Hello again, Don’t Bother Me, I’m Thinking readers. Remember, if you will, at the end of my last column I promised part II of a pair of pieces dealing with the new archetypes.

Well, that idea was ruined by Clive Thompson of The New York Times. In his recent article “Sex, Drugs, and Updating Your Blog,” Thompson said everything I wanted to say and more in an approachable, engaging style, all the while adopting a premise which directly contrasted with my own.

Here’s what went wrong with my article. My basic hunch was that, like “rock stars” are an archetype, (ever-present personalities matching pre-wired expectations in our brains), “artists” are archetypal as well.

A departure for the Sixty Seconds this go-around, first because the only film I’ve seen in the last two weeks is Spider-Man 3, and odds are you don’t need me to tell you how mediocre it was. But more importantly, I have something I want to talk about, a topic that requires more than the usual paragraph.

I have a new guilty pleasure for the first time in years. I am always in front of my TV or have the DVD recorder on at 9:00pm, Monday through Friday. The national network ION, (formerly PAX), is broadcasting reruns of The Wonder Years from 9-10pm, and I’m rediscovering just how great this show is.

Every adult survivor of a conservative religious upbringing has bemoaned the fact that they couldn’t play Dungeons and Dragons because of its satanic overtones, or that they missed out on all of the good music. (I hadn’t even HEARD of Rush until I went to college.) In fact, it could be posited that almost anything from playing cards to Smurfs were lauded as the tools of Satan. As a result of this castigation, all sorts of religious equivalent toys, music groups, and activities were introduced as safe alternatives to the Satan-inspired filth that pop culture was spewing out. I could say more, like how I miss my Beach Boys and classic rock music collection that was destroyed because somewhere I got the idea that listening to secular music was wrong and would lead me down the path to perdition, or how I went to the church sponsored prom “alternative” in lieu of my school’s prom. But this isn’t the editorial column, most esteemed readers, and you’re due some super hero related information, so I’ll let you in on a little-known character called Bibleman, and I’ll kill two birds with one stone.

The bathroom is too intimate a place to meet someone for the first time. I must apologize, for I am getting ahead of myself. You probably already know too much at this point. Let me back up by asking a question. Was the web-cam really necessary?

I feel that when one is staying in a new home for the first time, the host should remove all creepy items. These would include web-cams, issues of Maxim and FHM, and any notebook with the working title “Addresses of Girls I Wish to Stalk.” Also, if one sees an inordinate, excessive amount of scented candles and lotions: run.

Bobby Heenan exited Madison Square Garden, satisfied with his performance. He had just announced the matches at the WWF Royal Rumble and was looking forward to partaking in the variety of pleasures a man of his stature could expect in New York City.

He took a few steps down the busy sidewalk when he began to notice a rhythmic thumping. The ground was shaking at steady intervals which appeared to be growing in intensity with each beat. Heenan’s pace quickened to match his rising heart rate. He turned the corner and found himself face to toe with the gigantic foot of Godzilla!