I’ve already given you a Flashback Friday entry on a Canadian import that was just so very, very wrong. Now it’s time to do one on a Canadian import that was VERY right.

If there was one thing that I think pushed me the most in my crusade for cable television when I was little, it had to be You Can’t Do That On Television. All the cool kids on my block were always talking about this show. We even would sometimes “play” YCDTOTV (yeah, I don’t really know how to explain this one other than to say this involved sitting in our friends’ dad’s fishing boat, playing different characters from the show [I was always “Moose”] and shooting each other with a water hose…these were far simpler times, eh?).

Needless to say, my crusade was successful (probably more so because my dad wanted the Discovery Channel, but I like to think I was just that convincing a debater, even at the young age of 10). Those daily visits to the Childrens Television Sausage Factory were a bit like ABC Afterschool Special by way of Monty Python’s Flying Circus. Each show focused on a topic like divorce or personal hygiene in a “very special” way that only a bunch of Canadian kids hanging out in school lockers, Blip’s Arkaid, or Barth’s Burgers could possibly do. It was simple, silly fun and, other than a sliming or watering (or the occasional pie to the face), no one ever was hurt…just left in need of a shower.

Some of you may also be aware that before she sought musical retribution (against, apparently, Dave Coulier, of all people 😮 ) on a dance through the desert in black leather pants, Alanis Morissette was on YCDTOTV. I don’t remember her, but A) I think I had stopped watching by the time she became a cast member, and B) I think she was only on five or six episodes.

What brought this show to my mind this week was actually some sad news that I read at my favorite Canadian correspondent’s blog. Les Lye, who played every single adult male role on YCDTOTV throughout its entire run, passed away at the age of 84 on July 22. Whether as Christine McGlade’s constant foil, Ross, or Barth, the purveyor of the scariest burgers that side of the Canada/U.S. border, Les was a wonderful comedian and a major player in this awesome part of my childhood memories.

Now, if you check out the official YCDTOTV site, they discuss some of the spinoffs, including You Can’t Do That In Comics. I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up, but I used to save these strips every month from our cable guide. I’m willing to bet that I still have most, if not all of them, rare though they might be. I even think I know exactly where at my parents’ house they might be located. Guess I’m going to have to take a closer look next time I go home…

So, keep looking up whenever you find yourself muttering the dread phrase, “I don’t know,” stay clear of the borscht at Barth’s, and enjoy this, the mother of all slimings!

I’m a gimmicky kind of wolf sometimes. Probably not as much as I used to be, since age seems to bring with it an ever increasing shadow of surliness into my life. I think I’m going to be one of the most curmudgeonly old people in the history of oldness.

As a young pup, though, I loved gimmicks. So a pump-action water cannon with about a 2-liter-sized reserve tank? Oh, you betcha I was on board for that! This was most assuredly the next generation in summertime water gun warfare. I knew it was something I needed to have if I was going to be the Big Wolf in our annual school picnic water battle. So I saved my allowance for a couple of weeks so I could buy the Super Soaker 100, which at about $30 was a rather pricey gimmick at the time.

This was one of the most awesome piles of crackable plastic I’ve ever owned. And, yes, it did crack. And leak. I remember doing routine repairs on my Super Soaker 100 in preparation for big water battles. I had to if I wanted it to work properly. And model glue goes a long way indeed in doing up your plastic artillery. I imagine, though, that were I not the resourceful wolf that I always have been, I would have been sorely disappointed with this purchase.

This gun also taught me a very valuable if somewhat creepy lesson about human nature.

As I already mentioned, each year we would have a “School’s Almost Out” all-day picnic, which included our traditional water battle. This particular year I was already a marked wolf. Everyone knew from the previous year that I was packing a Super Soaker, which I had wielded with gleeful impunity and frightening precision (I was very proud of the fact that I could blast you square in the face if I had to, although I preferred to aim for lower areas, like the neck or armpit).

