Popcorn Apocalypse, a comedy blog by New York City actor & writer Colin Fisher

I Remember: video games at age 12

2013-08-19T13:47:00.001-04:00

I remember playing video games in my room after school when I was 12 years old. My room was just starting to become a personal space in which I found refuge, rather than the place I went to sleep. I had posters on the wall, mostly from Nintendo Power, of video games. I had posters of games I'd never played and never really intended to play, like StarTropics, just because they were in Nintendo Power and I was in love. There was brown carpet and an old brown office chair my dad had brought home from the hospital. It was heavy and noisy. It would squeak in seven different places when you sat down or shifted your weight. The fabric was almost like burlap, heavy and a little scratchy. My Nintendo and TV were on a big particle board entertainment center, where everything had its own compartment. The TV was a 13-inch tube with dials. I could watch broadcast television if I wanted, but I didn't. We had cable on the big TV in the living room and my parents almost always let me watch what I wanted, so TV happened in there. Video games happened in my room.

I would come inside after mom brought me home from school, and take the snack she made me back into my room. The afternoon sun would come through the window on the front of the house. In my memories it never rains. I only had one or two games I would be working on, and I could play obsessively. I would hammer at the same levels, the same bosses, for hours. Games then were different. There may have been a story but it was hard to decipher, and anyway the stories were always secondary to the playing, the simple act of progressing through the game, beating the enemies, perfecting the jumps, learning the timing of traps or the patterns of bosses. There were no online FAQs or walkthroughs, no hands to hold through these strange worlds concocted by grown men across the Pacific Ocean. Secrets, codes and hints were passed around at school like passwords for the French Resistance. Occasionally a game might be big enough for Nintendo to release a player's guide, and those were also passed around, never to be seen again by the original owner.

I suffered victories and defeats, sometimes witnessed by friends but often just to an audience of one. I raged at my enemies, at the "cheapness" of unfortunate respawn points or almost impossible jump/enemy combinations. I thrilled at the first time I would perfectly anticipate Bowser's moves, flowing like water around him to watch him defeat himself. I loved starting new levels, facing new enemies I'd only heard about from my friends. Seeing new backdrops, strange mountain plateaus on an alien world, or deep in the jungle here on Earth. Some games felt like they were mine and mine alone, games I'd picked out on a whim during a trip to the mall or Toys R Us. Did anyone else on this planet play Godzilla for the NES? Was that game created by Toho for me and me alone? Was Dynowarz sold anywhere in the country except my local Toys R Us? Did I buy the only copy in existence? I had no way to share this experience, no AOL or Reddit to find others like me. I was a young boy in a small city but I was also a lone explorer cutting my way deep into the outback of other countries, other worlds.

Colin Fisher is many things to many people, but mostly he's an actor and writer.

Job Journal: Office Assistant, private preschool in Manhattan

2013-05-22T11:05:00.000-04:00

The United States workforce is represented by two separate, yet equally important groups: those who plan on keeping their job for the long haul, and those who are biding their time before becoming the Next Big Thing. These are stories from the second group.

Job: Temporary Office Assistant, private preschool in Manhattan

Duration: 5 months

Year: 2008

I've talked about my time at the private preschool before, and teased you with a tale of Tiger, the English bulldog. Well, dear reader, your day of fat slobbery dog-reckoning has arrived.

As mentioned in that previous post, I was given the duty of manning the front door of the building in which the school was housed during the changeover from morning to afternoon session. You may not be aware of this, but every child is born with the instinct, when they see a door to the outside, to run through it and keep going until they're hit by a car. Since these children were young and had yet to temper that instinct through teaching, I was the only thing that stood between their lemming-like habits and NoHo traffic.

The school was the second floor of this building, and as far as I know the rest of the building was occupied by tenants, some of whom seemed to be holdouts from a previous era when it wasn't necessary to sell an organ in order to stay in nice places in Manhattan. Most old, upscale buildings on the island have people like this living in them. They resisted the buyout when it came along, and like a tree absorbing a fencepost, the building just grows up around them. For example, the entire second floor of the hotel at which I was a doorman was reserved for people who wouldn't leave the building when it was converted. They were left to their own devices, like Morlocks. My coworker said the second floor smelled like his iguana cage. I've never owned iguanas, but that seemed about right.

