Today, my latest magazine subscription came in the mail.

Go ahead, take a guess which one…

Sports Illustrated? Nope.

Forbes? Keep guessing.

Rolling Stone? Getting colder.

It’s Mad Magazine.

Remember that gem? It’s been around since the 1950s. My grandparents used to buy me a copy whenever we went to Kmart.

The two best parts: Spy vs. Spy and the iconic back cover “Fold-In.” Some of you know.

So when I discovered they still print new issues, I subscribed immediately. A little gift to myself. And let me tell you, it’s always a happy day when it arrives in the mailbox.

Reading it takes me back to simpler times, to the 12yr old kid in my brain. Now if I just had a blue raspberry Kmart Icee.

There’s a mysterious substance in the universe.

It’s elusive and rare — especially where I grew up. Sightings are few, almost mythical.

What is it… Gold? Diamonds? Plutonium?

Nope. Snow cream.

Freshly fallen and transformed into a bowl of wintry perfection. My mom was a master at making it. And somehow, it always tasted better than anything store-bought.

Manna from heaven.

Today, my town got over six inches of snow — our third storm this season. Prime conditions for you know what.

Here’s looking at you, Mom.

For my birthday one year in college, my friends blindfolded me and shoved me into a car.

They laughed like villains as we sped into the night, refusing to tell me where we were going. Because this was rural Georgia, we spent 30 minutes twisting through dark country roads. The trip seemed to last forever.

When we finally stopped and they yanked off my covering, we were standing in front of a glowing Krispy Kreme. Hello, heaven. Totally worth the kidnapping.

Even better, a dozen more friends waited inside, ready to celebrate with fresh, melt-in-your-mouth delights.

A great memory. And from that experience, I still have a soft spot for birthdays and donuts.

So today, when we surprised a co-worker with a box of Duck Donuts (a local favorite), I couldn’t help but think of that wild college adventure. And yes, I got the feels.

Or… maybe that was just the sugar rush from the Boston Cream.

I remember it well. The secret exchange at the border of our yards.

My neighbor, four years older, introduced me to a mysterious substance. A candy.

The name? Pop Rocks.

I scooped a handful into my mouth, and suddenly, it was like trying an illicit drug. Fireworks on my tongue. The fizzle, the sizzle. Popping and crackling. Tiny eruptions of sugar and carbon dioxide. And I was hooked.

Then came the dangerous thrill. Word spread fast: mixing Pop Rocks with soda could make children explode. Only the bravest kids dared to risk it, wearing their courage as a badge of honor.

Today, I stumbled across an article about the candy. And just like that, the craving was back. The last time I took a hit? Probably 1982.

Maybe I should live on the edge again. The wild side. The taste of rebellion. Maybe I’ll even ride my ten-speed without a helmet. Hide the women and children.

Every weekend in the ‘80s, my high school friends and I had a ritual: Saturday Night Live.

Like clockwork, we’d meet up for dinner and dancing — and, at 11:35 sharp, SNL.

This was also the golden era of analog, when a Blockbuster trip meant renting VHS tapes packed with the funniest Eddie Murphy clips.

Music and smells trigger strong memories, but so can TV shows. Tonight, watching SNL’s 50th anniversary special, the past came flooding back. Not just of the show, but of faces I haven’t seen in decades.

Sometimes, I wish for a time machine to relive those younger days. But honestly? At this point, I’d settle for staying awake ‘til 11:30.