I’ve done something bad. Or more accurately—I’ve bought something bad. It had to happen eventually. I’ve reached the nadir of my collecting, my personal rock-bottom. If there’s a line one crosses between a fun collecting hobby and an indiscriminate hoarding problem, I may have just crossed it.

But first let me explain what happened.

In the heart of the winter months, with the lack of yard sales and flea markets, I’ve been resigned to hitting up thrift stores to do my treasure hunting. And recently, I’ve had a couple of scores. I’ve found a couple of vintage MOTU figures, a G1 Transformer, some vintage Universal Monster bendys, and even a Harry and the Hendersons Bigfoot bendy.

Each of these guys is worth a couple bucks each. The Transformer is Override, a triggerbot, a figure that sells for $15-$30 loose on eBay. The MOTUs are worth about $2-$5 each. The Universal Monster bendys are worth at least $5-$10 a piece. And who knew? Harry and the Hendersons has a bizarre cult following, and the toys are sought after and high-sellers on eBay. This is at least $50-$80 worth of figures that I’ve found rooting around in the thrift store, paying about $5 total for all of them.

By the way, I’m completely in love with this King Hiss figure.

He’s missing all his outer body armor parts, but I like him better this way. It’s a snake with arms that are also snakes. Let me say it again. A SNAKE WITH ARMS THAT ARE ALSO SNAKES. That’s my new reason for living.

If I was smart, I’d already have those things listed on eBay and sold, but I’m not smart. I’m a collector. All my friends have retirement accounts. I just have a basement full of toys and a running mental inventory of things that sell on eBay.

Thanks to all these sweet toys I’ve been scoring lately, I’ve gotten a bit addicted to checking out the thrifts. It’s gone from the occasional weekend activity to a twice-a-week binge. It’ll be a Wednesday night and I’ll find myself fiending for a hit of Goodwill cooked up with a bit of Value Village.

But don’t let me mislead you; most of the time, there’s nothing there. Just the same old Myrtle Beach coffee mugs, George Foreman grills, and a VHS copy of Free Willy. So sometimes I get desperate. Real desperate. This has lead me to start peeking into the darker and lesser explored sections of the thrift store. Like the cassette section. Oh yes, I went there, and it’s a scary place. One word: cassingles.

All of this was the brewing of the perfect storm, an aligning of things that led to me to buy the WORST THING I have ever bought. Right there in the cassette section, next to a 1990 Cassingle promo version of Wilson Phillips’ Release Me.

I bought THIS:

A sealed 1990 cassette album of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Coming Out Of Their Shells tour. I couldn’t get over the fact that it will still sealed, and that alone was worth a dollar to me, and possibly more. But let’s not talk about that. Ever.

This cassette was available exclusively at Pizza Huts. Take a moment to admire that cover, with Michaelangelo busting out of a shell, the bits and fragments gone flying. The funny part is, turtles die when their shells are broken. This is a metaphor.

It’s a low point for me—and the Ninja Turtles. In 1990, the Turtles had their own breakfast cereal, video game, school supplies, linens, towels, cameras, and even shaving kits. And after the massive success of the first Ninja Turtle movie, that the denim-clad Turtles would go on a multiple-city rock and roll concert tour sponsored by Pizza Hut only made sense.

It was bad. These weren’t the same puppets made with loving care and artfulness of Jim Henson’s Creature Shop featured in the movie. These were the bargain basement Turtles that looked strung out on nightmare fuel. But the thing about the Ninja Turtles brand is that it’s kind of amazing. It has been diluted, milked dry, drained of every last of drop of blood, and left for dead more than once. And yet like a phoenix, it always rises from the ashes for another movie, another cartoon series, or another line of action figures. And kids still LOVE it, even to this day.

The storyline for the tour was that music was more powerful than any weapon. There was also some plot about how Shredder was trying to steal all the music in the world by building a machine called a De-Harmonic Convergence Converter, but all you really needed to know was the part where April sings was a good time for a bathroom break or concession stand run.

