Well, I made it to the top five on my Countdown to 40, which means in a few days I will cross that bridge into a new decade. You'd think I'd be nervous or scared, but I'm not. The looming birthday also means the inevitable end to this little introspective project of mine, with several of the best and most important films, books, and music yet to come. Like today's feature post on Prince's Purple Rain album.
When it broke last April, the news of Prince's death hit me pretty hard, more so than the passing of fellow icons Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston in the decade prior. More so than George Michael and Carrie Fisher in the year afterwards. More so than any other famous person, to be honest. Up until that time, I never really understood how people could get so emotionally bent out of shape over the loss of a celebrity. I mean, we typically only know the public persona and not the person, so how could a pop star's death really mean all that much to anyone? When Prince died, though, I could finally empathize. In the earliest years of my cultural development, he laid the foundation for my love and understanding of pop music with the soundtrack to Purple Rain, which, to this day, remains my all-time favorite. No other album made a larger impact on me or my taste in music, thanks in large part to my sister Missy. I certainly wasn't alone in feeling that sense of loss. The outpouring of memories and odes to Prince filled my social media news feeds in the hours and days following the announcement of his death. I dedicated an entire Flashback Friday segment to Prince for my United States History class, to which a number of students expressed their dismay at his passing. The death also affected my sister, Missy, who introduced me to Prince more than 30 years ago. Like it did for me, Purple Rain played an important role in Missy's life, prompting her to write: Ah, the memories that flow into my mind when remembering Prince and Purple Rain. I recall my parents weighing in with their opinion of Prince's "so-called music"...which in their eyes was "just noise". But I loved it. I connected to the lyrics and the music itself was so different from what I was used to hearing. Not to mention the mysteriousness of Prince himself. I couldn't help but be drawn into it all.
She was right, too. Her adoration of Prince and constant replaying of Purple Rain helped me fall in love with it, too. I proudly showcased my liking for Prince, dancing around (was I really gyrating?) and lip syncing to my favorite songs from the album, like "I Would Die 4 U" and "Baby I'm a Star." The applause, laughter, and support I earned from Missy and my parents only encouraged me to continue my performances, each one likely more flamboyant that the last. Which brings up another trait of Prince's that made him such a big influence--he appeared fearless and confident to be whoever he wanted to be. He wore boots with heels. He changed his name to a symbol that represented equal parts male and female. And he challenged people's preconceived gender biases in rock music by featuring artists like Wendy and Lisa as prominent members. He also sponsored and wrote music specifically for women as a way to help promote their talents, serving as a champion for women in music.
There truly was no one else like Prince. He taught me just how great pop music could be, and even when I listen to Purple Rain today, I am constantly amazed at how timeless the album really is. He also showed me how powerful being true to oneself can be, unafraid and unashamed, a lesson I carried with me into adulthood as I grappled with my homosexuality. Prince and Purple Rain therefore form core elements of my sense of identity, and when he passed away, it felt as though I somehow lost a connection to that foundational part of myself.
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If I ever experienced a defining, a-ha series of moments directly connected to the media arts and my sexuality, I would say my relationship with Disney's 1989 animated classic, The Little Mermaid, symbolizes that. Though I had an inkling of the film's importance at the time, real cognizance that it marked a significant point in my development and self-awareness materialized more slowly over self-analysis during the ensuing decades.
