Living in Ameri-da

A few years ago (okay - let's be real - it was over twenty), there was this mini-series called AmeriKa.  I don't think I watched more than ten minutes of it (because I was way more into Family Ties at the time), but I believe the gist of the story was that the Soviets took over the U.S.  (That right there dates me, as even in my youth, I do distinctly remember the Cold War, and it's hard for me to believe that a good portion of twenty-somethings learned about it only in their history books.  I digress.)

So yeah, even though I didn't actually watch it, I do remember the mini series existed, probably because of its clever name.  I also think it was a pretty big deal at the time because a Soviet invasion was a national fear (even if not a very realistic one) and also because it was fodder for a Saturday Night Live sketch called "AmeriDa," about the U.S. being taken over by our Northern neighbors (because nothing prompts us to shake in our boots more than the thought of being forced to drown our french fries in vinegar and finish every question with an "eh?").

Growing up in the Detroit 'burbs, though, we had some inkling of what Canadian life was like, at least for our friends in Ontario.  For one thing, in Michigan, Canadian and U.S. coins are basically interchangeable.  When you paid for your Big Mac with American dollars, you were almost as likely to find yourself with a quarter stamped with a buck (deer), a dime featuring a sailboat, and a penny imprinted with a bunch of maple leaves as you were to find Washington, Roosevelt, and Lincoln.  The coins were the same color, same shape, and nearly the same weight (though not quite).  McDonald's had no qualms about passing off this Canadian change as its American counterpart. (My mother, however, tried to factor in the exchange rate, and sent me to the Spencer Elementary School cupcake sale with a Canadian quarter and two pennies to purchase a twenty-five cent cupcake.)


For a hot summer day, a church group or swimming club would plan an all day outing to Boblo Island, an amusement park on an island in the Detroit River, inside the Canadian border.  We'd take a ferry over there and spend hours on the "Wild Mouse" and stuffing our faces.  It would never compete with Cedar Point, but it got the job done in a pinch.  And the ferry ride was sort of cool.  Though I rarely see music videos anymore, I happened to catch the video for Uncle Kracker's "Smile," while awaiting my fate in the dentist chair.  Someone in the video was wearing a Boblo t-shirt.  It made me a little sad - Boblo closed permanently in the early nineties.

Another big outing for my family was a trip to Toronto - to the science museum, in particular (and later, when I didn't know any better, the Hard Rock Cafe).  My dad, a chemical engineer, is what made the science museum exciting.  His enthusiasm for every exhibit kept us enthralled, and he even bought me a souvenir glass vessel filled with blue liquid that would rise when you held it in your palm.  I tried to take it to show and tell, but it broke on the way to school.  Any time he took a business trip to Toronto after that, I would beg him to get me another one, but it wasn't exactly on his schedule.  When we finally made it to the science museum again years later, I was out of luck.  They stopped making the souvie of all souvies - because the fun rising liquid contained mercury.

I guess what I'm saying is that I appreciate my childhood introduction to Canadian culture.  I enjoy hearing the Canadian anthem at select hockey games.  I think it's cool that Windsor, Ontario, is geographically south of Detroit (perhaps like the Journey song).  I love that Tim Horton's has expanded to U.S. soil.

But I still prefer a Krispy Kreme.

Stuck on You

I recently endured the painstaking process of organizing the contents of my desk drawers.  You can have a junk drawer anywhere, I suppose, but the general office junk drawer always seems to be the worst - as well as the most random.  Extra buttons, empty Pez dispensers, cap-less pens, assorted rubber bands and orphan paper clips and safety pins- these are the items that find themselves swimming around in a sea of disorganization.  You can't really throw them away, but you're never sure what to do with them either. 

There was one other item lurking in the mess:  a still shrink-wrapped sheet of Peanuts St. Patrick's Day stickers, no doubt purchased years ago with the intention of either sending out St. Patrick's Day cards (never happened) or distributing to the cheeks of strangers at an Irish pub on the beloved holiday (for you singles, a very effective way of meeting new friends ...).

I always smile when I see stickers.  Once in awhile, there is a sticker on my daughter's "report card" from daycare, and those are the reports that I always save.  There is something special about those little sticky pictures.

