Remember The Alamo

Or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying About My Age and Love My Popcorn Popper

Welp, I just celebrated my second birthday during Covid.

There’s something depressing about celebrating two birthdays during a pandemic, especially the last two birthdays in your thirties. It’s almost like God is telling you, “ehhh you’ve had enough birthday fun for one lifetime.”

Also, it means that I will have entered the pandemic a young, fresh 37-year-old, and left it an old, haggard 39-year-old. (Hey movie theaters, am I eligible for that senior discount yet? Lol.)

Funny jokes aside, if it weren’t for Covid, I definitely would have celebrated my birthday at the movies. Specifically, at the Alamo Drafthouse.

If you’ve never been to Alamo Drafthouse, it’s basically Chuck E. Cheez for awkward city-dwelling beta males. Except, instead of playing ski-ball, you watch The Lego Batman Movie. And, instead of eating pizza, you drink beer while eating pizza. (Only they don’t call it pizza, they call it “flatbread,” because we are adults, and adults do not eat pizza!)

Alamo Drafthouse is a place where even the nerdiest nerd, the dweebiest dweeb, the cuckiest cuck, can feel like royalty. Imagine sitting in a comfy recliner, watching Fast Times At Ridgemont High on a big screen. You get a craving. You pick up a little pencil and write FRIED PICKLES on a card. You look down, and there are fried pickles. That’s the magic of the Alamo.

I guess my wife must have sensed my cinema-based ennui, because she bought me the greatest gift I could have imagined under the current circumstances: an air popper.

Now, while this has quickly become my favorite possession (sorry, my cat), when I first unwrapped it, I thought my wife was insane.

This is a single-use appliance! my logical brain thought. And we have limited counter space, I also thought, while I lied and said I loved it. Are you an idiot? I thought, as I gave her a thank you kiss.

Then we tried it out. We poured the kernels in, we powered it up, and we waited. You could have cut the tension in the air with a butter knife.

This isn’t going to work, the skeptic in me thought. A popcorn air popper that actually pops corn? Yeah, spin me another one, Rumplestiltskin.

My wife looked worried, too. She’d bought this thing at the recommendation of the New York Times. Could it be that this was just another hoax by the libtard media?

Then, the first pop. Wait a minute, it’s actually happening. Another pop. No. Could it be?

Suddenly: an avalanche of puffy corn. Because of the machine’s white and yellow color scheme, it looked like a duck was vomiting delicious popcorn on our very own countertop!

As I shoved the warm snack into my face, I started to feel a feeling that no Instant Pot, no super-efficient multi-use countertop appliance could ever give me: childlike joy.

My wonderful wife had rescued my 39th, birthday from the jaws of existential malaise. Hopefully we’ll get back to Alamo soon, but until then it’s movie nights at home, with some help from our new puking duck.


There’s a lot of antique stores in upstate New York. You’ll find a new discovery here every week!

This week’s antique is……..

Pillsbury Doughboy and… Mrs. Pillbury Doughboy?

Damn, PBD be fuckin’!