Happy 200, CNI!

Abby and I attended the special live recording of COMIC NEWS INSIDER's 200th episode this past weekend. As you may know, CNI is our favorite pop-culture podcast on the web and we've both had the honor of being guests on the show several times in the past. Michael Emerson (aka Ben Linus) from "Lost" was there this time around along with a slew of great comic book artists and writers including Vito Desante, Kevin Colden, Miss Lasko-Gross, and the very awesome John Cassady (The Astonishing X-Men, Planetary). As always, it was a blast geeking out with Jimmy and Joe.
Congratulations, CNI, from all of us at Vampire Cowboys! Here's to another 200! To listen to the show, click here!
Become a fan. You won't be disappointed.

A letter to my son in regards to the lies we've told him . . .

Dear Son,

As you may have ascertained by now, during the course of your life, your mother and I have worked hard to bestow onto you many important and vital lessons to best help you mature into the fine adult you are today (Or teenager. Or advanced toddler. It really depends on when you get around to reading these letters). Besides making sure that you were loved, fed, and cared for, our single most important responsibility was to ensure that you’d end up with a strong set of principles, values, and morals to help guide you through your life. This has been our duty. This is why we talk so damn much to you in general.

However, truth be told, some of the things we have taught you have been, how do I say, a bit of bullshit. When you were small it was important that you learned certain lessons so you would be well behaved so that other parents wouldn’t glare at me and your mother with judgmental hostility. Sorry, we were being a bit selfish. However, now that you’re older, it’s time for us to come clean. Here’s some things that we lied about:

Fighting should always be used as a last resort.
The truth is, son, this all really depends on the asshole. Some people in this world just need to get their ass kicked. And though we taught you fighting should always be avoided for legal reasons (since you’re a fucking ninja afterall), there are certain instances when you may want to enact your mad kung fu skillz earlier rather than later. You may have already figured this out, but in case you haven’t, here’s a list of people who generally deserves a beatdown rather than a debate at first glance: racists, men who hit women, men who hit children, men who hit animals, men who hit gay men, men who hit gay women, most men with European accents who flirt with your wife, jackasses who talk about themselves in the third person by adding “the” in front of their first or last name making them “The Steve”, “The Fred”, “The Jacobson” or something equally as pretentiously annoying, fuckers who try to parallel park by driving forward into a spot, tall people who pat you on your head, short people who nail you in the face with umbrellas, dickheads who take up more than one seat on the subway, Dallas Cowboys fans, people who talk to you about the nutritional content of your food as you’re eating it, and almost anyone whose wardrobe is stocked primarily with items from Ambercrombie & Fitch (or your generation’s equivalent to A&F). These people all need asskickings immediately. Feel free to practice your sweet ninja moves on their skulls.

Making fun of people is mean.
This is generally true. But if it’s funny, sometimes it’s kinda worth it. But only, and I stress, only if it’s comic gold. Otherwise, you’re just an asshole who can’t land a joke. Don’t be that asshole, son. The truth is comic timing is far more crucial in life than courtesy. People tend to ignore the gracious guy who always waits his turn to talk, however everybody loves the gangsta who can win a “Yo Mama” battle. Be funny, not a fucker. But fair warning; don’t try to cut up too often. Those people also get annoying. Men over the age of 25 still acting like teenage “class clowns” by making fart sounds and generally jumping into people's faces during things like parties and Halloween parades also deserve a good dropkick to the chin.

Math is important
Besides adding, subtracting, multiplication, and division, the rest is really just kinda extraneous. I have yet to use anything like the Pythagorean Theorem or Polynomial Long Division for anything in my adult life. I’ve come to the conclusion that doing well in Algebra, Geometry, and Calculus only allows you to have a higher SAT score which will get you into a better college. That’s about it. However . . . smart women are hotter than dumb women and a better college would equal a greater density of much more smarter and hotter women for you to potentially date, so thusly . . . maybe we were right in the first place. Actually, I guess we were. So strike that. Math is important. Go work on your Trig.

Swearing is bad.
Clearly. Bullshit.

It’s important to try to get people to like you.
This is absolutely not true. Actually, the ability to be okay with the opposite is far more essential in life than the act of getting people to fancy you. The fact of the matter is there is nothing intrinsically good about being well-liked. It may make you feel good to be popular, but popularity does not equal any kind of existential value. For example, Hitler was extremely well-liked by his countrymen, but he is also obviously the single most wrong person in all of history. Thusly, it’s far more important to be right than well-liked. If I were to walk into a fundamental Christian church (circa 2009) and spoke my mind on why I think Prop 8 is bullshit, most people there would not like me very much. However I’d be right. And that is far more important. To come clean, we just told you the former so you wouldn’t beat up your fellow elementary school classmates for milk money. Afterall, we did raise you to be a badass, but had to be careful you did not veer into becoming a bully instead. There’s a huge difference. People want to fuck the badass, they only want to fuck up the bully. Do not be a bully. They definitely land in the category of “needing to get their ass beat immediately”.

I’m sure we fed you a lot of other half-truths in the course of your life, son. Please be assured that we were only doing it because, well, our parents did the same to us so we felt like it was the right thing to do with you. I mean, seriously, if it makes you feel any better, your grandparents told me the following:
1. Too much television and comic books will rot the brain
2. Nothing good can ever come from fighting
Looking at my professional resume, clearly both those sentiments are completely false.

Bottom line, son, parents lie to their children. Get over it. Be a good person. Don’t be a dick. Marry someone hotter and smarter than you (like your father did). Follow your dreams. That’s all that matters.

Much love,
Your Father

Damn straight

Fuck a buncha Prop 8. Just sayin.

I'm excited about this . . .

"V" was the absolute shit when I was a kid. It was maybe the only program in primetime that I dug even more than "Knight Rider" or "The A Team" back in the day. It had two of my three favorite sci-fi situations in it, alien invasions and post-apocalyptic survival (zombie infestations are my third). And it's WWII allegory blew my pre-pubescent mind away. Usually I'm pretty wary about remakes, but this one looks damn interesting (Having Firefly's Morena Bacarrin and Lost's Elizabeth Mitchell in the cast doesn't hurt either). Perhaps it's due to seeing the very excellent J.J. Abram's "Star Trek" movie, but I'm feeling pretty good about re-imaginings right now. Here's hoping the new incarnation can live up to the original.

Great Fake Green Lantern Trailer

Wow, this is really neat. It's a fan-made trailer for a fictional "Green Lantern" flick using footage from "Firefly", "Castle", the new "Star Trek" film, a bunch of video game clips, as well as cuts from other fun sci-fi flicks. Good job, anonymous fake trailer maker guy. Good job.