Chances are, I would have always had a fondness for stickers, but I can't help but think it has something to do with my impressive sticker collection in the early 80's.  What an awesome fad!  I still remember my first package of stickers:  a collection of frogs in various poses with bees, butterflies, and flowers.  They turned out to be valuable in the trading market:  I think I managed to trade a few of them for some of the circle scratch n' sniffs (which were almost as valuable as the puffy stickers).  I was a rookie then, though.  Happy to acquire my new treasures, I forgot about the fundamental rule of sticker collecting - always save a full sheet for yourself.  I never again saw the frog with the butterfly, even though I once had four of them.

As the Peanuts evidence shows, I am still drawn to stickers.  I still get that fluttery feeling when I walk into a stationery shop and see the rotating rack of sticker sheets at the end of an aisle, or better yet, spools of stickers displayed like ribbons, for sale by the sticker.  Those were the really sought-after ones.

I haven't seen my sticker books in ages, but like a childhood friend, they are not forgotten.  I think I'll spend some quality time in my parents' basement the next time I'm there ...       

Better With Age - Round 1

Once in awhile, a teen t.v. or movie star comes along who allows a younger sibling to ride his or her coattails. And really, why shouldn't the sibling take advantage? It's a little trick called exposure, and it's best to strike while the iron is hot. How does one explain the casting of Candace Cameron in the once wildly popular "Full House?" Kirk Cameron, of course. He was the cover boy of 16 Magazine for a solid six months, after all. And Andrew Shue? Are you kidding me? Stunt casting on Melrose, clearly following in the footsteps of "Adventures in Babysitting" extraordinaire, Elisabeth Shue.


And once upon a time, there was a little show called “Family Ties,” a show so awesome that I taped every episode, whether it was a brand spanking new story on NBC or a rerun on Channel 11 in St. Louis. (As my fast forwarding skills left something to be desired, I still remember the jingle, “Channel 11, the one to watch … the one to WATCH!”) Anyway, my point is that arguably the second most popular character (next to Alex P. Keaton, of course) was Mallory Keaton, played by Justine Bateman. And Justine had a brother breaking into the biz, one Jason Bateman.

Does anyone remember Jason Bateman in “Valerie/Valerie’s Family/The Hogan Family?” I even watched all of the iterations of that show, and I honestly can’t recall a single thing about Jason Bateman’s character except for the fact that he had twin younger brothers, and I thought the brainy one, Mark, was dreamy. It was just your standard laugh track sitcom. A few funny moments, but nothing – NOTHING even approaching the genius of “Family Ties” in its heyday. Even less remarkable was Jason’s turn in the ridiculous sequel to “Teen Wolf,” which his sister’s t.v. brother Michael J. Fox evidently deemed too beneath him to fall for again. Actually, I can’t really speak to Jason’s performance in that film because even at my pre-pubescent age, I could smell a Razzie-award caliber film a mile away.

But what has happened to Jason Bateman since then? While his sister, after a brief stint on the ill-fated “Men Behaving Badly,” seems to appear only in “Family Ties” reunions and “Where are they now?” shows, Jason is en fuego. I am not exaggerating when I say I LOVE him. I will go see a movie solely because Jason is in it. His performance in “The Sweetest Thing” was probably the funniest I saw in the past decade. As great as Ellen Page was, he is half of the reason I watch “Juno” over and over again on HBO. Heck, he was even a subtle great comedic break in a bit role in “The Break-Up.” All while looking mostly the same as he did back in the eighties, with just a little age to round him out.

So here’s to you, Jason Bateman. Unquestionably better with age.

The Art of Communication

Okay, I admit it.   I am one of those annoying people chronically tethered to an iPhone.  I am constantly checking my inbox for new messages, preferably of the personal variety.  But I'll take anything, really.  While I have always had the brand of impatience that makes me a natural victim of PDA dependence, I suspect that my current geographic location (nowheresville) and my "working from home" arrangement exacerbate the situtation.  Without the iPhone, I'd feel hopelessly out of touch.

On the flip side, my addiction to checking my snail mail is a thing of the past.  Aside from the holiday season or the few weeks following some baby shower or other gift giving event, there's nothing to look forward to there.  Bills and catalogues.  That's it.  What's the rush?  A semi-weekly visit does just fine.

Sometimes, when I sit down and think about it, this makes me a little sad.  Emails are fine and all, but they can't beat a bona fide letter, on beautiful stationery (or even a plain sheet of notebook paper), neatly packaged in a hand-addressed envelope.  I had the great fortune of beginning college at a time when people still wrote letters - when the Internet was only for techies and long distance phone calls were too steep for a student budget.  I went to my little Harrison Hall mailbox full of hope:  maybe this would be the day someone would be thinking of me ...