I distinctly remember when and where I first saw The Little Mermaid, which happened almost 30 years ago now. My younger siblings and I were spending time with one of our cousins and her kids, the youngest a toddler. We played games, took turns riding around the block on the back of a motorcycle, and watched The Little Mermaid. From the wondrous animation to the charming musical numbers and endearing characters, the movie captivated me entirely. The vivid sequences of Prince Eric's ship caught in the throes of a violent storm, Sebastian leading denizens of the deep in "Under the Sea," and the final confrontation with Ursula the Sea Witch stuck with me in the days and weeks afterwards. Not able to get the film or the music out of my mind, I got the soundtrack on cassette tape and began listening to it almost nonstop. Before long I knew every word to every song, no doubt annoying my brother and sister by singing along at every opportunity. I was, in a word, obsessed, a term I have frequently employed throughout my Countdown to 40 project. Then, one day while strolling the aisles of the local K-Mart, I noticed a copy of The Little Mermaid on VHS for sale. My fondness for the movie and preoccupation with the music led me to ask my dad if I could buy it. He responded with a resounding no, commenting that cartoon movies were for kids and I was much too old. Taking the contrary position I so often did with him, I argued and pled for him to change his mind. Though I could not convince him otherwise at the time, I eventually circumvented his decision and acquired my very own copy. Or maybe I simply wore down his resolve with my constant requests. Either way, once in possession of the video tape, I took every chance I could to watch The Little Mermaid, thereby satisfying my desire to escape to another world. I often chalk up my fixation with The Little Mermaid as simply another stereotypical signpost of my innate homosexuality. My predisposition for the animated movie musical fit nicely alongside other examples throughout my childhood and teenaged years hinting at my gayness. One particular example comes to mind. Around the age of six or seven I asked my parents for a doll house for Christmas. (Or was it my birthday? Some details are fuzzier than others...) Regardless, I ended up receiving one, complete with working light fixtures and everything. My parents, for their part, fulfilled my unconventional request without hesitation or prejudice, and if they questioned it at all, I never knew. Other members of my extended family, on the other hand, proved less than understanding, and I remember being teased heavily for having a dollhouse...even though it had lights. (Did I mention the lights?!? Seriously cool.) They made sure I knew boys played with Tonka Trucks, Transformers, and footballs, not dollhouses. Unequipped to effectively deal with the jabs, I took them to heart much more than I think my family intended. I remember wondering whether or not something was wrong with me, and in a fit of childhood frustration and rage, I cut all the wires for the lights. Perhaps I thought my actions would earn me some recognition that I wasn't such a girly-boy after all. In the end, though, all I got for destroying the wonderful gift I so desperately wanted was disciplined. Within the context of figuring out when my sexual orientation became clear, I often look to experiences like the one with the dollhouse for clues. I clearly didn't know then, but did my parents? I also reflect on the interchange that occurred between my dad and I over The Little Mermaid with a peculiar sense of fascination. What really was the big deal with a 12-year-old wanting an animated movie? I mean, I was not yet a teenager and therefore still a kid by most peoples' definitions. The more I thought about the whole experience, the more I wondered if my dad's refusal represented an intentional or unintentional reaction to my homosexuality. Surely my parents noticed the repeated signs I exhibited growing up, and maybe they originally thought nothing of them. Unlike my request for a dollhouse, which could be attributed to my young age rather than my sexuality, my adoration of The Little Mermaid defied expected behavior for a typical, straight boy of twelve. Perhaps, then, my obsession made the final connection between dots for my dad, and as a result he shut my request for the VHS down. Of course, this could all be in my head and related to my tendency to overthink things. My dad may have truly believed I was too old for an animated Disney movie and thought nothing more of it, a forgotten exchange between the two of us twenty-some-odd years ago. The memory probably stands out so strongly for me because of my desire to constantly search my youth for any and all tell-tale signs that said, in big neon lights: "YOU ARE GAY." And even if it is not the signal to my dad I suspect it might be, The Little Mermaid, my love of it, and the processing of memories connected to it certainly symbolize important milestones in my coming out story. In honor of today's Breath of the Wild release, I present you with Nintendo's incomparable The Legend of Zelda, which, as far as I am concerned, represents the best video game series. Ever.
I originally became entranced by The Legend of Zelda series when the first iteration arrived for the Nintendo Entertainment System (NES) in the late 1980s. (Remember the gold cartridge? Ah, the good old days.) It didn't take long for the game to grab my attention and stimulate my imagination. I remember sneaking out of my bedroom late at night, after everyone else was asleep, to solve just one more puzzle, find just one more secret lair, or play through just one more dungeon. Then came The Adventure of Link for the NES and A Link to the Past for the Super Nintendo (SNES), and I eagerly returned to saving Hyrule from the evil Ganondorf. While those early games turned me into a series fan pretty quickly, Ocarina of Time for the Nintendo 64 (N64) changed everything and converted me to a true Zelda superfan. The new adventure retained all of the familiar characters and story arcs I grew to enjoy and expect from earlier games while perfectly utilizing the 3-D capabilities offered by the N64 to fully immerse players in the land of Hyrule. (I could even ride a horse!) The puzzles, quests, dungeons, and bosses of Ocarina of Time kept me challenged and engaged by offering the perfect balance between difficulty and solve-ability. By the time I maneuvered through the final dungeons and defeated Ganon at the game's end, I knew I had experienced something special, and from that point on, no matter where Zelda console games went, I was sure to follow. Considering my already-professed love for the fantasy genre (see Bedknobs and Broomsticks, Game of Thrones and The Wheel of Time), I suspect my declaration in support of Zelda throughout this entry is not all that surprising. That assumption may, however, relate more to the order in which I wrote my Countdown to 40 posts than the order in which those featured items impacted my life. In reality, The Legend of Zelda serves as one of the biggest and most important influences to nurture my growing interest in the vast and magical worlds of fantasy film, literature, and video games. And if you are trying to get a hold of me this weekend and don't get a response, know that I'm probably puzzling my way through Breath of the Wild.
