I apologize for the sudden influx of video-related media (the written word has been put on the back burner for now, because why have words when you can have PICTURES!)
A few weeks ago, I recorded an audio book with Roman Chimienti for his company, The End Audio Productions. The accompanying video has finally been completed thanks to the swift editing skills of Jessica Rondash from Verbatim Studios.
The book, Miss Rumphius, by Barbara Cooney, is a favorite of Roman's. If you're a frequent visitor, it's no mystery that books (especially those from my kinder days of yore) are my greatest obsession. I can still remember curling up to Cooney's Hattie and the Waves as a little girl. Obviously, I jumped at this opportunity, and I'm so glad I did.
But enough chatter - just sink into your best PJs and security blankie and cuddle your beloved stuffed counterpart as you have a look (or a listen, depending on your mood) to a childhood favorite.
And don't forget to visit The End Audio Productions for more audio books narrated by other great voice over artists. (Like how this sentence assumes I am one of them?)
I know this is a day late, but holidays have a habit of hitting me after the fact.
I thought I'd share my first favorite library book with you all, in lieu of Valentine's Day. I mentioned it briefly in my Childhood Book lollapalooza - quite simply, I was obsessed with this book starting at 6 years old, and proceeded to check it out every time I went to the Middletown Public Library until my mom told me to cut it out and look for something more intellectual.
Well, she might not have said that, but it was the gist I got.
"Four Valentines in a Rainstorm," by Felicia Bond (or "The Day It Rained Valentines" as it has now been re-titled - not merely as poetic, but I suppose more obvious for the youngins) was a story about hearts falling from the sky during a rain shower. A little girl decides to pick them up and make valentines for all her animal friends, who for all intensive purposes are fully autonomous citizens of the neighborhood who can in fact receive mail and live in a house.
Why did I love this book so much? Perhaps its small size? (As you may know, I have a thing for miniatures) The phenomenon of teeny rain-hearts? Arts and crafts? Animals with opposable thumbs?
I don't think I'll ever know. But at least I've moved on to more mature reading as of late....
I have officially been on this earth for a quarter of a decade. The day was pretty uneventful as far as quarter-century checkpoints go, but I spent the night with people who cared, so I don't regret it.
The inconvenience of my birth date is somewhat reminiscent of my family's inherent untimeliness. I suppose you could say that after all the car breakdowns and odd injuries that besot my parents before I came into existence, my birth - which occurred 2 weeks early the night before New Years Eve, and 5 days after Christmas - was preordained to hassle.
It was because of me that dad couldn't work the New Year's bar shift; but I made up for it by being tax deductible.
I've always prided myself in desperately clinging on to my childhood: who says cereal isn't dinner? someone else will eventually wash the dishes! cartoons are forever! I shall showcase my stuffed animals and useless trinkets without shame!
I mean, I still sleep with a stuffed octopus for godsakes.
Somehow, even through my childish thinking, I've made it up until this point without seriously damaging myself or others around me (though that first point could be greatly debated.) I suppose that's pretty good.
However, now that I'm 25, it's as if I am forced to accept the fact that I am an adult now. I've passed the threshold. When I first started working at my job, I was the youngest at 23, merely a tadpole in a pond of...frogs.
25 seemed ages away.
Well, it's not anymore, baby. It's right here.
Dammit.
I can no longer hide behind the cloak of naivety. I don't need to change myself, but the way I think needs to change. This is mostly to help myself function in this crazy world of reality, and to re-assert the power I've always had, but have never believed I did.
Here are 15 ways I pledge to be a better adult:
1.) Don't leave dishes in the sink. It stinks; literally.
2.) If you can't take care of yourself, don't mope around when you get sick and wonder how the hell this could have happened.
3.) Take responsibility for the things you do wrong. There are no siblings around now to blame.
4.) Cheeseburgers are NOT a good weekly source of vitamins and minerals. Neither are fruit snacks.
5.) When something angers/upsets you, understand that you are not a pussy and can deal with it.
6.) "Because I don't wanna" is no longer an excuse.
7.) Tantrums are for 5 years olds; not 25 year olds. That's why we created misdemeanors and restraining orders.
8.) Learn to throw.useless.shit.away. You will never use it; and you haven't used it for SIX YEARS.
9.) Realize that humans are only human.
10.) Realize that if you leave clothes on the floor...they will most likely stay there.
11.) Finally, remember to love yourself, not expect others to do so, using the four mantras:
12.) Compassion
13.) Understanding
14.) Forgiveness
15.) Willingness to Learn
And conversely, these are the 10 naive things that I will continue to do, regardless, in order to keep the spirit of childhood innocence alive (and because adults are inherently boring.)
1.) I reserve the right to buy and keep toys; for no other reason than they are cute and/or awesome.
2.) They may not be for every day, but I ain't cutting cheeseburgers completely out of my diet anytime soon.
3.) If my body decides to sleep till 1pm on weekends, I shall continue to let it do so.
4.) I will tell stories with completely anti-climactic endings, whether you like it or not.
