Gemma (TheGebs24) is like a time traveler, but instead of a TARDIS she uses game cartridges, VHS tapes, and vintage comics. She brings back the 80s, 90s, and early 2000s nostalgia.
YouTube. She’s a collector, gamer, and enthusiast who doesn’t just show cool vintage gear—she lives in it (or at least around it). Vintage consoles, comics, toys, old-school media—all things that make you go, “Oh hey, I had that… or wanted that…”
The 1968 Chevrolet Corvette was basically America’s way of saying: “Why settle for subtle when you can drive a spaceship with a V8?”
This thing rolled off the line looking like a shark that got lost on its way to an Evel Knievel stunt show. Chevy called it the “C3,” but it was really the automotive equivalent of bell-bottom jeans: long, low, and screaming 1960s cool.
Some highlights:
Design: It had curves on curves, the kind that made other cars look like filing cabinets. With those swoopy fenders and a body that looked like it was flexing in the mirror, it didn’t park—it posed.
Pop-up headlights: The car literally winked at you before blinding you with high beams. Very James Bond, if James Bond lived in Ohio and sold insurance.
Interior: It had more chrome inside than a diner, and the dashboard looked like a pilot’s cockpit—perfect for people who thought parallel parking was basically a space launch sequence.
Performance: Under the hood, you got a thumping V8 that could rocket you forward with enough torque to rotate the Earth slightly. Of course, handling was… let’s call it “dramatic.” You didn’t steer a ’68 Vette; you negotiated with it.
So the ’68 Corvette was less a car and more a declaration: “I have arrived, I am loud, and I’m leaving a trail of tire smoke as proof.”
Think you know every computer game? Think again! I’m diving into the weird, wild, and overlooked world of games you (probably) never knew existed—obscure gems, bizarre experiments, and hidden titles that might just surprise you! WATCH >> https://youtu.be/gPjvhuOs0cQ
GAMES SHOWN:
Homey d. Clown
Revenge of Defender
Beatle Quest
Star Trek BORG
Jaws
Rendezvous with Rama
Psycho: Arcade Quest
Conan
Collecting big box PC games is like adopting a litter of cardboard dinosaurs—massive, glorious, and completely impractical in the modern world. Each one is a shrine to an era when game publishers believed that bigger boxes meant bigger fun, stuffing them with floppy disks, manuals thick enough to stop a bullet, and maybe a novelty item like a cloth map or a fake decoder ring. Shelving them is a workout; one trip to the thrift store can transform your living room into a structural engineering problem. Friends will marvel at your shelf of three-foot-wide neon rectangles while silently wondering if you’re preparing for some kind of retro computer apocalypse.
But oh, the dopamine hit when you crack open a box and find pristine install floppies and a glossy manual that smells faintly of 1996 carpet glue. It’s part history, part treasure hunt, and part self-inflicted storage crisis. You’ll pay five bucks for a game you’ll never play just because the box art features a wizard holding a CD-ROM like the Holy Grail. And while modern gamers brag about terabytes of digital libraries, you can smugly point to your fortress of cardboard and say, “These games don’t just live in the cloud—they are the cloud, if the cloud weighed forty pounds and smelled faintly of basement nostalgia.”
Touchscreens are basically the tech world’s way of saying: “What if we let people poke a sheet of glass and pretend it understands them?”
Here’s the magic:
Your phone screen is coated with an invisible grid of tiny electrical fields. When your fleshy, sausage-like finger touches it, you disturb the force—like a clumsy Jedi—and the phone goes, “Ah yes, this greasy smear right here is a command!”
It’s called capacitive sensing, but in reality, it feels like sorcery. Your finger conducts electricity ever so slightly, and the screen triangulates your touch with more precision than a cat deciding exactly which object to knock off the counter.
Of course, the system has its quirks:
Works perfectly when you barely brush the screen.
Completely ignores you if your hands are cold, wet, or gloved—basically any condition where you actually need it to work.