That year I ended up walking away a bit more scathed than I had the previous year. However, the one encounter that outshines all others in utter strangeness and creepiness came from an underclassman about whom I knew nothing beyond his name. As I was shooting at him in response to the dousing he’d just given me with a liter bottle, he charged at me like a Pamplona bull. His intent was to grab the gun for himself. He nearly succeeded until my somewhat feral response, which was to grab a clawful of whatever I could reach on him before he got away.

Remove your mind from the gutter, please. I ended up with a handful of his shirt…and pieces of his back skin embedded under my nails. You are permitted to shudder now. Yes, I marked him with my at the time always sharp and always painted black nails. He stopped, lifted the back of his shirt, where I saw three welted stripes that were, in some places, dribbling tiny rivulets of blood.

I was quite horrified at what I had just done, until I realized that he was somehow pleased by this. Even as I apologized, he stood there with the most discomfiting grin I think I’ve ever seen. I found out later that he showed those scratches to everyone he could, each time explaining happily that he’d gotten them from the Junior girl with the water cannon. He also would say increasingly sadomasochistic comments to me each time he saw me the rest of the day about how he’d been bad and perhaps I needed to deal with him more harshly.

Ew.

Who knew a Super Soaker would introduce me to the potential I could have had as a dominatrix?

I’m letting go of my previously planned Flashback for today, but I don’t really have much else to say right now. His life was one of strangeness and sadness, and I don’t think anything else need be said for the moment. Everything else aside, for my generation Michael Jackson was and shall always be the King of Pop. And who can deny the utter joy of watching that glorious video for “Thriller”? He was just hitting his stride at this point. Plus, he roped in Vincent Price to perform one of the greatest moments ever in rap history.

No embedding allowed, but here is the link for the full “Thriller” video on YouTube. Pop the tab on a can of Pepsi and enjoy.

Want to know what my childhood smelled like? Wax and water color and poster paint. Oh my!

Of all the childhood flotsam that crowds my memories, this is one of the bright standouts. That beautiful school bus yellow plastic spinning caddy, yet another splash of fuel to feed my hyper-organizational fire. This is the favored toy of someone destined to one day strike fear in the hearts of her coworkers because they know that if they move ONE THING on her desk, she will notice (hmm, maybe this is why people are scared of me here…).

There was something so very comforting about knowing that every single piece of the Caddy had its very own place: snug little slots for the crayons (which I always rearranged into proper “Roy G Biv” order and, yes, with the Crayola label facing outward, thank you very much) and magic markers, gopher holes for the poster paints, elongated slot for the water color tray, center slot for your brushes, and little troughs on each side for your paint water.

Beyond feeding my junior OCD, however, was the fact that I wanted more than anything to be artistic when I was little. It’s in my blood, passed on to me through a paternal lineage of artists. Everyone on my dad’s side of the family is so enviably artistic. Developing some pretty decent PhotoShop skillz has helped me blend in a bit better, but when left with nothing but paper and drawing materials, I’m afraid even my best offerings fall a bit short of the mark. Somehow the artistic gene mutated when it reached me and my palette became words rather than paints.

Didn’t matter though. I still loved my Crayola Caddy. I could sit for hours doodling with what was there. Reams and reams of paper filled with fantastically ill-shaped animals and landscapes and dreams. Rainbow swirls like Starbuck’s Eye of Jupiter and Rothko blocks of color piled high with Pollock splashes. I’d paint until my water colors were nothing more than tiny little rings rimming the white underbelly of the tray and the lids of my poster paints had dried and flaked from being open for so long.

I’m actually quite stunned that Crayola no longer makes the Crayola Caddy. I mean, I get that we’re an increasingly digital world, but come on! Kids must still enjoy coloring and painting, don’t they? Crayola does offer something called a “Telescoping Crayon Tower.” That’s just not the same though. Where are the paints? The markers? The awesome center section to hold all your paintbrushes and left-handed scissors that your friends won’t ever be able to use? Where’s the fun?

