This post came about after reading a handful of bloggers projecting dispirate takes on their lives, specific to the topic of being on the right the path with life choices. I found clarity and optimism on one end of the spectrum, gloom and despair on the other. Reading in succession, I wanted to keep one hand open to divvy out high fives and fist bumps, the other hand free to swing around shoulders of the forlorn like Baymax from Big Hero 6 and whisper, “There, there…”

Caveat, though, whenever I do the Baymax bit at home with my future wife, I usually get a playful punch in the arm or elbow in the chest. Such is our shtick. We’re comfy inside our goofball skins. It took us much of our lives to be together following long paths filled with adversity. Between us, we’ve seen and done just about everything, and thus we seized the moment, hand-in-hand, when our paths as longtime friends cleared of its suppressive debris. What opened before us upon re-meeting later in life was a merged, linear road which became so easy to take together. There, there, and beyond…

Plotting one’s life course contains one-half uncertainty and unpredictability, the other half, risk. Life is very much a business model. The more in-tune you are with your personal inventory, the clearer the way becomes toward realizing a revolving bottom line you can live with. This entails material growth, sure. Yet, most of us want to be fiscally secure more than being concerned with emotional security. One often begets the other. Wealth can either make or break a person, but does it always have to entail money? Can the projected investments one makes into their stocks of life have future growth based on the immaterial?

When does your “A-ha!” moment on the curving, jagged, sometimes blockaded thoroughfare hit you: when you feel surrounded by pleasurable things or from pleasure itself? Are you more concerned with the pathways others are taking around you toward the same destination or objective? Running parallel, yet seemingly with a faster track in some cases? Are you a “Keeping Up With the Joneses” type or do you move forward with a confident tread, leaving your mark without a care of how fast it takes you? Always keep in mind, my friends, the journey well supercedes the destination.

Also keep in mind, every life reaches a crossroads at some point. Some more often than others. It’s scary to hit a point where repercussion outweighs thinking on your feet with immediate reaction. Some personalities are full-frontal. Others are cautious. Impetuous or conservative, actions are determined by a culmination of life experiences, relationships, failures and successes, what works systemically in one’s life, heck, even a ceaseless “to-do” list which dictates our immediate thoughts and motions.

Progression keeps us happy in most cases, though for some, stagnancy and indecision is a safe haven. Leader types tend to get through the obstacles on the road quicker than followers, though it might be said the followers act as a buffer through which the leader achieves so readily. Even the leaders hit the forks in the proverbial (and literal) road, though.

So what do you do when the time inevitably comes you are forced to choose a direction to push your life? You can take the time to jot down a pros and cons list, a pragmatic way to take accountability and assessment before choosing your next path forward. You can also retreat, meditate and ground your inhibitions until settling upon which direction entails the least risk. A night out with a hard drink or two and a best friend’s ear is another good method.

I see the upward and onward attitude the motivated portion of our society takes toward achieving overt happiness, as much as I see others self-crippled in depression and anxiety. Would that we all had the secret map leading us out of an overwhelming land of confusion and into our private (or collective, if you’re a people person) nirvana. I say, however, there is an “A-ha!” to be had more than a “There, there” if you have the wherewithal and the guts to pound out your personal path.

In terms of outdoor hiking, we are most secure upon a marked and blazed path. The clearer the footway, the more painted marks on trees we see telling us we’re safely on our way, the more joy we grab from the moment. There’s security in this, much less all aspects of life. If we have the strength, we go longer in miles, knowing someone’s already taken the time to plow the brush and branches out of the way for us. Yet there come those times, especially hiking in the woods, where split and intersected paths occur. Some of us panic, in search of a posted map from the local rangers, if we don’t have a paper map to use and our cell phones are locked away from signal zones. Other personalities shrug their shoulders and see where one trail leads for sheer kicks.

In terms of life, we envy those with the freedom to indulge their “kicks,” and it often heightens our self-awareness. This may mean inspiring us to raise our standards, to do the time, the research and above all, the work, to achieve a similar footholding. The bipolar opposite, external exhibitions of others’ success may prompt jealousy, anger and insecurity. A self-flaggelation of the id. It could even trigger an internal alarm that one’s path has been wrong all along.

We all go through it, folks, peaks and valleys. To stay onward and upward, though, is to realize we’re all human, first and foremost. We all have worth. We all have strengths and weaknesses, but our spirits are the collateral we pony up for the rides of our lifetimes. Rather than focusing on the fast track, rather than letting others dictate our pace, much less our moral fiber in choice making and direction taking, stop for a moment (especially when hitting a crossroad) and inhale. What feels good to you? What offers you the most intrinsic boost to keep plowing on? What, and moreover, who makes you want to fight for them, much less yourself, no matter how rocky the terrain ahead may be?