Loves to register phantom “ghost touches,” so sometimes your phone just decides to call your boss at 2 a.m. because of a single speck of pocket lint.
So in short: modern touchscreens are an elegant blend of physics and wizardry, designed to make you feel powerful when you pinch-zoom a cat meme… and powerless when you can’t hit the right letter in your password on the first try.
Ah, the NES vs. the Famicom — same console DNA, but like two siblings who went down very different life paths.
The NES (North America/Europe):
This one put on a gray business suit, slicked its hair back, and said, “Don’t worry parents, I’m not a toy, I’m a serious entertainment system.” The design screams VCR because in the 1980s, VCR = trustworthy high-tech device, not child’s plaything. You’d shove games in like VHS tapes, push it down, and pray to Miyamoto that it actually worked. (Spoiler: it rarely did, unless you blew into the cartridge like you were giving CPR to a kazoo.)
The Famicom (Japan):
Meanwhile, the Famicom rolled up in bright red-and-white plastic, looking like a Fisher-Price spaceship. Instead of pretending to be “serious electronics,” it just embraced the fact that it was a toy. The controllers were hardwiredinto the system like an overprotective parent saying, “No, you don’t get to lose these.” And if you were unlucky, you were stuck with Player 2’s controller, which had a microphone but no Start or Select buttons — the equivalent of being handed a karaoke mic when everyone else gets actual instruments.
So:
The NES was your dad’s respectable, khaki-wearing child, who wanted to impress the adults.
The Famicom was the wilder, candy-colored younger sibling, running around with a mic and yelling at the TV.
Both played Mario. One just looked like it wanted to do your taxes while the other looked like it had eaten too much sugar.
Apple is basically that kid in school who always had the nicest backpack, but wouldn’t let you borrow a pencil unless you agreed to buy their brand of paper to write on.
They’re the only company that can say, “We removed the headphone jack to make your life better,” and then sell you a $29 dongle so you can get your life back. Their idea of innovation is sometimes just deleting something, shrugging, and then calling it “courage.”
Apple events feel like a sermon where a man in a black turtleneck (or his spiritual descendants) gently tells you that this rectangle is slightly shinier, slightly rounder, and—most importantly—$200 more expensive than the last rectangle. And somehow, you nod along and clap like you’ve just witnessed a miracle.
Their ecosystem is basically a velvet-lined cage: beautifully designed, incredibly smooth, but the moment you try to escape, you realize the bars are made out of lightning cables, iCloud storage fees, and that one green bubble friend ruining group chats.
In short: Apple doesn’t just sell you products. They sell you the dream of being slightly cooler than everyone else while trying not to admit you spent $1,200 on a phone that can fall asleep in under 2 seconds if it sees a drop of water.
Collecting big box PC games is basically the nerd equivalent of hoarding Fabergé eggs — except instead of jeweled treasures, you’ve got a wall of cardboard bricks the size of cereal boxes that once contained a single floppy disk and 200 pages of manuals.
There’s something magical about them, though. Modern games give you a digital download code; big box games gave you a phone book of installation instructions, a map, a novella explaining the backstory, and maybe even a floppy with “shareware” just to tease you. Buying Myst back then felt like adopting a small library.
The boxes themselves are a workout program. Stack a few dozen on a shelf and suddenly you’re living inside a Jenga tower of DOS-era nostalgia. Move apartments? Congratulations, you’ve just volunteered to carry 75 pounds of King’s Quest across town. And of course, the one you want is always on the top shelf, behind Flight Simulator 98 and Oregon Trail Deluxe, so now you’re climbing like Indiana Jones in a temple made of cardboard.
And the collector’s mindset is hilarious: “Yes, I know I own Doom in every format ever made, but this one has the rare sticker variant AND the slightly less crushed corner. Totally worth $200.”
In the end, collecting big box PC games isn’t just about the games — it’s about preserving an era where packaging was bigger than the monitor you played it on. Plus, let’s be honest: half the joy is showing off to your friends like, “See this box? This one game required 12 floppy disks. TWELVE. Kids these days don’t know the struggle.”
