As a truly tragically nostalgic child of the ’70s/’80s, I simply could not pass up the opportunity to nab a vintage Atari 2600 VCS, complete with a stack of games, for the nice price of “under fifty bucks” (as Atari desperately tried to market it in the late ’80s/early ’90s). Thank you, craigslist, and thank you, Patrick!

I almost settled for Atari’s newest release of the “Flashback 2.0″, which attempts to recapture the spirit of the original “woodie” system (named for the wood grain front panel which adorned the first generation 2600 VCS). It’s cheap, convenient and comes with 40+ games installed within, meaning no use for bulky, cluttery cartridges.

But inside, I knew for sure that there’s nothing like the real thing (baby). The whole Atari experience, for me at least, was much more than just being able to play games on TV (rad!). The VCS console was like the center of entertainment. I relished popping in my favorite game cartridges and flicking the on/off switch, watching the game glow to life on my TV screen. I loved that quiet, patient hum of the game as it played the demo screen, just waiting for me to hit the Game Reset lever. And when I did push that lever, my hands flew immediately to the joystick or paddle controller, not wanting to miss a single second of the action that was about to take place.

So luck would have it that someone on the Westside was clearing out some clutter from their abode, including his old Atari 2600 from his childhood. So one rainy day I drove down to pick it up.

It felt so good to drive home with the Atari packed in an equally vintage ’80s cardboard beer box. I felt all warm inside, like I was giving it a new home. At stop lights I’d look over at it and smile, remembering how much I used to play Atari when I was a kid (about ‘80-’82). For awhile, the Atari 2600 was my absolute favorite toy.

The rain pitter-patted on the windshield, and I’d recall how I would sometimes neglect my homework/chores so badly from playing Atari that my dad hid the Atari’s infamous TV/GAME switch—the only connection to the virtual video wonderland of Atari games. I’m telling you, that little switch made all the difference between a super exciting and dreadfully boring day. So I’d have to finish my homework or whatever other chores I had to do in order to get it back.

So if I loved my Atari so much, where is it now? That’s the sucky thing—I’m not sure if I have it anymore. I’m pretty sure it’s buried somewhere in all my own clutter in the garage, but not 100%. So before my golden days darkened forever, I had to grab someone else’s sunshine. And I’m sure glad I did.

I was totally stoked to find these KLOS stickers inside a book I bought from a garage sale in the mid ’90s. They totally brought back golden memories of my childhood in the late ’70s and early ’80s, when KLOS 95.5 FM was one of the definitive stations of Los Angeles (alongside KMET and the Mighty 690). One couldn’t drive around Los Angeles back then without seeing these adorning car bumpers and rear windows.

One could order stickers directly from the station by writing to them with a SASE. I remember sitting down and writing on notebook paper, “Dear KLOS: Please send me 3 large “TOO HIP” stickers and 6 small ones, and also 3 large “KLOS 95.5″ stickers and 6 small ones…” Within a day I’d receive a pack of shiny stickers which I would plaster on my Trapper Keeper, bedroom door, etc. I tripped out that their PO Box was “95.5!”

The best thing about finding these stickers are the band ones. Pat Benatar, Foreigner and Missing Persons are also early ’80s rock icons, and one could not get these from the station, but rather, you could only find them at the concerts. So if someone had these, that meant they either saw the band live, or were lucky enough to know somebody who hooked them up with the stickers (killer!).

October 1983.

My mom asked me what I wanted to do for my 13th birthday, and I couldn’t think of any place better to go than the urban wonderland that was Fox Hills Mall. It was perfect—we could have lunch at Round Table Pizza, then I could waste the entire afternoon on arcade games at the super-mega Sega Center on the second floor.

She agreed, and said I could invite some friends. Cool! So I carefully handpicked from my peers at Orville Wright Junior High…kids whom I thought were cool and would definitely dig video games like I did. The choices were easy:

• Dave: He was my best friend after all, so that was a no-brainer.
• Ernest: The quiet, smart nerdy kid who spent all his time studying…he needed a break!
• Doug: The ultimate Star Wars collector (he had every single action figure, vehicle and playset…in pristine condition—and still does)—he’s in!
• Brandon: The perfect G.I. Joe playmate who liked to build model airplanes (and set them on fire); I liked to spend the night at his house and stay up ‘til 3AM playing Defender on his Atari 5200…and we both thought Men At Work ruled!
• Aaron: In elementary school we both listened to The Mighty 690 religiously and always waited for Charlie Daniels to say “son of a bitch” in the Devil Went Down to Georgia song. I could’ve sworn it happened once.
• Lionel: The all-around mellow man who still sported his ‘70s coke-bottle glasses; his mom packed him killer Italian sausage sandwiches for lunch, which she wrapped ever so delicately in crisp wax paper…and he often shared them with me.
• Russell: The mild-mannered ace athlete whom I’d known since the 4th grade, whose fatal slicies in handball left us all in the dust.