There’s not always a perfect path. Sometimes you hit dead ends and you have to regress then regroup before starting on your way once again. Often you’ll need to shed and purge that which has impeded you, be it a fear of failure, a toxic relationship, dead weight you can no longer carry on the incalculable miles it takes to get where you finally feel gratification. For certain, leaps of faith are called upon, and prayers to whomever you believe is your spiritual guide in this life. You will meet on your path people who are your friends and your enemies and those in between. Often those collide, and change over time. The truest of the true will be there when you reach your summit and they’ve done more than pass along a comforting “There, there.” They’ll be saying “A-ha!” right alongside you as the dust of negativity clears and the esplanade to idiosyncratic prosperity looks more conquerable.

–Ray Van Horn, Jr.

A 70 year reign running concurrent with 15 British prime ministers, 14 U.S. presidents and seven popes. Rest in Power, Queen Elizabeth, II.

Peace to all of my friends across the pond and the entire United Kingdom Commonwealth.

TJ and I walk a routine path a couple times a week, but it took us many outings until we spotted this majestic grandfather tree, hanging tough on borrowed time and pushing his exuberance through his weathered, gnarled and termite-chewed facade. In fact, we both agreed the grandfather called to us before I took his picture. We also agreed a third of the way down from the top is the grandfather’s face, peering right at the trail in search of an appreciative eye.

You be the judge, but I can tell you this was taken during sundown and the natural lighting was much lower than is presented in the shot. I used no filters and I made no adjustments. Grandfather’s vibrance shone on his own, rewarding us for taking the time to stop and acknowledge him. Blessed be, Grandfather Tree. A long life well-met.

–Ray Van Horn, Jr.

I’ve been seeing a trend out here amongst scribes communing in the Blogverse, writers discussing their favorite things. I could refer you to the picture above as a prime example of my absolute favorite thing, having a woman like TJ as my best friend in our favorite habitat: on a trail.

I can always cite my son, my family and all of my beautiful friends as the top shelf favorite things in my life. Ditto for a wide and diverse pantheon, largely Egyptian, but represented as well by the Norse, Germanic and Greek sects, altogether constituting an alternate form of spiritualism. All of this combined gives me my verve, my reason to wake up, my ambition to be the best I can be in my job and as a writer.

I think we can all agree our loved ones and spiritual connections make up the top tiers of our welfare and happiness. We also have tangible treasures unique to us, which may sparkle to some, turn away others. Some of us have the ultra-rare privilege of ownership to things most others do not. For this post, I want to share five of my very favorite things you likely don’t have, not that it’s a brag. There’s very little material worth involved, but I do love these simple things which represent me or are fun extensions of me…

My CD copy of Queensryche’s Operation: Mindcrime, an all-time favorite and a writer’s album. Autographed by former vocalist, Geoff Tate, with whom I had dinner and an interview in Washington, DC before a Queensryche show. An unforgettable moment of my music journalism career, Tate and I spoke casually and formally about music and the industry. He gave me pointers then as a fledgling journalist I never forgot.

My trusty Donald Duck coffee mug purchased at Disney World, Florida in 2010. The classic Donald, circa the 1930s and ’40s. I had to have it, along with a can of Mickey’s “Really Swell” Coffee, which was then…really daggone swell! I have a good handful of coffee mugs, but even TJ pulls Donald down for me automatically when fixing me a tea or before I set up my coffeepot. The mug is out of circulation, and I thank myself almost every time I use it for getting it while I had the chance.

“Sir Percy.” My parents obtained me this four-foot aluminum knight in Cape May, NJ. The story I was told of my stepfather hauling him all over the resort is a family treasure in itself. Percy is the middle name of my grandfather, with whom I had a deep bond and who predicted to me at his kitchen table when I was 12 and already burrowed into Stephen King novels, I would become a writer one day. Sir Percy has served as protector of my realm in 7 homes.

My original 1978 Han Solo blaster from Kenner. No, it’s not the one from my childhood. No, it doesn’t have the packaging. No, it doesn’t work, as in making the high-pitched laser screech. I don’t care. I love it. I’ve had to reassemble it a few times, but as a kid, when we all played Star Wars, most boys would offer to take on a Gundark for the right to be Luke. Usually that was settled rock-scissors-paper elimination style. Not me. Solo. ’nuff said.

Reading in bed with TJ. The end of the day, the kiddo in bed for the night. The day’s worries and trials settled for the time being. Just us and a pair of books. Sometimes we end up stopping to have a family strategy session. More often than not, TJ beats me staying awake. Still, it’s our most favorite nightly ritual as a couple.

–Ray Van Horn, Jr.

Years ago while I was writing in the music industry, I had the opportunity to pitch a resurrection plan to an MTV executive I’d grown chummy with from visits on assignment to New York City. Said player in the tale will remain anonymous. We’d shared a passion for the network’s weekly devotions offered in the name of heavy metal music, Headbangers Ball. Prior to this, I’d had the chance to talk to VH-1 and metal journalist legend, Eddie Trunk for a few minutes and I’d scored an all-time favorite interview with original MTV veejay, Nina Blackwood. It was a high time of my writing life, when my home office was nearly half the basement in a rancher, and all the free, promotional media I was sent for review consideration surrounded me in a literal labyrinth.

