Botan Rice Candy. My mother used to give me these as a child. I always thought it was the coolest thing to eat the rice paper wrapper.

They used to come with toys in the box, though. Now there are just stickers.

Lame.

A rainbow sherbet and Sprite float. Whenever I drink one, I think about my childhood. During a certain period of my life, I got frequent sore throats, and this is what my mother would make me. Sugary, citrusy, bubbly goodness.

(Reblogged from my post at Citizen Wayne)

The This American Life episode from this week is about guns, and is maybe my favorite episode from the year so far (granted, that’s only 4 episodes so far). The first story, in particular is awesome. Sarah Vowell’s story, “NRA vs. NEA” is about reconciling the culture gap between the pro-gun people and the anti-guns. If you listen to just part of the episode, check that one out. It’s the first act.

It reminds me a little bit of a column I wrote in 2006 for a Progress Indiana, a local LGBT magazine a friend of mine created. I had a regular column called “Confessions of a Metrosexual”. Below is that column.

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I’ve always considered myself to be a pacifist. When I was young, I would defer arguments to the more aggressive kids, even though I knew I was right. It was easier that way—not as much conflict. Even today, I am primarily non-confrontational. I’m a lover, not a fighter.

Sunday, December 11, I did something I’ve never done before, and never thought I would do. My fearless editor Dave, fellow staff writer Tom and I trekked to the far land of Wabash, Indiana to shoot guns. Tom wanted to experience firing a gun for his story (in this issue!) and I thought it would be interesting to tag along.

(Click through to read the rest)

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GQ: Junior Edition

Me, circa 1988

My mom gave this to me today for my matchbook collection — it was a commemorative matchbook from my grandparents’ wedding in 1950. How cool is this?

In honor of the first snowfall of the season here in the Fortress, I bring you a picture of me as a three or four year-old, building a snowcat. You may not be able to see the kickin’ Donald Duck hockey mittens, or the snowsuit with the ripoff Apple logo, but I was the epitome of style.

Months ago I posted this picture of my paternal grandfather. Today I bring you my mother’s father — Henry “Bud” Meitz. Grandpa Bud died when I was 5 or 6, but I can remember him in poses like this — when they snowplowed down the quiet street in front of his house, he’d get his binoculars and a glass of scotch.

Yes. That’s right. I had Silverhawk pajamas. And unlike my Superman PJs with the cape you had to detach before bed (by order of my parents), the wings were permanently attached. I’m in the basement with my sister who is four years younger than I. Now, she’s married and living in Florida.

What child growing up in the 80s and early-90s didn’t have or want a PowerWheels? This was mine — my mother bought it at a garage sale for cheap, and my grandfather fixed it up. It was kinda crappy, but I loved it.

This photo of my grandfather is iconic. In my memory, he always looks like this, in his straw hat, shorts, and dark socks. He was usually found grilling in the driveway behind his house, tinkering with his car, or taking a nap in the living room, snoozing loudly in a green recliner that now sits in my living room.

He died when I was 10 or 11, but this picture helps me remember him.