Milky Way

Absolutely gorgeous. This video, however, strangely makes me want to go see the new Star Trek movie again.

Fear Will

Well, it’s official. Fear has now taken permanent residence in my psyche.

During the first six months of knowing I was gonna be a pop, the majority of my daydreams were relegated to fantasies about teaching my kid the ancient art of asskicking, instructing him how to handle his life of being hereditarily awesome, and the best ways to keep him humble after he wins the MacArthur Genius Award at the wee age of eight. These were the things I thought about when it came to my upcoming parenthood. But now with little Baby Badass’s due date quickly coming upon us in less than three months, my musings have suddenly shifted from how do I handle having the most awesome baby in all of existence to now just how the hell do I handle having a baby at all?

There’s a slew of fears currently attacking my brain.

The first being that I’m dying.

No, not in the immediate, but eventually. Eventually I’m a fucking goner. There’s no way around it. This by the way is the dark side of pregnancy. This is the shit they don’t write about in all those happy-go-lucky holistic baby books about your upcoming little miracle. For as much excitement as my soon-to-be BB will bring me, it seems everyone else on the planet wants to remind me that I’m now on the express track to dirtsville.

“Wow, you’re all grown up now, Qui. Have you started making out your will?”

“My will? Why should I be concerned with my will at this point?”

“Well, you’re about to be a father.”

“I know. And I plan on being a living one.”

“But what if something were to happen to you? What would become of all your assets?”

“I have no assets. I’m a poor playwright. Poor playwrights don’t have assets.”

“What about all your scripts?”

“You’d consider them assets?”

“Of course.”

“Someone should tell that to my parents.”

“Seriously, Qui, you should be thinking about your family. Your family deserves the security of a well-maintained will. You should have a plan in case of death. Face facts, Qui. You’re gonna die one day. Perhaps peacefully. Perhaps painfully. Perhaps even gruesomely. You never know when your final credits are set to roll. But regardless of how you may bite it, shouldn’t you control how your death will affect your loved ones?”

This by the way is the conversation I have with almost any adult who has any children above the age of ten. As happy as my older friends appear about my upcoming entrance into parenthood, they also seem to get a keen kick out of reminding me exactly how mortal as a motherfucker I’ve suddenly become. From “Yay baby” to “Let’s discuss all the horrible shit you need to start worrying about including the possibility of getting your neck broke at your next fight gig, getting hit by some sort of motorized vehicle, and the rainbow assortment of all the different types of cancers lurking out there to get you”, Qui the badass has suddenly become, in one fell ejaculation, Qui the fragile klutz who may break at any moment’s notice. I guess there’s nothing like a birth to remind me that there’s a six-foot deep hole waiting for me out there somewhere in the future. Hopefully in the distant future.

Along with the fear of the death knell bonging in the far background, the other worry worrying my frantic brain is the realization that I’m now getting old. Not old as in I’m needing assistance pooping and bathing myself, but old in the sense that no matter what I do or how young I may feel from this point forward, there will soon be a person on this planet that will always see me as an adult. That’s a weird thought to me. Regardless of my freakishly young looking yella face, regardless of how much I work out, or how much pop-culture nonsense I suck in or awesome coolness I may exude out, I will never be anything less than a full-on square-pegged grown-up to my child. The days of being the “young hotshot”, “the kid”, and “the upstart” are now behind me and that, my dear readers, is a uniquely strange reality to comprehend.

“This is no problem” my always rational father tells me as I’m trying to pull sympathy from him over the static of a long distance cell-phone call.

“What do you mean, dad? I could die. That’s scary. That’s fucking freaky. I don’t like it one bit.”

“But it is nothing, son. Really. You worrying too much about small thing.”

“What are you talking about ‘small thing’? It’s death, dad. The big sleep. Meeting my maker. The final bow. I love my life. I really do. I’m addicted to it. I don’t know what could be scarier than losing it.”

“Well, for one, your son could get sick.”

“What?”

“Or your wife. They could get sick or hurt. This is a possibility, no?” And suddenly every horrible thing that could ever happen to me seems a million times less important.

“Oh my god. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“That much scarier, correct? Now you beginning to understand what it meaning to be a father. You also beginning to understand why your mother and I sometime too overprotective when you growing up. You not knowing fear just yet. Along with an all new kind of love coming into your life, get ready for all new kind of fear also. Much worse than anything you ever experience before. You only thinking you badass in earlier life. Now, however, this is what taking real courage. This is what making you a real man.”

And he’s right. Every fiber in my body goes blue at the thought of anything happening to my baby or my bride. Already, even now as little BB is still chilling in the womb and my wife is perhaps a bit more moody than usual, I love these two individuals more intensely than I have almost anything else in this world. They’re my family and their lives now equal greater than my own. And as it turns out, I’m completely fine with that thought. It's as it should be.

“Now stop being big pussy, son! Go get your will done. It no big deal.”

Alright, Dad. I'll go do it. Just stop being such a square.

How It Should Have Ended

Have you ever been to the website How It Should Have Ended? If you haven't, you should. They make funny vids. The vids below are two of my favs:

Political Correctness

I quickly made this on Xtranormal. You should make one too. It's fun.

Fuck the Pain Away by . . . Miss Piggy

Wow, move over Courtney Love, Miss Piggy is going hard.

A random handful of 80's PBS nostalgia

As a clear indication that I was destined to grow up to be an uber nerd, when I was but a wee tot, I had a ravenous addiction to PBS educational shows. Like a stoner staring at the Discovery Channel, my prepubescent eyes were constantly jonesing for a daily dose of new knowledge coming from shows paid for by “viewers like you”. For an 8 year old me, the “three r’s” were crack and Lavar Burton was my pusherman.
So for this week's spot of random 80’s childhood nostalgia, I’ve collected a few intro’s from PBS’s educational greatests hits.

Bonus Material: Fraggle Rock Book Club Commercial (1987)

Classic

Just cause I dig this song & vid a ton. Came out back in 2007 featuring Rakim, KRS One, Nas, and Kanye. Four generations of rap. Thoroughly good stuff.

Franklyn Trailer

I have no idea if this movie is any good. Haven't seen it or heard of it. But this trailer is pretty kick ass. It's got my brain gears a'movin for next year's Vampire Cowboys show. You'll see why soon enough.

A letter to my son in regards to the birds and the bees . . .

Dear Son,

One day you will sit down with your father and you will ask that age old question all children are bound to ask their parents, “Where do babies come from?”

And being your wise father who always knows exactly how to precisely and effectively explain everything, I will tell you, “From fucking.”