Welp, after two runs of the beloved Headbangers Ball (the much heavier reincarnation spanning through the early 2000s), the proposal I’d come up with was nixed and sent into the ether with other woebegone MTV segments from pre-reality show yesteryear: Remote Control, Liquid Television, Yo! MTV Raps and 120 Minutes. I think about this presumed yes from time-to-time, and realize I might’ve been huckstered into submitting a blind faith prospectus to a lost cause.

Last week, I finished the final draft to a new novel in the hands of a prospective literary agent, a retro partial autobiography centering on my teen years, in which metal music was figurative. I mention Headbangers Ball a couple times, set during the original show’s run beginning April of 1987.

My novel’s core protagonists observe the same weekly ritual old school heavy metal addicts did back then. Saturdays at midnight, MTV. Be there or be a poser. Adjust all weekend plans to accommodate. Clear the parents from the room with the biggest and loudest television. Pop a beer if you were of age. Sneak it after said parents went to bed if you weren’t.

Headbangers Ball (or simply, “The Ball” to metalheads of all generations) was not merely a two-hour show devoted to heavy music. It was a secular religion. Jerry Falwell and his money-grubbing televangelists had their say on the tube six hours later on Sunday mornings. At the strike of twelve, however, cathodes were controlled by counterculture music for outcasts. Or so it was in the beginning…

You could say the great debate to Headbangers Ball in the late Eighties was whether it would ever have a proper VJ to field the band interviews and transition the showcased heavy metal videos. So many fans of the day screamed bloody murder at the show’s questionable-fit first hosts, Asher “Smash” Benrubi, Kevin Seal and Adam Curry. O.G.V.J. fashionista “Downtown” Julie Brown gave it her best, wubba wubba wubba, but it wasn’t until L.A. rock scenester Riki Rachtman made the show his for five years. This, despite being notoriously hazed by bands on the set while learning the ropes and being roasted by viewers as metal music changed and then evaporated in the U.S. for a while.

The show had become such a Ball of confusion MTV had visible trouble differentiating Black Sabbath from Blind Melon, Faster Pussycat from Four Non-Blondes. As if the Bon Jovi, Poison and Warrant clones hadn’t done enough damage to the show and to the scene itself. Guns n’ Roses became the darlings of The Ball, so much to the point I cringe and sweep away “Welcome to the Jungle,” “Paradise City” and “Sweet Child ‘o Mine” anytime they manifest. None of it can hold a candle to Appetite for Destruction deep cuts, “It’s So Easy,” “My Michelle” or “Think About You,” and I’ve embraced my minority opinion.

Like my peers of the day, I can bitch how watered down the halcyon Headbangers Ball became. I can also advocate MTV for giving multicultural bands like Living Colour, Bad Brains, Death Angel, Loudness, E-Z-O and Suicidal Tendencies a lot of love. Still, a reliable succession of video clips by industry icons Iron Maiden, Krokus, W.A.S.P., Judas Priest, Megadeth, Warlock, Queensryche, Overkill, Anvil, Metal Church, Anthrax, Twisted Sister, Motorhead, Scorpions, Dokken, Heathen, Ratt, Madam X, Nuclear Assault and Testament soon turned into a commercial rock marathon. Defenders of the faith had to seek their true metal fix through a haze of Aqua Net and tight-bottomed female models, at times blocking the views of shredding arpeggios and tom rolls. Sex sells, it’s not just a business truism. Whitesnake rocked much of the time, but Tawny Kitaen, ’nuff said…

Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” (my most hated song in the rock universe) and the stripper-worshipping Motley Crue prompted corporate record labels to sign limp-noodled, synth-driven hair rock which pushed the acts we were screaming for toward the back end of the two hour program. It’s no wonder Nirvana and Soundgarden became what they were; once Headbangers Ball lost its soul, the metal devout had to wait until the final 20 minutes of the show to see videos by genuine heavies like Prong, Sepultura, Ministry, Kreator, Saxon, Annihilator, Exodus, King Diamond, even goofballs like Killer Dwarfs, Dangerous Toys, Butthole Surfers and Scatterbrain.

The show queefed from a gaseous AOR virus more concerned with fueling the great party than the rock itself, and it wasn’t only grunge which bumped off Headbangers Ball and metal music for a spell. Its primary audience grew up and went to college or their future adult lives, many falling away from the scene until a nostalgic pining for love of grit brought them all back for a second run “death to false metal” crusade. With it came the short-lived metal-only channel, MTV X, then Jamey Jasta of the blistering Hatebreed, whose run as host of the revivified Headbangers Ball more than atoned for its poofy-haired sins. Sadly, Jasta and his successor, Jose Mangin, would be swept away with the monster, neo-inception of The Ball to a point of seeming finality. It was nice seeing modern underground metal icons like Enslaved, Fear Factory, Mastodon, Deftones, Between the Buried and Me, Static-X, Ishahn, The Dillinger Escape Plan, Unearth, All That Remains, Behemoth, Devildriver, Amorphis, Belphegor, High On Fire, Cradle of Filth, H.I.M., Keep of Kalessin, Norma Jean, Atreyu and their many likenesses have a near-mainstream habitat to make their cases for metal immortality.