The tour was in fact successful and popular with kids. It spawned no less than two home videos—a recorded concert at Radio City Music Hall and even more inexplicably, a making-of documentary. The thing is, I don’t remember the thing at all. Maybe it’s because the tour didn’t come to my town. Maybe it’s because I was turning ten that year and thought I’d become too old to indulge in my Turtle love in public. I’d become a closeted Turtle fan and wanted nothing to do with a Coming Out tour.

So I have absolutely no nostalgia for this thing, which makes the fact that I bought this tape so much worse.

I love the song titles. They’re intriguing and zen-like in their simplicity: “Sing About It.” “Tubin’.” “No Treaties.” I think it’s hilarious that the producers obviously held the part where April sings in such low regard that they didn’t give the song a name other than “April Ballad.” They couldn’t even be bothered to punctuate it possessively.

I asked the wife if she thought there was something that might be missing in me, “some kind of gaping hole that I’m trying to fill by buying crap like this.”

She shrugged disinterestedly. “Nah, that’s just the kind of weird stuff you like.” Then she added, “By the way, I happened to see the neighbors put their trash out, and there was a box for a salad spinner. Just so you don’t think I’m the only one who has all these extraneous kitchen gadgets — the neighbors have one, too.”

“Wait what? You were stalking their trash?”

“No,” she said defensively, and went back to reading a magazine article about one woman’s relationship with a slow cooker.

Then I realized we all have weird gaping holes that we’re filling with stuff. And apparently, the neighbors have this particular hole, too, and our neighborhood is like a Salad Spinners Anonymous meeting. Because life is life, and sometimes it pokes holes in you, and the only thing that makes sense for it is to buy a giant contraption of a spinning bowl that dries lettuce. Or a Ninja Turtle tape. Or whatever.

Attention: The rest of this post will have nothing to do with this artful green-frosted Toaster Strudel, but sometimes when you “do” a good Toaster Strudel, you just have to show it off. #bragging #picasso

This past weekend was the Greater Baltimore Toy and Collectible Show that’s held at the state fairgrounds twice a year in the winter and summer. The night before, an ice storm dumped about two inches of ice and snow sludge on the ground. The dread of scraping and chipping out my car on a Saturday morning almost stopped me from going—and in fact the thought of going outside at all on the windy white-grey morning almost stopped me, too. Still, I trooped onward. There were toys. Besides I’d had a cruddy week, and I was in desperate need of some toy-hunting endorphins.

The fairgrounds was surprisingly mobbed with people and parking was at full capacity. There were crowds of people in cowboy hats and tasseled jackets carefully gliding across the parking lot which was covered in a sheet of sludgy brown ice. There was some sort of horse convention going on in another building—the “Horse World Expo,” whatever the hell that is—which apparently involves roping contests, mounting demonstrations, and “Equi-tainment! – A Musical Equine Variety Show.”

Horses and musical variety shows? Whoa. No wonder weather does not stop horse show people. Those people are CRAZY HARDCORE.

The toy show on the other hand was completely dead. There were maybe fifty to one hundred customers there, and about two hundred seriously depressed dealers who were sweating out even making back the cost of renting a space. This meant the dealers were either really willing to make deals or even more hellbent on sticking with their jacked up prices. It also meant I could palpably feel the dealers desperately watch me and hang onto every single item I picked up to look at.

As usual, I was in the hunt for random oddities and unloved toys. And as usual, I succeeded in my mission.

1. GODZILLA KOOSH BALL:

At first I thought this was a Jurassic Park dinosaur Koosh Ball, but it’s actually from the 1998 Godzilla movie starring Matthew Broderick. A Koosh ball tie-in to a notoriously awful 90s movie definitely falls under my category of “random oddity.” The dealer even laughed when I picked it up because he’d told his friend it would be the one thing he’d never be able to sell. In fact, the guy was so giddy that someone was buying it that he gave me these dinosaur bendys for free:

2. FREE DINOSAUR BENDYS WHAAAT!

Amazing! Getting free dinosaur bendys would be the pinnacle of some people’s toy show finds, but I was just getting warmed up. But I might have bought these things anyway! I love the unrealistic color choices, like red eyes and blue stripes. Plus I could tie that Brontosaurus neck into a bowtie!