5.) My heart may be jaded, but fluffy animals with big, sad eyes will still make me melt.
6.) I will keep Gossamer, Sailor Jupiter, Donatello the Ninja Turtle, a winking banana and the smiley egg on my key chain.
7.) The pajamas stay.
8.) All dogs are puppies.
9.) I'm still allowed to use my imagination.
10.) I can still call my mommy.
All adding up to 25 pieces of good advice for the new year.
There are certain childhood memories that, when I look back on, seem so amazingly joyful that it's almost too much to handle in that moment. Hardened stress-driven New Yorker that I am, being able to experience perhaps a small millisecond of childlike joy just shoots a laser beam right through my jaded soul.
Bittersweet is perhaps the best word to describe the feeling of nostalgia, as it is both heart warming and heart wrenching to think that at one point in your past, things seemed truly magical.
Sometimes those instances still occur, but because most adults are so preoccupied with worldly things, it's not so easy to hold onto. Hence, the flashback, and its appeal to me; because for once, I can revel in the glory that was childhood, and try to keep it alive....at least for a little awhile.
Now that you've dried your tears of this sentimental interruption, let me focus your attention on the latest (emphasis on "late" - and completely justified. Since it's the day before Thanksgiving, this qualifies as a Friday...right? Right.)
FLASHBACK FRIDAY
Animalympics was one of the VHS movies we had that we weren't sure how we acquired. It's possible that Grandma saw it one day at the video store and decided that since it was a cartoon and featured animals participating in Olympic-themed sports, that it was instant gratification.
By george, was she right.
First of all, it was a parody - and given that we were a snarky family, this was immediately a plus.
Second of all, it has the voices of Gilda Radner (of SNL fame), Harry Shearer (of The Simpsons Fame) and Billy Crystal (you could tell he was a big deal since even I knew who he was.)
Third of all, it was goofy. There's an alligator boxer, a Japanese penguin gymnast and an Italian octopus bobsled team called the "Calamari Brothers." Yeah. Awesome.
And finally, it had a great soundtrack. By people that were not Disney.
I was trying to fall asleep the other night, but I simply could NOT get these moments out of my mind. I remember watching this video over and over again, and constantly being swept away.
But it's just a cartoon, you say!
Ahhh, but there's no such thing as just a cartoon......
This is how the movie opens - can I begin to try to explain how fucking amazing this looks? Possibly not, it's mostly because you're not 10 anymore. Shit sucks, don't it?
Little did I know, the animators who worked on this film had some pretty impressive resumes: Brad Bird (Pixar, The Iron Giant), Roger Allers (The Lion King), and Steven Lisberger (writer and director of Tron, and I you can definitely see the influence here.) I was a geek before I even knew what it meant!
California neon ocean hallucination trip. As a kid you were flabbergasted, mystified, perhaps a tad bit frightened, yet completely enthralled with the images that were being played across your TV screen. The only thing that's changed is the lack of a VCR.
For some reason unbeknownst to me, no one has posted this song with the visuals from the actual movie. For those of you that were not fortunate enough to see, just picture this - Million Dollar Man + Wild Boar = Ski Champ - while you're listening.
Let's face it; coming off the 70s, there had to be some disco in here. I have to admit, I was a BeeGees fan, so this delighted me beyond words. But even if you don't like disco, or dancing animals getting it on, it's still pretty damn catchy.
I leave you with a final gem; the song itself is a bittersweet trip into something that whispers like nostalgia, makes your stomach float as if on air, and your mind imagine that for a suspended moment in time, you really are away from it all.
This is the stuff that childhood dreams are made of.
Mom always used to say that she wished she would have held on to the toys of her youth. When she was a wee little Italian girl growing up on Beverly Road in Brooklyn, she fondly remembers her most favorite playthings: a wooden circus train with accompany circus animals, like the seal on wheels, balancing a ball; hundreds of hand-sewn Barbie doll clothes that my grandma fashioned herself.*
*(On the other hand, she also told us about the zebra ash tray that Uncle Artie had made, casting long scary shadows on the walls at night, which just about scared the shit out of her. Her brother, Jerry (my godfather) used to chase Aunt Diane around with the real stuffed alligator that an aunt had brought from Florida. This in turn became a torture device for n older Diane to use on my much littler mother. It served a purpose for all ages, I suppose.)
After hearing about all the wonderful toys my mother could remember growing up, I wished that she had managed to save them over the years to one day pass them onto me. When I found out she had given the Barbie clothes and the train set away, I was heartbroken. I'm sure in some ways, she was too.
I resolved to never let the same thing happen to my toys. Yes, I enjoy holding onto the past for dear life, but I'm not talking about storing some Barbies and Polly Pockets in my current apartment and taking them out for a summer fun pool party with my boyfriend anytime soon. And yes, I will forgo my childhood dream of creating an ultimate Star Wars figurine stop-motion film now that I'm on the cusp of being an adult (note how I have not admitted it fully yet).