Instead of grumbling about the show’s mistreatment over the years, I’d rather reflect on what it meant to me, personally. Maybe it rings true with others who were there. I can’t understate how important it was for me to be home at midnight every Saturday. I could be off in my estimation, but I believe I missed Headbangers Ball only thrice from 1987 through 1990, those being due to vacations away from home.

I was 17 in ’87 and conveniently my curfew was midnight. I was dating and working in a grocery store, hanging with friends well into the late hours. No matter what the activity, I had to be home for The Ball. I made sure my girlfriend was dropped off by 11:30 p.m., which kept me in good graces with her religious, conservative family, considering their daughter was then in love with a hairball. Any parties I was invited to, the same deal. I was out by 11:30, and only in one instance when everyone was lit up including my ride, I managed to talk my way into putting Headbangers Ball on the house t.v. to many people’s chagrin. A horns-up moment if there ever was one.

Movies, I usually went to on Friday nights with friends or my girlfriend. If it had to be a Saturday, I would go no later than a 9:00 or 9:30 p.m. showing. I was that obsessed with Headbangers Ball. I couldn’t get enough of hearing the samples of S.O.D.’s thrash cuts behind the title screens and commercial breaks before those changed to Prong. I taped the song videos, six VHS tapes worth. I was so OCD I wrote down each clip I’d recorded in a notebook so I wouldn’t have repeats. I’d watch them again during the weeknights I was off from work and summer days.

Stupidly, I did not record the interviews, which most people look at me like Wile E. Coyote with his jaw slamming to the ground after the Roadrunner tears away from him at hyperspeed when I confess to this. Yeah, Ray Van Horn, Jr., who would go on to interview many of the bands who appeared on Headbangers Ball, hadn’t taped one single show interview. When I think of how laced out Guns n’ Roses were on their debut appearance on The Ball, and how badly Dave Mustaine of Megadeth dicked wtih Riki Rachtman, I feel foolish. It was prime music television, a lost art.

I would make no bones in verbally pushing my folks out of the living room to surrender the t.v. to me for Headbangers Ball. As a father myself, I now shake my head and laugh at this memory of being such a royal pain to my parents. They would make a sport of it, waiting all the way until 11:59 p.m. before heading off to bed. It was so snarky and I would begin to shake with anticipation until that remote was in my hands and I heard S.O.D.’s “Milano Mosh” spool the show to life.

I can remember what joy it was to see MTV give more extreme bands like Slayer some play, then Morbid Angel, Coroner, Mercyful Fate, Dark Angel, Cryptic Slaughter, Destruction, Carcass, bands you had to really know the scene to appreciate. I also recall the day of abhorration when Celtic Frost’s “Cherry Orchards” premiered. Any dedicated metal fan was there and none of us will forget the abject terror of the moment. White Lion’s “Wait” was preferential. Well, maybe I’m getting carried away.

Up through high school graduation and my 18th birthday, I had many occasions where I would come home to catch Headbangers Ball and then go back out to meet my friends until 4:00 a.m. Everything changed in college, but I was still there, holding the torch and praying for a Voivod video that only seldom came.

Salad days, man…

–Ray Van Horn, Jr.

Walking barefoot over a bed of hot coals at 1200 degrees Fahrenheit takes a steely resolve seldom few of us have. Another 1200 statistic would be when the practice is said to have originated in B.C. era India.

Firewalking is considered a rite of passage. So too for many people pushing their physical limits through 5K, 10K and longer obstacle course races like Spartan, Rugged Maniac, Civilian Military Combine, Tough Mudder, GORUCK Challenge, The Murph and the defunct Warrior Dash.

Over the past handful of years, I’ve enjoyed running many of these obstacle races, though the most recent two I’ve taken on is the obstacle-devoid Spartan Trail 10K runs. I can say without a doubt each one of these fitness endurance events has been a game changer for me, including this past weekend at Palmerton, Pennsylvania in the Pocono Mountains.

Spartan Trail will test you, regardless of your cardio and strength levels, namely the two kilometers worth of punishing uphill through the ascending woods up the ski slope at Blue Mountain. Entrants heave, gasp and grunt in this section particularly. Consider myself inclusive of that both times I’ve run this event. It’s brutal.

Yet the payoff for all of that grueling work is an exhilarating downhill blast where you can make up some of your time if you’re concerned about competing against the open field. The true reward comes at the final drop toward the finish line where you’re expected to jump an elongated fire pit as your proverbial rite of passage through sweat, pain and stamina. All Spartan racers (with the exception of Stadion event competitors), will jump fire. It’s as prerequisite as spear throwing, monkey bars and burpees in the obstacle races.