The Koosh and the bendys made for perfect additions to my gorillas vs. dinosaurs shelf:

It’s a classic battle!

3. Z-BOTS!

Z-Bots were little figures that ran from 1992-1994 under the Micro Machines line by Galoob. I’ve collected a whole bunch of these in the past year, so it’s always fun to find new ones I don’t have yet. I love love love that orange alien dude.

4. ROBOTS!

The guy on the left is a 1978 Tomy Rascal Robot windup, which I got for a total steal for a buck. The other guy is another Z-Bot, who I also paid a dollar for. I had an idea to add my robots collection to the gorillas and dinosaur battle, and then it would be ROBOTS vs. gorillas and dinosaurs. The gorillas and dinosaurs would probably have to team up in order to stand a chance again the robots. I’d totally do this, but a sinkhole would probably open up under my house because of the sheer weight of awesomeness.

5. VOLTRON LIONS!

Paid two bucks a piece for these. These are the 1981 die-cast metal ones. This is one of the toy lines that EVERYONE wants and collects, and since I’m kind of a toy-collector hipster in that way, I don’t really collect this stuff. But for two bucks a piece, I figured I could probably resell and make profit on eBay, even if these guys are in heavily-played-with condition.

6. VAMPIRES!

These are my absolute favorite thing I bought. I even paid a whopping ten bucks for it, which probably doesn’t seem like a lot to some/most collectors, but you’ll notice I rarely pay more than a buck or two for most of the things I buy. Not only am I the annoying hipster of collectors, I’m also just cheap. But these Vampires were a totally different story for me. Look at that amazing packaging! That awesome bat! That font!

I’d actually seen the exact same pack and same dealer at the York Toy Extravaganza back in December. I’d passed on them thinking I’d be able to go home and find them online for cheaper. But then I went home couldn’t find a single mention of these things anywhere online, which made me hate myself for not buying them. So when I saw them again this weekend, I knew it was fate, and sometimes fate costs ten dollars.

They’re from 1992 and made by a now-defunct toy maker, Happiness Express Inc.

I’m thinking these things have got to be ridiculously rare in the package like this. I am going to worship them forever and ever amen.

7. GIRL GREMLIN!

Here’s another thing I broke my “two dollar rule” for. I paid five bucks because I needed this. I really, really needed this, and I don’t think it’s unreasonable to see why. LOOK AT HER. If my house was burning down and I could only save one crappy PVC figure from the early 1990s, it might just be this one.

This toy also achieves an important accomplishment in my collection, being the HOTTEST toy that I own, surpassing the ET-in-drag figurine, the girl California Raisin in hot pink heels, and even the bride Ms. Pac-Man. Yeah, I said it.

Yowsa.

8. MORE TMNT CRAP!

I was happy to find these figures, Tattoo the Sumo Wrestler and Mondo Gecko, two of the many strange non-Turtle figures in the Playmates Ninja Turtle line.

9. Q*BERT!

Finally, I picked up this Q*Bert figurine for another eight bucks, which is hard to turn down because Q*bert stuff is just so damn cool.

Here’s another look at the some more of my video game stuff:

Oh yeah, I also got that big Sonic recently at Toys R Us. They have a new line of “Sonic Through Time” 20th Anniversary figures which includes the 90s versions of Sonic and not just the sucky 2000s version of Sonic. They oughta do the same thing for Mario, because he looked better in the 90s, too.

Anyway, that’s it. The show delivered on the toy-hunting endorphins. Worth trudging through the snow sludge. Almost as worth it as horse variety shows. Almost.

