When I was 2 years old, I'd cue up our pirated copy of
The Right Stuff and lay (or is it
lie?) upon the coffee table with some couch cushions supporting my astro-boots and a walkman to supply direct radio communication to mission control. And these were the only elements I required to be a full-blown astronaut in the Mercury Space Program (with maybe some Bill Conti background music.)
You ever seen a child open a gift and then end up playing with the box while ignoring the toy inside, and some grownup will quip, "Hey you coulda just got 'em the box without blowin' money on the toy!" That's sorta the jelly of this compilation; there may be nothing as lo-fi as
a box on this list, but these are some of the items that held great importance to me that were A) not utilized by me for their intended function, or B) simply weren't a toy with a capital "T".
I could pay homage to the indomitable efforts of Milton Bradley and Kenner with a solid list of
Batman-this and
Dick Tracy-that (and perhaps I will one day) but this is a collection steeped in aesthetic taste and pure imagination.... (which is partly made up of lighter fluid and some suggestive cleavage).
-
Paul
Fisher-Price Fried Egg
The peas and the mashed potatoes were pretty good. The chicken leg had nice coloring, but the texture was all fucked up. But man, nothing ever came close to that elegant, geometric purity of the fried egg. It seemed so wholesome and hearty enough to even make me hungry for a food prepared in a way that I had otherwise not been interested.
But out of context, its bright orange yolk centralized in its clean, white surrounding felt less like a child's plaything and more like an art piece depicting the greatest achievement in nature... and modern plastic.
Chocolate Monster Coins
To me, they held a higher value than actual legal currency.
Like so many toys, action figures, breakfast cereals, soft drinks, and trading cards, I'd leave certain candy unopened simply because I was enamored with the packaging.
And in the case of these seemingly generic chocolate tender discs (today you can purchase them as "Monster Munny" by Palmer), there were more than one 'package' to collect (not that it was a challenge - they usually came in a bag of dozens), and once I'd assembled the whole 'set', I'd either keep them displayed somewhere in my room, or store them in my off-hours backpack that I'd fill will various tools and magical items - like Link!
As usual, I digress. Anything depicting classic monsters was anything that demanded attention, and these soft, 1980s iterations felt characteristic of the pop colors of Basil Gogos. I'd only wished they came as framed prints.
Wonder Woman Flashlight
When I was 4 or 5, my grandparents would take me in their Winnebago up to Seabrook Racetrack to bet on dogs. During one of these surreal visits, I started arbitrarily picking winners - much to the delight of my family, sure, but also to the crowd of Vinnys and Frankies seated around us that began to anxiously await my next choice.
I'll never know how much cash I won for these crusty sleazebags, since giving me any kinda cut would've only compounded what was already bending a bucketful of laws. However, as compensation, a gentleman stranger presented me with a yellow Wonder Woman flashlight -- and I will say, no greasy wad of cash could've competed with this battery-operated pop art eroticism. Quite frankly, it'd been one of the sexiest things I'd ever seen (after Lea Thompson's "Enchantment Under the Sea" dress and the mud wrestling scene in
Stripes).
DC's 1980s depiction of the female form wrapped in wavy black hair and red & blue stripes spoke formative volumes to me and all but guaranteed my heterosexuality (and a mild proclivity for wearing such nylons and a bustier from time to time).
I was warned to
not turn the flashlight on in the camper during the nighttime drive home as to not distract the grandfather at the wheel - as though I gave a shit about its functionality as an illumination device; I just wanted to get married to the picture on the handle.
My Gold Zippo
Between 1994 and 1996, the Zippo lighter kept sparking its way into every teenage boy movie that I'd been consuming at the time:
The Professional,
The Usual Suspects,
Reservoir Dogs,
Pulp Fiction, etc. So in the absence of obtaining a working handgun or inviting Natalie Portman to be my best friend, this lighter seemed to be
the movie prop that one would need to play-act any of these hardboiled bastards.