At Chuck E. Cheese you can act like a kid,
You can have more fun then you ever did!
You can wiggle, you can giggle, you can flip your lid!
Chuck E. Cheese’s, where a kid can be a kid!

Look at that punim! This is the face that launches a thousand memories for me. Be honest: Who among my age group didn’t celebrate at least one birthday with The Big C and his Pizza Time Players? (American responses only, please 😉 )

It used to be that the childhood birthday party spot was McDonald’s, with its Happy Meals and Playland and silly characters like Grimace or Mayor McCheese (tangent: I would so eat my own head if I was a member of the McCheese clan). But then Chuck rolled into town, with his flashy arcade, cardboard-flavored pizzas, and animatronic stage shows. How could a purple glob and a scary clown ever compete with all that?

To be fair, if you aren’t a child, this might qualify as one of the modern circles of hell. Constant electronic video game noises, seizure-inducing light displays everywhere, screaming children, mediocre food…oh yeah. Dante would have definitely considered this a suitable punishment for someone.

Still, there was something so very magical about this place when I was 7 years old. This was the first non-Disney place where I ever saw animatronics up-close, and I remember being mesmerized by how they moved, how they blinked, how they talked (apparently, I was too young to notice the accompanying whir of servos each time they moved).

The last time I ever went to Chuck E. Cheese’s for myself was, strangely enough, my Junior year of high school. We and the Seniors decided that we wanted to go for our Christmas party (of course we didn’t call it a holiday party; we were fundamentalists, dammit!). So the last day of school before our Christmas break, we loaded up into a bus and headed off. We were practically the only ones there minus a handful of little toddlers and their moms.

Still, the games were all running, the pitchers of Coke were coming fast and furious, and we were just happy to be away from school. The one disappointment was that the animatronic characters weren’t on. I guess they didn’t think we were a big enough crowd to warrant the expenditure of electricity it took to fire up the Pizza Time Players.

That was okay with me, though. I’m a big mechanical nerd. I love to take things apart and see how they work. So while everyone else was either off in the arcade or scarfing down pizza, I climbed up onto the stage to check out the how of it all. Minus a few apathetic glances from the staff, no one even noticed…or so I thought. So I happily poked and prodded at Chuck and his band for a little while before walking back to the front of the stage.

Now picture it, if you will: I’m standing on the stage, right in front of Chuck E. Cheese. In his “off” position, his paws are at his sides. Right near the stage is the table where some of my friends are sitting, along with our homeroom teacher, who is chaperoning us. I start telling them about how cool all the animatronic characters look up close. Suddenly, the stage flickers to life. The lights blink on, the soundtrack fires up, and all those dull, silent animatronics spring into action. Next thing I know, Chuck’s paw is heading where no mouse paw has gone before. Or since.

Yes. I was goosed by Chuck E. Cheese.

Needless to say, I side-stepped as quickly as I could to avoid any further animated sexual advances from Mr. Cheese and jumped down from the stage. I couldn’t see any staff, but I have no doubt that there was laughter at my expense. I sure know there was from my classmates…and my homeroom teacher.

To be honest, I laughed, too. Hell, I still laugh at that memory. How many people can honestly say they’ve been goosed by a rodent? I think the only other memory of CEC that competes is when we went for my little cousin’s birthday. Someone dressed in a Chuck costume came out to greet all the kids…and then there was a “wardrobe malfunction” and his foot fell off. Now tell me that’s not more traumatic than a little goose.

Surprisingly enough, Chuck E. Cheese is still letting kids be kids. He has, of course, undergone an update or three since I was little (the photo with this post is of the Chuck I remember [but, no, this is not the Chuck who copped a feel]). And sadly, violence has found its way into Chuck’s world, such as several incidents in Pennsylvania. It’s kind of pathetic when adults choose to act in these ways in a place meant to bring joy to children.