The great rock critic Lester Bangs once dreamed about having a basement with every album ever recorded in it. The thing is, Bangs’ basement now exists on the Internet. Nothing is rare and nothing is unknown. The digital world grows by the nanoseconds and milliseconds are obsolete. When I was a kid I used to try to think of the biggest number ever, but always puckered out somewhere after one hundred gajillion-billion-zillion-million. And one.

Bangs probably would have been freaked out if he knew his dream basement would become reality. The guy wrote an Elvis obituary wondering if the world could ever agree on love or Elvis or anything ever again. He spoke to an increasingly fragmenting culture back in 1977 when he wrote, “we will never again agree on anything as we agreed on Elvis. So I won’t bother saying good-bye to his corpse. I will say good-bye to you.”

Bangs couldn’t have foreseen that there’s something worse than no Elvis. There’s no John Lennon. There’s no Michael Jackson. There’s no record stores. And there’s nobody sitting around listening to records. We don’t sit down on the couch, have a drink with a friend, listen to side one of a record, flip it over, and listen to side two. We don’t remember the rules—that you can talk before the record and in between sides and during the crappy songs, but Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands requires full reverence.

There’s no reverence anymore. Instead, there’s earbuds and playlists and leave-me-the-hell-alone looks—which face it—you need on subways and buses.

Don’t mind me. I’m just being old and obsolete and living in the analog world. Digital music is codes. Ones and ohs. Numbers. One hundred gajillion-billion-zillion-million. It hurts my head. Analog means to use signals or information represented by a continuously variable physical quantity. See also, In a manner analogous to the variations in air pressure of the original sound. See also, Random variation.

On monoaural records, the fine print somewhere on the back cover always assures the buyer that “this is a high-fidelity recording, designed for the phonograph of today or tomorrow. Played on your present machine, it gives you the finest quality of reproduction. You can buy today, without fear of obsolescence in the future.”

I wish I came with that kind of disclaimer.

See also, A thing seen as comparable to another. Recently I found a secondhand bookstore tucked into the corner of an unsuspecting strip mall, next to a sushi place and a paint store. It was the kind of strip mall where it looks like it might be mobbed, but then you realize there’s actually tons of parking spots, and it’s just the lazy suburbanites hunting and scrapping over the first few rows. Being a competitive animal, or maybe just an asshole, I like to scan the closer spots to see if I can snipe one off. I’m not lazy, I just want to win. I have medals in getting good parking spaces, people. MEDALS.

Before even walking in, you can tell this is the perfect kind of bookstore, the kind roughly the size of a closet. At least a master bedroom closet. Old light bulbs with metal filaments give off an apricot glow. Musty wooden shelves press to the ceiling and loom over—or perhaps more accurately, hunch over, like old giants. And if you are quiet, and if you listen carefully, you’ll swear you hear those shelves breathing, the sounds of giants harrumphing over us mere mortals below.

This is the kind of place without hip kids in wool hats and lattes—but rather the kind with an inch of dust collecting on the shelves and maybe some cat hair, too. The kind of place with a girl behind the counter who could be anything between twenty-seven and forty-seven years old, reading a book, and that’s all she minds to do. If you have a question that’s not idiotic, she will be happy to answer it. But if you’re interrupting to ask where the Dean Koontz books are, you really shouldn’t be in this holy place.

And no, she also doesn’t know the name of that book by the name of that author you can’t remember.

And no, e-books. Just no.

She’s wearing a dowdy but comfy sweater and a no-fuss ponytail. I decide she’s definitely twenty-seven because the slouch neck of the sweater reveals the spaghetti strap of a tank top—and I decide she’s probably fun. A good time. Wild, in fact. You just know with those ones.

Then in the back, there’s a possible treasure hunt—the everything else section, where there are CDs, DVDs, VHS tapes, and best of all, vinyl records. I try to tip toe past the giants, skipping over their books, but I hear them sigh in disdain. I want to explain myself. You see, I just bought all these books last month that I already have no time to read. I swear, honestly, my bedside table has like six piles plus a few more on the floor. I’ve got to sleep in the same room as the books I’m currently reading, and right now, it’s an orgy. Look, honestly, I got them at a real bookstore, at the Borders before it went out of business. Thirty of ‘em, all glossy and virginal and smelling of ink and fresh pulp, sweeter than the smell of citrus.