And not being aware of that expression because your mother and I will be very good about limiting our usage of words like fuck, fucker, fuck-face, fucktard, fuckwit, fuckilicious, fucktastic, fuckable, enfucklopeia, motherfucker, muthafuckah, muhfucka, mindfucked, brainfucked, assfucked, earfucked, punchfucked, mouthfucked, throatfucked, grungefucked, hatefucked, dumbfuck, milf, fubar, omfg, fuckaluckadingdong, and the aforementioned “fucking” around you during your childhood, you will innocently ask “What’s that, dad? Is fucking like a place? Like Peking or Beijing?”

And I will say “No, son. Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, Peking and Beijing are the same exact location. That’s a poor use of examples.”

“Then what is fucking?”

This is when I will pause, sit back in my chair, perhaps light a tobacco pipe, and reflect back on when my father told me about the birds and the bees and how that informed all my sexual decisions growing up. And because he was so careful on explaining the harmonious connection between love and lovemaking, though I went through a very substantial “male-whore” phase as a young adult, I still managed to be completely STD free by the time I met your mother. And this, son, is why I grew up such a healthy and well-adjusted adult.

However, then I’ll realize . . . wait just a fuckin’ minute, my dad never told me anything about the birds and the bees. He just grabbed the “S” volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica off the shelf, threw it in front of me, and said “read”. Which was actually quite informative. I wrote a book report on it later and got an “B plus” on it. “Why not an A?” “Too long. I found so much great information, I put it all in. Overkill.”

Remembering this, I will tell you to “Go look it up, son. That’s why God invented the internet.”

And you will. And you’ll be shocked at what you find for everyone is shocked the first time they witness porn. And afterwards you will go to me and bashfully ask “This is what you and mom did to make me?”

“Yes, son. That’s exactly what we did. Plus some other stuff that had nothing to do with procreation but felt good anyways.”

This image will disgust you for no child wants to imagine their parents bumping uglies. No. This will make you nauseated and you will then angrily proclaim, “Fuck that! I’m never having sex!”

And I will laugh. And you will cry. And I won’t care because in the long run, you will be wrong.

And this, son, is why robots are destined to rule us all . . .

Much love,
Your father

This looks bloody fun . . .

Definitely badass, but I'd still put money that my Lady Samurai would kick their Lady Samurai's ass any day of the fuckin' week. Cause mine's got soul power. Fo' reals.

Damn, I miss that show . . .

Free play: ONE SMALL PROBLEM

This short play was originally penned for Youngblood's "Asking For Trouble" back in 2004 during my rookie year with those guys. The premise for "A4T" is like many instant writing events. At the beginning of the process, a group of writers, directors, and actors show up at a bar. We pull from a hat the name of our director, the names of the actors we're gonna use, and an "inspiration item" to catalyst our writing efforts. Ten days later, we rehearse the script, block it, and produce it for a sold-out audience. My "inspiration item" that year was a postcard of Picasso's "Boy leading a horse". This is what I came up with:

ONE SMALL PROBLEM

ANNOUNCER: Gentlemen, have you ever had one of those nights . . .

[Lights come up on MATILDA and EMILY]

MATILDA: So how was he?

EMILY: I don't kiss and tell.

MATILDA: I'm not asking about how he kisses.

[Lights come up on SHORTY and LONGFELLOW]

LONGFELLOW: Yo, man, that girl is too tight. Tell me you slapped some of that ass. Tell me!

SHORTY: Well . . .

LONGFELLOW: Oh, shit. You did, didn't you? Come on, playa, tell me what happened.

MATILDA: So? Did you or didn't you?

SHORTY: We did.

EMILY: Yeah, it happened.

MATILDA & LONGFELLOW: So, how was it?

EMILY: Pretty bad.

SHORTY: Not good.

MATILDA & LONGFELLOW: What?

EMILY: I don’t know how to say this but . . . he’s kinda . . . well, down there, in the supposed fun region . . . he’s a bit -

SHORTY: She's hung like the grand canyon, dude. It was like driving a mini-cooper into an airplane bunker. It was fucking ridiculous.

MATILDA: Really?

EMILY: It's like he never went through puberty.

SHORTY: She must moonlight as a porn star. It's the only logical explanation.

EMILY: Teeny. Like -

SHORTY: A void. A black hole. A star sucker.

LONGFELLOW: So I guess no second date?

-Beat-

EMILY: Well?

SHORTY: Actually . . .

MATILDA: You're not serious. Tell me you're not serious. You can't be serious.

EMILY: I like him.

SHORTY: She is pretty cool. I mean, besides the enormous snatch, I think this really could be something.

EMILY: It's just . . .

SHORTY: We suck in bed.

EMILY & SHORTY: It's not that big of a deal, right?

ANNOUNCER: Wrong. It's a huge deal. If this has happened to you, we have a solution.

[Light Shift]

LONGFELLOW: We can make him better.

MATILDA: We have the technology.

[Light Shift]

SHORTY: Seriously, you can tell me. Is it me? Is it the way I move?

EMILY: Not exactly.

SHORTY: I don't spend enough time doing oral, do I? I knew it. I’m not good at cleaning my plate. I'll spend more time doing that, I promise.

EMILY: It's not that. You're actually really good at that.

SHORTY: It's the motion, isn’t it? I'm too fast.

EMILY: No.

SHORTY: Too slow?

EMILY: No.

SHORTY: I'm a monotonous jackhammer?

EMILY: No.

SHORTY: Too wild?

EMILY: Definitely no.

SHORTY: Then what is it?

EMILY: It doesn't matter. Really. I like you. You like me. That's all that matters.

SHORTY: Just say it. Please.

EMILY: It's just . . . a tad . . . it really doesn't matter.

SHORTY: Say it.

EMILY: It's just a bit . . . smaller than average.

MATILDA: Small.

ANNOUNCER: Small.

ALL: SMALL!

SHORTY: Nooooooooo!

[Light Shift]

ANNOUNCER: Hello. My name is Doctor Hancock. I'm a specialist. What is it you need?

SHORTY: Well. The thing is -

ANNOUNCER: You have a small penis.

SHORTY: Whoa! It's not small. Just a little below average.

ANNOUNCER: Can I see it?

SHORTY: Like right now?

ANNOUNCER: That is what I'm implying when I say "Can I see it?"

SHORTY: Well, I don't think I'm so comfortable with you just -

ANNOUNCER: Please, sir. I'm a specialist. I see this all the time.

SHORTY: Okay. Fine.

[SHORTY shows his stuff.]

ANNOUNCER: Hehehe.

