!

Yes, the movie is über-trippy at times and screams 70s with its animation style, but it’s such a sweet and simple story, beautifully told. Plus, it features Paul Lynde as a selfish, voracious rat. How do you not love that?

I know there’s a live-action remake out there, starring Dakota Fanning and a whole passel of famous voices like Julia Roberts, Steve Buscemi, Robert Redford, Kathy Bates, Oprah Winfrey…blahblahblahttyblah. I don’t know what that version is like. I love the original so much that I didn’t want to tamper with that joy by taking a chance on what might be an inferior remake (I did that recently with one of my most beloved horror movies and, believe me, you will be hearing about that experience soon enough). Plus, no offense to Dakota Fanning, but she kind of scares me. She’s way too intense and mature for her age. Although I liked her voice work in Coraline and I will be seeing The Runaways when it comes out.

Anyway, thanks to A2 for informing me that this should be my next Flashback as well as for re-watching the cartoon with me recently. For you, here is your favorite song from your favorite rat (and mine), Templeton

Oh noes. While looking up info for this Flashback Friday, I just discovered that Suncoast Motion Picture Company is officially no more

Why does this make me so very sad? Because most of every week’s allowance when I was a young geekling somehow made its way into Suncoast’s cash registers. This was, hands down, the most awesome store in our local mall. In fact, Suncoast and the Walden Books were the only two stores that I ever wanted…nay, needed to go to (Spencer Gifts was also a favorite haunt, but it was too tacky to be considered mandatory). I literally spent hours wandering around Suncoast, most often abandoned there by friends or family who grew weary of trying to coax me away.

What made Suncoast so special? Simply put, it was a nerd store. In addition to an impressive (and impressively overpriced) movie collection, they sold books, T-shirts, action figures, posters, games, and the odd movie memorabilia. Remember the photo I posted a while ago of my nerdy book shelf? A lot of the books on that top shelf were bought from Suncoast. As were several of my movie posters, practically all of the VHS tapes that I’ve been slowly replacing with DVDs, a fair number of action figures…and half of my wardrobe from my teenage years.

Oh, how I loved Suncoast’s T-shirt collection. The photos below only show some of the shirts I bought from Suncoast (and, yes, most of the shirts not pictured were black, too). Actually, though, for full disclosure, the TNG excuse shirt came from Intergalactic Trading Company, another of my favorite haunts when I was younger.

Obviously, I still own these shirts, still in relatively mint condition, except for poor Batman, who now looks a bit on the charcoal gray side (I’m freakishly particular about my laundry style). They’re all in storage at my parents’ house, though. I find that people tend to take you more seriously in certain situations when you don’t have Cyclops glaring at them from your T-shirt.

Okay, that’s all a lie. I placed them in storage because I didn’t want them to fade anymore than they already have. Oh, that confession is just riddled with nerd shame!

What could be even nerdier? How about admitting that when I went to the Trek convention where I met Gates McFadden, I was wearing the X-Files T-shirt pictured below? Yeah, I know, wrong franchise. It was my way of showing solidarity with red-haired doctors on sci-fi shows. Think Ms. McFadden caught that?

…

I’m now incredibly sad. Suncoast is no more and I’ve been so disconnected from those days that I wasn’t even remotely aware of this until now. Who knows how long ago this took place. Apparently, they were absorbed by f.y.e, which is pretty much a hybrid of Suncoast and Sam Goody.

Holy crap! Sam Goody is gone now, too! They’ve been absorbed by f.y.e! WTH? Is this store the mall version of the Borg? Or am I pretty much giving away the fact that I step inside a mall about twice a year, and usually it’s with a particular destination in mind that I run to with blinders of disdain for my surroundings firmly in place?

Oh well. It’s not like I’ve set foot in a Suncoast in years anyway. Last time was at a Going Out of Business sale at the store near where I live now. That was about 6 years ago. Still, it does make me feel slightly more reminiscent for those days in which my biggest decision was whether I wanted to buy the new X-Men T-shirt or the special edition VHS of Halloween…

Today’s flashback is just a quick one, denizens. I was going to do one that I’ve been putting off for a while now, but the overwhelming nature of the topic…overwhelmed me. Truth is, though, I think I’ve just built it up so huge in my brain that I’m now frightened of it. Jinkies, it’s just a cartoon after all.