I know, I should have gone more often. I should have bought more books before it closed. We all should have. It’s a shame, and it’s our fault, and we know it. Well, some of us do.

But it’s no use to plead with the giants. The won’t hear my case. They’re old and they’re grumpy, and they have wiser things to talk about. Theirs are conversations we cannot hear or understand, like a child playing on the floor under the table, while the adults smoke cigarettes and sip beers above, speaking in hushed and solemn tones. We long to be a part of it, to know what of it, but then we grow up and wish we could go back to not knowing. Wish we could go back to underneath the table, our secret fort, where the dog also watched guard, our trusty sidekick.

I miss my sidekick. Us mortals are too sensitive. Wound too easily. Take it all too personal. Man up now, suck it in and stand up straight. Rah rah, and all of that. Onward march then.

I make my way to the back, past the giants, past the girl, and also past an owlish man studying the rows of books in the military history section, which is labeled in handwritten scrawl on a piece of masking tape. The records sit in crates on the floor, in crates behind those crates, and in haphazardly stacked piles on top of the crates and the crates behind those. Hoo boy.

Right away I could see it wasn’t the usual thrift store fare in the crates, the stuff grandma doesn’t even listen to—the Herb Alberts, the Sing Alongs with Mitch, the banged up Christmas records. This was actual, honest-to-god rock and roll in here.

So I’m crouching and flipping through the crates, my knees starting to tingle and the lactic acid racking up in my calves. Suddenly the next LP I flip to is Sgt Pepper. As in Lonely Hearts Club Band. As in the Beatles. A nice clean, beauty of a copy, too. Usually that shit is snapped up and put eBay for a million dollars plus an additional billion dollars shipping. Or it’s placed behind some glass counter and marked up to fifty bucks, even if looks like it was ran over twice and wouldn’t be worth that much if Ringo sneezed on it.

Instead, here it was among the common and mortal records, in the $4 crate, although admittedly it was meekly marked as $10. This is the Beatles, after all. The book store owners weren’t fools. I bought it because I always buy multiple copies of Beatles records. I’m forever chasing after that one good clean copy without a speck of dust gunking the inner grooves. Gunk is reality in the analog world. But this one was pretty. There was no ringwear and the colors were vivid. The corners were sharp.

It wasn’t until I got home that I noticed the inside sleeve. Early Pepper copies came with a pink-swirl on the sleeve. It intrigued me enough to do some Googling. And make some phone calls. And have my friend pull out his “Field Guide to Beatles Records,” a book he swears he’s never “used in the field, whatever that means.” (LIES.)

I became sucked into a massive wormhole of arcane Beatles knowledge, a circle of hell in esotericism. There are differences in the copyright information printed in microprint on the back covers, which is the difference between common copies and rarer ones. If it has a MACLEN and NEMS copyright on the back, it’s a common copy.

But my copy only had the NEMS copyright.

To my horror, three hours of research passed. I began sweating at the thought of my wife walking in the door from work, and me having nothing ready for dinner because I became obsessed with the subtleties of copyright information on the back cover.

“But it doesn’t say MACLEN, honey!” is not a valid excuse.

SWEET CIRCLE OF HELL.

As it turns out my copy is one of the rarer first pressings, a copy in its condition worth $100-$200. That gives me hope, in a digital world where everyone has a computer in their pocket—that you can still stumble into a little closet of a bookstore and unsuspectingly find a rare Beatles record that someone else didn’t know about, not even yourself. Perhaps it’s something fated in the analog world: a bit of random variation, a speck of dust among the ones and ohs.