I'm stereotyping, and there's certainly a degree of classism in effect here, but I believe Tiger's owner may have been one of these holdouts. He was a lovely person, but he just didn't seem like the type to pay however many thousands of dollars to live in a loft in a historic Manhattan building. I would see him when I came over to the school from the offices 10 or 15 minutes before the transition, when he brought Tiger down for their afternoon walk. I would hear them first, as they lived on the third floor. The first day I met them, I began to hear an epic procession of wheezing and uneven tramping down the stairs. This went on for a while, slowly drawing nearer, until finally on the landing at the end of the hallway I saw one of the fattest English bulldogs I've ever seen. He was, of course, adorable. He was mostly brown, with darker brindle stripes and white highlights. His owner was also very large, a late-middle-aged man, and I could not tell for whom the descent was more difficult. They stepped off the last stair and just stood there for a minute, collecting themselves. The man introduced his dog as Tiger, and they both limped out the front door, panting. I don't recall ever seeing them make the climb back home, and I can't imagine how it occurred without some sort of pulley system or winches. Tiger was a big boy.

I saw them several more times, and we got to "know" each other as you do people in this city whose paths somewhat regularly cross yours. Always the racket of them wheezing down the steps into the empty hallway, the rest at the end, and the gentle regard from Tiger as they went out the door. They always did this before the class change, except for the one day they didn't.

The morning class had come down with the teachers, meeting the waiting parents and nannies in the hallway. Most of the afternoon children were there as well, and the hall was filled with the happy din of parents, teachers and four-year-olds catching up with each other. Over this I heard the familiar wheezing and stomping, but no one else knew what they were hearing. Then suddenly Tiger had joined us, tired and happy. They did not know how to handle his presence. This fat, sloppy dog had absolutely no place in the allergy-ridden Montessori upper-class worldview of these people, and I was just delighted. So was Tiger. It turns out that he loved kids. He weighed more than any two of them combined, and all he wanted to do was jump on them and lick face. His owner was responsible enough to keep this from happening, and Tiger was straining as hard as he could against his harness to get his huge tongue on these kids. Parents, kids and teachers all shrank back so that there was a circle around Tiger wherever he went in the hallway. Due to the exertion of the stairs and his excitement, he threw up in the middle of the floor. Everyone but me, Tiger and his owner was horrified. Finally one of the teachers had the presence of mind to get some paper towels, but not before Tiger tried re-eating his breakfast. One of the children started weeping. Tiger's owner apologized, and they waddled out the front door to see what the city had in store for them. The children made their way upstairs, contemplating what they had just seen like Siddartha after he saw his first old man.

Colin Fisher is many things to many people, but mostly he's an actor and writer.

New Guidelines for Reporting on Justin Bieber

2013-04-15T10:22:00.000-04:00

Remember in the old Clash of the Titans, when Zeus is moving pieces around on a board, plotting out the lives of the mortals below? Someone, somewhere, is doing the same thing for Justin Bieber, and they're following a beat sheet some hack wrote thirty years ago that lays out the behavior of an idiot child who's been handed everything his entire life.

So here's the thing: as long as Bieber is following that predestined course, no one in the "news" has any business discussing it, because nothing about it is new. This is just a dog biting a man, over and over. This is like the Weather Channel announcing every hour that our atmosphere is still 78% nitrogen. Great. You should really only let us know when that changes.

What would be "new?" What could Bieber do that may actually warrant a news report? Here are a few suggestions:

Writing an actual novel, all by himself, targeted at anyone over 25.
Quietly absorbing a lesson about humanity without tweeting it.
Realizing the immaterial nature of reality and giving up his worldly possessions to wander the earth as an enlightened beggar.
Keeping his shirt on for eight straight hours.
Settling down in Michigan with a plain-faced nurse and going into lumber sales.

Otherwise, news outlets may as well run two minutes of an anchor repeating the alphabet, because that information has as much value as anything else this kid is going to do in the near future. This also applies to Taylor Swift and breakups, and Amanda Bynes and...whatever it is she's going through.

Colin Fisher is many things to many people, but mostly he's an actor and writer.