And often people did.  I once compiled all of my letters from my freshman year.  They filled two shoeboxes.  The stack dwindled during my sophomore year:  half a shoebox.  By senior year, it was no more than a handful.  And now, it is none.  Not a single non-Holiday card, non-invitation, non-thank you letter personal piece of mail.  I haven't gotten one in years.

I'm guilty of it too.  I can make my thoughts known in a matter of nanoseconds.  Why would I prolong them for a week and 44 cents?

Because they're more special that way, that's why.  I have a whole drawer full of cards and stationery.  Stamps and seals that are looking for an adventure.  So I guess that's my official New Year's resolution, two weeks in.  A hand written letter at least once a month.

I can do it.  And so can you. 

Answer to Easter Basket Poll

I asked which group's cassette appeared in Amanda's brother Jack's Easter Basket, causing her to turn green with envy?

The answer is Men at Work. 

Thanks for voting!

I Didn't Keep A Good Diary Either

You'd think that when January 1 rolled around, I'd be going crazy with the blog posts, fueled by the promise of New Year's resolutions.  That's not what happened, of course.  Inspiration is feast or famine.  Some days, I can't sleep because of all of the ideas frantically swimming around in my brain.  On other days, the well is dry.  January began with a string of the latter.

I guess I should not be surprised.  It is all a recurring pattern.  Before the days of blogging, Facebooking, and Twittering, we had the old-fashioned outlet of keeping a diary.  Movies, shows, and books would have us believe that keeping a diary is/was a common practice, probably because it almost always serves as a convenient plot device.  (Last week's episode of "Ugly Betty," for example, featured Betty's diary as evidence that she has felt passion (most notably for the Hanson brothers (sadly, I think she meant the band, not the awesome hockey thugs made famous in the cult classic "Slapshot")).)  But is that really life?

It's not that I didn't try to keep a diary.  I distinctly recall a Strawberry Shortcake diary with a gold colored latch on it.  And later, a Ramona Quimby diary that even tried to help me with prompts like "It made me mad when ..."  I'm pretty sure the Strawberry Shortcake model's only action was in opening and shutting the latch, like the nervous habit of clicking a ball point pen with no intention of using it to actually write.  Ramona Quimby had about five entries but was retired with little fanfare, like the poor Trapper Keeper with the picture of the hot air balloon that lived in the bottom of my desk drawer for 95% of my sixth grade school year.

I guess that's why some people save things like school papers and bulletins and playbills and movie stubs.  That's why we listen to 80's on 8 on Sirius radio.  Because we don't all have diaries to jog our memories when we want to pay a little visit to the way we used to be.  And those are the next best things ...          

What's in a Rating?

It's hard to believe that there was once a time when it mattered what rating a movie received.  But it did.  It mattered in 1985.  With my mom busy shopping, I would browse the video department of the Dierberg's grocery store in Chesterfield, Missouri searching for the next feature for our spanking new VCR.  Time after time, I would come across a movie called "Angel" with the tagline:  "High School Honor Student by Day.  Hollywood Hooker by Night."  (I swear I remembered this tagline word for word and only looked it up on imdb.com to verify.)  I'm not even sure I knew what a hooker was, but that video cover always intrigued me.  Sadly, it would never find its way into our VCR, having been slapped with a big fat "R" rating.  To this day, I have not seen "Angel."  Perhaps I should just to see what I was missing out on, but I have a sneaking suspicion I would be bored.  It no longer has the appeal it once did, probably because I can go see an "R" rated movie any 'ole time I want.  In fact, these days, I rarely even notice what a movie is rated.

I do, however, remember my first real rated "R" movie, and I remember exactly where I saw it:  at a slumber party at Amy M.'s house for her tenth birthday.  The movie was "Purple Rain."  I had no idea what was in store when my mom dropped me off at the apartment Amy shared with her mom.  This was a video pick that had been sanctioned by Amy's mom, evidently with no consideration for other people's parenting styles.  I could not believe my luck.  We were talking about Prince.  Prince!

In retrospect, as an amateur film critic, I could have a field day with this tale about a brooding petite rock star and all of his daddy issues.  But I won't.  Because what stays with me is the excitement, the thrill, of being able to watch this garbage - the garbage that I would never have dreamed of asking my mom to bring home.