Over the weekend, I had the chance to play tourist as I roamed the streets of Boston. My friend from home came up to visit me, so it was my duty as a pseudo-Bostonian to show her around town. I ventured over to all of the tourist traps; Faneuil Hall, Quincy Market, Newbury Street and even Ankara Cafe, because as you all know, a trip to Boston isn’t a trip without a cup of Snickers/Peanut Butter/Cheesecake frozen yogurt.
As we sauntered down Mass. Ave. to explore the illustrious Tower Records, the lawn gnome in Urban Outfitters caught my eye. It was almost as if the little bearded man was saying, “Hey, come in off the streets and listen to some watered down punk” even though he had a light bulb stuck up his ass. We walked in and up the stairs to check out leopard print pillows and purple aviator sunglasses.
And then, I saw him: the man who outshines Alex Trebek, the being who makes Pat Sajak seem like the gum on the bottom of your Puma, the soul who can’t hold a candle to Ray Combs. Nostalgia flowed through my mind as I witnessed this person holding the Dickies shorts in his hand while he trounced around the floor in loafers and Levi’s: Marc Summers.
I did a double take. Was he THE Marc Summers, the host of Nickelodeon’s messy as hell game show “Double Dare”? As I gasped for breath, I pulled my friend over from gawking at the paper lanterns to see if I was hallucinating. The “o” shape of her mouth confirmed my discovery. I was standing near a legend.
“Double Dare.” When I was growing up, “Double Dare” was my dream show, especially the Family version. I fantasized about throwing a cream pie at my mother, pouring chocolate syrup down my father’s shirt and shoving my brother across the whipped cream slicked floor. (Now that I think about it, “Double Dare” could have been adult programming if it aired later than 8 p.m.)
Actually, “Double Dare” would have been the perfect party game for broke college students. I’m sure for $50 you could find a group of people who wouldn’t mind pouring the contents of dining hall cole slaw over their heads. And where better to put the flag than on the fifth floor of CAS? No one can ever find their way around there anyway.
Back then, I would have given anything to compete in a Physical Challenge. I wanted to be the queen of the obstacle course and win a mountain bike just for finding that orange flag in the sundae slide. What other show let you pick a giant nose? Where in the world was a flag hidden under giant pats of butter and powdered, sugar-covered pieces of French toast? Only Marc Summers would know the answer.
From behind the “Thundercats” T-shirts I stared at him. All right, so he was a little bit more wrinkled than I remember. His brown locks of bronze were now a bit salt and peppery. Yet, he was still the man I remembered gazing at from my inflatable Barbie chair after I came home from school.
Still, I couldn’t gather up enough courage to go over to him and introduce myself. I mean, what could I say? “Hey, aren’t you the guy with OCD who hosted a mediocre piece of children’s programming in the late ’80s?” seems a bit demeaning. And “Hey, why don’t you and I get together for a physical challenge” is just plain wrong unless you’re talking about my future husband, Mark Hoppus.
All of a sudden, Marc Summers began to speak to his daughter who looked to be about 17 and was probably shopping around for colleges in the Boston area. Now, here’s one chick who probably was invited to all of the elementary school social events of the season but at what a cost:
“Bobby, aren’t you going to invite Jill to your birthday party? Don’t you know who her dad is?”
“Yeah, Rufus, but c’mon, everyone knows she always gives out those corny ‘Double Dare’ board games as presents.”
And if that was the unfortunate scenario in grade school, college probably couldn’t be any better.
“Miss Summers? Why did you miss class on Thursday?”
“I went with my Dad and Barry Williams to Iowa, so they could sing the National Anthem at a basketball game.”
I snapped out of my thoughts quickly, as my friend pulled on my shirt to signal that Marc and company had left the building. I had missed my window.
Come to think of it, did I really want to shake hands with a guy who made little kids pick a giant nose? I’m saving my introductions for J.D. Roth.
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