BUT…if you’d like to reminisce about the “old skool” Chuck and all his friends, head over to ShowBizPizza.com. ShowBiz used to be competition, but then CEC ended up taking over Showbiz and all the characters joined forces. Or maybe I

Here I sit, in the first week of June in the D.C. metropolitan area, staring out my office window at the murky gray mottle of sky that’s been dribbling down in spurts and deluges for the past two days. It hasn’t gotten above the mid-60s most of the week, and to top it all off, I’m fighting a low-grade cold with sandpapery throat and sniffles. And while summer is technically still slightly more than 2 weeks away, we all know that Memorial Day marks the unofficial start of what should be summer. Too bad no one informed Mother Nature of this so that she could switch to the summer playlist on her iClimate.

What better way, then, to combat these meteorological blues and blahs then to tap into one of the happiest of my childhood summertime memories: Behold, the Mickey Mouse ice cream bar. Not only is this an integral piece to my summertime puzzle, it’s as representative to me of summer vacations to North Carolina as Cheerwine is.

I don’t know why, but we only ever got these ice cream bars when we went to North Carolina. Perhaps my parents wanted them to remain a treat associated with visiting my grandparents. Whatever the reason, this gleeful little Mickey face has become synonymous in my mind with everything else wonderful from those trips to North Carolina: listening to my grandfather’s scanners chatter away like white noise; watching him work in his shed on whatever his latest hobby was, whether it was building grandfather clocks or ship models; the lingering smell of fresh laundry that burbled up from the drain hose in the backyard whenever my grandmother would wash clothes; helping her hang sheets out to dry in the steady breeze coming off the waterway; fishing with my uncle on my grandparents’ pier for so long that I looked like a little cooked lobster by the time we came back inside.

I can still remember the soft-serve consistency of the ice cream and how quickly it melted in the sultry summer air. I remember sticky little hands held up like stars at twilight, showing that I had finished my ice cream and was now in desperate need of a napkin.

I’d love one of these Mickey bars right now. Even more, I’d love to be back in those memories, if only just for a moment

I can only hope that everyone around my age was lucky enough to experience the shear joy of shmooshing down into a bean bag chair when they were wee ones.

I adored my bean bag chair. It was cream and yellow-striped vinyl and emblazoned with a big graphic of Dopey from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. I’m not really sure what message my parents were trying to pass along to me at the impressionable age of 3 with that particular choice…do you? 😉

My greatest memory of my Dopey bean bag chair is also perhaps one of the earliest memories that I can still pull up with scary clarity. It’s also the memory of one of my first really stupid moments. See, I was quite the curious pup, always poking around where I shouldn’t have been. My dad always tells me the story of how, not long after I first started walking, I kept going over and opening the drawer to one of the end tables in the living room to poke around. He and my mom would smack my hands away and close the drawer, but not long after I’d be back in that drawer. I was also a quick learner and apparently I had deduced that if I heard my parents coming down the hall, I needed to shut the drawer before they caught me. Too bad I wasn’t clever enough to also deduce that I should move my fingers out of the way before I slammed the drawer shut. D’oh! Glad I don’t remember that moment.

Back to the Dopey bean bag chair. It didn’t take me long to discover the zippers. There was one on the vinyl shell and another on the interior fabric bag that kept all the little Styrofoam beans together. I remember unzipping both and discovering the beans. I also remember then proceeding to gather up some of the beans and stick them into my ear.

Yeah, maybe giving me a Dopey bean bag chair was a prophetic moment on my parents’ part. Or maybe I’ve just been a big dumb ass for a really long time.

The weird thing is that I can remember doing this. I can remember watching my dad, who was standing in my room’s doorway but facing my mom and talking to her, which meant that he only had a peripheral idea of what I was doing. I remember watching his profile as he talked, while I sat busily sticking Styrofoam pellets into my ear.