Right. Like Star Trek is just a TV show.

Anyway, so UNO. I’ve already mentioned that I was never really one for board games when I was a pup. But UNO was different. Easy to transport, easy to put together, easy to play on the fly. It was the perfect distraction at recess as we were transitioning out of that age range of monkey bars and merry-go-rounds and heading toward the surly insouciance of teendom.

I remember spending several months of total UNO submersion during the latter part of my elementary school days (I think it was 5th grade, but it could have been 6th grade). Every recess, we would gather under the one tree on the playground and start dealing UNO cards. To this day, I’m surprised that my old school didn’t ban us from playing this game, citing some bizarre mandate that it was akin to gambling and the devil would possess us if we didn’t stop.

One particular game still sticks in my mind, and subsequently still makes me laugh whenever I think about it. We were well into our latest round of games that recess, parked under our regular tree, under the bright spring sky. One girl suddenly called out, “UNO”…and was promptly shat upon by a bird sitting in the tree. Plopped right down in the middle of her skirt.

She ran in and washed up in the restroom, came back for another round, inevitably called “UNO” again…and this time the bird shat on her shoulder.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Third time’s the charm? This time, when she called, “UNO” the bird hit bullseye right on her head. And oh the screaming that ensued, both from her and from the howls of laughter from the rest of us in the game. It was too perfect a set of coincidences, something so seemingly staged as to be from a movie. Was it something about her voice that had an effect on this poor little bird similar to the way a woman suffered epileptic seizures whenever she heard Entertainment Tonight’s Mary Hart? Or was she simply yelling UNO so loudly that she simply (and literally) scared the shit out of this bird?

Who knows. All I know is that it was my favorite game of UNO that I have ever played. I also know that whenever I get ready to call UNO any more, I always make sure to look up first.

Post-Flashback Follow-up

Um. They make a Star Trek UNO. Most awesome UNO EVAR (until they make a TNG version, and then that will win ).

Ah, Sweet Thunder. This was my very first “Big Girl” bicycle. It was a classic Huffy “no-speed” with fenders and a banana seat, and those awesome bumpy off-road tires. And its own name and number. The flash kind of washes out the number, but it’s 2. I don’t know why. I also don’t know why the bike was called Sweet Thunder. Or why my parents thought I should have a pink bike. Minus a horrible 6th-grade graduation dress decision made by my mom, involving a pink dress that flared in all the places that a fat girl never wants her clothes to flare, this was the only thing my parents ever gave me that was pink. Well, Pink Panther…but he doesn’t count. He’s supposed to be pink.

My parents bought this bike for me for, I believe, my 5th birthday. Yes, before you even ask, it was way too big for me at the time. But my dad, realizing that his daughter was destined to have massive growth spurts throughout her childhood, knew that I would quickly grow tall enough to handle this wheeled pink fury. Plus, it’s a “girl bike” frame, so I could stand up and pedal without fear of falling on that dangerously pointless bar that “boy bikes” have.

[Boy Bike Tangent: Could someone please explain to me why the bicycle frames built for boys have that bar positioned in such a place that would, I assume, cause maximum damage to any guy who slipped and knocked into it? It makes no sense to me whatsoever. I mean, I get that the reason that girls' bikes don't have the bar is so that we delicate flowers can mount our bikes modestly while wearing our hoop skirts and corsets, but that bar just seems so ill-positioned for the gender with "outtie" bits as opposed to "innie" bits that might fare a bit better in an altercation involving that bar. Were boy bikes designed by some bitter spinster who wanted to hurt any man who rode her creation? Or is it just a stupid piece of metal that someone tacked onto the frame to make sure that dudes knew they weren't riding a girly bike? They were riding a manly bike with a manly, ball-breaking appendage!

Oh, and by the way, I'm still giggling from writing "mount our bikes."]