SHORTY: Hey!

ANNOUNCER: Excuse me.

SHORTY: It's not that small, is it?

ANNOUNCER: You're practically a Barbie Doll.

SHORTY: You gotta help me.

ANNOUNCER: We do have the technology to fix this. However, are you sure you can afford it?

SHORTY: I have plenty of money.

ANNOUNCER: It's not money that I'm talking about.

SHORTY: Then what -

ANNOUNCER: Here's the estimate. See for yourself.

[Light Shift]

SHORTY: It's going to cost me what?

LONGFELLOW: Yo, man, but isn't it worth it tho? Next time you're rocking your lady, slapping that ass, you'll know she'll be loving it. No more of that Meg Ryan fake screaming shit. We're talking full-out Orgasmo time. For reals. Oh! Ah! Weeee!

SHORTY: I don't know, man. The price . . .

LONGFELLOW: It's not like you'll miss it when it's gone.

SHORTY: It's my brain.

LONGFELLOW: So?

SHORTY: They use my brain to make my new penis.

LONGFELLOW: Gives a whole new meaning to the term "dickhead", now doesn't it?

SHORTY: It's my brain.

LONGFELLOW: But when it's gone, you won't remember it.

SHORTY: I just don't think I can justify losing a part of my brain to be bigger.

LONGFELLOW: Fine. Then keep your big brain. But when your girl starts cheating on you cause you can't deliver the mail, don't hate the postman. Or the milkman. Or the lawn boy. They're just doing their job. Can you say the same?

[Light Shift]

SHORTY: I'm sorry.

EMILY: It's okay.

SHORTY: I just can't go through with it.

EMILY: When I said it was okay, I meant it.

SHORTY: You do?

EMILY: I don't want you to do it.

SHORTY: But -

EMILY: Look, baby, it's just dick. It doesn't matter. I've dated plenty of guys and alot of them had enormous cocks. There was even this one boyfriend I used to call Mister Ed cause he was hung like a . . . well, you know. He was big.

SHORTY: Just to let you know, this conversation isn't making me feel better.

EMILY: The point is . . . so what? They were huge. Big deal. We've all been with them. The super rocket. The awful boyfriend with the amazing equipment. But here's the truth,
you may not want to admit this to yourself, but we've all had bigger. Regardless of what we say or tell you, every single woman on this planet has had bigger. Even the ones who've had only a little experience. Cause, baby, when it's your first time, everything looks too large to fit.

SHORTY: Great. That's not relieving at all.

EMILY: Look, what I'm saying is . . . if size is going to bother you, it's always going to bother you regardless. Doesn't matter what's real or what's not. You're always going to be scared. Ultimately, it's how big you are here and here that counts. Not here. Do you feel me?

SHORTY: I feel you.

EMILY: You better.

[SHORTY and EMILY lean in to kiss.
Before they do though -]

MATILDA: Hey, look, it's Mister “Short Short Man”.

LONGFELLOW: Whaddup, shorty!

EMILY: Oh my god.

SHORTY: You told them?

EMILY: I'm so sorry. It just slipped out.

MATILDA: Yeah it did.

LONGFELLOW: Good one!

EMILY: I'm so sorry.

LONGFELLOW: Hey, man, it's okay. Not all of us can have the strength of ten men.

MATILDA: Or even one grown-up man.

LONGFELLOW: Burn!

[SHORTY runs away]

EMILY: Baby!

[Light Shift]

ANNOUNCER: So what's the verdict?

SHORTY: What do you think?

ANNOUNCER: Then follow me.

[Light Shift. Time moves.
It is many weeks later . . .]

MATILDA: So how was he?

EMILY: I don't kiss and tell.

MATILDA: I'm not asking about how he kisses.

[Lights come up on SHORTY and LONGFELLOW]

LONGFELLOW: Yo, man, that girl is too tight. Tell me you slapped some of that ass. Tell me!

SHORTY: (Like a zombie) Uh . . .

LONGFELLOW: Oh, shit. You did, didn't you? Come on, playa, tell me what happened.

MATILDA: So? Did you or didn't you?

EMILY: Yeah, it happened.

SHORTY: (Still like a zombie) Uh . . .

MATILDA & LONGFELLOW: So, how was it?

[EMILY and SHORTY look at each other.
She smiles.
He drools.
Lights down.]

End of Play

Baby Guides Full of Ass-vice

I’ve come to the conclusion that publishers of baby books all universally believe that all men are fuckin’ stupid. From flipping through male-centric pregnancy guides to waxing philosophic with birthing professionals, the world seems to be slow-talking to me simply because I got an outie instead of an innie between my legs. Most “Baby Guides for Guys” are barely a step away from being written in crayon and the default answer I get anytime I bring up my upcoming offspring is “Just go ask your wife”. I mean I’m not some douchetard here. I hold a post-graduate degree in playwriting, I teach at an Ivy League university, and regularly read texts on Quantum Theory for fun, yet suddenly everyone seems to think my aptitude for learning is damn near Neanderthal when it comes to infants. Clearly the stereotype of mechanics speaking patronizingly to women is getting returned in full by OB/GYN’s to men.

Not to be a spoiler here, but these are the main insights in almost all the “Pregnancy Books for Dudes” I’ve picked up so far:
1. Your wife will go crazy.
2. You will be stressed.
3. Sleep now while you got the chance.

Wow, right? Some publisher motherfucker actually paid some other writing motherfucker to pen all that damn near Shakespearean shit down. Seriously, do they not think I haven’t seen a sitcom before? Those are the sorta insights I coulda picked up by simply watching a rerun of fuckin’ “Full House”. Fuck that. I need some real answers.

Instead of reasserting the same “wife will go nuts” rhetoric I find in guy pregnancy survival guides, this is some shit I wanna know:
1. Is it common that I find my wife’s pregnant belly so damn sexy right now? Cause I do. I really do. Is this normal or have I just picked up a new fetish? Should I start stocking up on preggers porn or will it go away after my baby is born?
2. Speaking of sexy, I know medically speaking this isn’t going to happen, but, seriously, is there anything I can do to keep from feeling like I’m gonna crush our unborn baby or give him severe brain damage from blunt force trauma every time my wife and I have sex?
3. I know the average weight gain for a woman during pregnancy is 25 to 35 pounds and they tend to lose that weight on average in about 3 to 4 months. If that’s the case, how fucking fat am I gonna get during this pregnancy and how effin’ fast am I gonna lose this weight? Just curious. Cause, ya know, I think my “burger baby” is kickin’ and I think he wants himself some muhfuckin’ French fries. Fo’ reals. And why isn’t anyone giving up their subway seat for my orca ass? I’m expecting too, yo!
4. If I’m a certifiable badass and my wife’s a fuckin’ baller shot caller, does that mean my son is automatically guaranteed to come out like a Bruce Lee/John D. Rockefeller super slick hybrid? Or will our badassness cancel each other out, genetically sticking my child with the wimpish genes of the average Ben Folds Five fan?
5. If time always moves at a constant rate regardless of how fast or slow an object is moving in relative space, then how come the time between now and the day my wife gives birth feel like a fucking eternity?