Instead, I am suggesting that I keep my treasured toys (at least, those that I know are still around) safely hidden away in my parent's New Jersey attic, unknown to garage sales and other bratty children, until I can pass them on to my someone who I feel is worthy enough to experience their toy-glory.
So, without further ado, I hereby present my toy will, which lists the toys of which must be kept safe and intact for however long I am here (and oh, let's say, 20 years after), at which point become the sole property of my predecessor, canine or otherwise. A failure to uphold my wishes will result in a.) bludgeoning with a nearby object of choice, b.) a tantrum, which includes excessive bawling and feet stomping, or c.) eternal haunting by my restless apparition.
Also part of this will is a list of those toys which shall be forever held in memoriam, as they have sadly been lost to the ravages of time and mom's spring cleanings.
IN MEMORIAM
∆ Disney Magic Kingdom Playset, (Loss: Unknown)
I was quite young when I got this, so I'm not sure how it came about. All I know is that we kept it in a wooden box in the closet. It had a runaway train and monorail, and a Dumbo-esque ride.
∆ Miniature Dollhouses, (Loss: Unauthorized Chucking)
Not to be confused with the Polly Pockets of the same genre, this was a three house miniature set of pastel suburbia that was bought by my Aunt Diane as a Christmas/Birthday present. I don't think it had a brand name, since it was bought at a flea market or auction, but I fell in love with it. Each piece of furniture was delicate and detailed, and the houses came with a neighborhood mat with shrubbery and sparkling pools. There was a purple grand piano that really played music with the help of a watch battery.
One day I found out that mom had gotten rid of it because she thought I never played with it anymore. Now I go to therapy.
∆ Colorforms, (Loss: Most Likely Unauthorized Chucking)
Some of you might remember these sticker-like, rubbery things from the early 90s. I had Mickey Mouse themed colorforms and (the best) a giant Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle underground scene that was as big as me. I don't know what ever happened to them, but if I found them on Ebay I would definitely reclaim them.
∆ Inspector Gadget LIFE Cereal Box Back, (Loss: Recycling)
My brother and I always fought over who got the cereal box to read during breakfast, but none were more worth the battle more than the LIFE Cereal back which featured a map of Inspector Gadget's Metro city (very ala Where's Waldo.) With much pleading, we convinced our parents to hold onto this for months at a time; but sadly, it's only a matter of time before mom gets sick of keeping an empty cereal box around for "no reason."
∆ Micro Machines, (Loss: Unknown)
I'll admit it - even though I was a girl who loved Barbie's and play make-up, I loved playing with tiny cars. (This could also have been due to my fetish with miniatures but......for all intensive purposes, let's just say.....I enjoyed playing with cars.) My brother had the Micro Machines Super Van City (which is epic, even in its name), and was perfect for making up car chase disasters.
There was also a drive-in restaurant made especially for Micro Machines, which was my personal fave, but that disappeared suspiciously long before the van city...
∆ Shrinky Dinks, (Loss: ....Probably Just Not Worth Saving)
These have been around for awhile, so I won't go into too much detail. But I had TMNT shrinky dinks, and I wish I still did. Mainly because I can color inside the lines now.
∆ Burger King Playdoh Set, (Loss: Hardened)
Due to my obsession with play food, the marriage of Playdoh and Burger King (while on the surface, sounds incredibly gross) was AMAZING to me. Even long after the Playdoh turned into solid rock, I was using the condiment place mat to serve all my food-crazed needs.
∆ Play Food, (Loss: Scattered about the house in disarray)
The rubber bacon. The plastic scrambled eggs. The Eggo waffle box with the fake pouring syrup. I freaking loved play food. I would still play with it now.
∆ Precious Places, (Loss:Who knows; I may still have it.)
I had almost completely forgotten about this (again) small playset. You controlled moving the little Victorian, rosy-cheeked people by using a magnetic key. The main building was a lovely little Gazebo. Half the time I just used the little people in other locations to suit my own imagination.
TOY WILL
∆ Barbies
Alright, might as well get this out of the way. I love Barbies as much as the next girl, and I had a pretty good assortment. The Heart Family, Skipper, Courtney, the older one my dog chewed, a bunch of mermaid outfits from various places. Then there were the Disney barbies who's heads were at least twice as big as those of regular Barbies (which made kissing Ken rather awkward.)
There was also my blonde Megan doll from My Little Pony. She had a different look than the Barbies; narrower eyes, a bit of a dirty face, and was smaller than Skipper, but I liked it that way. Made her unique. She became the charismatic adventurer/inventor, who would think up crazy ways of getting to the top of my bed, or into a cave.
And I had a LOT of accessories: red Mustang convertible, inflatable pool, kitchen, cafeteria, grocery store, the Barbie Fold 'n' Fun House (from a garage sale). But it doesn't matter how many I have, and that they were all massed produced. I CANNOT get rid of them. I refuse to grow old with regret.
∆ The Littlest Pet Shop
One of the best presents I ever got was the Littlest Pet Shop playset, which included the shop and a shitload of small animals. I played with it ALL THE TIME, but still managed to keep everything intact and together, including the magnetic newspapers for the dogs and the gerbil water bottles. Even the cash register items! Then my sister inherited it, and now who knows where it all is.