As intimidating as the prospect of a torched ankle or worse, a face-first tumble into blazing embers may be, run one of these events and whether you’re gassed or still revved at the end, the recompense is that glorious fire jump.

The fire jump is symbolic of triumph over adversity, of overcoming fear with resilience. That transcendence with heat broiling beneath your legs and torso before the completion medal is earned…that, my friends, is the reason to do the whole daggone thing.

–Ray Van Horn, Jr.

You read a lot of retrospectives over woebegone discontinued sweets and treats from generations past. One candy bar not just reliably makes the list, it stands out like a mythical beacon of nostalgia not even the gobstopping Willie Wonka or Hubba Bubba chewing gum can outshine.

I’m talking about the ephemeral Reggie! bar, which crazed and glazed sweet teeth from the mid-1970s through the early Eighties. Named after the iconic New York Yankees slugger, Reggie Jackson (the Aaron Judge of his time), Curtiss Candy introduced the baseball-themed cluster bar in 1977. Comparable to the manufacturers’ Baby Ruth (featuring the namesake of Grover Cleveland’s daughter), the Reggie! bar struck many candy connoisseurs’ fancies, at least until its original demise in 1982.

Let me give you an abbreviated tale of two baseball cities, Baltimore and New York. One blue collar, the other a mash of working class and Wall Street. Baltimore has always been considered minor league compared to the pinstriped Metropolis (or slate gray and orange if you’re a Mets backer). This inferiority complex which has long plagued the city used to give Baltimore citizens, much less their sports teams, a collective chip on their shoulders. The swagger has returned, planted square upon the backs of the Ravens in the NFL. In the past couple decades especially, it’s no secret the Orioles have been the Yankees’ whipping boys. A current historical record of the two teams’ series over the years has the Yankees overpowering the O’s in a lopsided 1301-888 drubbing.

Granted, Baltimore’s rebuilding roster has finally shown sparks of competitiveness and they’ve managed to gnash at the Bronx Bombers’ heels here and there the past few years. During the 1970s and 80s, however, both cities boasted two of the top contending teams in Major League Baseball. Their slugfests back then were the stuff of the game’s canon, though incomparable to eons-worth of Yankees-Red Sox diamond duels. I was there to see some of those O’s-Yanks epics as a kid in the Orioles’ original home, Memorial Stadium. Seems way too long and just like yesterday I was cheering on my baseball idol, Eddie Murray, along with O’s legends, Al Bumbry, Lee May, Doug DeCinces, Don Stanhouse, Mark Belanger, Ken Singleton, Gary Roenicke, Rick Dempsey, Sammy Stewart and all the harbingers of Orioles Magic back then.

Reggie Jackson once played for the Oakland Athletics and, for a single season in 1976, with the Baltimore Orioles before migrating to the Big Apple and finding superstardom. Legend had it during his time as an Oriole that Reggie claimed if he could land a spot with the Yankees, he would have a candy named after him.

So it came to pass. Jackson turned Yankee and in New York’s home opener for the 1978 season, the Reggie! bar was offered as a promotional giveaway to the fans. After pounding out a home run in his first at-bat of the season against the Chicago White Sox (this feat following his four dinger romp in the 1977 World Series), fans threw the candy bars onto the field in celebration, delaying the game by five minutes for clean-up. Consider it a precursor to uber-hockey fans throwing their caps onto the ice when a home team player nabs a three netter hat trick.

Though it made a short-lived rebrand with a swap of peanut butter from caramel in the Nineties, the Reggie! bar was more phenomenon than novelty. If you lived the times, you no doubt had a go with a Reggie! bar at least once. Most compared the cluster candy of milk chocolate, peanuts and caramel to a Baby Ruth bar (easy cheat, considering the Yankees tie), but I liken it more to a Nashville-proud Goo Goo bar.

Despite the Yankees being considered nefarious enemies of the Baltimore Orioles back in the day, we had a soft spot for Reggie Jackson. Most baseball fans at-large did. Like Aaron Judge or even Shohei Ohtani in today’s league, Reggie was a spectacle, much like his predecessors, Mickey Mantle, Babe Ruth and Joe DiMaggio. A Reggie Jackson at-bat was something to veer your eyes to, either at the stadium or on t.v. It made selling his candy bar all too easy back then. Like the man himself, people couldn’t get enough of the Reggie! bar when it first came out for a quarter. It was advertised as heavily as Budweiser and Old Spice pitches of the day.

Where I lived as a child for a few years in the mid 1970s, we couldn’t get a proper snow plow in the winter, but we could get a Reggie! bar at the tiny Winfield Market in Woodbine, a rural beyond rural hamlet in Carroll County, Maryland. A solid hour away from Memorial Stadium.

I used to get a dollar a week allowance for doing chores and with that buck, I could pester my folks on a Saturday to take me to the Winfield Market, where I could get a comic book, a pack of baseball (or Star Wars) trading cards, a Frosty root beer and a Reggie! bar. Can you stand it? All that swag for a single dollar! Ponder that a moment in this hellish bull market we’ve been thrust into.