So instead of trolling around the info shallow waters of male baby guides, I turn to a resource I usually find far more dependable, a place where I’ve gone time and time again for sage advice on situations I have very little knowledge about. I turn to the two people I know for a fact pulled this shit off before. I go to my folks. I mean, they accomplished raising me, right? They gotta know something. However . . .

“We know nothing!” my mom says in her patented broken English.

“But, mom, you raised three boys. How can you know nothing?”

My mom pauses. I can hear her carefully pick out her next words knowing that these sentences may greatly impact how I raise her grandson. Her voice drops a few octaves into her sincere registry as she says to me, “Qui, my oldest boy, I love you so much. I want to help you in everything I can. But raising children in America is very different than it is in Vietnam. You must understand Vietnam is a very poor country. Not much is there. It’s a very simple life. It is hard to live in, but very easy to raise a baby for there is not many distractions there. America, however, is very different. There are so many options here. So many distractions. America and Vietnam are like night and day. Different languages, different manners, different customs than what I grew up with. A different world entirely. I am Vietnamese. This is America. We know nothing.”

My mom goes quiet. She waits for my response. And after taking in her words, I break the silence by saying, “Um, mom?”

“Yes, son.”

“I love you, but . . . what in the bloody hell was that!?! Seriously, do you think I’m not paying attention here? You raised ME in America. The only kids you ever raised were raised in this country. Vietnam has nothing to do with anything.”

“Hehe. You noticed that, huh?”

“Um, yes.”

“I was just repeating what your grandmother told me when I first had you. It honestly didn’t help me out much either.”

“So what did you do, Mom? How’d you figure out parenthood?”

“Honestly, Qui. I don’t remember. I remember your first words, your first steps, all the things you accomplished growing up, but I don’t remember what I did to figure any of it out. The truth is we were just winging it. It just happened to work out. We don’t know anything.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. You were just too small to realize that your mom and dad were completely lost the entire time. Fooled you, didn’t we?”

“This isn’t instilling great confidence in me, Mom.”

“Just love your baby, Qui. Everything else will work out fine. I promise.”

So my parents don’t know anything. And if they do, they don’t seem to be sharing. Shocking, right? But the truth is, the more Abby and I go searching for advice from our folks, we’re discovering this lack of urgency isn’t just exclusive to my side of the family. Honestly, the general gist both Abby and I get, not just from our folks, but from anyone that’s more than fifteen years removed from the birth of their first child is this:

“You kids worry too much. When we were pregnant back in the seventies, we didn’t know as much as you do now. There weren’t all these books and television shows and the internet telling us what was wrong and right about our babies. We just didn’t have that kind of information. The truth is we were still drinking, smoking, and Alaskan King Crab fishing when our kids were in the womb and they turned out fine. Relax. Have a glass of wine. It’ll all come out in the wash.”

This does not seem to be the same parents that used to chide us anytime we stayed out passed curfew. Nope, suddenly our parents who used to discipline us like the Principal from “The Breakfast Club” has suddenly morphed into the student-friendly Mr. Belding from “Saved by the Bell”. After 32 years, they’ve finally chilled out.

From our parents “no advice” to what my friend Jen calls “ass-vice”, we however get the opposite reaction from our buddies who’ve just recently entered parenthood. “You just gotta . . .” is their mantra and Abby and I are being inundated with . . .

“You just gotta have a rocking chair. You just gotta have a bjourn. You just gotta play Mozart. You just gotta take yoga. You just gotta get your signs read. You just gotta read this book. You just gotta...

The list just goes on and on and on regarding shit we just “gotta” do. Talking to young parents is like getting rushed into a secret fraternity where hazing includes diapers, strollers, and Buy Buy Baby catalogs. Instead of keg parties, we get baby showers. Instead of puking, we get puked on.

This, however, is the reaction we get from our still single friends in response to our upcoming offspring: “We’ll miss you”.

In short, we're just not gonna get a lot of help on any of this at all, are we?

So with books out to retard us, our family out to turn us into alcoholics, and our single friends out mourn our dying social lives, I see how this experience can easily either make or break a marriage. Put simply, no matter what other folks have gone through or what they think we’re now going through, the only two people actually experiencing this completely is, well, me and Abby. And though we might not know much, we do know a couple of things. We love each other and we love little Baby Badass. I think that’s a pretty good start. I guess we'll just have to wing it from here.

But, seriously, how much fatter am I gonna get?

Fuck yeah!

Remember that time I got into New Dramatists? Yeah, that happened.

My badass fellow incoming "classmates" include playwrights Sharon Bridgforth, Michael Golamco, Richard Maxwell, Sally Oswald, & Andrea Thome. I'm excited as a muhfuckah. Fo' reals. This is one of those things I've wanted for quite some time. I honestly feel like I'm ten again and just opened the present under the tree that had a friggin' Nintendo in it. Can you dig it? They just let my pop-culture nerdy ass into the clubhouse and my yella face couldn't be happier about it! Oh hell's yeah!

Happy Mother's Day!

This is my mom. She is awesome. Happy Mother's Day, Mom! I love you!

PS: Yep, that's me. As an alien baby.

A random handful of 80's Saturday morning nostalgia

So often when reminiscing on my beloved childhood Saturday mornings, the majority of the attention falls onto the cartoons themselves. But along with all those great toons, there also were a ton of other small things from PSA's to children-specific commercials that helped give Saturday morning programming its sugary texture. Here's just a few for all you fellow "Children of the 80's":






Bonus Material: That Annoying Encyclopedia Britannica Commercial

Silat goes HD . . .

Can "Merantau" do for Pencak Silat what "Ong Bak" did for Muay Thai? We'll see.

Punch-Out!

I need to play this game. Fo' reals. It looks like my childhood just got revamped. Awesome.

A letter to my son in regards to heartbreak . . .

