In the meantime, enjoy this classic post... (part II)

Fear not, Children of the 90s will be back in full force tomorrow. I am out at a work conference, but in an effort to adhere to my regular posting schedule I am proud to present another pre-scheduled installment of classic (read: reposted) CotN for your perusing pleasure:

Goosebumps

If you thought some of these other delightful 90's commodities were franchising machines, you've yet to meet the monster of all monopolies. That's right, I used "monster" as a shockingly low-grade horror book pun. Just deal with it.

Children growing up in the 90s had a fascination with all things spooky. Shows like Are you Afraid of the Dark? and all sorts of novelized ghost stories cast a spell over young consumers and instilled in them an unquenchable hunger for all varieties of horror media. The king cresting this horror wave was R.L. Stine, a virtual book-miller churning out book after book laced with a satisfying mix of satire, humor, ripped-off story lines, suprise endings, and fright.

R.L. Stine wrote innumerable pieces of young adult fiction, but most memorable and exhaustive were those in his Goosebumps series. In an age where book series dominated the youth literature marketplace, Stine was among the few series creators who actually authored all of his own books without the use of ghostwriters. I guess you could call R.L. Stine the leading ghostwriter. Okay, even I can't handle that one. Moving on.

Goosebumps books were a gratifying balance of things of that our parents did and did not approve. On one hand, we were reading chapter books and unquestionably though unintentionally gaining some sort of literary adroitness. On the other, we were scaring ourselves silly with undiluted, unwholesome trash that was prime fodder to give us bad dreams and night terrors. It was like tricking your parents into thinking you were learning something, while deep down you knew you were up to no good.

R.L. Stine openly acknowledged that many of his Goosebumps plot lines were lifted from old-school horror exploits such as the Twilight Zone. Thankfully, as children in the mid-90s had limited or no knowledge of the existence of 1960s sci-fi television series , they eagerly absorbed
these plot lines as fresh and new. Regardless of the story origins, the books were fairly un-put-downable. Stine was the master of plot twists, particularly at the end of a story. Even once we had read enough books in the series to recognize when we were being tricked or misled, we always took the bait and were outraged to find all of our supposedly sacrosanct suppositions had been for naught.

The best (and let's be honest, worst) example of this is Goosebumps #26: My Hairiest Adventure:


While of course the major underlying premise of these books are their absurdity, this one ostensibly reigns supreme and unleashes some fairly ridiculous plot meandering (if you haven't read the book or simply can't yet recall, that "unleash" is another marvelous pun. Really, I swear.) In short, a group of kids find an expired bottle of self-tanner and naturally decide to engage in a group lather session. Soon thereafter, they discover that they are sprouting hair all over their bodies and (mistakenly) believe the tanning solvent is to blame.

Suddenly, he starts seeing dogs all over town sporting the same hair/fur and eye colors as his previously human companions. Not only is this a bit spooky, it certainly explains why we had to read page-long description of Lily's clear green eyes and sandy hair. To think I'd erroneously speculated that Stine had developed a crush on his charming 7th grade female character.

Long(ish) story short, our lovable and assumably human protagonists aren't really kids at all...they're (wait for it!)...dogs! Yep, dogs. The details are so ridulous I don't think I'll extrapolate any further and rather just pause that with that Stine-esque chapter-end cliffhanger and leave you to your own book-finishing devices. Suffice it to say, we were surprised, if not a little confused.

Such was the way of Goosebumps. Just when we believed we had it all figured out, Stine would throw in an alien friend or a giant blobular monster to throw us off the trail. The real beauty of these books were their window to escapism; they did not need to be grounded in reality or even make sense. We loved them unconditionally, and were even willing to accept dozens of unwarranted sequels.

Of course, like any profitable 90s franchise, books were never enough. Some of our favorite stories were adapted for TV by the now defunct Fox Kids network:



That's right, because what's more ominous in a series intro than manuscript pages flying dramatically out of an author's briefcase? We all understood that it was based on the book series, but thankfully producers chose to drive the point home with outlandish literality. Not to mention that the dog's glowing eyes look suspiciously like they were sloppily drawn in Microsoft paint. This baby's got Fox written all over it.

Despite the low-budget TV series, board games, and video game adaptations, the tried and true Goosebumps formula was in the books. While as adults we can certainly recognize the chintzy stories and plot twists, we can still appreciate our childhood worship of these books as sacred. Their adeptness at simultaneously entertaining us and scaring us out of our minds always kept us hungry for more.

So lay back, grab your tattered old copy of Night of the Living Dummy III, and take yourself back to a simpler time. A time when you were able to suspend your disbelief at the implausibility of not one, not two, but three families falling for the same dummy-comes-alive trick all over again. So long as each chapter formulaicly ends with someone letting out a bloodcurdling scream for no reason other than to set up a cliffhanger for the following chapter, all is right in the world.

Amazingly comprehensive reviews of Goosebumps books:
Blogger Beware

In the meantime, enjoy this classic post...

