Author: Otto Scungy

The Gen X Dad

Ravenous, Infuriating, Hell-Spawned Hippos

I enjoy playing games with my son. I enjoy watching him happily amusing himself with a game, learning new skills through playtime, but I want to smash Hungry Hungry Hippos with a hammer. I owe my parents a giant apology for playing Hungry Hungry Hippos when I was a kid. That they didn’t sever my arms after listening to the “clack-clack-clack-clack-clack!” saves them seats with the saints. If Damien from The Omen had a game he enjoyed as much as tricycle riding, it would be Hungry Hungry Hippos. I try to avoid saying that I hate anything. Hate is too strong a word for any negativity I feel for anything or anyone. Hungry Hungry Hippos is one of the closest things I can think of that makes me feel anything close to hate. It’s more of an activity than a game. It doesn’t even really require hands or thought, just the ability to somehow mash a lever over and over again and the joy some find in pulling the legs off bugs. The designers of the game should be forced to wake up in the morning to the sound of a Hungry Hungry Hippos tournament.

I need to grow some tolerance regarding Hasbro’s torture device disguised as a game. If kids like it, it must have some value. Maybe Hungry Hungry Hippos is one of those tests that prepare people for true, peaceful Zen experience. It’s like monastic training, where you increase the time it takes to go from “No, it’s fine; go ahead and play,” to “Please, stop playing that thing so we can have just a goddamn minute of quiet!” I have steeled myself that my son will have a few only-child issues, but playing Hungry Hungry Hippos by himself pushes the envelope. When he plays the game, which is normally with my wife, the house turns into one of those scenes in books where authors set ominous tones with places devoid of animal life. Our pets would rather fight ten vacuum cleaners than have to be near Hungry Hungry Hippos. I should rise above the sentiment of our pets and just accept that different people enjoy different types of games. Maybe there is an inherent part of ageing that makes Baby Boomer dads, Generation X dads, and all dads extra sensitive to sounds like the number of times a patio door opens, the number of seconds a refrigerator door stays open, and the number and intensity of each cacophonous “Clack” of a hungry, hungry (good Lord, is it hungry) hippo. In the future, I’ll do my best to smile and not let Hungry Hungry Hippos get the best of me. I think I’ll go mow the lawn.

 

Have a good day!

Otto Scungy

 

Hungry Hungry Hippos – 80s commercial

Early Music

    I have my mom to thank for my early exposure to music. To my dad, music was just an incidental part of the ambient environment. He had some opinions about it, but not strong ones. My mom, on the other hand, would sing in the car and play music at home. I was a toddler when I began to butcher “How Long” by the Pointer Sisters. I couldn’t master the articulation of, “Betcha got a chick on the side, sure you got a chick, I know you got a chick on the side.” I could only sing, “Chicka chicka chicka chicka side,” but you have to admit that I had decent improvisational skills.

    I remember getting excited whenever I heard a talking guitar on, “Do You Feel,” by Peter Frampton. Go ahead and scoff, but some novelties are cooler than others, and a talking guitar (or smoking guitar a la Ace Frehley, or talking keyboard a la Roger Troutman) is blow-your-mind cool to a little kid. I want my son to have that same excitement about music, but Peter Frampton isn’t necessarily what gets his head bobbing. He is, however, impressed with the robotic voice of Devo’s “Watch Us Work It.” He also like the pitch change in Bruno Mars’s “Money Make Her Smile.” He calls it, “Money, Money,” so I’m relatively sure that he doesn’t know that the song is about a stripper.

Lyrical content aside, it makes me happy to see a sense of wonder for music in my son that I remember having when I was his age. As a parent of a five-year-old, only child, I’m still learning how to avoid drawing attention to the themes of songs (how did I not know what “Plaster Caster” was about?). He is only five, after all, and I desperately hope that he always finds excitement in sound. Even if those sounds may be cheesy novelties, I appreciate the sense of appreciation. That sense never left me, and I went on to think songs like Hellwitch’s “Mordirivial Dissemination” were scary cool. I like having common interests, so the prospect of having a kid who always likes thrash appeals to me, but I will be always be happy knowing that my son has more than a passing interest in and opinion of music of any kind. If it happens to be a novel effect that ignites or fans the flame of interest, so be it. Thanks be to the vocoder.

 

Links to songs are provided below.

Have a good day!

Otto Scungy

 

How Long (Betcha Got a Chick on the Side) by Pointer Sisters

 

Do You Feel Like We Do by Peter Frampton

https://youtu.be/vcBFqf01E-8?t=5m23s

 

Watch Us Work It by Devo

 

Money Make Her Smile by Bruno Mars

 

Mordirivial Dissemination by Hellwitch