Today, the Reggie! bar is a time capsule slab of chocolaty remembrance you have a feeling may surface as a rebooted good times throwback in the gift shop at your local Cracker Barrel. Fifties kids can still score Necco wafers, Sky Bars and Moon Pies to get their evocative sugar kicks in their golden years. Now would be a great time for sentimentality and a Reggie! resurface while there are still generations alive to plunk down for it. So long as it’s not an inflated $3.89 thrill seek.

Then again, we’re not far off some seeing a Judge Jaw Buster or his countenance replacing the hand-drawn homer king on a pack of Big League Chew. The Reggie! bar hung around during a period of economic flounder, gas shortages, American hostages overseas and political imbalance in the United States. New York City was then called “The Rotten Apple” from all-around negligence. Escapism works where it will.

-Ray Van Horn, Jr.

Spirituality comes to us as it will, whether it’s taught or directed to us through family or conventional public teaching or we discover our own path of enlightenment through open-minded revelation. A couple years ago, I found myself questioning whether the concept of the singular divine could be subject to revisionism. Specifically, whether or not “God” was actually androgynous. It made perfect sense to me. How can we have male and female species without attributes of both in terms of creationism?

When it became clear to me I was on a clouded path of spirituality, I found my suspicions about divinity to be true. “God” is a man and a woman. Moreover, a collective of both. Of all the gods and goddesses I’ve honored and worked with since taking a new path, the Egyptian pantheon has claimed me. Isis, Ra, Nephthys, Anubis, Thoth, Osiris, Bast and Horus scratch the surface of the vast number of mostly forgotten Egyptian deities and each have come to me in visualization, meditation and through self-pulled oracle and tarot. That being said, one goddess has really pulled to my side as a healer and motivator and in communing with her, a sharing of energy I never saw coming.

Sekhmet, the lion-headed goddess of war, healing and fertility. What a true badass of the esoteric realm. I give her offerings of steak, beer and red wine and I light red candles for her as a continuing presence in my life. You might say her manifestation to me was pre-ordained seven years ago in these photos I took of lionesses at the Smithsonian National Zoo in Washington, DC. The pictures show precisely what they reveal. Both of these lionesses watched me with intent and smiles. I stood there transfixed by them and they never took their eyes off of me until we parted ways. Maybe I might’ve been considered chuck steak if they could get their teeth in me, but I like to think Sekhmet had made her intentions known to me at an early onset. Blessed be, Sekhmet…

–Ray Van Horn, Jr.

No matter what roads we travel, we are the sum of our collective experiences, both good and bad.

Happy to say the good is winning these days…

I originally ran this piece in 2014 at an old blog of mine when my son was a lot younger and Spongebob Squarepants ruled the household t.v. once we got him past that painful, say-it-with-me building block schlock on Nick, Jr. Seven years ago since that post, sheesh, and the demise of Saturday morning cartooning had already become a sore spot with me. Yeah, I still miss ’em. The first time this ran was my number one hit-getter, so I figure a little dusting off and slight revision is in order…

Let’s face the facts; Saturday morning t.v. sucks these days. Hell, it’s nonexistent. Cartoona-persona non grata…

From as far back as the Fabulous Fifties, Saturday morning airwaves were ruled by kids.  While I never grew up with Captain Video, Captain Midnight, Howdy Doody, Kit Carson and Hopalong Cassidy, I was seldom not near the boob tube from 7:00 a.m. to noon on Saturday mornings from the 1970s through the Nineties.  Only until Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network made ‘toons a 24-7 anytime fix as network sold out could I be broken of my Saturday morning animation habit.  These days, I’m on the go fairly early with TJ on Saturday mornings, though we often muse together how much we miss those goofy ‘toons of yesteryear.

During the Eighties after my parents had divorced, I would still get control of the t.v. when my dad picked me up for visitations and we stopped at my grandparents’ house.  It’s to my father and my late grandparents’ credit they stomached the morning onslaught of cartoons all those years, but my Saturday morning chemical dependency carried well into the first five or six years of my former married life.  I can remember refusing to budge from the living room on Saturdays until the WB and Fox cartoons were finished before moving on with our weekend plans.  It was no different than when I grew up during the Seventies, only leaving the house to go out and play with my friends once Fat Albert had concluded.  I wasn’t alone in that.  Just ask anyone from my generation.

Most of my favorite Saturday morning cartoons were superhero-related. If you know me, you’re probably saying, well duh.  As early as the syndicated re-runs of the 1960’s Spiderman show that carried throughout the Seventies and early Eighties, I was afflicted by the Saturday morning cartoon bug.  I knew the lyrics to the Spiderman show as did most young American boys my age.  Don’t ask us to sing “Little Drummer Boy,” though, as we were bound to screw that up, even with the gimme repeat words. 