∆ Polly Pockets
I can't even count how many of these I have; I am praying that they are still somewhere in my attic waiting for me to re-discover. I didn't even need to play with the little Pollys; I just marveled at the intricacies of the minute worlds. I also had the mansion which had a sun-room and the water park, which you could fill with real water (much to the annoyance of my mother) and make jacuzzi bubbles.
I will be that old woman who has a bunch of Polly Pockets on display in her living room, rather than those crappy Christmas villages.
∆ Star Wars Figurines
I admit I was a Star Wars nerd. After the trilogy was re-released, our parents got us nothing but Star Wars paraphernalia for two Christmases in a row (especially Princess Leia stuff for me, since she was like, oh my god, my idol). We'd race to the stores and search through hundreds of figures to find the rare ones. I even spent a whopping $14 each for the special Princess Leia collection figurines with cloth wardrobe, and then opened them in spite of other snooty collectors. My brother, Nicky and I would stage wars between the Rebellion and the Empire on our coffee table.
>sigh< Those were the days....
∆ Assorted Little Peoples
Over the years, my whole family has amassed a collection of little people, or miscellaneous figurines from Christmases, birthdays, fast food meals and garage sales. Some of them might be worth a pretty penny, but I only want to keep them for the memories of many an imaginative days....
We have Disney characters, Looney Tunes characters, McDonald's Barbies from the Happy Meals, the transforming robot/McDonald's food, Smurfs....the list goes on.
Sadly, many of my Smurfs were lost in a supermarket when I was young. I left for a moment and then they were gone. I cried for them.
I'd have to say my favorite is the Anne Marie figure from All Dogs Go to Heaven that my cousin Janean let me keep. I'll definitely be keeping that one for awhile :)
∆ Legos
Where do I even start? Legos were the staple of our familial happiness. We made a dream house out of Legos every year (on our Lego table, no less); I would always use the clean black slate Lego for the dining table, top it with a square black vase of flowers. My room would have a telescope and a lava lamp.
My brother was obsessed with legos, and also refuses to sell them or lend them out to cousins. Attaboy.
∆ April O'Neil Figurine
As a TMNT fan, April O'Neil was a must have. My dad, who was manager at KB Toys for a long time, went everywhere trying to buy one for me. She came with a briefcase, a camcorder, gun and ninja store (all essentials for the working woman.) Eventually he did, and she is still lying somewhere with the rest of the toys I once loved. Hopefully I can find them all again soon.
One Christmas, all of us kids decided to get our mom two pieces of her long-lost wooden circus train off an Ebay auction.
It certainly was a surprise to her, nearly 30 years later. I'm hoping that by keeping what appears to be junk, around a little while longer, I'll have the very same moments a hundred times over.
It's been a year since my last celebration with Ryan on his special joint Cinco de Maya/birthday. This year it's his 25th (quarter-life crisis time!....don't worry it only gets better from here, so I've heard.) It is also the week of my brother's birthday; he turned 20 this passed Sunday.
That's why I think it's only fitting to celebrate their many splendiferous years of living with a blog entry dedicated to two of the most important men in my life: one I know very well, and one that perhaps....I don't. You'd be surprised which one is which.
Ryan (aka Rybotz) is from Ohio, but contrary to what you might think, not nearly as boring as his birthplace. It's impossible to describe him in words. You just have to meet him to know that you're getting someone that has neon bolts of creativity bursting out of his ears. For the most part, experiencing the eclectic sounds of music fuels this phenomenon. But that's only the surface of his admiration for artful, imaginative things.
Like the rubber city of his roots, he is hard-working and reliable, but always in pursuit of a grander goal. We've been together 2 years now, and every day has been an individual struggle that we've tried to support one another through. The city has not been easy to his mid-western lifestyle: here it's fast, fleeting; blink one eye, and you miss it all. Everything in NYC is done on a larger scale; bigger/bolder/better. Luckily everything about Ryan is bigger and bolder. His excitement is catching to everyone around him, but on low days, so are feelings of anger and frustration.
Ryan left Ohio to be a part of the energy of this city, and he is surely becoming part of it. One day, he will be in sync with this flow of passion and creativity, and really show the world what fantastic possiblities lie within the infinite universe that is his mind.
And all psychological theory aside, I am grateful to be by his side on his 25th year, as he experiences the most memorable, unpredictable and thrilling moments of his life.
Happy Birthday my Rybotz. You are just as amazing as you are sweet.<3
My brother Nick (or Nicky, which is what I've always called him) has come a long way from the little bald baby that once peed on my cousin when she was changing him. It makes you feel rather old and confused when you see the same boy you used to play Micro Machines and Barbie Prom Date with (...it's true. Don't judge. Who didn't love Barbie? Even he got upset about ending up with the nerdy guy...), doing adult things: driving a car instead of pretending to blow one up.....working at Sears instead of perfecting his homemade sound effect technique.....dying his once light, wavy hair to the color aquamarine.....complaining about getting car tickets and bank statements rather than imagining that you've saved your family from a man-eating tiger while trapped in a raging fire.