So when I first got this bike, it definitely needed training wheels. I hadn’t yet developed the enviable balance I have today, which allows me to do things like stand on one foot while unlacing one of my Docs after having way too many margarita swirlies down at Uncle Julio’s. I also think I was terrified by the sheer size of this bike. I was a wee pup when I was 5. The freakish growth spurts (both of the vertical and horizontal varieties) didn’t start to kick in until around 7. So the training wheels stayed on much longer than they should have.

Finally, my dad decided that it was time to call my bluff. He removed the training wheels while I was at school, so when I came home, there sat Sweet Thunder, mocking me with its now only two wheels. Being the pure bundle of stubborn that I am, however, I refused to play my dad’s game.

That’s when the bribery came in.

Growing ever-irritated by the fact that the bike was steadily developing a patina of dust from my disuse, my dad threw down the gauntlet in the form of monetary inducement. If I could ride my bike around our quarter-acre of yard without stopping or falling, he’d give me $20.

Next day, there I was, doing my best to learn how to ride a bike with only two wheels. However, not without incident. We had a holly tree in our back yard. It was a beautiful tree, especially in the snow. Looked very Christmas-y with its dark green leaves and red holly berries. Know when a holly tree isn’t pretty? When you’re losing control of your Huffy and heading face-first into a low-hanging branch full of prickly holly leaves.

Know what makes a face full of holly leaf scratches okay? A crisp 20-dollar bill in your pocket. Yes, sadly, I had to be bribed into learning how to ride a big girl bike.

Through the years, I decked out Sweet Thunder with streamers that inevitably disintegrated, a headlight kit, a bell that at one time had a little Snoopy on top that spun whenever you rang the bell (Snoopy fell of at some point, but you can still see the bell portion on the left handlebar grip), and a little pink basket that had Snoopy’s “Joe Cool” alter ego leaning against a giant strawberry. Oh, that I wish I was kidding on that last part. The only reason that the basket isn’t still on the bike is because the bottom rotted out. They sure made quality bike accessories back in the day!

I rode this bike until Christmas of my 6th grade year (yes, the year of the traumatic pink graduation dress) when my parents upgraded me to a 10-speed. This time, the bike was blue. And I outgrew it in pretty much a year and inevitably had to switch to riding my dad’s 10-speed. Dangerous, those growth spurts.

Strangely, my dad has kept Sweet Thunder in the family. Even during the great detritus dump that my parents did when they moved out of the area, he refused to get rid of my first bike (although I believe he did sell my 10-speed). The Huffy was packed into the moving truck and now lives in my parents’ garage, where the above photo was taken. I asked my dad why he kept this bike, but he just mumbled something about not knowing why and then promptly wandered away to organize his tools or something. I say he’s far more sentimental than he ever lets on, and that’s why my little pink Huffy bike still has a home.

Whatever the reason, it’s sweet. Just like Sweet Thunder.

This one’s from the not-too-distant past, denizens. But it’s the conclusion of more than a year’s worth of research and perseverance that has left me incredibly happy today.

When I last visited London in September 2008, I took my cousin to a classical music concert at St. Martin-in-the Fields. Of all the things I love most about London, concerts at St. Martin are at the very tippy-top of the list. It’s no secret that I’m not a highly religious person, but sitting inside that beautiful church, ensconced in the glow of candlelight, the serene silence of history and devotion almost palpable around you…you can’t help but feel the flicker of kinship with whatever greater universal powers might be out there. I hope that my cousin felt something close to the same delight I feel whenever I go to St. Martin.

This concert, however, provided even more delight than any previous concerts. On this particular evening, the Locrian Ensemble of London, featuring renowned cellist Justin Pearson, gave the world premier performance of a piece by British composer Julie Cooper. The piece was “Cariad,” which is the Welsh word for “Love.”

I wish I had the words to capture the overwhelming joy that this piece brought to my heart. Tempered in style and cadence, it pulls you in slowly, softly, and carries you upward as it soars and swells to glorious heights before bringing you once more earthbound. It is rapturous and exquisite, and all other music from that evening’s performance melted away under the memory of this one composition.

