Atari 2600 Pitfall vs Mom 36

I miss my Atari 2600 and Pitfall! New video games just don’t cut it for me. The memories of the good ole Atari linger. In the summer of 1982 all of us kids pooled our money and sprang for Pitfall for our Atari. Man, talk about a life changer. It was like playing a movie. The webbing between my thumb and forefinger still hurts when it rains from hours of cradling that black joystick as I guided Harry on each 20 minute voyage.

Neil Diamond checks on his alligator fans

One day, mom was singing out loud and loudly to Neil Diamond’s “Jazz Singer” LP while wearing headphones. “They comin’ to America…TODAY!”. Damn, I wish they would hurry up and get here so she would shut her sing-hole – I’m trying to play Pitfall down here! Finally, we offered to let her play to stop her singing. Obviously she was quite terrible. Watching her body jerk and twitch as she guided Harry at a snail’s pace down the jungle path was more than any of us could bear. We quickly reset the needle on old Neil and let her resume her caterwauling.

About a week later in a fit of boredom, we offered to let her try again, only this time we were going to make it interesting. We swapped the controller ports and gave mom the Player 2 dead joystick. My brother secretly manned the real joystick while curled up near her in a sleeping bag. Now seriously…mom was not necessarily working as a lab analyst at Dow Chemical, but could this really work? Of course! While we goaded her on with our cries of jump the scorpion…NOW!…down the ladder…grab the vine…she mimed the motions for all she was worth. Sometimes she displayed real surprise at how good she was becoming. We could barely contain ourselves. Never once did she notice the movement of my brother who was tethered only a couple feet away by a black vinyl umbilical cord. Finally, my brother put her out of her misery by ending all lives in the alligator pit in rapid succession.

The next time she played. She was back to her usual self. She never forgot her day of Pitfall glory, though, and would often try to replicate the events that led up to it by crooning from the “Jazz Singer”… Love on the rocks ain’t no big surprise. Indeed.

Men Without Hats

No, I’m not talking about the awesome 80s band that had everyone Safety Dancing with reckless abandon. Look out a midget! I really miss(ed) men wearing real hats. Forget the ballcaps worn by the fat, fading athletic types the sole purpose of which is to camouflage Mt. Baldy. Or sometimes it is the bandana wrap/cowboy hat combo. Uhhh…hello, Bret Michaels? This is your scalp calling – give it up!

I miss a well dressed gent gesturing wildly with a beaver felt fedora in hand. Boaters, porkpies and derbys are all welcome back anytime. I don’t want to see them worn flippantly or in an ironic manner either so think twice fashionistas. I miss the day of the wide angle crowd shots when the shadows falling from hat brims made everyone look mysterious. Hats are so great that even the legendary Spinal Tap guitarist Nigel Tufnel would have worked in a chapeau shop if he couldn’t compose classics like “Lick My Love Pump.” Clearly the power of the hat is like a magnetic force. Sadly, man has lost his way and the sweatstained satin linings of yesteryear are dried and cracked in the attic.

No wonder the hatter is so damn mad.

Olly Olly All Kids Free

I miss untethered children. Man, it would suck to be a kid today. Parents are now micromanagers. Kids are clients that must be shuffled from place to place or paraded around town on retractable leashes.  Why? Beats the hell outta me!

The 70s and early 80s were a wonderful time to grow up. We would leave the house on our bikes in the morning and would come home at dark. In between, we hunted, walked creek bridge rails, swam in the river, fished, played sports, rode three wheelers, caught snakes, and any number of other activities that would send modern parents to the psych ward. None of us were ever killed or even injured.

The freedom to experience the world free from constant adult supervision made us more aware and responsible for our actions – not less. I pity today’s child that cannot escape the constant Big Brother surveillance of their parents’ prying eyes and incessant text messaging. WAYN? None of your business, pops!

Little Green Bag

I miss genuine Sour Cream & Onion Doritos. Sorry, but Cool Ranch isn’t cool enough. In the early 80s, my middle school had a ten minute break. That break and 50 cents was enough to land you an 8 ounce Coke fountain drink and a bag of the best tortilla chips to ever land on Earth. I still think about that green bag with the picture window packaging so you could spy the perfect chip ahead of time…the chip that was so mossy green with flavor dust that you couldn’t even stand it. Makes me want to slap someone thinking about it. Then you shoved your mitt into the bag and could see all the action through the clear panel as you reached for green gold. All the thrill of a stuffed animal claw machine, but with a guaranteed payoff. Man, they were the BOMB!!