Nick was always laughing; he once had a giggling fit after watching the Simpson's episode where Homer falls down a cliff for an absurdly extended period of time, yelling "Doh" at every moment of contact. He could hardly breathe, he was laughing so hard. Then he rewound the tape and watched it again.
At the age of 4, Nick would beg me to put on the Fantasia VHS and fast-forward through all the fairy stuff to get to the dinosaurs and their eventual demise to Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring." It gave me the creeps, but it never phased him. He watched Jurassic Park for the first time at age 6, while I hid in my parent's bedroom, trying to block out the sounds of velociraptors.
He could make any inanimate object explode with unidentifiable sounds. He engrossed himself in a small 1x4 Lego block for hours, making it emit spitful explosive sounds as he shook it within his hands. Who knows what kind of intergalactic war was being staged within his imaginative mind.
But most of all, Nicky was the sweetest, most gentle kid brother a girl could ask for. While other boys were tearing the heads off their sister's dolls and generally wreaking havoc, Nicky was eager to play with anyone at any time, and loved to make people laugh. His younger sisters were the rambunctious ones, and he took a lot of abuse from their rough housing and tantrums. But that was Nicky's way; he couldn't stand to see anyone upset. He just wanted to feel he belonged.
Today, Nick is in college, but still living at home. I know it must be hard still dealing with the craziness of sisters, shitty family cars and living in a town you can't seem to escape. It's enough to make anyone a little irritated. But I hope that even at 20, little Nicky is still there at heart.
Happy Birthday Nicky-ness Maximilian Eggward Whites Yolken Midori-Ximus.
I knew that would get your attention. I'm will be talking about Matlock, and how as a sweet little girl I was charmed by his elderly wit into committing a devilish deed; but first:
I have a new professional website. Thoughts? Concerns? Airborne tomatoes? (Whatever, this site is a helluva lot better than redirecting people to my film blog constantly. I need to grow up sometime, people.)
Speaking of growing up, I shall now continue doing the opposite, and tell you all a little tale for...
FLASHBACK FRIDAY (the colors make it super-fun!)
As most of you might have already figured out, I wasn't very popular in school, and so even elementary days were tough to get through. This may have been completely inside my head, given that I was extremely shy and thought everything was my fault, but I'll opt to play the childhood pity card today.
I remember sitting in my 2nd grade art class doing some sort of sculpture and generally talking about things that probably seemed really important at age 8, but most likely weren't.
The two "most popular" girls - each with the same letter in their first names (birds of a feather flock together, especially the bitches) - were sitting across from me. "Popular" meaning: one had a training bra, the other an acting trainer. (I could say I had the training pants, but not sure of the bed-wetting timeline here...)
At some point during the conversation, things got ugly. I don't remember what we started arguing about, but it didn't matter: they were right, and I was stupid, ugly, worthless and, of course, wrong. After the two had thoroughly beaten my self-confidence into a quivering mass of worthless scraps, the familiar saltiness of tears began to resurface in my throat, while almost simultaneously my head fumed like Mt. Vesuvius. But which emotion to act upon?
I was tired of being the shy one, the easygoing one, tired of being put on the spot and then laughed at because everyone knew I wouldn’t do a thing about it. It was time to fight back.
Most people might turn to Jesus at times like these, but at home we had our own religion: television. Every night at dinner, we would all gather round the table completely ignoring eachother while we watched the small B&W TV mindlessly, entrapped within the world of 90210. One of dad's other favorites was "Matlock;" that rapscallion of a lawyer with his smart wit and snow white hair! He must have been the perfect role model for an 8 year old - after all, we had so much in common: we both wet the bed and were generally grumpy about life!
In that moment, when I was up against my vicious classmates, unable to defend myself, I thought, "WWM[atlock]D"? Earlier that week, Matlock had lost a case to some stuck-up lawyer, and he had felt the same sense of shame and anger. And what had he done? He had called him a jack-ass.
So I turned my eyes away from the girls, so the fear in my face was hidden, and muttered: jack ass.
They stopped talking. "What did you say?" they gasped in disbelief. At first, I was overcome with triumph! They would have never though to use such a clever word!
But almost immediately afterward my stomach nearly dropped to the ground. No second grader uses that word, because it's BAD.
Jack ass fail.
They were already telling the art teacher by the time I realized my fatal mistake. Once my homeroom teacher came back, I performed the walk of shame as I faced them both, hot-faced and ruined: all my exemplary elementary years (about 2 of them) flashed before my eyes in a taunting whirl. They were stunned at my language...I had never caused any trouble before. By the time word got around to my mother, I was done with the incident. I never wanted to talk about it again. It was a mar on my record, and it was only the beginning of a youth full of embarrassments.
The worst was that I had tried to stand up for myself, and yet still failed. I was the bad guy somehow. It appeared to me that keeping quiet was the safest way to get through life.