Dear Son,

As I sit here in 2009 pondering what your life may be like in the future, a sudden painful realization came over me. That realization is this; there are horrible things in this life that no matter how much I would like to be able to protect you from, you will most likely experience them regardless. As I hope and will work for only good things to be present in your days, it is an impossibility for me to completely shield you from the occasional feelings of heartbreak, loss, and frustration that is bound to happen in any man’s life. The scope of one’s existence is a collection of struggles, triumphs, and, yes, tragedies. It is these highs and lows that help us measure the gravity of our being and determine the sweetness of our victories.

This is, of course, all to say that I’m writing to apologize for the misery you will endure when you finally see Episodes I thru III of the "Star Wars Trilogy". As your father, this was never my intent. I promise as long as you live under my roof I will do my best to only expose you to “A New Hope”, “Empire Strikes Back”, and “Return of the Jedi” and not any of the dreaded prequels or animated disasters that George Lucas created to sully his original brilliant Sci-Fi epic. No, I will try to ensure that, in your eyes, Darth Vader will never be Hayden Christensen, Yoda will always be a puppet, and The Force is only “an energy field created by all living things that surrounds us, penetrates us, and binds the galaxy together” and not anything that includes rubbish like midi-chlorians. Yes, I will try my best to keep your eyes safe from these horrors, but I’m sure I will fail. For one day, one of your future friends will say . . .

“Yo, Samurai Danger Nguyen, check it out, I scored those flicks our folks are always telling us never to watch. Wanna check them out with me?”

Having been raised my son though, you will initially choose the noble path and say “No. I shouldn’t. My parents would really be disappointed if I did.”

However, your brash future friend will retort, “Don’t be a space pussy*, Samurai Danger Nguyen! Watch them with me!”

And being equally your mother’s son**, you will respond with, “Aw, fuck it. Let’s watch them. What my parents won’t know can’t hurt them.”

So though it will break my heart, I am preparing myself that a day may come when you will say to me “Sorry, Dad, I think Star Trek is a far better franchise than Star Wars. Star Wars frankly blows”. And being aware of the myriad of George Lucas misfires that now exists out there, I will drop my head and agree that you are correct in saying so.

But, son, this is what you have to understand. This was not always true. For when I was a child, there were no prequels, there were no bad animated 3D shitstorms, there were no midi-fucking-chlorians. In my day, Star Wars fucking rocked. It rocked hard. It was definitely the hottie while Star Trek was the ugly bestfriend you only bagged when you were really hammered. However . . .

Those days now seem to be sadly a long time ago in a galaxy far far away.

May the force be with you,
I am your father

*By the way, I wrote “space pussy” because that’s how I assume kids in the future will speak . . . because, you know, we’ll all be intergalactic by then.

**Yes, your mother is mos def the fucking rebel in the family.

UPDATE: I just came home from seeing the midnight premiere of J.J. Abram's reboot of "Star Trek". Yep, that settles it. On Friday, May 8th, 2009, Star Trek officially won. Now THAT was how you're supposed to make a friggin' prequel! Soooo good. I will definitely be seeing that one again. Live long and kick ass.

Kick it!

My lady and I are chillin' in our humble B'burg digs. She's maxed out on the couch watching the latest episode of "The Biggest Loser" as I'm furiously typing away at my laptop. This is a typical night for us. She's relaxing after a very busy day of work, I'm now just beginning mine. Abby then looks over to me and says in a very accusing tone, “Your son is kicking me in the bladder again.”

“My son is fucking ninja” is what I’m thinking in response.

“Do you want to feel?” she offers.

“Your bladder?” I respond.

“No, douchetard. Your son. He’s kicking. Do you wanna feel?”

“Absolutely!” I immediately jump over our coffee table and enthusiastically place my hands on her belly. However . . .

“Oh, he stopped.”

This has become the newest game in the Abby/Qui household. Gone are our youthful days of playing beer pong and quarters, now replaced by shuttle runs of me hurdling over furniture in hopes to be able to catch a “baby foot high five” from my lady’s belly. Though far less damaging to my liver than a round of “Presidents and Assholes”, the high I get from this experience is equally euphoric.

“Kick, baby, kick. Please. Pretty please . . .”

However, this time, as I sit there with both my hands softly resting on my lady’s super adorable tummy, my boy in utero has suddenly decided to play possum.

It’s hard to believe that it was just a few months ago when Abby and I were screaming “Holy Shit” at a pregnancy test. Hell, just a year ago, not only were we not expecting, we weren’t even married, and now we’re completely ensconced in it. Here I am, squatting around my wife’s stomach, speaking to her crotch, begging for one little thump with no shame about it at all.

“You know you wanna kick mommy in the stomach. Come on now, little Baby Badass, kick mommy in the stomach. Kick her.”

“Qui,” my wife interjects. “Are you talking to my crotch?”

“I’m talking to the baby,” I quickly correct her.

“The baby is up here. You’re talking to my vagina.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Why are you doing that?”

“For better reception.”

“Get up here!”

“I just want to make sure he can hear me . . .”

“It doesn’t work that way!”

I know I might be acting a bit like a crackhead feeming for his next hit, but ever since I first felt my little boy thump my hand I’ve been craving more. This is how babies get ya, by the way. With every little teasing touch and shot, I’m not just getting addicted to the little guy, I’m falling in fucking love. Baby Badass already gots me by my effin’ left ventricle and I got no complaints about it. Feeling my son boot my hand is fucking mind-blowing. The only thing I can compare it to is the sensation of perhaps winning an award or when I saw my kid on ultrasound for the second time. It fuckin’ rocks. Big time.

By the way, yes, I did just say the “second time” I saw my kid on ultrasound. The first time I saw B.B. wasn’t exactly impressive. He was just 7 weeks along and at 7 weeks babies don’t look much like anything onscreen. No kung fu kicking feet, no wiggle worm wiggliness, no cutesy baby cutesiness. Instead of being baby-shaped, our kid looked more like -

“A mouse? Is that a mouse on screen?”

“No, Qui, that’s our baby.”

“Well, then our baby looks like he’s gonna have a clear predilection for cheese. Cause that looks like a fuckin’ mouse to me.”

“Do you really have to cuss in this moment?”

“A friggin’ mouse?”

“It’s not a mouse.”

“Maybe a gerbil?”

“Our baby is going to hate you if you keep calling him a rodent.”

“Have you been hanging out with the Ninja Turtles again?”

“What?”

“It’s a joke. You know . . . cause their master is Splinter. A giant karate mouse.”

“Are you suggesting I had sex with a cartoon rat?”

“No. I was suggesting a joke.”

“Hon, sometimes you’re a tad too nerdy for your own good.”

“No, you’re right. Our baby is adorable. Absolutely adorable. He’s so small and teeny. And, look, he clearly has your tail . . .”