Preparing for my Countdown to 40 blogging adventure was a multi-step process. I brainstormed lists of movies, albums, books, video games, and television shows that included what I considered sure things along with likely contenders and long-shots. (I plan to share some of the cast-offs on an honorable mention list sometime near or shortly after the final post on March 12th.) One of the items I always knew would be the focus of a featured post is Michael Jackson’s Bad album, an album intricately woven into my developing taste for pop music in the late 1980s.
By the 6th grade, my family had relocated from suburban Saint Paul to the vast and sparsely populated prairies of west-central Minnesota. As I shared in my first post about Entertainment Weekly, I felt isolated from the cultured life I longed to live, regardless of whether or not that was justified or true. My feelings of remoteness stemmed from the 200-mile move, yes, but I also felt disconnected from my older sister, Missy. (She prefers Melissa these days, but to me she’ll always be Missy.) Ten years separated my sister and I in age, and I always looked up to her as one of my role models, which meant I wanted to spend time with and be like her as much as possible. I probably annoyed her when I was not yet ten and she was a teenager. I’d intrude on her time with her high school friends (and boyfriends) and talk with them on the telephone before getting Missy for them. For her part, she rarely seemed bothered by my brotherly antics, at least as far as I remember, and had nothing but patience with me, taking me under her wing in many ways. As a result, I often felt we shared a unique bond, one that followed me into adulthood, and on more occasions than I can count, it seemed as if we knew what the other was feeling and/or thinking. Throughout those developmentally important years, I picked up a lot from Missy, including her taste in music. The connection we made over artists, albums, and songs was one thing I treasured most about our relationship (and still do). Like so many others in the 1980s, one performer she loved was Michael Jackson. So, naturally, I did, too. A year or so after my parents moved my younger siblings and I to Alexandria, Missy called one day to invite me to see the King of Pop in concert. She wanted to take me to his Bad tour stop at the Met Center in Bloomington—perhaps as a birthday gift, the details escape me now—and because it provided me the opportunity to spend time alone with her and return to our old hometown, I felt more than excited. That we were going to see Michael Jackson perform live was tertiary. As the concert date approached, a little nervousness emerged alongside my constant excitement. How loud was it going to be? Would I like it? Not as familiar with Bad as with Thriller at the time, I wondered, would he sing any of his other music? My eleven-year-old mind started psyching itself out. But I persevered, and the big night finally arrived, and although many of the details surrounding that night escape me, several important memories stick out in my mind. My sister somehow managed to get us tickets for floor seats in the 17th row. I was eleven at the time and my growth spurt hadn’t really happened yet (I was short), so I needed to stand on my chair in order to see Michael Jackson over the heads of the people in front of us. Every time Missy told me to jump onto the chair, however, a security guard would walk by and order me down. Unfortunately, the constant to and fro between floor and chair is what I remember most about that night. I must have loved it though, because in short order I became obsessed with Michael Jackson. I memorized every lyric to every song on the Bad album. I got the Moonwalker VHS tape, which served as the visual accompaniment to Bad, and repeatedly watched it, the short film for “Smooth Criminal” being my favorite. I put on little lip sync shows, dressed in boots and the concert t-shirt Missy bought me. I even wanted to grow my hair long and curl it, just like Jackson. Clearly, the concert experience with my sister and the album played a large role in defining my cultural identity during those last years before becoming a teenager. Today I consider myself extremely lucky that the first person I ever saw in concert was Michael Jackson. It fueled my love not just for Jackson, but pop music in general—undoubtedly including the work of his sister, Janet. The concert also sparked a desire to see other performers live, which would eventually include the likes of Janet Jackson, Prince, Madonna, Fleetwood Mac, Garth Brooks, and Simon & Garfunkel. It also reinforced the bond between Missy and I, and I cherish that above all. When people ask what my favorite television show is, I do not hesitate to answer--it's The Wonder Years. It has been ever since I first started watching the show when it originally aired on TV in the late 1980s and early 1990s.