A Struggle of Wills at Gristedes

2013-01-28T11:15:00.001-05:00

My basket full, I stepped up to the back of the line at register two. In front of me was a young man buying ramen and Gatorade; in front of him, an old woman who only spoke Spanish and who seemed to be paying with some form of obscure government documentation that required several witnesses. I was fine with this delay, because I came here with a mission and I needed a little time to accomplish it. I brought my own bag, and damned if this cashier was going to make me put my groceries in it yet again.

I have been a whole-hearted supporter of the bring-your-own-bag movement. Being both practical and environmentally-minded, I never threw away plastic bags. I never used them either, which meant that several cubic yards of any home I've had as an adult were dedicated to plastic bag storage. Since it has become generally accepted to bring a bag from home, I haven't touched a plastic bag in years and I have oodles of storage space for other things I never use.

The only problem with bringing your own bag is that cashiers seem not to have gotten the memo that times are a-changin'. They view bags from home as some alien intrusion into their workplace, some strange new math far above their pay grade and training that requires advanced philosophical understanding and strange Eastern mysticism to truly grasp and utilize.

In short, they won't touch them and generally stand there texting while you rush to put your groceries into this strange thing with which you've violated their place of business. This was especially true for the cashier in whose line I now waited.

Really, it's just a bag, and that word has a loose definition. They're lucky I don't bring a sheet with me, lay it at the end of the counter and ask them to tie it up like a hobo's bindle when they're done. That, too, would more or less fall under the category of "bag," but semantically I'm sticking very close to the device they understand to be a bag.

Back to the line: I wanted a little extra time. If there's no wait, as I'm unloading my basket they start scanning and attempting to put my food in plastic. I have to tell them I brought my own bag, at this point still folded under my arm, which always translates to "please, don't do your job. I'll take it from here." No, I wanted to unload the basket while the cashier was dealing with the young man's sad, sodium-packed dinner, so that when it was my turn I could put my open bag on the counter and watch her do her thing.

The old woman was wrapping up her transaction. Translators were indicating that the proper paperwork had been notarized, and witnesses and judges all agreed that this served as legal tender for her food. I quickly unloaded my basket while the cashier swiped the young man's items, stowed the basket under the counter and snapped open my own shopping bag with a flourish. Today would be the day.

Before the cashier's hand even touched my yogurt, I blurted "I have my own bag" as I raced to set it on the counter, holding it open with patient optimism. I watched as she scanned each item, sliding them down next to the stack of New York Posts screaming the headline "BOFFO BLOOMBERG BLASTS BUS BUSKER BUSTERS," which means nothing in any language I know. I twitched my bag a little, indicating that she was free to put my groceries in there rather than letting them pile up. Piling up they were. This was a full trip. I'd depleted my cabinets with the intention of going for broke today. Two, then three people formed a line behind me as the cashier kept scanning. The master of efficiency inside me wanted to start bagging, to get out of the way as soon as possible, but no. I wasn't here to be polite. I was here to make a statement. I was here to win.

Everything scanned, the cashier announced my total. I gave my bag another feeble twitch before swiping, but she stood idly as I punched in my PIN. The true test was beginning. She handed me my receipt. Our eyes locked. She was on to me. We each stood unmoving, daring the other to admit defeat. We did not break our gaze. Time stretched, slowed; the store became quiet. The world at large had ceased to exist. There was just me, the cashier, my bag, and a pile of food that wanted to go home.

We stood there like two samurai, knowing the first to move would lose the struggle. We exchanged whole paragraphs without speaking a word. I could feel the tension, the energy between us shifting, first towards her, then towards me, then holding in the middle. It was an even match. A single bead of sweat ran down my temple. She gave her eyebrow the subtlest of arches, as if to say "had enough?" I narrowed my eyes—never.

The fool behind me spoke up. "What the hell are you doing? Get out of the way!" We paid him no mind. If he couldn't understand what was happening here, then no explanation we could provide would make sense. The loudspeaker crackled. "Register one is open with no waiting." Grumbling, the line behind me shifted over. "I just don't understand some people." "Is this performance art?" They were as ants to us.