Oh, and that’s my brother in the foreground, who was looking just as forward to the festivities as everyone else was.

Picture-wise, I guess you can’t expect much from a birthday party at a pizza parlor. I mean, ok, here’s a picture of my friends eating pizza, each face contorted in various modes of food consumption. Yay. Some fashion notes, though—those short-shorts that Lionel (bottom left in blue shirt) and Doug (bottom right in red) were none other than Op (Ocean Pacific) shorts, which were all the rage back then. I mean, you simply could not be without ‘em if you wanted to be cool. See? My friends were cool.

Then here’s the other half of my friends also porking out on pizza (that’s me on bottom right). Aaron (bottom left) is also sporting a mainstay of mainstream surfer fashion—an Op shirt (with Op shorts most likely to match). Meanwhile, my brother and I are wearing these 3-banded velour shirts that my grandma made for my birthday. She was a good seamstress.

Finally after all the food, I got to open my presents. If you look closely you’ll see the F-14 Tomcat model kit right under the gift which I’m opening. I was a total model airplane geek. I’m not sure now if my friends already knew that back then, or if I asked them to get me models. I think it was the latter. What a nerd.

Ugh. It’s too bad that I don’t have any pictures of the old Sega Center. That was definitely the best part of my birthday party. I still remember my mom pouring a heap of quarters in my hand (I think 5-7 dollars worth) and letting me loose with my friends (whom she also supplied with quarters) into the electronic wonderland. I remember knowing exactly how much I was going to spend on each of my favorite games. At the time I dug Xevious most of all, followed by Time Pilot, Front Line and Asteroids. I also loved Defender but the button/control setup was just too awkward for a lefty like me.

And there I am, home after all the festivities. This shot totally reveals my glue-gone geekness. Lookit that. I’m holding a F-16 Falcon kit, which sits upon a Vought F4-U Corsair kit, and on the bottom right you’ll see an A-10 tank Buster and the same F-14 Tomcat from the previous picure. I can’t really make out the blue box on the left side of the table, but it looks like a Ford Mustang Cobra (1/24 scale)?. I was so into model airplanes back then, I don’t think I even opened that one. Isn’t that crazy?

I’ve been a member of the Flickr group Growing Up Star Wars: 1977-1985 for some time now, sharing whatever personal pertinent photos and art that I can find in the rubble. My latest find, above, was yet another treasure I found at my parents’ house.

On Flickr, I commented that my Dad always told me to write the date on whatever I drew. As a kid, I did it dilligently, but as I grew older, I never really bothered. So he began to really reinforce the reminders, telling me as often as he could to date them, “Because when you get older, your memory will fade, and you won’t remember what you did.”

I used to laugh. But now that I am older, I cherish each and every photograph and drawing that has a date on it. Because, as my dad said, I really don’t remember what I did.

Now that I think about it, his reminders may have resounded so much, that I believe that’s the reason why I try so hard to preserve each and every fond memory I have, of my childhood, and now my own child’s childhood. The ability of our brains to retain and record information in vivid detail has always fascinated me…and their equal ability to haze over and forget has always been, for me, the ultimate tragedy.

Anyways, on a happier note, here’s me as Darth Vader in umm…geez. 1981? I forgot.

There was a time when he would sit at the top of this slide, timid and reluctant. “Go, Greg, go!” I would encourage. He would look at the distance from top to sand and gulp. “No daddy, I wanna go with you!” In hopes of reducing his dependence, I would continue to encourage him to go alone. “You can do it!” I’d say, in the oh-so-typical parental tone of possibilities. And he wouldn’t. Not yet. He would either turn and walk away; or I’d end up riding tandem with him.

Then one day, he sits at the top of the same slide with a look of determination. “You can do it!” I’d repeat, maintaining that core of confidence. He sits, then shifts…discovering that the ride would be so much more exciting another way…and he flies head first into the sand below, with the heartwarming glee that only a child can muster.

I laugh with him, dusting him off…happy at his initiative and dare-deviledness…and somewhere inside, as I realize how time flies…I grow timid and reluctant.

So it’s said as part of the potty training regimen, that once the child does successfully “drop the kids off at the pool,” the parents are supposed to offer a reward, to encourage the kid to do it again. So when lil’ Greg finally did the deed on Valentine’s Day, we rewarded him with a premium version of the Hot Wheels muscle cars which he normally receives. I chose a 1970 Mercury Cyclone Spoiler and a Gremlin Funny Car from the Johnny Lightning “Classic Plastic” series, in which 1/64 scale die cast cars pay homage to old ’70s 1/24 scale plastic model kits.