I even miss the commercials with Gene Shalit clone Avery Schreiber (or was Gene an Avery clone). I have a lot of regrets about growing up in the Midwest, but at least we got to experience the never surpassed goodness of Sour Cream & Onion Doritos. If any product needs to return to the grocery shelf it is these chips! And bring back the clear paneled bag, too. I like to see what’s goin’ on in there ahead of time.

Night of Darthness

Even the Ideal catalog couldn't resist adding a little disco flare to my boy KOD

I think I miss my creepy, weird Knight of Darkness doll action figure.

It is Christmas in the late 70s and Star Wars toys are on practically every kids’ wish list. I REALLY wanted one of the big Darth Vader bad ass action figures. Who didn’t? I mean, seriously, Luke Skywalker (Duke Fartknocker) was basically a Ken Doll in a white belted dashiki. Darth was the real deal. When the properly shaped package appeared under the tree, I figured this was the year that mom didn’t screw up…for ONCE!  Right? Of course not or I wouldn’t be griping about it 30 years later.

So, come that Christmas morning I tore into the package with all the gusto of a hyena into a fresh carcass. Oh yeah! What is this? A hint of black boots, black pants, ooooh baby!  Uh…weird belt, sparkly shirt, owl shaped head? WTF! There before me in all its glory is a Knight of Darkness action figure. I am speechless. I examine the box. The back side displays other toys in IDEAL’s S.T.A.R. line…none of which I have ever heard of. I don’t even know where to begin. This guy is a freak. I mutter some sort of appreciative words and extract KOD from his cardboard coffin. Sadly, he is even more disappointing removed from the context of the box. I just can’t get over how unthreatening and odd he looks. I mean Darth Vader has a cool leather outfit and cape. This guy has a cape, but the leather look has been supplanted by silver lamé. Darth Vader looked like he emerged from the very fires of Hell. My Knight of Darkness looked like he emerged from Fire Island! He did have a kind of cool laser pistol, but it just couldn’t compare to the slashing light saber. C’mon!

I tried to work him into my play universe. Of course I couldn’t take him anywhere or I would be a laughingstock. I didn’t know ANYONE who owned any of the other characters in this line of toys. I tried using him with my G.I. Joe (also generic…I think it was National Guard Ned or something. Thanks again, mom!), but couldn’t come up with any plausible scenarios that didn’t inevitably lead to KOD seeking some man lovin’. Within a week he was carefully stored away. I think during college mom sold him at a yard sale. I later learned more about how George Lucas tried to sue IDEAL for ripping off his Star Wars characters and lost. Crazy!

Today, the Knight of Darkness villain sells well on eBay. People realized that he was created with Captain Action molds and many people use him for spare parts. A sad ending to a dark time in toy history. I still wonder just how much cheaper the ole Knight was compared to Darth. Even if it were 50 cents mom would have probably gone the cheaper route. She has been known to separate two ply toilet paper.

REAL sax rock

Rudy honkin' loud and proud

I miss(ed) sax driven rock n’ roll. Now don’t get me started with your Bruce-E-Street-Band crap. Yeah, Clemons can blow. But I mean REAL honked out wailin’ rock. I mean Rudy blowin’ for Bill Haley and Man Alive Gus Pate & the Jokers. In my lifetime, I have had to suffer the Ravenscroft Baker Street solo enough times to wish Gerry had never Rafferty-ed across the pond. The sad fact that this became the standard for sax in music makes me want to eat my own liver. I mean c’mon! Anyone feelin’ the sax in Baker Street is probably ready to meet Pina Colada Schlong Rupert Holmes somewhere (watch out for his “old lady”. Puh-leaze!).

Today, sax is dead in rock. Buy some flowers and drop a reed on the grave. Dig out some 45s and listen to something where the sax sounds like it was picked up from the pawn shop and then run over by a car. That is where it’s at. It doesn’t need to be in tune – just needs some feeling! Wail, Man, Wail. Damn, come back Kip Tyler and save us all!