Time passed. I was exhausted. The strain was mounting, but I could tell the same was true for the cashier. My yogurt was now as sweaty as me. My bananas called out. I could practically hear them ripening, begging to be eaten. My mind started to wander, and I imagined myself on my couch, ripping into these Cool Ranch Doritos as the title screen to Assassin's Creed flickered on my television. I snapped back to the present, waiting. A big bald man in a short-sleeved shirt and tie came over to the register. "Lydia, what the hell is this?" The cashier's eyes flicked over to him, then back to me. I had the upper hand and she knew it. Yet she didn't move. "Lydia, bag those groceries." She was a statue. For the first time in what felt like hours, I smiled. I saw the end, and I liked it. "Lydia, I'm counting to three. One." She looked to the manager, then to my groceries. "Two." I nodded towards my bag. She had no choice now. "Alright. Three. Turn off your light and go home. You're done here. We don't have time for crap like this." The cashier smiled at me, turned off her light, brushed by the manager and marched right out of the store without a single backward glance.

The manager started bagging my groceries for me. "I'm sorry, I don't know what came over her. She's never acted like that before. I'll give you a five dollar coupon for your trouble, sir." I just nodded faintly. I was shocked. Lydia had known exactly how this would play out. She was ready for me, and she knew the only way to defeat me in a place where the customer is always right. She let me take her land, but she salted the earth and slaughtered her animals before letting me in. Technically I had won, since I didn't bag my own groceries in the end, but it was a hollow victory. The manager pushed my bag towards me. "There you go sir. Are you OK? You look pale." I made a noncommittal sound and shambled towards the door, replaying the events of the day in my mind. I looked for any way I could have truly succeeded, anything I could have done differently. There was nothing. Lydia had locked it all down before I even showed up.

I began the long walk home.

Colin Fisher is many things to many people, but mostly he's an actor and writer.

Job Journal: Outbound Customer Service, Call Center in Oak Ridge TN

2013-01-14T17:21:00.002-05:00

Peter Jackson's Dwarf Problem

2013-01-09T09:26:00.000-05:00

There's been plenty of chatter over Peter Jackson's latest film, The Hobbit: An Unexpected Nine Hour Adaptation of a Single Book. Such talk has ranged from the advantages and disadvantages of a high frame rate, to its cutting-edge CGI, to OMG Brad you said Legolas was in this movie I'm going next door to watch the Gerard Butler movie. But there's one thing the media are strangely silent about:

Peter Jackson is a dwarfist.

Look at the image above. You see 13 dwarves total. Twelve interchangeable characters in funny prosthetics made to look inhuman and cartoonish. Twelve dwarves with almost no characterization or backstory in the film, each serving up a line or two of comic relief throughout the movie. And then there's Thorin.

Thorin, the leader of the dwarves, the "good" dwarf, the noble dwarf, the dwarf with a compelling background, the dwarf who manages to be an almost-lead in a movie titled The Hobbit: An Unexpected Strain on the Devotion of Fans. Thorin, who just by coincidence happens to look way more like a human than any of his companions.

Where all the other dwarves have funny hats, or weird matted hair, or huge W.C. Fields noses, Thorin strikes a pose several inches taller than them with his flowing black locks, well-trimmed goatee, and well-proportioned nose. This is typical Hollywood studio-think. "We can't have a hero with x background; our audience of y background just won't identify with him." So you get David Carradine playing the lead in "Kung Fu." You get Mickey Rooney playing the Asian neighbor in Breakfast at Tiffany's. You get the dashing man-like character of Thorin in charge of 12 bumbling dwarves.

Let's turn the tables. Let's make a movie about 13 African-American men on an adventure. Let's give 12 of them funny noses and weird clothes and make them all look the same and say funny things that white people think black people say. They will be indistinguishable from one another. Then let's make the thirteenth man the leader. He'll have the conflict, the passion, the awesome action sequences. I want you to close your eyes. Can you see him leading his band of adventurers across the land? I want you to picture him, this man.

Now imagine he's in whiteface.

Shame on you, Mr. Jackson.

Colin Fisher is many things to many people, but mostly he's an actor and writer for whom the word "dwarf" has lost all meaning.

What are you people doing at the post office?

2012-12-20T19:12:00.003-05:00

I felt the profound ecstasy of waiting in line at the post office this morning to mail a package for my boss. The sea of post office humor was drained mostly dry in the 80s by men in sport coats standing in front of brick walls, but I want to address one specific thing. What transactions are people attempting in there that take so long?

I have a box. There's an address on that box. You need to make this box go to that address. Here's money. BOOM. Next.