“You must really like sleeping on the couch . . .”

No, the first time I saw my kid onscreen wasn’t exactly cigar worthy. It was the first time I got laid as a teenager. In my mind, I was thoroughly excited about all the possibilities leading up to the event, but when the actual experience happened, it was awkward, a ton less satisfying than I would’ve hoped, maybe some tears, and in between me and my lady was an Eastern European woman probing my wife’s vagina with what looked like a Mister Microphone recorder. Yep, it was exactly just like the first time getting laid. Exactly.

“I think my son hates me” I tell my wife as I begin poking her belly in hopes to get our son’s attention.

“Your son doesn’t hate you,” my wife reassures. “But if you keep sticking me with your finger like that, I might be the one who ends up kicking you instead.”

As a kid, I used to look at all these old pictures of my parents and seeing my dad on his motorcycle and hanging out with all his friends with beers in hand and a Marlboro Red dangling from his lip. Back in the day, I can tell my pop was like a friggin’ Vietnamese James Dean, a cool slick Rick who’d have no problem beating down a muthafuckah if they stepped to him or my moms. My dad was the epitome of cool.

However . . .

I never knew that guy. Nope, my dad, the dad I know, is a complete dorkasaurus. He gets excited about finding new countryside restaurants to bring us to eat, hides potato chips he’s not allowed to consume on top of the fridge where my 4’11 mom can’t see them, watches National Geographic like it’s his job, and has a pension for pairing running shorts and button downs as his preferred workout ensemble. My dad is very far from any rebel without any cause. He’s my dad. And though I love him, he ain’t exactly the coolest cat in the room.

But the thing is, looking at all those old pics, that’s sorta who my pops once was. He was the shit, the smoothest mover and groover. He was king before he had me, and in those days, comparing those more gangsta pictures of him with the guy I know who usually comes home badly singing Willie Nelson tunes with a deep Asian accent, I am mystified on how someone so veritably cool could morph into someone so dorky. And then . . .

“He kicked!”

“Yes, baby, he kicked.”

“My son is a fucking kicker! He’s the kick champion of the fucking world! I wonder if there’s any Olympic events devoted solely to kicking? Do you think there is? Cause, I tell you what, Baby Badass is gonna be bad-muhfuckin-ass at kicking some shit. Actually, I should buy him some boots. You know, some . . . ‘shit kickers’. Ha, ha! That was lame. I’m so fucking happy right now. MY BOY!!!! My boy is the bomb digs. I hope he likes me.”

Yep, like father like son. I might as well go hide my potato chips now and begin learning all the words to “On the Road Again” cause the death of cool has just begun, hasn't it?

Zombie Training for kids . . .

Is it bad that I think this is a completely appropriate life skill to teach my kid one day? Come on, zombie fighting! That could totally be useful one day.

Muppets 11

I lurve both these movies. Just sayin'.

Free play: FAST FOOD LOVE

Here's another freebie for ya. I wrote this one back in grad school for a weekly "instant writing" event we used to do called Midnight Madness. The idea was we'd get our "cue" at noon on a Friday and then during the next twelve hours, we'd write, find a cast along with a director, and then perform it for a packed theatre at midnight. Since you had to do around thirty of these during the course of a year, it forced you to be both creative and "not precious" about your work. Since the turn around time was so quick, you really had to depend on your collaborators to blow the shit up and not be all in your head when making a show. It was an extremely fun time.

The piece below was one of my favs. Unlike the majority of my Midnight Madness plays which I tossed, this one I kept and even brought back for a Prospect Theatre dark night series in 2005 with director Kerry Whigham. It was inspired by one of Haruki Murakami's short stories. The original cast was Ben Begley and Molly Pacenta with director Midori Nohara. Enjoy!

FAST FOOD LOVE

[Lights come up revealing BEN & MOLLY]

BEN: So she tells me she wants to put the romance back in our relationship.

MOLLY: I want to put the romance back in our relationship.

BEN: Her plan. To relive the beginning. To revert back to when we first met and would stay up all night talking. So she says to me . . .

MOLLY: Ben, let's stay up all night tonight and talk like we did when we first met.

BEN: The thing is . . . what she doesn't realize . . . is the only reason why I stayed up all those nights shooting the proverbial shit was the hope that after I played the "sensitive attentive nice guy card", she would end up dropping the "Hanes her ways" and hop onto my jolly roger for a bit of the all-night slip and slide.

MOLLY: You were so caring back then.

BEN: But now, after almost a half decade of slapping the same ass, I don't feel like we have to get the old "Morning Redeyes" anymore just to do some spontaneous shagging. She feels differently.

MOLLY: Ben, we need to get to know one other again. We’ve grown. We’ve changed. We should reconnect.

BEN: The thing is – neither one of us have either grown or changed just that much. I'm pretty sure there are no secrets in her closet that I haven't somehow snagged out of her at this point. I still get teary-eyed at football films, she still laughs at porn.

MOLLY: Just because we share the same bed doesn't mean you know everything about me.

BEN: So there we were, on a Sunday night, talking, yapping, conversing about pretty much nothing. We attempted to debate on everything from the current political landscape to our simple likes and dislikes of each other's families. The thing is -

MOLLY: I'm bored.

BEN: We already know how we both feel about all these things. In short, it was a very uninteresting night. Until about four in the morning, that is, when she looks at me and says . . .

MOLLY: I’m hungry.

BEN: That's when I remember a story that she didn't know about me. A story that I had yet to tell her. Perhaps, this new insight would re-spark the mysterious side of me to her and finally get her off this whole “rediscovering one another” trip.

MOLLY: What's the story?

BEN: Babe, when I was in high school, I once got so hungry, I broke into my neighborhood's Mom and Pop Bakery and stole every last Kaiser Roll to fill my empty belly. I was young, stupid, and on a mission delivered by my esophagus. I had to get food even if I had to commit a felony.

MOLLY: Oh my god.

BEN: She didn't quite respond the way I was hoping.

MOLLY: We should do that!

BEN: "Do what?" I say.

MOLLY: Steal some grub.

BEN: Um, that wasn't supposed to be a suggestion. Actually, quite far from it. This is an anti-suggestion – a lesson from the past for our edification.

MOLLY: We're starving, our relationship is dying for some new adventure - this would be the perfect bonding experience. We kill two birds with one break-in.

BEN: I don't know. I've never really saw us as the Bonnie & Clyde type.

MOLLY: I'll make it worth your while . . .

BEN: I give in. Whenever my lady says she'll make it worth my while, she don't mess around. We're going to steal some fucking buns. So we hop into her 1998 Black Toyota Corolla, grab some materials for cracking windows, and head out into the city. But there's a small complication to our little escapade.