Too bad I can’t remember exactly why I decided this would be a good idea. Needless to say, when my dad finally did look into my room, he was less than thrilled with what he saw. I also remember my mom holding my head to one side while my dad looked into my ear with a flashlight. I had stuffed so many beans into my ear that I ended up having to go to the doctor to have my ear canal washed out. At least I didn’t stick them in both ears.

My parents let me keep my Dopey bean bag chair. I have a vague memory of silver duct tape being added to the zipper though. I had that chair for years after that, well into my fat phase when I’m sure I smashed all those beans flat. Sadly, however, my final memory of this chair was of it resting on top of the trash cans in our back yard, waiting to be dragged out front for the Monday morning trash pickup.

Ah well. I’m sure somewhere in the extensive slide collection at my parents’ house there is a photo of me sitting in my Dopey chair. Should I ever get around to scanning my parents’ slides, I will be sure to post said photo here. No, the photo won’t be of me with beans stuck in my ear…

I do believe this won’t be the only visit that our little blue friends make here at Flashback Friday. I was quite the Smurfy child, if I do say so myself. This inaugural appearance, however, is all about 1981’s The Smurfs All Star Show.

As cheesy as this confession is, this was the only record I ever owned. I was a bit of a sheltered little pup and wasn’t allowed much exposure to popular music until I was on the cusp of teendom. So while all my friends were putting together lovely LP collections that featured Michael Jackson, Sheena Easton, Bon Jovi, Joan Jett, and so forth…all I had were the Smurfs. (Of course, this just meant that I never had to replace my LPs with cassettes…no, no, all I had to do was replace my cassettes with CDs, haha!)

I loved this record. I remember wanting it so desperately that I did everything short of drool whenever I saw the television commercial. I also remember seeing it at the local Safeway and watching as my wonderful father

As someone who has formed several unique and cherished friendships with some of Canada’s loveliest representatives, it saddens me today to have to tell you all that not all that comes from the Great White North is wonderful. I offer as my only exhibit (and perhaps the only exhibit I will need): Orbitz.

Long before it became synonymous with online travel planning, Orbitz was a truly heinous “texturally enhanced” drink idea introduced to North America by Vancouver’s Clearly Canadian beverage company. What does “texturally enhanced” mean? It means that there were chewy little bits of flavor-freaky gel balls suspended in clear liquid that was only a shade or two less syrupy than drinking Karo syrup.

Yes, I do believe that Orbitz was the only drink in history with balls. You’d have to have balls to put this out as a serious idea. And, yes, the bottles pictured are from my very own collection. Sadly, I am such a hoarder that I saved unopened bottles of this stuff. I made a special trip, in fact, to buy these bottles after drinking half a bottle of the vanilla orange flavor (seen on the far left of this photo). Why? Because A) I knew immediately that this drink was not going to make it beyond a hopefully very-short-lived novelty period; and B) I doubted it would ever make it up to the D.C. area. These were purchased in the great taste-testing hot bed of North Carolina. And, no, I never did see them in my neck of the woods.

And for the record, not only did I endure a half bottle of the liquid, I also consumed quite a few of the gel spheres. Yes, I swallowed. I even chewed, which turned out to be a not so great idea. The spheres had the taste and consistency of chewing on a vitamin C-flavored phlegm ball. I will say this though: Orbitz was one of the first products that I can remember tapping into the marketing potential of the Internet. Check the silver lids: They’re imprinted with the drink’s Web site, the now usurped www.orbitz.com.

True, this isn’t that far of a flashback today: I found Orbitz in July of 1997, not long after it was introduced to the American market. I never saw it again after that crazy, syrupy summer. But I’m proud to say that I have tangible evidence that even Canadians make bad decisions every now and again. We could learn a lesson from them, however, in how to let go of a bad idea before it gets out of hand. Too bad “W” wasn’t a Canadian product…