But no, the people in front of me are never that straightforward. They have so many questions. What is there to know? Do you need to know exactly how these things are being delivered? Do you need the clerk to explain powered flight, or internal combustion engines? Are you worried that the mail man in Florida doesn't know where your niece lives? Don't worry about it. They have this figured out. For the most part.

Intense negotiations seem to be happening from time to time. Exotic currencies from forgotten lands are presented and exchanged. Eldritch powers are called upon to transport money orders through the netherworld, so that they may be used to buy goats on the other side of the globe. I think I once saw someone offer a newborn babe as payment.

And the clerk accepted it.

Colin Fisher is many things to many people, but mostly he's an actor and writer.

The Hobbit in 3D at 48fps: My Thoughts

2012-12-19T16:33:00.000-05:00

2012-09-25T22:30:00.004-04:00

Previous Sketches

Living in New York City

by Colin Fisher

INT. SUBWAY CAR

The train isn’t super crowded. It’s stopped in a station, and the doors are open. Two guys are standing shoulder to shoulder in the doorway. One’s reading the New York Post and the other is lost in his headphones. BOB comes running up behind them rushing to get on the car. He can’t get through.

BOB

Scuse me!

They don’t move.

BOB

Heads up!

Bob is edging in on them, trying not to shove but he really can’t get through.

BOB

Guys, pardon me.

He finally wedges himself through as the doors close. The guys never acknowledge him.

EXT. SUBWAY ENTRANCE

Busy NYC sidewalk, stairs going down to the subway. The same two guys are standing shoulder to shoulder blocking the entrance. Bob comes up the steps.

BOB

Seriously?

Nothing.

BOB

Guys.

Nothing. Bob edges through again, turns and waves his hands in front of the guys’ faces. No reaction. He turns and walks off, shaking his head.

INT. OFFICE BUILDING

Bob gets off the elevator, looking rushed. Tries to compose himself a little as he walks to his office. He turns the corner and the two guys are blocking his door. He walks up and stands in front of them. His secretary MAGGIE is sitting at her desk outside his office door.

BOB

When did these guys get here?

MAGGIE

About five minutes ago. Do you know them?

BOB

No. Did they say anything?

MAGGIE

No. They just walked in and stood there. They haven’t really moved since. Should I call the cops?

Bob deliberates. He picks up a pen from Maggie’s desk and tosses it at one of their faces. Nothing.

BOB

No. It’s fine.

INT. OFFICE

Closing time. Bob peeks his head out of his office, looks around. Guys are gone. He walks out of his office, looks around. Turns and locks the door, exits.

EXT. STREET

Bob walks up to his apartment building. Looking around, no guys. He looks at the front door. He takes a step forward. Nothing. Takes another step. No one shows up. He walks into the building.

INT. HALLWAY

Bob peeks his head around the corner. No one is in the hallway. He approaches his apartment. He unlocks the door, then shoves it open and jumps inside his apartment, looking everywhere to catch the guys. No deal. He looks like he’s finally relaxing.

INT. APARTMENT

Bob is walking around his apartment, getting ready for bed. Going through several doors as he turns off the TV, sets the coffee maker, then goes into the bathroom.

INT. BATHROOM

Bob is brushing his teeth, humming a little bit.

INT. APARTMENT HALLWAY

Bob walks out of the bathroom to go to his bedroom. The two guys are standing in the bedroom doorway, one still reading his paper and the other still listening to music.

BOB

Fuck it. I’m moving back to Buffalo.

END

National Sketch Writing Month Sketch #24

2012-09-25T17:15:00.002-04:00

Previous Sketches

Mundane Mutation Support Group

by Colin Fisher

EXT. CHURCH

The marquee out front reads “Tonight: Support Group for Mundane Mutations”

INT. CHURCH BASEMENT

People sit in a loose circle on chairs that are too small. There’s a big, old coffee machine somewhere. Sad lighting.

BRAD

And so everyone thinks Wolverine’s all hot shit, I guess, because his mutations give him claws and animal senses. Meanwhile mine give me huge foot talons I can’t retract and a furry ass. It’s not fair.

COUNSELOR

Now remember Brad, we’re not here to compare ourselves or talk about fairness.

BRAD

Tell that to my constant fungal infections.

COUNSELOR

Look, I’m sure Wolverine, and many of the X-Men, have their share of problems. The important thing to remember is that we’re all mutants, and we’re all unique. Some of us just happen to have abilities that qualify us for an internationally-renowned crimefighting team.