I left St. Martin that evening with “Cariad” still playing in my head and heart. The piece was not on the evening’s set list, so I didn’t have the title on hand. But I couldn’t forget the music. So when I returned home to the States, I set about doing my best impersonation of Mrs. Columbo that I could muster since Loba Loves a Mystery, too (somewhere, a Kate Mulgrew fan is smiling right now).

My investigation led me first to Justin Pearson and then to the composer herself, Julie Cooper. Ms. Cooper has very kindly kept me informed about the recording schedule for “Cariad” ever since my initial query. And then, two nights ago when I arrived home and checked my e-mail, there was a message from her, informing me that “Cariad” was finally available for purchase!

I am now the very proud owner of this magnificent piece of music. And it is still as wonderful as it was the first time I heard it. So I’m encouraging all of you to visit Ms. Cooper’s page at CDBaby.com and listen to the preview of “Cariad.” If you like what you hear, by all means, purchase your very own MP3. I promise, you won’t regret it.

And, as a bonus, here’s a photo I snapped of St. Martin-in-the-Fields as my cousin and I sat on the steps of Trafalgar Square. Before you ask, I didn’t do a thing to this shot in PhotoShop. That glorious sky behind the church is all Mother Nature this time.

Every witch needs a familiar...

I’m sorry, denizens. I know that I try to keep things relatively light and funny on Flashback Fridays. But I still has a sad. Data’s passing has impacted me far more than I expected it to…although it’s a bit silly on my part to ever have thought that such a thing wouldn’t upset me. Like I said, he was in my life for more than half my existence.

Also, from a thoroughly selfish standpoint (although, really, what other is there in the blog-o-sphere, eh?), I realized the other day that this is the first time I am completely pet-less since I was 7 years old. In that time, I’ve had four hamsters, two dogs, one cat, and a squirrel. Yes, a squirrel. She was awesome. I really need to find and scan those slides.

And while I know that one should never have favorites among their dependents (I’m not going to call them children because…well, I’d rather not envision birthing a four-legged furry), I think the losses of Data and Jodie have hit me the hardest of them all.

I know that there are “dog people” and there are “cat people.” The debate has always somewhat baffled me. It’s like being “Kirk people” or “Picard people.” Both have wonders to offer, lessons to teach, love to give. Plus, we all know Janeway was the best anyway.

Ha. See? Not too sad to resist geek speak.

I loved both pets equally and differently. Of Jodie I once wrote:

You were my serendipity—my whirling dervish of fur and feet, of tongue and tail. You were my laughter, my joy, my inner child personified and amplified. Personal trainer, food taster, alarm clock. You were the fullness in my heart…no, you were my heart. My best friend.

She was a furry bundle of joy, unruly and unrepentant in her rambunctiousness and in her love. I adored and envied her for her openness, for her tolerance, and for her forgiveness. She was my ambassador to a world that I most often simply don’t get. When I was with her, I could see a beauty in most people and things that would usually slip right by me. But not her. She taught me to take the time to enjoy every blade of grass and to not be shy about rolling in the daffodils if the urge overtook me. It was a literal lesson for her, but I think it’s more metaphorical for the rest of us.

If Jodie was my ambassador, Data was my mirror. I understood his aloofness…and I recognized that beneath that slight veneer of standoffishness was a secret need to be around those he loved. He wasn’t a lap cat, but he could always be found where we congregated. Stretched across the back of the love seat. Curled up on the most comfortable couch cushion. Seated on the piano, watching the hallway with his “purry pucker face,” that strange face he’d make whenever he was purring, that looked like a cross between him sucking a lemon drop and preparing to give a smooch to the next person to come into view. He’s kind of making that face in the photo up above. You might have missed it, however, by the distraction of all that hair I was rocking at that point in my life.

When he was little, I used to drape him along my shoulders like a mink stole. Only way to wear fur, really. He’d just rest there, curled around my neck, as I walked around the house. You always had to keep moving whenever holding him. Sometimes, he purred. Sometimes he purred so happily, so forcefully, he would chirp. Hearing that in my ear was always worth the free ride on my shoulders.