Yet it’s not just superheroes which captivated me all those years, since Star Wars and Orioles baseball also dominated my life as a youngster.  I blew my weekly allowance on comic books and trading cards as far back as I can remember, yet no matter how bad a lot of the Saturday cartoons could be (and there were thrice the amount of turkeys as there were winners), those 4 to 5 hour blocks of time became my weekly drug.  That was, until I was introduced to kung-fu flicks and Ghost Host on late Saturday nights; then my world really opened up.  Of course, I’d loved Hong Kong Phooey first…

To reiterate, there are a ton of stinkers from Saturday morning lineups of the past. I could tee off a hundred excruciating, crappy cartoons like Shirt Tales, Snorks, Gilligan’s Planet, Super Mario World, Pokémon, Pac-Man, Digimon and Dink the Little Dinosaur.   But why go there? As we all know, the primary function of cartoons is to peddle toys.  Hulk Hogan’s Rock ‘n Wrestling was inexcusable trash, but I watched it anyway since I inexplicably liked the WWF (now WWE, of course) back then as well, and lo, those bendable action figures came trailing to toy stores right behind the show. I had a Rowdy Roddy Piper figure. Junkyard Dog, too. No shame then. That came later, when echoes of Hulk Hogan’s corn-drag entrance theme “I am a Real American” gave me shudders instead of a pump-up.  

The Nineties represent the final threshold of goodness for Saturday morning cartoons.  Not everything the WB and Fox ushered out from the mid-Nineties to the early 2000s was spot-on, but there was a lot of good stuff that came and went without long of a chance to flourish, Silver Surfer, The Magician, Batman Beyond, Static Shock, Jackie Chan Adventures, The Spectacular Spiderman, X-Men:  Evolution, What’s New, Scooby-Doo and Freakazoid! being some that come to mind. 

I know we all have to grow up sometime, but it’s been years since I’ve woken up on a Saturday, switched on the t.v., filled a bowl with cereal that’s terrible for you and only gotten up from the couch to visit the bathroom during commercial breaks.  Since adopting my son, cartoons have changed and I’ve long missed the opportunity to delegate that specific block of time of mindless animation consumption.  I can put on a DVD, sure, but it’s nowhere near the same.  Poor child, what fun he missed, but then again, he’s now hit the age where he’s sleeping off Grand Theft Auto hangovers on the weekends. He looks at me in complete stupefaction when I say we used to enjoy watching The Jetsons and Johnny Bravo re-runs. He thinks I’m lying when I say he used to get me to roll out “Ohhhhhh, mama” impersonations. It breaks my heart he doesn’t remember watching Jonny Quest with me. I think we watched the Frogmen episode an easy 30 times at his request.

Truly, a road lesser traveled if there ever was one, the sad death of Saturday morning cartoons. We might as well call it a road closure at this point.

That being said, here’s a little run through some of my all-time favorite Saturday morning cartoons through the ages. Wish I could include Ahhh! Real Monsters, Ren & Stimpy, Samurai Jack, Gargoyles, Dexter’s Laboratory and The Powerpuff Girls, but those ran on all sorts of unpredictable days–and evenings–on Nick and Cartoon Network. Saturday brunch if you were lucky.

What kid doesn’t like Scooby Doo?  Along with The Simpsons and Looney Tunes, Scoob and the gang have filled decades with animated material and they just won’t quit.  We’ll forgive Hanna Barbera for the abominations that were Scrappy Doo and A Pup Named Scooby Doo. 

The greatest cartoons ever.  In my day, we were fed an hour and a half of these classics by CBS under The Bugs Bunny and Road Runner Show.  Overture…hit the lights…this is it… you know the rest if you were born before 1983.  Big raspberries go to ABC, who bought the rights to the Looney Tunes during the Nineties and then butchered the snot out of them in response to censorship pressure groups.  The cringe-worthiest of times.

What I like to think of the best cartoon to eat your cereal by, Boo Berry being my sugar-du-jour.  Superfriends is naïve and tame by today’s standards, and whoever did the coloring work should’ve been fired, since there’s at least one miscue per episode.  Still, we kids of the Seventies were young, we weren’t allowed to see anything truly explosive until Star Wars and this was the right way to come up in establishing good versus evil.  Considering what kids are raised on today, I almost weep where our well-intended (if silly in this show’s case) values have gone.

One thing I cherish about our Saturday morning programming is that we had cool stuff to watch in-between shows.  CBS had “In the News,” a modified, family-friendly look at world events back in the day that were more often than not, positive and full of inspiration.  ABC could have us zipping back from whatever station we might be on to catch Schoolhouse Rock to hopefully sing along to “Conjunction Junction,” “I’m Just a Bill,” “Interjections” or to count off by fives to “Ready Or Not, Here I Come.”  Schoolhouse Rock, like The Electric Company, defines my generation and together, I think the two are the best educational programs that have ever been conceived.