BRAD

I guess.

COUNSELOR

None of us had any control over our gifts. Remember, if you can’t control it, you have to...?

GROUP

Accept it.

COUNSELOR

Great. Lonnie, let’s hear from you.

LONNIE

It was a pretty humdrum week. I had a date Friday, and things were going well, and we made our way to my bedroom. She mentioned I didn’t have any clocks, and I really tried to sell it. I said “well, it’s funny you notice. I have something to tell you, and not many people know this.” She was really intrigued. “I’m a mutant.” Her face lit up, and she said “like Cyclops?” I said “yeah, just like him!” “What’s your mutant power? Can you fly, or shrink, or have super strength?” I said “no! I can wake myself up at any point, no alarm needed!” Her face practically fell off her head. She was gone in ten minutes. I would have been better off if I hadn’t said anything.

COUNSELOR

What did you learn?

LONNIE

I’m incredibly lame and Cyclops eats it.

COUNSELOR

Lonnie, you know better than that.

Lonnie sighs.

LONNIE

That I’m not defined by my mutation.

COUNSELOR

Good. You’re all whole people. You’re not just one strange gene sequence. I see we have a newcomer tonight. Would you care to introduce yourself and talk about your situation?

RUFUS

Hi. I’m Rufus, and I’ve never been officially diagnosed or whatever, but I think my mutant power is to smell really bad.

COUNSELOR

Hi Rufus. Interesting, I haven’t encountered that before.

Brad is next to Rufus.

BRAD

I can vouch for it. He stinks.

COUNSELOR

Brad, that’s not constructive. Rufus, is this something you noticed beginning around puberty?

RUFUS

Um, no, it’s pretty much always been like that.

COUNSELOR

I see. Is it something you can turn on and off, or make better or worse?

RUFUS

Not really by, like, conscious control, but I’ve noticed that it does change based on what I eat.

COUNSELOR

And what do you typically eat?

RUFUS

A lot of garlic and fish.

COUNSELOR

Right. I think perhaps you might not have a mutation, just a body odor problem. You’re going to need to bathe more and change up your diet, OK?

RUFUS

Oh, OK.

COUNSELOR

And you need to leave.

RUFUS

But, I think maybe I also have cancer? Is that a mutation?

COUNSELOR

I think so, and that’s really serious, and you need to see a doctor. OK?

RUFUS

OK.

COUNSELOR

Alright. Good luck.

RUFUS

Oh, right. OK.

Rufus leaves. Awkward silence.

COUNSELOR

Well. OK. I’d like to talk this evening about how we can use our abilities for constructive purposes. This week I had a great opportunity to make the most of my cheese-locating mutation...

FADE OUT

National Sketch Writing Month Sketch #23

2012-09-23T23:14:00.002-04:00

Previous Sketches

Jury Duty

2012-09-16T23:03:00.003-04:00

Previous Sketches

Febreze Commercial

by Colin Fisher

EXT. STREET

Like any other man-on-the-street commercial, someone just off-camera stops a passer-by who is definitely a mom. The off-screen voice is male.

VOICE O.S.

Excuse me, would you like to play a game? How much do you trust Febreze?

MOM

Oh, I love that stuff! It hides the smells of the ethnic foods my husband likes!

VOICE O.S.

Let’s put it to the test, shall we?

MOM

Sounds fun!

INT. DARK ROOM

Close-up of the mom’s dimly lit, blindfolded face.

VOICE

Now, what do you smell?

MOM

Umm, I smell laundry, and, like, springtime?

VOICE

Wonderful! Now, take a look around you.

The mom takes off her blindfold, as the shot widens to show the contents of the room. It is human carnage. Body parts, splatters, pieces of people hanging from the ceiling. The mom is pleasantly surprised.

MOM

Well whadda ya know?

VOICE

I want you to make a choice. Febreze, or the other leading brand of odor neutralizer?

MOM

Well mister, you better believe I’m going with Febreze!

VOICE

Excellent.

MOM

Now tell me, what do you find is the best thing for cleaning up blood splatters? Because I tell you, I have the toughest time...

FADE OUT on their conversation, and

CUT TO a bottle of Febreze, with the mom out of focus in the background carrying on with the voice.

END