Random Thoughts: The A to Z Blog of the Overactive Mind

  Romance was complicated in the 80's. Some will argue that it's always complicated. Unless you're blessed with movie-star level good looks and no sense of embarrassment/shame whatsoever. I only have one of those. But it was especially complicated in the neon decade. Mostly because finding ways to express those types of feelings seemed inefficient, messy, and way too frequently required rewinding. Texting? Not a thing. Say it out loud? And risk being seen as a hormone-driven lunatic with an unbalanced mullet? Nuh-uh! No way!! One made a mixtape. And then one lobbed it at another one like a ticking emotional device and awaited a response. Mixtapes Were Curated, Not Casual Handing someone such a tape said, "I've spent hours thinking about what you'd say or do if I ever worked up the courage to actually tell you I'm interested. Here... uh... Whitesnake." You should've spent that time doing your homework or developing coping skills. But no, you squande...

  Pac-Man wasn't a video game. Let's be clear about that right from the get-go. It was nothing short of a psychological experiment under the guise of an anxious little yellow pie chart. How do I know? Several red flags: You are a mouth, consuming pellets of questionable origin and - from the glow - radiation levels. Colorful nightmares are hunting you relentlessly. No real narrative, explanation, or escape. Eat and run, eat and run, eat and run until inevitably caught and drained of all life force with a spin and a weirdly descending soundtrack. Childhood fun! Am I right? The other sounds rewired that childhood. Wakka wakka wakka became recognized as the sound of compulsive consumption. Danger closed in from all sides, but that noise told you, "Hey! You're doing great. Keep going!" To this day, I hear it whenever I open my fridge on a full stomach. The ghosts were the ultimate villains. They disguised themselves in bright pastel colors and had fun-sounding names....

  The 80's mall was a lot of things. A shopping centre was NOT one of them. It was: A lawless biome where "Lord of the Flies" played out over and over again on weekends, and on Tuesdays at the arcade. A concrete savannah where the native wild teenager roamed in packs. The place where parents, though tethered to their toddlers, still managed to lose them by the fountain An environment where hormones went on full display; a zoo where the always accessorizing met the chronically lustful. Who was in charge of this mess? Nobody ever really knew. You stepped inside, and civilization loosened its belt until the pants of reality hit the faux-marble floor. Time bent. Morality wobbled. Somebody farted in the glass elevator. And at the precise coordinates that landed a youth between Orange Julius and the vintage lava lamp display at Spencer Gifts , an uninvested mall employee with a survey clipboard said, "Have at it, kid. Good luck in there." Survival challenges started...