However, soon he was up to his fighting weight. Fourteen pounds at his biggest. He was a little bruiser of a pugilist, punching with soft kitty paws at any who irritated him. Usually that was me. Usually he didn’t scratch. I still have phantom scars on my hands from those times that didn’t fit into “usually.”

Strangely, however, his meow never matched his size. His was the mew trapped in time, sounding the same from his kittenhood right through to the end. We always joked that perhaps we should have waited a bit longer before having him neutered. I loved that little mew though.

I loved him. I loved how he would hide under the covers in the winter and lounge in the windowsills in the summer. I loved how he’d ambush my cow slippers as I shuffled out of my room to get my morning coffee. Or how, for the better part of a year, he loved sleeping in the bathroom sink…followed by the rest of the year in which he loved sleeping on top of the toilet lid. He also loved sleeping on my computer keyboard. Friends learned not to be concerned by gibberish IMs. It just meant I’d stepped away from the computer long enough for the Doodle Cat to send one of his errant transmissions.

I love that he was known as Hinja-Doodle, for the same reason that Jodie was known as Hooga Dooey…remnants of a strange language that only those within my family still speak. All our animals end up not only with multiple nicknames, but usually also with accompanying voices. Yes, Data had a voice. So did Jodie. Yes, I might share them with you…but only if you ask nicely.

As I said the last time I came to the lair, there were so many wonderful things about Data…too many to summarize in one blog post. Or many. I’ve been thinking about all the wonderful moments I had with him, and subsequently all the wonderful moments I’ve had with all my pets. And, true, as much as it sucks when they finally leave our lives, what they leave behind so far outweighs the loss in the end that I wouldn’t trade any second of the joy that they brought to my life or left in my heart.

I guess that’s really all I have to say on the matter for now. Oh, one more thing: If you’ve got a pet or two of your own, give them a hug from Loba (unless it’s a fish…then a few extra food flakes will suffice).

Today’s a nasty one for work overload, denizens, but I haven’t forgotten that it’s…Flashback Friday! And so today, I bring you PEZ! More precisely, I give you a photo of Loba’s very own PEZ dispenser collection. Perty, innit? As I’m sure you can no doubt deduce, most of the PEZ dispensers I received were holiday gifts…something tucked into a Christmas stocking or Easter basket or received in my big Halloween pillowcase/bag. It’s a lovely gift for any kid you want hyped up on an instant sugar rush (especially if said kid doesn’t belong to you). You’re pretty much giving them a toy that when they play with it, it delivers a little brick of pure flavored sugar. And the more you play with it, the more sweet goodness you get. It’s a life lesson best learned early.

[Fhat the wuck? Did I just make an inappropriate joke at the expense of a childhood memory?!]

My very first PEZ dispenser was the little chick wearing a red hat. Said hat comes off. So does Santa’s hat as well as the two snowmen’s hats. And noses. Rudolph’s ears come off, and Batman’s fleshy face slides out of his blue cowl. Yes, I used to disassemble and reassemble my PEZ dispensers with such frequency that I’m amazed all the pieces still fit back into place (see my Mouse Trap Flashback for more on this).

I have a vague memory of sitting in the back of our family Chevette (the destined-to-be-mine blueberry Nerd Mobile), taking all my PEZ dispensers apart and then making them do battle like Transformers. I so desperately wanted Transformers. I got PEZ dispensers instead. So I made do.

[Oh dear Prophets, was I really that big a geek when I was little?]

Know what I love most about this photo of my PEZ collection? How I inadvertently snapped a bonus flashback photo by lining them up on top of our old Betamax VCR. Betamax!! Yeah, my dad still has it, and still has it in working condition. See how awesome it is to have tinkerer blood? It’s strangely comforting to know that I can still watch my Beta tapes of Troop Beverly Hills and the remake of The Blob whenever I go to visit.

Also, see the little telly in the background, reflecting my dorkiness in the screen? This is my old TV, the one from my Hunt the Wumpus Flashback! Told you my dad still had it.

So, there you go. PEZ. Go get some. Rot your teeth. Bounce off the walls. Pretend the dispensers are Transformers. It’s all Loba-approved fun