For those unfamiliar, The Wonder Years follows the coming-of-age story of Kevin Arnold as he maneuvers adolescence between 1968 and 1973, some of the most tumultuous and socially turbulent years in American history. Told through one long flashback, the adult Kevin narrates his memories of growing up during those years, recalling the most important events and feelings of his formative years. Throughout the process, Kevin falls in and out of love with his neighbor, Winnie Cooper, while relying on the support and of his best friend, Paul Pfeiffer. He struggles to establish his identity and assert himself within the framework of his post-war, suburban family life, often butting heads with his dad, Jack, and older brother, Wayne. His older sister, Karen, represented much of the social upheaval occurring at the time as she fell in with the hippie crowd, protested the Vietnam War, and generally challenged the constraints of the patriarchal society. I connected with the show on multiple levels. The Wonder Years spoke to my burgeoning interest in 20th century American history while also reflecting my own stage of development--I was approximately the same age as adolescent Kevin and aged right along with him. Despite the twenty year difference, many of my own coming-of-age experiences mirrored those he faced, and I wanted to be Kevin Arnold--I even had a little prepubescent crush on Winnie Cooper for a while. I often found gym class awkward and degrading, much the same as Kevin, and I knew how it felt to skirt the edges of junior and senior high school cliques, never really fitting into a certain one but not entirely outcast from any but the jocks. I also understood needing best friends to help navigate the awkwardness and tricky situations that define what it means to be a teenager. It's a funny thing, growing up and going through high school. I always considered those years as the most challenging, not really fitting in anywhere or knowing myself until I graduated and moved on to college. While much of that remains true and though I would not like to go back and relive my teenage years, I realize now more than ever (largely because of this Countdown to 40 project) so much of my sense of self formed during those years. And perhaps that's another reason why The Wonder Years has stuck with me all this time, for as the final lines of the series finale perfectly convey: "Growing up happens in a heartbeat. One day you're in diapers, the next day you're gone. But the memories of childhood stay with you for the long haul. I remember a place, a town, a house, like a lot of houses. A yard like a lot of other yards. On a street like a lot of other streets. And the thing is, after all these years, I still look back... with wonder." There seem to be two different kinds of people in this world, Star Trek fans and Star Wars fans. I always thought that demarcation quite silly and considered myself an equal opportunity supporter of both franchises. I anxiously await the release of new Star Wars and Star Trek films and have fond memories of both. I've thoroughly enjoyed sporadically joining Bryce throughout his years-long journey to experience all of the Star Trek films and television series, from the original 1960s series all the way up through Enterprise and the J. J. Abrams cinematic reboots. (Fun fact: While The Next Generation remains my favorite iteration of the Star Trek canon, Deep Space Nine proves a close second.) As I sat down to work on my Countdown to 40, though, I finally faced the actual (rather than alternative) fact: as much as I try to convince myself I fall definitively into the Star Trek camp every bit as much as I fall into the Star Wars camp, it's just not true. I connect more with the latter than the former, an admission I'm sure Bryce would argue was obvious from day one.
Now, I mean no disrespect towards Star Trek and the fans who adore it, Star Wars simply signifies so much more for me. As a child, A New Hope was the first movie I ever saw with my dad. Whether he realized it or not and whether I accepted or not, I often sought things over which the two of us could bond. I never was much of a sports guy, and though I wouldn't consider my dad a sports fanatic, he could usually be found taking in the weekly Vikings game with my mom and brother on Sunday afternoons. The older I got, the more I gravitated towards the arts and longed to connect with my dad through them. I knew very little about his taste in movies and music, however, since we rarely talked about what he liked. One thing I did learn over the years: my dad liked the original Star Wars films. I therefore took advantage of and loved every opportunity I had to experience them with him. That alone is reason enough to justify the inclusion of Star Wars on my Countdown to 40, but that would cut short the story of the saga's ongoing relationship to my life. In the late 1990s, George Lucas re-released all three films to theaters in anticipation for the debut of a new addition to the series, Episode I: The Phantom Menace. I learned then how a good friend of mine in college idolized Star Wars, and his enthusiasm for the sci-fi epic rejuvenated my own enthusiasm for A New Hope, The Empire Strikes Back, and The Return of the Jedi. We made sure to catch each one in the theater on opening weekend, discussing in depth the lore surrounding the Star Wars universe afterwards and hazarding guesses as to where Lucas would be taking us with the forthcoming Episodes I, II, and III. By the time The Phantom Menace debuted in May of 1999, my