MOLLY: Um, it’s 5am. Everything’s already open. How do we break into a place when it’s already open?

BEN: I don’t think we can.

MOLLY: Then how are we going to do this?

BEN: I don't know, babe. At this point, I try to talk her out of it. It was a good idea, but I really wasn't up for getting arrested this morning anyhow. But then she says to me -

MOLLY: No, we're fucking doing this.

BEN: So she slightly readjusts our plan to fit the circumstance.

MOLLY: Roll into that McDonald's.

BEN: What?

MOLLY: McDonald's. They have buns.

BEN: They’re McDonald’s.

MOLLY: Pull over!

BEN: Suddenly, my girlfriend, the love of my life, the chica that's so sensitive she gets choked up at Weather Channel music, gets a look on her face and in that moment, I know she's serious.

MOLLY: Open the glove compartment.

BEN: What? Why?

MOLLY: Masks.

BEN: For some odd reason, she had ski masks. But it’s been cold recently. No big deal, right? But it isn't until we get out of the car and she pops open her trunk when I realize maybe there were some secrets I had yet attained from her. Inside that gray carpeted trunk laid out a very impressive display of -

MOLLY: Gats. You know how to shoot a gun, right? Take your pick. We got two 12 gauge shotguns, one .357, a .44 Magnum, which probably isn't very you, and, my baby, a fully automatic Ak-47 with a matching shoulder strap.

BEN: I don't ask. I just put on the mask, pick up what looks like a pistol from a James Bond flick, and follow her lead.

MOLLY: When we get in there, we can't use our real names. We'll go by aliases. You're Mike. I'm Lew.

BEN: Hon, we're just getting buns, correct? I mean, we're not actually planning on -

MOLLY: Let me do all the talking, sweetie. You tend to mumble. And it’s no fun being badass if you have to repeat yourself.

BEN: So there we were, looking like extras from a Tom Clancy movie, storming through the doors. And my sweet-heart yells out -

MOLLY: All you motherfuckers hit the floor before I drill you with so much led it'll look like the Tin-man just ejaculated all over this motherfuckin’ place.

BEN: Everyone obeyed quite quickly. And then, my baby strolls up to the counter, sticks the tip of her gun against the manager's forehead and calmly asks . . .

MOLLY: Who's my bitch?

BEN: And he responds, quite promptly with, "I'm your bitch".

MOLLY: Well, bitch, I want thirty cheeseburgers. Now.

BEN: "Cheeseburgers?" he repeats.

MOLLY: Yes, cheeseburgers. And if you don't get me those cheeseburgers, you’re going to be walking around with pound of shrapnel permanently lodged into your scrotum.

BEN: What's funny about this moment isn't the fact that my sweetie has suddenly transformed herself into a Quentin Tarantino character or that we're actually standing in the middle of McDonald's with ski-masks, artillery, and still sporting our pajamas, BUT the fact that though this manager was quite clearly getting his manhood threatened, the ridiculous nature of my lover's request made him try to reason with her by offering "money", instead of the food.

MOLLY: I don't want your fucking money. I want your goddamn cheeseburgers. You hear me, bitch, I'm not some rank amateur out to score you some insurance money. I'm getting your products, I'm screwing up your inventory books, and you better be light with the fucking onions. It's too early in the morning to have onion breath.

BEN: "But we don't have any burgers right now. We don't serve lunch until ten-thirty," responds the manager.

MOLLY: Well, you better find a way to get me my cheeseburgers or -

BEN: She fires a warning shot through the crotch of a plastic Ronald McDonald's replica.

MOLLY: So what do ya say, bitch?

BEN: He doesn't say shit. Instead, the staff begins quickly making cheeseburgers.

MOLLY: That's what I'm talking about!

BEN: By 8am, my lady and I are back in our living room, fast food trash everywhere, and making love on our futon.

MOLLY: Who says fast food is bad for you?

BEN: So she got what she wanted. We shared a moment together, learned that there were some secrets we had yet attained, and I ended up getting laid afterall.

MOLLY: I love you, baby.

BEN: But even more importantly than that, now I know whenever she asks . . .

MOLLY: Who's my bitch?

BEN: I knows to say "Me".

MOLLY: Yeah, that's right.

[BEN and MOLLY kiss. Lights fade]

End of Play

Still Free to Wear Sunscreen

Holy crap, has it really been ten years since I graduated . . . from college?
Baz Luhrmann's Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen) (1999)

This song strangely packed a mighty punch while I was finishing up my senior year at LaTech. With the opening lyrics directly addressing the graduating "Class of 99", it felt instantaneously nostalgic even at its very first listen. A perfect song at the perfect moment (Even if it was a bit cheesy).

Remembering the 1986 Sears Wish Book Catalog

Holy crap, while surfing around the net, I found that someone actually went through and scanned every single page out of the 1986 Sears Christmas Catalog. I’m not sure that Sears even prints catalogs anymore, but in those days, these little brochures were like virtual toy porn to my adolescent eyes. From the latest Transformers to science kits to bad 80’s outfits, it seemed to have everything a kid could ever desire. I remember clipping out the pages of toys I’d desperately lusted after and strategically placing them about the house as a way to clue my parents into what I wanted each holiday season. Perhaps if they saw enough shots of Laser Tag or Jetfire (A Transformer that bore a striking resemblance to Rick Hunter’s veritech fighter from Robotech), they’d might end up having a conversation that would sound a lot like this:

Mom: Look, honey, a random page from the Sears Wish Book Christmas Catalog just lying here next to our bed. How strange!
Dad: What is on it?
Mom: A Jetfire Transformer and a Laser Tag Mulitplayer Battle System.
Dad: How cool! Those toys are great. How much do they cost?
Mom: Far too much for our immigrant asses to afford . . .
Dad: But our son, Qui, is such a good boy.
Mom: He is.
Dad: He is very deserving of such expensive and extravagant toys.
Mom: Very true. Maybe I can spend a few extra hours at the Diner to get him that Transformer.
Dad: And maybe I can pick up yet a fourth job to buy him that Laser Tag Multiplayer Battle System. Afterall, he is the best son a father could have!
Mom: This will be the best Christmas ever.
Dad: It will.

Clearly, they never had that conversation. Not even remotely. In 1986, my parents got me a model plane. No jet. No fire. No lasers that can tag. Just a plane that was also a model (Which I ended up like quite a bit).

So thank you, random Sears catalog scanner guy, for reminding me about all the shit I never got. There were some seriously fond memories there.

To see them, go here!