We live across the street from the saddest yet somewhat endearing Christmas display ever. At least they tried. Those icicle lights are hilarious. Those things hung droopier every day. The neighbors actually had to duck underneath of them upon leaving and returning home. Then there were the candy canes, which hadn’t stayed upright all month. While the red one was a trooper, the green one was a bastard. (The green ones always are.) It fell over every day. You’d think those folks would have finally given up on it, and left it on the ground as it was in this picture taken on Christmas Eve.

But you know what? The day after Christmas, that green one was standing upright again—sort of. And THAT’S THE SPIRIT. It’s Christmas, damn it, and again this year, WE MADE IT. Now, we deal with the aftermath—and all of those maddening strands of tinsel we keep finding everywhere. My God man, we didn’t even put tinsel on the tree this year.

Now, before I start to review the items in the haul, I should mention the wife joined and navigated eBay for the first time this year. All year she stores up a special resentment for me not being easy to shop for, which she then turns into a super-power come December. “I’m going to find you things YOU LOVE this year,” she threatens.

So she signed up for eBay, which for most people, is a quick and easy five minute process. For the wife, it was an emotional and daunting journey. It’s partially my fault. As a grizzled old eBayer myself, I’ve imparted all sorts of tales about last minute bid sniping and sellers profiting off of shipping costs.

Every day, I’d get the play-by-play on how her bids were going.

“I’m still the high bidder!”

“I’m going to have to watch it the last thirty minutes so the snipers don’t get me!”

“You are going love this thing!”

She clearly believed she was winning a grand prize.

“I can’t believe I won it!” she said. “And they didn’t charge me a lot for shipping,” she added proudly. Even the old grizzled eBayer had to muster up a “well done.”

Then I started to get pretty excited. eBay combined with Christmas is the entire world of possibilities. I mean, it could be anything. And so imagine my surprise Christmas morning when the ENTIRE WORLD of possibilities brought me this:

The uhh… NINJA TURTLE VALENTINES KIT! I’m not making fun of it. I swear. I just think it’s hilarious that she fretted EVERY SINGLE DAY over the potential bidding war she might get into with someone over this thing. And I didn’t know whether to be mortified or flattered that she was so confident I’d love it. Vintage action figures are worthy of adult geek love. But an elementary class Valentine kit with 32 unpunched cards and heart-shaped stickers with Michaelangelo’s face on them? Is that okay to love? Is it?

“You’re the one who wanted that box of Ninja Turtle Band-Aids that was at that toy show,” she said.

Oh yeah. That. That I can explain.

“Band-aids are different,” I said.

Oh screw it. I LOVE IT and I’ll save a review of it for a special Valentine’s Day edition of the blog.

Also, she won that awesome 13 inch Donatello figure. Which came shipped in this really disturbing box:

I’m sort of a OCD germaphobe, so this box REALLY creeps me out. What the hell is a vacutainer? I don’t like anything that combines the words “vacuum” and “container.” But that’s not the only creepy thing. Donatello also smells really strongly of bleach. As though he were fully submerged, preserved, and pickled in a tub of bleach for days. The question is why? And does it have to do anything with blood collecting?

Let’s just say I placed Donatello high up on my Ninja Turtles shelf and promptly washed my hands afterwards. Ten times. Which is a nice even number.

But the wife wasn’t done on eBay yet. Here’s the other awesome thing she won:

CHEESEBURGER MICKEY. It’s Mickey Mouse! In cheeseburger form! How awesome is that? It’s one of the Vinylmation figures, sold exclusively in Disney Parks and stores. According to the Disney site, Vinylmation is “a collectible designer toy created by Disney Theme Park Merchandise.” That’s another way of saying “money grab,” and Walt Disney churns out anything and everything for a buck.

Disney must pipe in subliminal messages through the theme park music to get you to part with your money easier, because when we were in Disney World on our honeymoon this past September, I became mildly obsessed with the Vinylmation figures. I’d seen a picture of Cheeseburger Mickey somewhere, and became singularly focused on it. I had to check every last store, even though all the stores were exactly the same.