It took me a long time to learn that keeping the anger inside was like trying to hold in your shit. One of these days, it's bound to hit the fan. Nowadays I curse people off all the fucking time...it's become part of my daily language. And it makes me feel better.....sort of.
What else did I learn? That TV really does influence kids. And don't trust lawyers; they're jackasses.
If zorts (or as they are more formally called, zortians) are unfamiliar to you, then please refer to my past bloggentry (it's got a nice ring to it no?) concerning the origin and fascination behind these green little rapscallions.
I, unfortunately, cannot take all the credit for their whimsical creation (this entry is just so chock full of word goodies!). The talented Ed Emberley knew not what he created in these six-circled space creatures.
I promised I would dig up some of my old zortian doodles for your viewing pleasure. They were my escape during boring schooldays; I would use them for math sheets, word quizzes, note-taking reminders, and as characters in school projects.
Yes, I was a weirdo, but fuck you, zorts are awesome.
That said, welcome to...
THE WONDERFUL WORLD OF ZORTS
Fashion
Some early drawings of the zortian species. Like humans, they also enjoy being stylish. Apparently, wearing checkered clothing amongst sad Charlie Brown Xmas Trees is considered fashionable on Planet Zort.
Transportation
Wildlife
A woofler (sort of like a horse) dog..seen here sniffing zits. Yes, you read right.
The fwap...not as friendly as the woofler. Lets out a noise that sort of goes like this....
"FWWAAAAP!" Thus, its name.
Literature
When I was a bit older, I was moved to write stories about the creatures, utilizing my exceptional compositional skills.
At the beginning of the story, the Zorts meet a Rok, a most despicable creature that ironically becomes polite when you hit it with rocks. I wonder if this trick would work with New Yorkers.
The tall creepy birds are Gleeks. Like all gleeks you know, they like to sing awful musical theater and sulk around all the other cool aliens.
Further into the story, the zortians leave Planet Zort and encounter Planet Earth (of course) where they land on an island, enter a lighthouse and encounter a boy with a backwards cap. I've spared you the rest of the visuals. I'm sure you can imagine....
Commercialism
I was quite cheeky as a child. Not sure when I drew these, but I thought myself pretty clever.
Note my interpretation of early 90's GenEx fashion trends, and my bold, new ideas for selling toilet paper. Charmin, eat your heart out.
Careers
In middle school I continued to incorporate zortians into my life. This time, they helped me cope with the harsh transition from childhood to maturity. I wasn't about to give up without a fight. Years later, I'm still fightin'.
When finished with vocab quizzes early I would doodle on the paper, hoping to give my teachers a bit of humor and a break from the shittiness of dealing with moody, hormonal teenagers. Zorts were able to take on a variety of roles....
Technology
My 8th grade self being transported to the Planet Zort....accidentally.
Sooooo, I haven't been writing very frequently these days. STFU, it happens.
It's been absolutely crazy at work, then there was Easter in Ohio, and when I DID finally get a moment to myself, it either didn't last very long, or my brain could not scramble together coherent words worth writing down; it would have sounded something like Bill Cosby talking whilst fully submerged in Jell-O.
That said, I've been unable to keep up with my Flashback Friday (I only lasted two weeks....this is not a surprise.) Each day I attempted to begin writing one to redeem myself, cleverly naming it with the use of the current day: Monday Memories.....Time Travel Tuesdays....
But alas, shit happens. So screw alliteration. It's a fucking Wednesday and I'm gonna talk about my childhood.
As you know, I love to reminisce, especially when I'm back in NJ, sifting through my treasure trove of junk, now piled carelessly in our attic after my room was taken over (thanks little sis!). This can also be described as my tendency to hoard massive amounts of childhood paraphernalia in an effort to cling to the past. Whichever romantic notion you prefer.
I do not shy away from sharing the great colored pencil masterpieces of my imaginative youth. They are the gentle reminders of a simpler life, where diner place-mats served as canvases, and people were drawn with no necks. Every idea seemed like a good idea. Like the time I wrote the label of every room in marker next to the light switches: cause everyone needs to be reminded of what room they're standing in!
Here a few gems I was able to dig up last weekend:
"Tara's Different Kinds of Cats,"My First Book
I must have been at most 5 when I crafted this masterpiece. At least I hope so. I don't even know why I made this book about cats....I wasn't a big cat person. My guess is that I only knew about 2 kinds of dogs, but at least 5 different types of cats. They were also easier to draw.
This was followed up by "The Parrot and a Computer on a Stick," inspired by some interesting pencil tops.
"An Un-Ordinary Family,"My First Script
When I was about 7-9 (the years are blurred here), I came up with what I thought to be the most groundbreaking and fantastic idea for a play/movie ever imagined: a kooky family with an uncle named Popie and an aunt who hoards cat food, and their general crazy shenanigans (gee, wonder where I got that idea...) My cousins Beck and Missy were giddy with excitement at the prospect of acting this out. We often put together our own plays to perform in front of the family.