Children of the Nineties is at a work conference, and despite desperate pleas to the contrary is not entitled to personal computer time. In the meantime, please enjoy a pre-scheduled classic CotN repost from earlier this year. As I only had three or four readers at the time, it's probably (okay, almost definitely) new to you.

Enjoy, and I will return to shower all of you bits of with 90s nostalgia goodness on Thursday!

Nickelodeon Slime

As a (sort of) adult, I have to wonder what on earth our parents were thinking as they watched our inexplicable outpouring of glee and good cheer at the sight of one of our contemporaries being doused in a sticky green semi-viscous compound on national television. To us, it made perfect sense. Speak out of turn? Get slimed! Perform poorly on a game show challenge? Get slimed! Fail to Figure it Out? Get slimed! Happen to be standing outside Nickelodeon Studios in Orlando, Florida during the filming of a filler intermission commercial segment?

You get the idea.

As children, we had no questions about the nature, existence, or purpose of slime. The act of sliming was, plain and simple, probably the image we were most frequently exposed to from ages 5-12, and we saw nothing wrong with that. We consumed Nickelodeon like water--only we preferred it greener and oozier. Slime was a fact of our reality and was to be taken at absolute face value as a legitimate icon of our favorite (though at the time, only) children's television network.

The notion of slime originated with the late 80s children's sketch comedy classic, You Can't Do That on Television! Every time an actor on the show uttered the otherwise inocuous phrase, "I don't know," suddenly and unaccountably a significant amount of sticky green goo would rain down from the heavens onto the unsuspecting victim. YCDToT cast members lovingly recalled that the original formulation of slime was deemed highly toxic and that it may have been a poor idea to risk lives for the sake of children's sketch comedy, even if it did star a young Alanis Morisette.

The proposal of the mysterious green glop was apparently so well-received by show producers and executives that it was soon redeveloped to be at best minimally non-lethal. Concocted from an original secret formula of flour and lime-green Jello, slime burst onto the scene, nontoxic and slimy as initially envisioned. God forbid the slime hypothesizer compromise his holy green vision. It should also be noted that it is a well-known fact that everyone thinks green Jello is disgusting, so the blame for its continued and persistent existence on grocery store shelves can be laid squarely on the shoulders of the slime theorists.

As we can deduce from the following clip that we can only assume to be completely serious, it seems that at the time of its inception in the mid-80s slime was highly controversial topic amongst children. As you watch the following Nick Special Report, please take notice that the proportion of feathered hair to head is inversely related to one's support for slime action.



What started as a one-shot gag soon spread (as slimes tend to do) to an ongoing element of the show. After the show's cancellation, Nickelodeon was determined not to let this otherwise non-sequitor lame-excuse-for-a-lack-of-punchline die out quietly. Plus, they had already bought all of that lime Jello. Thankfully they had the foresight to add both oatmeal and shampoo to the slime, apparently adhering to the 1990s Sassy magazine school of food-as-hair-product recipes in their quest to make the slime more wash-outable. The ominpresence of slime tied in nicely to the inherent messiness of pretty much every game show Nick churned out in the mid-90s. Shows like Double Dare, What Would You Do?, and Super Sloppy Double Dare capitalized on the audience's existing emotional ties with slime to capture their hearts and soil their smocks. Did I say yet that the aforementioned mess-based game shows were hosted by a germ-phobic obsessive compulsive? Obviously the slime people weren't the only ones at Nickelodeon with a sadistic sense of humor.

At some point, the demand for slime grew so high that Nick Studios actually erected a green-spewing slime geyser outside their Orlando-based studios. While of course we can only imagine that as a non-naturally occurring substance this geyser was simply for show, what it stood for made up for its lack of purpose.





Imagine for a moment that there were indeed dozens of people employed by the slime industry in the mid-90s; there were scientists and formula-testers, the guys that hung the roof buckets, engineers to build the pouring mechanisms, someone to flip the slime-dumping switch. This had obviously gotten out of hand. Instead of reigning it in, however, Nickelodeon just kept on milking it. Slime was featured heavily in the late-90s Nickelodeon game show Figure It Out, was used liberally and continuously at the Kid's Choice Awards, and squelched into the 2000s with a commercial break feature aptly titled "Slime Time Live." Yes, slime was here to stay, and there was nothing we could have or would possible have wanted to do about it.

See, we all embraced slime (well, as much as is physically executable with a mucilaginous goo) as emblematic of all that we knew and loved of our magical Nickelodeon network. It was idiosyncratic and spoke to us in a way that separated us from our parents; we understood it, they did not. For a magical moment in time, slime represented us, our collective childhood tied together by the universal experience of growing up watching the realization of this running green gag. To our parents it was simply a mess to clean up, but we knew it was our mess and hence deemed it worthy. Nickelodeon slime, if nothing else, stood for a turning point in children's entertainment when kids were (in our eyes) in control to run wild in their self-created world and revel in its distinct non-adultness. Kids had formed a secret club, and the repeated viewing Nickelodeon slimings made you a card-carrying member. Nickelodeon created a world where it was both fun and safe to be a kid, and we welcomed that wholeheartedly. It was the most kid-friendly neon-hued sludge we had ever seen, and we adored it. Well, that is until Gak flatulated onto the scene.

