I worked at a national park; people who entered the visitor centre had the option of watching a short introduction video of the park in our tiny little theatre if they wanted. This film condenses all sorts of neat information about the park, including the park’s native species. One such species, the video explains, is the Newfoundland Wolf, which went extinct around 1930.

Guest: “Why haven’t they reintroduced the Newfoundland Wolf?”

Me: “Well ma’am, they’re extinct. They don’t exist anymore.”

Guest: “Well, can’t they bring them back?”

Me: “No, ma’am. Extinct means gone forever.”

Guest: “Can’t y’all Jurassic Park that s***?”

Guest: “What kinda bird is that in that there cage?”

Me: “That’s a roadrunner.”

Guest: “But it’s brown.”

I sigh, as I know where this is going.

Me: “Roadrunners aren’t blue, sir. That was just a cartoon.”

Guest: “For real? D***, that’s childhood destroyin’. What else about that cartoon was a lie?”

Me: “I think the coyote having an infinite credit card bill to order ACME death traps might have also been a little dubious…”

I remember growing up in our little suburban neighborhood with all the other kids my age. It was the late eighties, and we’d be out all hours of the evening and weekend if we could get away with it.

There were times we would all be home, though, such as for big sporting events, to watch them at the neighbor’s with the biggest TV. 

Our house had a TV that was modest, but good enough, so I would usually stay home to watch these with the family. Also, my dad didn’t get along with [Big TV Neighbor] as he was always jealous of him having the newest and best stuff.

My dad is as stubborn as they come, and so refusing to interact with this perfectly friendly neighbor is the hill he’s chosen to die on, for some reason.

One year, during some big game (can’t remember if it was the Super Bowl or something else that was a big deal), the power went out during halftime.

Dad: “You gotta be kidding!”

Mom: “Go turn on the generator.”

Dad: “I… uh… didn’t fuel it up.”

Mom: “Are you serious?!”

Everyone in this neighborhood usually has generators (we’re kinda far from downtown and closer to the rural outskirts, so it makes sense).

Dad: “But I do have something in the garage.”

He disappears and comes back out with one of those small hand-crank TVs. The screen is small, black and white, but it works, as long as you crank the handle every minute or so. 

So, there’s our family, gathered around a screen maybe twelve or so inches across, with quiet speakers, watching the rest of the whatever game it was. We took it in turns to crank the handle, but it was becoming obvious pretty darn quickly that this was proving to be more trouble than it was worth.

Me: “Dad, can we just go to [Big TV Neighbor]’s house? I’m pretty sure they have a generator.”

Dad: “We can finish the game here.”

Mom: “Hun, he did say the whole street was invited to watch the game at his place. Just bring snacks.”

Dad: “This is fine. Look, you can still make out who the players are.”

Mom: “Well, you can stay here and keep cranking it. [My Name] and I are going across the street. I have some XXL bags of Bugles and some soda I can bring as snacks.”

And with that, my mom and I went to [Big TV Neighbor]’s house. The lights were on, and his generator was running. Half the street was there, and it turned into a mini-party with a lot of my friends there also.

We enjoyed the game, the snacks, and the company. My dad stayed home and watched the game on his little crank TV for the rest of the night.

The very next day, even though the power was back, he drove us to a store to buy propane for the generator, and he never ran out of fuel ever again for as long as he lived in that house.

When I moved out, for some reason, I inherited the hand-cranked TV. Up until today, we always bring up this incident and his stubbornness, and I always dust off and bring out the old hand-crank TV whenever we feel he’s being unreasonable. That usually shuts him up.

When I was about five, I went to a Power Rangers Live Show. Walking into the venue, there were vendors lining the entrances to the real theater, selling all sorts of barely-passable Power Rangers merch, including, to my great joy, a light-up sword.

The performance was what you might imagine, a team of off-brand Power Rangers running around a stage to half-a**ed fight choreography and out-of-place acrobatics.

But… as a five-year-old, I was rapt. I was armed to the teeth with my light sword, and I wanted nothing more than to help my heroes! Roughly around the one-hour mark, I got my chance.

Fans of the Power Rangers may recall their longtime enemies, the Putties. They basically were guys in all grey head-to-toe leotards. After a particularly engaging battle, the Putties ran out into the aisles and through the crowds for a little audience participation. 

I was seated on the aisle, and you know I was ready to f****** participate. One of the putties ran up the aisle, leering at moms and kids alike. Then, he came for me. He leaned into my face. And I met that Putty with a face full of light sword. 

He staggered back, staring at me and then my horrified mother. Then, breaking character, he stammered out:

Putty Man: “I’m not gonna mess with you again, kid!”

That day I fought alongside the Power Rangers and won, and I hope he remembers that savage defeat!

This takes place around 2015. 

I have made a new friend through a friend, new to New York City, and new to the USA. We are chilling at my place with a few other friends before we all go for a walk in Central Park. It will be our friend’s first time going there. 

The sitcom ‘Friends’ is on TV in the background (it was new on Netflix at the time). My new friend is engrossed.

New Friend: “This show is in New York, too, yes?”

Me: “Yes. Actually, this is a pretty funny way for you to see how New York represents itself on US television.

He watches about half an episode.

New Friend: “Americans are very brave.”

Me: “How do you mean?”

New Friend: “These people just walk into each other’s homes without calling.”

Me: “That’s normal on the show.”

New Friend: “Back home, if someone appeared in my apartment unannounced six times a day, I would assume they were conducting surveillance.”

Me: “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to laugh or commiserate…”

Throughout the next few weeks, my new friend was obviously watching the show religiously on Netflix, as he’d either text me his observations or make them on our semi-regular friend meetups:

New Friend: “Why do they keep inviting Ross?”

Me: “What?”

New Friend: “Every episode, somebody is upset. Half the time, it is Ross. The other half, Ross caused it.”

Another time:

New Friend: “This coffee shop owner is a genius.”

Me: “Gunther?”

New Friend: “Yes. Six people sit there all day and never leave.”

Me: “That’s not good.”

New Friend: “It is if they keep buying coffee.”

Me: “They don’t.”

New Friend: “Then he is a terrible businessman.”

And memorably:

New Friend: “This is fantasy, yes?”

Me: “No, it’s just a sitcom.”

New Friend: “It is fantasy. They have a giant apartment, but no one seems to work. The blonde one definitely hasn’t worked since I started watching.”

It was fun explaining ‘sitcom rules’ to him over the weeks.