When we got home, and I was no longer being constantly exposed to the brain-washing subliminal Disney messages, I mostly forgot about my fling with madness and the Vinylmation figures. Even so, I’m proclaiming Cheeseburger Mickey as my favorite Christmas gift this year.

GODZILLA SLIPPERS. I’m not gonna lie. I put these on my list. Right on the top of it. It’s something you see and immediately realize there is no way you can live without them knowing that they exist. I already stomp around the house. Now I can do it with purpose.

They’re HUGE. As someone already prone to falling up stairs, these increase my chances to about 100%. The wife made a rule that I can’t go up and down the stairs in these, but I already have because I’m a rebel. I like to live dangerously. I’m gonna die. Doesn’t matter. Having Godzilla feet is WORTH IT.

REMOTE CONTROL HELICOPTER! I had this on my list because I can think of all kinds of times when I really wish I had a remote control helicopter to fly. Like, while I’m trying to think of thoughts. Sentences. Words. Stuff. It’s way better than staring at walls. Walls are so unengaging.

Well, except for wallpapered walls. Sometimes those patterns can really suck you in like whoa.

BOOKS! My mother gave me these. I love books like this even though the target audience is eight years old and I’m thirty one. There’s lots of good stuff in the Giant Cool Book. For example I’ve learned that a squid has the largest eyes in the world. At birth, a giant panda is smaller than a mouse.

And Optical Illusions are awesome. These are great additions to my library of “fun” books, where I have books about dinosaurs, sea creatures, mammals, UFOs, etc. These are the things that first sparked my curiosity as a kid, and they still do.

THE WORLD’S MOST GIGANTIC BOX OF CHOCHOLATES! From my sister, who always finds the most unique gifts every year. When she plopped this wrapped package in my lap on Christmas day, I already knew what it was. This long, lightweight rectangular package was obviously a board game. I confidently boasted that “I know what this is.”

I’m a notorious guesser and I’m right nearly 99% of the time. It’s somewhat deflating to the gift-giver when I guess it before I open it, and of course, I relish in earning that deflation. Except my sister wasn’t deflated. Instead, she looked at me with a challenging glint in her eye. “I dare you to say it out loud if you know what it is then.”

Sister: 1. Me: 0.

STAR WARS FIGURES! From the wife. I really dig all the retro re-issues out there. In some ways, walking through a Toys R Us aisle today looks just like it might have twenty-five years ago.

I opened R2-D2 first, and immediately guessed the other similarly-wrapped package would be his counterpart, C-3PO. The wife smirked. Boy, was I off. It was Princess Leia in the SLAVE OUTFIT.

0 for 2 on my guesses this year.

STOCKING STUFFERS! Is this the most perfect assortment of stocking stuffers ever? The wife gets special bonus points for finding that Dressed-as-Santa-Mr. Potato Head-Viewmaster tube topper. That thing is a load of awesome.

TOY STORY CARS! I love things in the form of other things! Like Cheeseburger Mickey. Or Toy Story cars! The wife got me these. She has a good eye for under-the-radar cool stuff. This set is perfect, except we’re both kind of disappointed there’s no Hamm car. But she’d fight me for that one. It’s a pig, after all.

ANGRY BIRDS! BOWSER HAT! I recently had an affair with the Angry Birds. I discovered them about two years after the rest of the world. I don’t have a smart phone. I finally discovered the game through the Google Chrome browser. I obsessively three-starred all the levels in about a week, and now I have these plush birds to forever represent that lost week of my life. And that Bowser hat—I love love love the strangely minimal, bootleggy, old-school hand drawn look of the design.

So that’s my 2011 haul. WE MADE IT! But we’ll still be picking up that tinsel ’til next year. ‘Til next year indeed!

I still do an Advent calendar every year. They’re supposed be for little kids to help them count down the days to Christmas, but I think opening tiny cardboard doors with chocolates behind them is an ageless activity. The history of Advent calendars is also rich with cultural meaning and religious connotations, but honestly, the most important thing here is tiny cardboard doors, people. They rule.