Solo albums from popular bands are like when your favorite superhero decides to go off and star in their own spin-off movie — exciting in theory, but sometimes you just end up with “Aquaman: The Extended Guitar Solo.”
Usually, the story goes like this: The bassist, tired of being ignored, suddenly thinks the world is dying to hear his 12-track concept album about medieval farming techniques. The drummer? He releases a record that’s basically 40 minutes of rhythm experiments and somehow calls it “Percussive Journey, Vol. 1.” Meanwhile, the lead singer drops a moody acoustic album, desperately trying to prove he’s not just the guy who screams into the mic — now he also screams into a harmonica.
Of course, every solo album gets hyped as “the real creative vision” behind the band. Translation: “This is what I’ve been annoying everyone with in rehearsal for the last 10 years.” And the reviews? Always polite. Critics write things like, “It’s an interesting exploration of sound” which is code for “We can’t sell this, but we respect your bravery.”
Still, there’s something charming about it. A solo album is basically a musical diary entry we weren’t supposed to read — sometimes it’s brilliant, sometimes it’s awkward, but either way, it proves that even rock gods want a little alone time.
Here’s the games that I’m most interested in. How about you?
Yoshi and the Mysterious Book
Mario Tennis Fever
Storm Lancers
Hades II
Metroid Prime 4: Beyond
Resident Evil Requiem
Fire Emblem: Fortune’s Weave
Nintendo Directs are basically Nintendo’s version of surprise parties—except instead of cake, you get a man in a blazer calmly announcing that a 25-year-old game you already bought three times is finally coming to Switch. 🎉
They start with this oddly formal tone, like Nintendo is about to unveil world peace, and then—BAM—Kirby is suddenly eating an automobile. You’ll see a polite Japanese executive appear, bow slightly, and then casually drop, “And now, please enjoy a brief look at Metroid Prime 4.” Cue a 12-second clip of a logo. Fans collectively lose their minds like they’ve just witnessed the cure for aging.
The pacing is wild too. One minute it’s Animal Crossing DLC, the next it’s a farming game where you marry turnips, and then oh look—it’s Bayonetta strutting through an exploding cathedral in slow motion. Somewhere in there, Miyamoto will just pop in like your cool uncle, smiling and talking about Pikmin as if he’s discussing his stamp collection.
And the endings? Always chaos. They wrap up with “Just one more thing…” which is Nintendo code for “We’re about to break the internet.” That’s when you find out Mario can now turn into a dinosaur, or a Splatoon kid is secretly in Smash Bros. It’s like Oprah giving out cars, except instead it’s “YOU get a port, YOU get a remake, EVERYBODY gets another Mario Kart track!”
The Atari 2600 is basically the grandpa of gaming consoles — the one who insists, “Back in my day, we only had one button, and we LIKED it!”
It’s a chunky wooden-paneled box that looks less like a piece of cutting-edge technology and more like something your uncle built in shop class. Plug it in, and you’re transported to a world where graphics were so primitive you had to use your imagination. “See that square? That’s you. See that rectangle? That’s the dragon. See that dot? That’s the treasure. Now, go save the princess!”
The joystick? Oh, a true masterpiece: a single stick and one big red button that had the durability of a cinder block but the ergonomics of a brick tied to a broom handle. After 20 minutes of playing Pitfall! your wrist looked like you’d been arm wrestling lumberjacks.
And let’s not forget the cartridges — enormous plastic slabs you had to jam in like you were loading ammo into a tank. Half the time, the console wouldn’t recognize them unless you performed the sacred gamer ritual: blowing on the contacts and praying to the tech gods.
But despite all that, the Atari 2600 is a legend. It walked so Mario, Sonic, and Master Chief could run. Without it, we wouldn’t have the video game industry we know today — just more people stuck playing Pong in bars and pretending it was high entertainment.