This particular performance debuted at Missy's house alongside our other hit "Sometime's You're Gonna Get Hurt" (a musical, complete with a namesake theme song.) But "Unordinary" was different; this was gonna be big...like Hollywood big.
I started the script and tried to put together a production in 3rd grade (see my above announcement that was taped to our classroom door). This plan eventually fell through, since attention spans at that age are slim. Apparently, I assumed that all scripts were just a continuous stream of consciousness that took up three columns to a page.
"Return to Chewandswallow,"One of My 1st Rip-Off Books
I say one of my first rip offs because the first one I wrote was actually based on a Full House episode where D.J. befriends a horse. I was so proud of myself, I brought it to class to show off (man, I was such an egotistical little first grader). Then one girl, who probably meant no harm at all, pointed out that she had watched that Full House episode the previous night too. Bitch.
Anywho, after my devout love of "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs," I decided that there should be a sequel. (They literally came out with one a few years later....but whatever.) The big deal here was that my mom taught me to sew the binding myself. I must have been tired after doing all that, which probably explains why the rest of the book was done so crappily. I prefer the laziness factor over the risk of being perceived as retarded.
"Personality T-Shirt,"Take This As You Will
We had to make a t-shirt design that displayed our personality traits. Don't judge; it was 1996 for god sakes.
After sharing with you all on Friday my family's long heritage of car woes, I was blessed with a wonderful reply.....from my mom.
She left it on my Facebook page using dad's login. At first I thought I was in the doghouse (sorry ma; I could have sworn we were running someone over in a fit of maternal emotion!.....Perhaps, being an imaginative child, I was just making up a more exciting story in my mind); but Mommy Stromberg just wanted to clarify a few things, for the record:
"I never almost ran ANYONE over. That car got a flat tire on the belt Parkway in Brookyn with grandma, Aunt Sis, and Uncle Artie and you in the car. I was about 8 months pregnant. I pulled the car over to the shoulder of the Belt Parkway with light snow falling and me, 8 months pregnant, trying to flag down some help. With no luck. After about 30 minutes with no aid at about 12 midnight, I decided to ride on the flat to the exit ramp to the nearest gas station. It was late and the gas attendant would not let us put the car in the garage, as there was no one at this late hour to help. He said leave the car over night and the garage people will attend to it in the morning. We went to grandma's house (by car sevice) and called dad , (who promptly scolded me for riding on the flat and probably damaging the rim). About 25 minutes later I got a call from the garage, stating my car had been broken into while parked at the gas station. The attendant told the criminals (not knowing they were criminals at first) to get out of the car after they had broken in. They left with some of dashboard, but at least the car was not stolen. The next day we road home with a replacement tire, which unbeknownst to me was the WRONG size; all the way home the car shook and rattled, scaring this 8 months pregnant lady to death. Again dad scolded me because the gas station had put the wrong tire on. (Of course, my fault).
You forgot the car that had NO REVERSE. I had to park on high ground so I could roll out of a parking spot, or push it. There was the car with no key, it had a permanent screwdriver in the ignition to start it. One of these two also had a driver door that would NOT open and the driver side window did not work; someone had to sit shot gun if you went thru a toll. Then there was the car that stalled and you had to bang the starter with a hammer to get it to work. An Dad's white convertible had to be filled with oil EVERY time you drove it, as it leaked profusely as you drove. Don't forget the car we had to push and then pop the clutch to get it started, luckily it was small."
Well, damn, she's better at this than me. Thank you mom, for sharing more wonderful memories that I seem to have forgotten, and for letting everyone know where I get my sarcasm from. You gotta have a sense of humor to deal with the trials and tribulations of the Strombergs. Luckily, we do.
And why shouldn't it have something to do with my childhood, since that seems to be my fixation? (I know, I know I write about it all the time.....well guess what? Deal with it.)
*Last night I was able to dig up some concept characters from an old NYU Animation course. Lili, the cartoon depiction on the left of my real-life little sis (and her fishie), seemed like the perfect mascot for Flashback Fridays.
I figured I would start off with a great piece of Stromberg family lore:
The Infamous Stromberg Family "Carrrr Currrse" ~
::cue spooky music, thunder claps::
For as long as I can remember, my family has owned the crappiest cars known to man. We have never had the luxury of a brand new or certified pre-owned beauty; only sad clunkers, pre-used by other folks in their four-wheeled glory days, but too abused by time to be reaped of its transportation benefits by the Stromberg clan. And through the struggles of failing transmissions, broken windows and noisy mufflers, my father still insisted on maintaining a long lineage of half-assed purchases.
I am convinced that somewhere in Stromberg history, we must have royally pissed off a car. Perhaps there's something rotten in my namesake's history of engines. Nevertheless, this curse has been passed onto the next generation, ie me, for my luck with cars did not get any better once I got my license. I learned to identify the smell of anti-freeze before it even started leaking. (This is why I live in NY and take public transportation.)
Anyway, here are some of the highlights of the Stromberg transportation heritage. Or should I say, here lie the ghosts of Stromberg past. May they forever rest in pieces.
