Hunting down grab bags in the dank, musky bowels of the dealer room is one of my time-honored convention rituals. The allure of a grab bag lies in the opening. For a mere $10-$20, you can damn near replicate your childhood Christmas mornings. Sure, some of the grab bag loot is like getting socks from an aunt you never met. But there’s always that one item in the haul—the "Castle Grayskull" of the set—that makes the entire journey a success.
You can’t just blast open a grab bag right there in the dealer room. It demands your undivided attention. You need to make an event out of the opening. Typically, I’ll wander the con floor for hours clutching the grab bag and contemplating its innards, but never surrendering to the urge to sneak a peek. Once I get back home or to the hotel room, I clear a space, open the bag and remove each item one at a time. Then, I carefully examine each item to determine its ultimate fate, like the Quintesson judge from Transformers the Movie: “Guil-ty or Inn-o-cent?” You win 1,000 bonus points if you get that reference. If the item is lame, then it’s forever banished to the ceremonial death mounds of the junk room. However, if it’s awesome, then it earns a place of distinction on my shelves.
Wow. I am rusty at this writing thing. So, 2011 sucked donkey balls and I’m going to grade the resolutions that I made a one year ago on this day. Here’s a hint: I failed. This is why I hate New Year’s Resolutions. They are just further proof of how much I suck.
Obviously I haven’t written much of anything since March. I have a litany of excuses. My job workload picked up dramatically. I became a political activist. I acquired a taste for zombies. Awesome games such as Portal 2, Catherine, Dragon Age II, Skyrim, and Deus Ex demanded my fleeting attention. All of that is true, but none caused my flameout as a writer.
I blame Netflix. My name is Bobby and I am a Netflix Addict. I hate you Netflix and your stupid, amazingly accurate suggestions. You know my tastes better than I do. And for that, you must be destroyed. You know too much.
This past Christmas was one of the best ever for gifts. I know, I know, it’s not
about the loot. Christmas is about family, friends, love, giving and gorging on
all the turkey, ham, stuffing, casseroles, pies, candies, cookies and popcorn tins.
Agreed. But I also love all the gifts.I think I like giving gifts more than receiving. Scouring the Toys R Us
aisles for the perfect gifts to give kids (and adults) is one of my favorite and
most cherished parts of Christmas. But damn if I don’t still love receiving heaping
piles of awesomeness as well.
I have been reading about Star Wars Weekends ad naseum on my Facebook news feed
the past few weeks. I’m a fan of Disney World’s Facebook page and as punishment
they spam me every day hyping their events, hotels, and restaurants. I finally decided
to take the plunge and see what this Star Wars Weekend was all about.
We arrived at Hollywood Studios just after high noon. This June day was blistering
hot and the air was drenched with humidity. I felt sweat beading on my back and
forehead the very moment I left the comforts of my ice cold car in the parking lot.
With Star Wars Weekend signage everywhere, I was excited about what awaited us beyond
the turnstiles in the park. We made our way through the gates and into the park
and…nothing. Same old Hollywood Studios as ever except there was a little girl dressed
as Padme wandering around with her parents. What a letdown. I knew the heart of
this event would be at the god awful Star Tours ride, but I wanted to make sure
that I had the Aerosmith ride FastPassed for later. So we went that direction first
and took care of business. Still, I wondered what all the fuss was about if this
event was only being held where a Star Wars themed area already exists. Hey
kids, it's Mickey Mouse Weekend at the Magic Kingdom! We wandered
the park, braved the heat, ogled at the candy store, and searched in vain for this
so-called Star Wars Weekend.