He could tell right away that these weren’t regular Hot Wheels…the “Classic Plastic” series pays meticulous attention to detail and features opening hoods and rubber tires. While playing with them, he displayed a near identical quality of admiration as I did (and still do) with my favorite toys—a very serious, focused attention, delighting in the detail with quiet awe, rather than with giddy and excited abandon. He hasn’t let go of these cars since. He does prefer the Cyclone though.

When I have time, I’ll tell you about the large “road map/city” playmat which we bought online (pictured in the above pics), which was a heaven-sent for Greg, who has a growing collection of over 300 Hot Wheels cars.

My man Alex sent me a video the other day featuring clips from Breakin’ n’ Enterin’, a documentary on the ’80s Cali breakin’ scene (at its prime—1983). Of course after gawking at the screen in pure amazement I had to do an immediate Google.

Luck would have it that Cold Crush down under would have the complete movie available for download. Freakin’ awesome.

Typically I fear technological advances, thinking that eventually all the old school methods will eventually dissolve into nothingness. But in this instance, technological advances actually brings back the old school. And that rules.

X-amount of props to Cold Crush. Fans of the old school, check their site…bursting at the seams with flavor.

On my recent trip to Houston I was able to visit my folks’ new home for the first time (they’ve been there for 6 years). In addition to a homecoming to my mom & dad’s hearty home cooking (heaps of corned beef hash, steamed rice and eggs for breakfast plus chicken adobo and arroz caldo for dinner), I was also able to reacquaint myself with a big ol’ stack of old photo albums which chronicle my life from birth all the way through my teen years. Born in 1970, I’ve been privileged with everything from the plaid plague to the bowl-cut boy look which pretty much defined my existence until the discovery of Dep® gel in 1983. Ah, what decades of decadence.

Above are some photos I found of me showing off my brand new “Wild Silver” bike, which my dad bought for me from JCPenney in 1979. The bike was not even a day old when these pictures were taken. It’s kinda funny that it looks like I changed my shirt to a Star Wars one midway through the photo shoot. It would make sense, that was my favorite shirt in the world.

I remember being totally stoked when I got this bike, but I couldn’t even ride it anywhere ‘coz the neighborhood was so bad and I risked getting it swiped from me by the local cholos, who eyed it like a prize from the day I pushed the pedal.

When we moved to Westchester only a few months later, I found myself in a neighborhood 1,000 times more clean, quiet and safe than Culver City was, so my bike enjoyed a period of sea-salted, sun-soaked happiness, which was cut short by the arrival of the “new” style of BMX bike, which did away with banana seats, fenders, chain guards, and nearly everything else which my Wild Silver had stood so proudly for. Not wanting to be singled out for ridicule, I quickly shunned the Silver and it remained in my garage from then on while I sought a new bike. Yes, in only matter of months it went from star stallion to dead like disco.

Anyways, I’ve been on a scanning safari, placing these photos on the platen and plastering the plethora onto my hard drive. So you best believe you’re in for a mighty treat of super-sweetness as I take you on a trip through trippiness.

There’s those stories of parents who try to turn their kids into child prodigies; shape them into “trophies” which they can show off—stories like Joy Luck Club and even Little Miss Sunshine.

As much as I try to encourage my kid to play drums, I never force him…although there is something in me that says I should be teaching him more often than I have been. He definitely shows interest, and plays his drumset without even being asked to (as in above).

I often wonder how important it is to nurture such things…like, if I was just to leave him on autopilot, would he keep playing at his own leisure and eventually get better? Or does that tiny ounce of extra encouragement from me make all the difference in the world as to whether or not he ends up playing the drums in the future?

Ah, the unending wonders of fatherhood.

Oh, and yes, if you haven’t noticed yet, I did make some changes around here. =)

We made our way over the bridge to the 710 North; a bridge which she always tells me to slow down on. We’d just received our first major rainfall of the year, the beginning of what was to be a week-long drench. Was that possible? I wondered if this was a blessing, or yet another symptom of global warming.

I thought of the possibilities and wandered in the grey area, as grey as the sky around us. Then suddenly, up ahead, a bright rainbow sliced the sky.

I smiled and remembered Maui, where we saw a similar sight. But we were here in L.A…specifically on the line between Bell and Bell Gardens, two places whose names I used to interchange without thought when I first met her. Then one day a friend made it clear…

“So where’s she from?”
“I dunno…Bell? Bell Gardens? Whatever.”
“Whatever? No…it’s either Bell, or Bell Gardens. Big difference.”
“Really? I thought they were the same thing.”
“What??! Oh hayell no man…there’s a huge difference between Bell and Bell Garbage dood!”

But there we were, in the midst of a beauty band whose pot of gold was right smack in the middle of the so-called garbage heap. Indeed, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.