∆ Mom's Hyundai Admittedly, it was a great little car. However, when it was broken into in Brooklyn, and the entire dashboard was stolen, mom dec</span>ided it was best to move to New Jersey. I also distinctly remember sitting in this car as a child while my mom pulled away angrily, as an insurance (or some other corporate asshole) stood waving his arms to try to get her from leaving, and nearly running him over. Don't deny it mom. It's okay. Cuz that's pretty bad-ass.
∆ Dad's White Convertible Dad's baby. It had a pre-ripped black leather interior that would heat up like a frying pan in the sun, a black cloth top, and a decal of a naked woman bending over (that was always awkward). Dad would play the same Alice Cooper cassette over and over on the way to softball games. But the car had no heat, and it broke down at least every week.
∆ Dad's Big Ugly Grave Digger
Dad's bigger baby. It was a bright yellow monster with a crappy pipe design on the side doors. When you started the engine, the whole neighborhood roared, and you most likely experienced an apocalyptic heart attack. There were also fist-sized spiders hiding in the back.
My mom HATED this truck, claiming it never worked and wasn't worth the money. But I will never forget that day in 2nd grade when that huge monster came chugging into our elementary school parking lot. Every kid out there dropped their jaws in awe; I felt like a queen as I was lifted up 3 feet to sit in the passenger seat and waved to all the gawking parents and their boring two-door coupes. It was the best day of my 7 year old life.
∆ Chevrolet Silver Lumina Van We were so excited to finally have a VAN big enough to fit our ever-growing family! And it had working features! It was used, but it was still new to us. However, things started deteriorating after a few years. The sliding door could only be opened from the outside, while the front drivers side door could only be opened from the inside. The CD player didn't work (major bummer) and sometimes the engine would overheat, which resulted in a cascade of antifreeze to pour out from under the hood.
On the way back from grandma's on Rte 8 in Jersey, our radio kept going in and out: the battery was dying. We pulled onto the side of the road, as I sadly left the Entemann's crumb donut grandma had given me behind on the dashboard. We entered a bar to wait for dad to show up. This is when we realized that it was half bar/half chinese restaurant that also sold fried chicken and burgers. An old man stood in the corner creepily meowing like a cat, while a Steven Seagal movie played on TV.
This van may have died for a two year hiatus, collecting leaves and grime in our driveway while we still had to pay insurance, but then it was back with a brand new engine; just in time for me to get my license at 18....and subsequently crash it during a botched left turn, leaving a gaping hole in the front.
∆ Two Lincoln Continentals They were comfy, low to the ground, and classy for a Stromberg car. But they were old. The ceiling was caving in and the mufflers were fucked so much that it sounded like a motorcycle driving down the highway.
I started driving our Continental to high school, which was an hour away. One particular spring day after class, I decided to follow a group of friends to the beach, which was only about 10 minutes away. We had only traveled a few feet when I hear a horrible scraping noise.
"Geez, who's car is making that annoying sound? Doesn't sound good."
My friend Esther and I looked out the window and saw someone in the next car signaling us frantically with their hands.
"Oh, shit. It's me."
At the beach I made the startling discovery that my muffler was dragging behind the car, hanging by a thread. A friend tied it up with twine temporarily, but warned me it wouldn't last long. Back at the school parking lot I called my dad:
Me: "Dad, there's something wrong with the car..." Dad: "SHIT! What did you do?" Me: "....Nothing! The muffler is hanging by a thread, it looks like it's gonna fall-" Dad: "SHIT GODAMMIT!" >Me: "...we tied it up with some twine..." Dad: "That's gonna catch fire! That COCKSUCKER! I put a Pepsi can on it; I thought that would hold it!" Me: "You put a WHAT????" Dad: "Listen, this is what you gotta do. Get a wire hanger, and bend it, then wrap it around-" Me: "Dad, I don't know how to do that!" Dad: "Why can't the janitor do it?"
So, there I am, at the end of the day, crouching next to my principal who is laying under my car as he wraps a wire hanger around the muffler. He is still wearing his suit.
∆ Tara's 1972 Dodge Dart Swinger My first car ever. My dad pushed me to get it, since he was the one who really appreciated it, but I fell in love easy. Quite simply, this car was HOT. I got more looks from dudes than I had ever gotten before (...mostly they were drooling over the car, not me). But it didn't matter; I had high hopes for this pin-up on wheels. I was gonna get it re-vamped, with some sky blue paint and a radio that played more than just the AM stations.
But this thing was 30 years old, and it showed. The floor was rotting away; there were two bowling ball sized holes on near the gas pedal, so when I drove, I worried about it turning it into the Flinstone's car. Neither the heat nor the AC functioned, and the entire dashboard would shake if you went over 60 mph. It also cost me $1,200 for a new transmission.
But I shall always remember it fondly.
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Tune into Flashback Friday next week when I share a Matlock Memory!
My Rybotz has a spiffy blog about his discoveries. Tune in folks!
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