Kicking nostalgia in the nose hole

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I’ve found myself drifting back towards playing the video games of yesteryear. I’m not speaking of those games that came out on the original Xbox that still had full 3D environments and 8 trillion bytes per eye blink, I’m talking about your original NES games, and early 90’s PC games. As I was sitting on the couch after one rousing session, rubbing my soon-to-be calloused thumbs, I realized that I was only playing these for one reason.

I wanted to finally kick their ass.

I wasn’t the greatest gamer as a kid. I struggled through every game I ever picked up, and I recall vividly that Kirby’s adventure for NES was the first game I ever beat. And when I say I beat it, I really mean that I helped watch my little brother drop kick King Dedede into the stratosphere. It was soul crushing to play all these games, only to be waylaid so close to the finish line. I was sick of hanging out with my friends, lying through smiling teeth as they gave away the endings to games where I had barely survived the 3rd level.

So you could imagine my eagerness to re-return to these plastic cartridges that kept me tossing and turning at nights, contemplating strategies like a 5 star military general. These games no longer held a sense of nostalgia for me, they had become my arch nemesis, and I was the Mario to their Bowser.

I told myself that I’d finally beat Zelda, or Monkey Island without using online cheats or my little brother. The Game Genie would be secured under lock and key where even Samus couldn’t get to it. It was finally my time, and I planned on destroying every pixel bit by bit until I had emerged victorious through all eternity.

So far it seems that being a good gamer is genetic and it skipped a generation. My thumbs are sore and my eyes are bleeding from staring at the TV for too long. I still haven’t beaten any games.

Then again, the real reason I play any of these old games anyway is for the feeling of nostalgia.

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I’ve out grown bad movies

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It finally happened.

For as long as I can remember, I have enjoyed watching really bad movies. I think it’s a trait that has been carried on through generations on my father side, because to this day, he still enjoys it.

I like the idea of being able to sit in front o a screen and turn my brain off. To not have to think about what mysteries await me or how someone will finally beat the aliens through an elaborate and intricate series of events that keep you guessing until the end.

I like the idea of being able to veg out and not have to critique a movie based on a book, or get kicked out of a theatre because everyone is tired of my doucheoise expressions of “that didn’t happen in the book” or “the book was so much better.”

I even like the idea of falling asleep in a movie because it is that mind numbing.

So, imagine my surprise when Sunday night rolled around and after an hour and 45 minutes of a movie, I was so disgusted by how terrible it was, that I felt like crying.

It had finally happened.

There was a movie out there so bad that it has caused me to renounce my bad movie watching ways. To stay away from direct to DVD releases and future Scy Fy movie marathons where a crocto something fights a giant dogopus (you know, a dog with 8 arms. Also it’s giant).

Like so many girls who have ruined me for others, I’d like to tip my hat to you, Death Race 3, for ridding me of my ridiculous obsession with all cinema that’s awful. I tip may hat to you, for it was not an easy task (hell, I liked Battleship).

But like all people scorned by those they thought infallible, one of these days, another crappy movie will come along and give new light to the “B-Movie” meaning, but until then, I’ll just have to settle for something less fulfilling: bad TV.