My mom saved just about everything that had my name on it. Report cards, news clippings, awards, drawings and even detention slips. I discovered all of this recently when I transported about 11 boxes of my personal treasures from my parent’s home to the one room apartment I share with my wife. I found home made weapons I’d fashioned from dog chains, my stamp collection, old keys, old letters, an Evel Knieval doll, Batman trading cards and something very special. It wasn’t a picture of my deceased grandparents, baby photos or even my Mark McGuire olympic card in near mint condition. It was a letter, however it was a letter I’d forgotten about.

Growing up, my dream job was to be a Nintendo Game Counselor. Every month their advice would make me seethe with jealousy that people other than me were getting paid to play video games. Forty hours a week doing something I already spent about that much time doing anyways and getting paid for it sounded like the answer to all the early riddles life had thrown at me. They also handed out video game advice that without, I might have never beaten Shadowgate. As I’m sure most kids did, I wrote a letter to these mythical beings in the hopes that an answer from Olympus would aid me in my quest to conquer whatever game was troubling me. Bart Simpson Vs. The Space Mutants was a game I’d spent hours of my early puberty agonizing over. I was desperate to see what kind of fantastic ending Nintendo would award me with for enduring such a difficult quest. So of course my letter was a plea, a cry into the sky of 8-bit heaven, for some clarity.

For some reason, I never sent the letter. My quest went unfulfilled and an asterisk would forever be placed beside the name Bart Simpson in my catalog of unbested games. Naturally, I grew up, forgot about the space mutants and never gave another thought to that letter until two days ago when I found it amidst the other antiquites of myself. I instantly remembered it. How long it had taken me to draw the picture of Racoon Mario on the envelope was anybody’s guess but I’m pretty sure it took longer than the formal body of the letter presented here. Brief but to the point. I never did figure out that stage. Even when I went back and tried to beat it in college, it still proved too much for my block-shaped hands. At the time, I thought that the most pressing issue of my life was beating that stage, but the time I spent on the envelope and the chance that they might just toss it in the incinerator, gave me reason to pause. I’m not sure what I did with it after that, but somehow, my mom ended up with it and frankly it ended up in the right hands.

While not the most valuable thing in my collection (I have a stamp with a book value of $3,000) this letter struck a chord with me and reminded me of the days when life was playing video games and dreams of being one of the select few who did it for a living outweighed whatever my future would actually hold. That being said, I’m gonna dust off my old NES.

5. Watch and listen in utter horror as a group of 6th-9th graders from Howard St. makes it evident they are being traumatized by “The Passion of the Christ” with a series of hoots, episodes of uncontrollable shaking, and a single pitch moan.

4. More horror when I remember that I’m a chaperone and should stop hooting.

3. A passenger that thinks the van she is in isn’t going to stop for a traffic light in time makes a motion with her arms that closely resembles treading water.

2. Purchase Zippo fluid from high-brow cigar store in downtown Chicago with dimes, nickels, and pennies. Sense the bewilderment of other patrons at this “new” metal form of legal tender. Overhear murmur “Any change, mister?” and chuckling. Purposely open wallet to reveal 4 tattered bills. More chuckling.

1. Attempt and succeed at making most awkward my mom-took-me-out-for-my-birthday-so-you-must-have-missed-wishing-me-a-happy-birthday tie in. Jimmy: “You should come eat with us on Sunday.” Lou: “Oh that’s funny because my mom said the same thing the day before she took me out for my birthday last week.” Jimmy: “No one ever tells me when their birthday is coming up!” Lou: “When’s yours, August?” Jimmy: “July.” Lou: “No chance I’ll remember that.”

Honorable Mentions:

Naming Jah Jeff “Man of 3.12.04″ for his invention and visionary implementation of the Extra Content section. This was Jah Jeff’s first nomination and win for “Man of 3.12.04.”

Changing tenses for no apparent reason.

Like the person that uttered the above line on Elimidate a few hours ago, lately I feel that mammalian breasts are taking advantage of me more often than I of them. They are seemingly everywhere. I turn on the television: boobs. I look at the monitor inside the S.U.V. next to me at the stoplight: breasts. My eyes shift between the 1-800-DIVORCE and Bankruptcy Lawyer advertisements on the el only to arrive at (you guessed it) the ad for some sort of edgy new publication that has invented a new marketing strategy: GIANT FLAPPY TATTERS. Before moving on, it is interesting to note that it is less expensive to get divorced than to file bankrupcy. A nice slice of Americana.

When will breasts go back out of style? I’m beginning to categorize them along with the blind disregard that my mom had for finding t-shirts that fit me as a child. “You’ll grow into them,” she said. It was true, yes. But it some cases it took like 13 years. I’m talking about Hobie stuff. Body Glove, anyone? From when I can first remember to the day I left for college it was in-style to wear t-shirts that were way too big. “That’s how they wear them,” my mom said. I wish I had known that they included all the dandy fops such as myself that allowed their mothers to dictate the size of their O.P. shirts.

I give up on those first two topics. And frankly I’m more than a little concerned that this is what I’ve come up with. Smalltalk must die. There is nothing I’m worse at, except maybe transitions. In a way transitions are exactly like smalltalk. “Hi everyone, boobs are everywhere and it’s almost impossible to get away from them.” “Oh, hey Jackie, what part did you say you had in creating the new I’m Lovin’ It commercial?” “Oh, backup singer…well…I once drank a lot on a roof with a guy that sings backup for Aireline.” “No, it’s a BAND.” “Hey that’s keen.” “Did I mention I’m wearing a shirt that is obviously way too large in every yearbook picture ever taken of me?” “Well you see it’s my mom’s fault…” Yeah. Part of that conversation is verbatim. There’s a woman that I thought was a creative director for a company that does the McDonald’s commercials and I shamed her in front of twenty brooding adults. If she doesn’t want people to know she sang backup on it she shouldn’t be all like “You’ve seen my work in the very popular McDonald’s campaign.” I wonder if she can get me a job.

You’ll have to bear with me on this, because I don’t usually have opinions on things that aren’t teen pop stars, like the Academy Awards. First, I disagree wholeheartedly with Borg on the merit of Lost in Translation. I thought the movie was a wonderful work of art about something so very simple. I could write a novel about how perfect Bill Murray and Scarlet Johansson were in their roles, which I felt were full-baked, or even twice baked, if you will, like all the best potatoes in the world.

I understand the Academy’s choice to honor Jackson and his epic accomplishment The Lord of the Rings this year, but I must say I wouldn’t have not been not unsatisfied if Translation had taken home a couple more Oscars. Bill Murray has made such a great contribution to film, I wouldn’t even know where to start. I mean, I like Penn just as much as the next guy, but he’s already gotten the nod a few times, and I’m sure he will again. Murray, like so many before him, may have missed his shot because the Academy likes “HEY! I’m Acting!” roles (cough Charlize Theron cough).

Oh, and I liked Charlotte’s bum a lot too.