Hey hey hey…  Fat Albert broke the racial lines faster than the freedom fighters of the Sixties.  Despite his shocking shortcomings later in life, Bill Cosby managed to find a nonviolent way to cross over between races. It was to the point none of us white kids ever thought of Fat Albert and his friends as anything but teenaged boys coming up in a tough, Philly neighborhood.  They were learning life’s lessons that had nothing to do with disseminating skin pigmentation and we all learned them together.  We lived vicariously in that junkyard and thus, Fat Albert was for everyone. Nobody ever rocked tin cans and bedsprings harder.

Yeah, I admit it, don’t judge me.  I was a Smurf freak.  I suppose the equivalent nowadays is the Bronie (i.e. male fans of My Little Pony) but Smurfs somehow became transitory where it was cool for boys and girls to enjoy them, even if girls were the dominant target audience.  I didn’t care.  I thought the art was always magical and I wanted to know what it would be like to actually live in a house with a mushroom cap.  I still do, especially with the world of fae TJ has introduced me to. Those live action Smurf films, though?  As uttered sardonically in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, I fart in their general direction.

Like Smurfs, Spiderman and His Amazing Friends was a big deal during the Eighties.  Both shows could often make you wince and groan at their stupidity, this one especially.  Yet, this unlikely alliance of Spiderman, Firestar and Iceman was progressive thinking for the early Eighties and with a number of other Marvel hero cameos later in the series, this was more often than not worth watching. Miss Lion was a sickeningly sweet ragamuffin mutt and Angelica Jones was subliminally hotter than her costumed alter ego.  Swarm and Video Man, though…oh, my sweet Lord…

I only played D&D for about a year on Fridays with some old friends of mine when it all came to a halt in favor of emptying bourbon bottles with pizza, Farscape, Lexx and hilarious drunken commentary thrown at Beastmaster.  Dungeons and Dragons, the Eighties cartoon, was that sleeper Saturday show many kids bailed on as the last program of the day.  It was a slow cooker, but the animation was phenomenal for its time and the action could erupt sometimes.  In its own class.

The always bodacious Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.  I’m still today fascinated how the first show from the Eighties became a pop culture sensation, considering Eastman and Laird’s original comic books were hardly for kids.  Looking at the Eighties show today, well, it bites the big one more often than not.  The Fox redux during the Nineties was spectacular until they marooned the Turtles in space.  The later Nickelodeon show was decent and nothing else since really matters. For nostalgic purposes and nothing else, I still dig the first series a lot.  I was working in a comic shop during this one’s long run and would read my employee-discounted funny books with this show on…after eating my cereal, of course.  This in my early 20s, just sayin’. I’d also dated a girl who had to put on a Raphael costume for a promotion at another job from yesteryear when this show was red-hot.  She once offered to do improper things to me with the costume on, and I’m hardly a prude, but yick.

Along with The Simpsons and Batman:  The Animated Series, Animaniacs was one of the greatest ‘toons of the Nineties and of all-time, in my opinion.  Nobody has the guts or patience to hurl a hundred one-liners in eight minute skits anymore, but Animaniacs did, and they could leave your sides throbbing from the relentless flurry of comedy.  The Great Wakkarotti.  Need I say more?  Also worth mentioning, spinoff Pinky and the Brain was genius on all sorts of levels and indirect spinoff Freakazoid! was the little engine that could, but got stalled by the powers that be…dubba dubba…

I’m lumping these together, since there was a Batman and Superman team-up show that merged after the successful run of Batman:  The Animated Series and Superman.  Individually, both heroes prospered in the Nineties with fantastic, hard-hitting shows.  Batman:  The Animated Series first started out on Sunday nights, then flocked to Saturdays and weekday afternoons.  I still have yet to see a superhero series that effectively merges noir with traditional heroing like Batman:  The Animated Series.  Superman’s show was almost as brilliant, never short on energy.  Together, they outclassed even X-Men, which did for well itself during the Nineties in its regular show and X-Men:  Evolution.  Let’s not forget Batman Beyond, which surpassed all expectations by putting an elderly Bruce Wayne and Barbara Gordon in the future to keep a rein over the young new Batdude, who wasn’t too shabby in his far-flung cyber adventures.

One of the first CGI animated shows to crop up, Reboot was exceptional with its fantastic imagery and it was shrewder than even Tron at bringing the computer world to life by using allegory and characterizations of central processing lingo.  I’m old school and prefer traditional animation, but Reboot captivated me and sold me on CGI (now the norm instead of the exception) along with Beast Wars, Action Man, Max Steel and Cybersix. 

The Transformers franchise can thank the electrifying Beast Wars and Beast Machines for holding the fort until the recent return to the classic robots in disguise format.  Both series were also testing grounds for the Transformers movie series in terms of seeing how far CGI could be fluidly morphed and pushed.  Frankly, I prefer the “Beast” shows, outmoded as they already appear in light of technological advances.  There was always a striving for purity between conflicting machina and the organic worlds they battled over.  These two series were hitting the green campaign trail long before that Gore guy.

–Ray Van Horn, Jr.