rejuvenated enthusiasm had transformed into genuine excitement. As with any heightened sense of anticipation, I wanted to share my delight in the new films and could think of no one better to accomplish that than with than my niece, Brittani, and nephew, Jordan, who were 9 and 6 at the time. When the chance came to treat the two of them to seeing the film in the theater, I snapped it up. They both seemed to love the film, especially Jordan, and I happily spoiled them with repeated viewings of Episode I as well as the original trilogy. (Confession: The character of Jar-Jar Binks never bothered me as much as he did other people.) Today the Star Wars universe continues to expand, adding on three more episodes to the original series and tacking on several stand-alone films that focus on backstories and fill in the holes exhibited by the nine episodic movies. I will no doubt see them all, remembering all of the happiness, contentment, and fulfillment that accompany the rest of the Star Wars anthology. So far I've thoroughly enjoyed examining the elements of pop culture that provide some point of reference in my life. Regardless of their impact, writing about them has been both challenging and fun. The posts about Entertainment Weekly, Schindler's List, Jagged Little Pill, and The Velvet Rope proved especially cathartic and meaningful, as I never sat down to put my thoughts and feelings about them into such coherent reflections before. Considering the depth, gravity, and importance of my three most recent posts, though, I figured the time had come to lighten things up a bit and focus on pure, unadulterated fun. What better way to accomplish that than with Super Mario Bros, one of the all-time great video game franchises?
In their various adventures and iterations, the constantly evolving Italian plumber and his friends provided countless hours of fun throughout much of my life (and still do), accompanying me all the way from my preteen years up into my late thirties. I could always count on them to bring the fun. The best thing about my favorite Mario games? They brought together family and friends for a bit of innocent, good-natured competition. Well, mostly innocent. And usually good-natured. Like with any game that pits players against one another, there were heated verbal exchanges at times, but they were relatively rare and never transformed into physical altercations. Nevertheless, we always enjoyed ourselves and the time we spent immersed in the worlds of Mario, and here I highlight a few of my favorites: Super Mario Bros. 3 (NES): The first two Super Mario Bros. for the original Nintendo Entertainment System ruled, no doubt. But #3 brought things to a whole new level by giving Mario and Luigi a Tanooki Suit (aka the Flying Raccoon Suit). My younger siblings and I spent many winter afternoon hours plodding our way through the game until one of us would get frustrated and quit or the game system would unexpectedly shut down. Take out the cartridge and blow--that'll fix everything! Super Mario World (SNES): My best friend in high school, Jonathan of CJJ5 fame, and I played this Super Nintendo game incessantly for a while. Who could blame us? Yoshi made everything more interesting. Plus I had a TV in my room at that time, so who could stop us? MarioKart 64 (N64): A racing game featuring Mario, his friends, AND his foes? Yes, please! I swear my college friends and I played this game for a solid decade, even after new systems and updated versions came out. No new offering could ever beat the Nintendo 64 versions of Rainbow Road and Wario Stadium, though. Only time and skill helped master those boards. And Donkey Kong. He was my go-to guy. Mario Party (N64/GameCube/Wii): As mature adults in our late twenties and early thirties, my friends Dianna, Allison, Kara, and I were known to spend many an evening engrossed in a lively round of this board and video game hybrid. We tended to gravitate toward the mini games, each of us gifted in our own unique specialties. Sometimes frustration with an outcome would prompt a curse word or two to escape from one of our mouths. Normally not an issue, except when my niece and nephew, Brittani and Jordan, were visiting for a weekend. Jordan chided us after a particularly salty evening as he proclaimed, "No swearing!" On more occasions than I can recount, we laughed so hard we cried. New Super Mario Bros. (Wii): I never really got into the open-world concept of the Nintendo 64, Game Cube, and early Wii platform versions of Super Mario Bros. I understood the potential of Mario unbound by the constraints of side-scroll games, but they never drew me in. When Nintendo released an updated version of a more traditional Mario game for the Wii, I knew instantly it would be a hit. Bryce and I spent much of our first summer together mastering every level, going back through each on diligently to get all three coins. I think he was supposed to be working on his dissertation, but neither one of us could resist the throwback nostalgia and infinite fun of the New Super Mario Bros. Such great times and memories over the course of three decades! It's easy to understand why I cherish the Super Mario games to this day. |
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I am a self-proclaimed pop culture geek and list enthusiast who is celebrating the big four-zero by counting down the most important, influential, and favorite music, movies, television shows, books, and video games of my life so far. Categories
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