I wasn't exactly Ralphie Parker in trying to procure one - I never really considered the
possibility that my overly protective folks would go out of their way to purchase a pricey firestarter for their prepubescent son - but any time we'd watch one of these movies, I'd always point out, "Hey, there's that
lighter again..."
Cut to my 13th birthday and I anticipate nothing specific. And as the presents dwindle, I unwrap a bottle of Ronsonol lighter fluid, which even
still doesn't clue me in to the contents of that final, palm-sized gift: a gold Zippo with the letters "VV" engraved on it (for Vincent Vega, of course).
Now, my initial snotty teenage reaction was that Travolta's lighter was silver, not gold, and he didn't have
his name on it like a vinyl Batman Halloween costume. Of course, I didn't say any of this ungrateful bile -- I mean, they had it
custom fucking made, and it was the real-deal name brand! Sure it came with some stern warnings re. "responsibility" and "ground rules" and shit like that, but they came through in a big way and got me what was arguably the best toy any teenager could ask for.
California Raisins Wallet
I don't think we've ever discussed the
Raisins on Bennett Media before - and for a paralyzing fear of a chance that we may not get to ever again, let's dive deep into the sour, chewy content of my crush before we discuss my greatest monument to it.
Apparently, they had a short-lived Saturday morning show that I musta slept through. And as far as I know, there was no comic book series, and sadly, the Nintendo game never made it to stores (which was unfair, considering McDonald's and Domino's
both got the 8-bit treatment). And yet, even without a standard childhood lineup of propaganda, they found a way into my life - through some more unconventional outlets.
I think the formal introduction was a claymation TV commercial - Raisin Bran I think - during which they 'performed' their 'hit' song, "I Heard It Through the Grapevine." They also had a pretty well-known assortment of plastic and rubber toys, as well as a sticker series called "The California Raisins World Tour" with illustrations depicting different Raisins at famous global landmarks. I engaged in all of these treasures as they contributed to this peripheral obsession. I even attended some sorta "California Raisins On Ice" show (which is the only kinda "capade" I've ever been to) - very little of which I remember, but the swag I amassed from it lasted me my youth.
I also had pajamas, Colorforms, plates & napkins at my birthday... No joke, this shit was
real.
And after all this, it never occurred to me to ask, "Who the hell are these dried, singing fruits?" They were clearly merchandise, but linked to whom or what? Did it matter? Only as an adult did I find it mildly puzzling... But I do know the answer is 'no' - no, it didn't matter, and I guess it still doesn't, because what attracted me to these figures who: had no discernible personalities from one Raisin to the next, didn't do karate, couldn't kill you in your dreams, and didn't wield lightsabers, was really nothing more than their color. To this day, that particular shade of reddish/brownish/purplish maroon is my
favorite color, and the only other icon of the 80s that could pull off that hue was Beetlejuice. Of course, the toys, the claymation, and the giant foam ice skaters never really got the color right. Only when they were illustrated
onto something were my rods & cones satisfied. Which - if you're even still with me here - brings me to the wallet.
I was at a family Christmas party in a house I'd never been in before with relatives I'd never met before: (childhood is full of these scenarios). Still though, in this crowd of strangers,
someone knew me well enough to gift me with a puffy vinyl yellow wallet adorning a lineup of a few nameless, more indistinguishable characters (I suppose they're supposed to be like The Pips). Upon receiving it, a few of these adults started a trend of giving me singles - you know, new money for my new wallet - which escalated to the point that I was actually
approaching nameless people who hadn't paid up and soliciting what I was led to believe what I was
owed.
Not sure how much bank I accumulated (and I'd probably trade the possessions I own today for whatever I bought with it), but the wallet was the thing. It's what I brought my milk money to school in, it's what I brought my candy & trading card money to the corner store in, it's what I kept my bizarre collection of novelty credit cards in. If a man's wallet defines him (which, I don't even know if that's something people say), then I was clearly defined.
And, like 60% of the items on this list, it's lost to time.
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