But that, my friends, is a story for another time.

*thanks to Aly S for the topic idea

Check it out:
Nick's Slime Across America

Nancy Kerrigan and Tonya Harding

Just think, kids growing up today will think a photo of Michael Phelps with a bong constitutes a legitimate full-blown Olympic athlete scandal.

Amateurs.

In the 90s, Olympic athletes did scandals right. It was an all-or-nothing type of game. They weren't playing around. In fact, it wasn't even necessary to try to sabotage rival athletes, what, with so much prime competition on your home court.


In 1994, the world of US Olympic figure skaters became embroiled in a vicious battle between teammates. I know, I know. Olympic figure skating? Those girls in the sequined spandex? They seem so friendly, their bleached smiles so genuine. Unfortunately, beneath the happy veneer of the US women's team lurked a dark and dangerous tension.

Nancy Kerrigan had quickly become America's golden girl--she was young, pretty, poised and talented. She had all the makings of a perfect All-American Wheatie's box photograph. Americans couldn't seem to get enough of the up-and-coming skater, and she appeared destined for Olympic success.

Not everyone was so happy about the Kerrigan hype, though. Fellow US Olympic skater Tonya Harding was obviously displeased with playing second banana to Nancy. Looking back, it's frightening they let this maniacal fame-crazy sociopath skate around with the equivalent of twp frequently sharpened switchblades affixed to her feet. I'm not sure if you've ever been jumped by someone using an ice skate as a weapon, but they're not kidding around with those toe picks.

Tonya was certainly talented and was not without her admirers. Harding was the first female skater to successfully execute a triple axel during competition. She was, however, a perpetual self-fulfilling prophecy of eternal victimhood. She and her devotees felt that there was a definite favoritism for Kerrigan over Harding, and some Harding-ites went so far as to suggest it was because Harding was from less affluent background. However, as Kerrigan herself came from a blue-collar background, this seemed like a fairly faulty argument. Whatever the reason, a seething rivalry brewed between the two US Olympic teammates.

The tension came to a head just before the 1994 Olympics. Kerrigan was mysteriously attacked by an unknown assailant. The attack was well-honed and deliberate, injuring her knee. The intent was clearly to hinder her skating ability, though few people could fathom why someone would do such a thing.

Of course, the whole thing (conveniently excluding the attack itself) was caught on film and played on continuous loop on news stations worldwide. Kerrigan's cries of "Why me?" were frequently (if perhaps a bit cruelly) mocked in the coming months.



Henceforth referred to as "The Whack Heard Round the World" (or my personal favorite, "The Battle of Wounded Knee II) the incident actually had a secondary impact of majorly boosting the interest and ratings in Olympic figure skating. People were quick to point fingers at Tonya Harding, who seemed notably unshaken by the incident.

Harding's ex husband, along with a few sketchy co-conspirators, were the culprits behind the attack, though it took months to unravel the whole story. This obviously did not bode well for Tonya's already waning image, and though she was (just barely) allowed to compete in the '94 winter Olympics, she finished an embarrassing eighth to Nancy Kerrigan's second.

Luckily, there seemed to be some karma at play. Kerrigan got to keep skating and maintained her place as a national hero (with a few minor scandal blips along the way) and Tonya struggled to live off of milking her notoriety for the next 15 years. She did all sorts of embarrassing things for a quick buck, most ridiculously competing in Celebrity Boxing. Now, you would possibly think that someone trying to adjust their image would play to the crowds and try to lay low and strive for a gracious, demure public image.

You would be wrong.



Better yet, as if her F-list status could not be carved any more deeply in stone, she boxed Paula Jones. Two crazy chicks vying for attention and public sympathy, and here they are duking it out on a terrible reality show.

Harding was also recently a guest on Oprah and opens up about, well, all sorts of crazy. It's hilariously obvious that the Big O doesn't believe a word of Tonya's sob story.



Good one, Tons. You really cleared that up. Because you like to hunt and fish and sit around the bonfire with friends, you...are justifying what, exactly? It's too bad she can't afford a publicist to properly train her for this interview, because she comes across absolutely sociopathic. All this proves is that not only is Tonya a terrible liar, but is also likely dumber than a box of rocks.

As if all that weren't enough, she also made quite a ruckus over Obama referencing her http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/03/05/tonya-harding-slams-barac_n_172233.html during his campaign, when he remarked "Folks said there's no way Obama has a chance unless he goes and kneecaps the person ahead of us, does a Tonya Harding." Geez, between referencing Tonya Harding's KneeGate and Jessica Simpson's weight gain, Obama certainly is adept at planting seeds of publicity for washed-up celebrities.

But I digress. The moral (immoral, really) of the story is that if you find yourself the second choice for America's love and affection, you can always call out a personal favor for someone to go and bust their kneecaps. It's just that easy! You could pair it with a catchy tagline, like, "Bustin' kneecaps--not just for the mob!"

Hey, that's not half bad. Wasn't I just saying Tonya needs a publicist...?