The thing is, I suck at my Advent calendar. I suck at my Advent every year. I mean, I really really suck at it. I’ve neglected mine since December 9th, failing to peel back a single tiny door since that day. Now all of the chocolates I have to eat are backed up like a traffic jam. I didn’t say it was a bad thing.

I blame forgetfulness and procrastination. I blame the chocolates themselves, which don’t exactly offer the same seduction and lure of the Klondike bars in the freezer.

Now I have to play catch up, eating a rash of chocolates one after another, and not even savoring the opening of each door. It’s kind of a metaphor for how adults experience Christmas.

When I was a kid, I was on top of my Advent. I did not let a day, chocolate, or door lapse. The countdown to Christmas was too crucial. Those tiny doors remaining were the only thing that assured me Christmas was not 452349 days away. Thank God, it was only ten days away. And then five. And then two. Which even then still felt like 452349 days away.

Christmas was the day when all my dreams and aspirations came true. My aspirations were toys and having them. Having all of them. Christmas was the day I chipped a bit more away at it—my one true dream of having all of the toys and things that there are.

Then we grow up and have no idea what we want. It becomes such a large and looming thing. What do we want in life? Maybe the neurotic ones and the dreamers go on chasing it forever. Or we settle for just wanting to be happy. Yet as children, the answer was quite simple. We wanted everything.

Except for brain-teaser toys. I did not want those. And I used to get them all the time, people thinking I was a clever and curious child. But I was not curious for maddening wooden puzzles or metal interlocking horseshoe things. Since I’m pretty sure the stature for being gracious and grateful for gifts expires after twenty years—I hated them and they made me want to die on the inside. THERE I SAID IT AND IT FEELS SO MUCH BETTER.

Instead I was curious for the same things all children are. Why is the sky blue? How come when I talk into the fan I sound like a robot? And seriously, what type of animal is Snuffaluffagus?

I also wanted to know how Santa could possibly travel the entire world in one night. It would mean he traveled at 3,000 times the speed of sound. At that rate, the poor bastard would burst into flames upon entering the atmosphere!

“How?”

My mother would wearily mumble something about magic. I accepted it. I also accepted the dog could hear my thoughts. She looked like she could.

Eventually, my questions of wonderment would turn into questions of skepticism. Questions of skepticism would give way to adolescence and broader questions of want and life. Of faith and God. Of love and dreams, and life and death. And I’d learn that there were no answers, and that I was frightened of anyone who claimed to have them, and that I was drawn to those who were just as confused.

There’s always a lot to think about while I eat all these chocolates and stare out the back window. I get good ideas there. I also get good ideas in the shower. Showers are magical and so is Bath Fitter.

But the back window is still my best thinking spot. The squirrels are fat this time of year. Cute fat. Looks like the neighbors finally put away their grill. The ground is a wan grayish and ambered color, and soon it will be covered with snow.

THIS.

This is a Bumble. And this is my favorite thing this Christmas season. Until I proclaim the next thing my favorite thing. Fickle heart.

I called finding him the Christmas Miracle, but then again I call everything the Christmas Miracle, including finding my car keys and saving fifty cents on my choice of select Kellogg’s cereals. Coupons are miraculous.

But in fact, finding Bumble actually falls under the distinct category of Christmas Missions. All the best Christmases have a Christmas Mission Accomplished—for example when you finally find that hot toy, finally perfect that pie recipe, or finally get your first kill in a Wal-Mart on Black Friday.

Finding this Bumble was my 2011 Christmas Mission Accomplished, the result of going to three Targets. The wife was assigned to the Targets near her office. I staked out the ones near the house. Which did I mention? Are totally picked over and horrific war zones at this point.

We’re exactly one week before Christmas, which is a frightening sentence to those of us who did not do all of our shopping online, thank you very much you smug bastards. I’m sure it’s so easy to just have all the boxes delivered right to the front door, but you know what? I like pain. I like being at the mall where everyone appears to have the worst chest cold ever. My God people, should you really be out in public like this? Or just generally be out in public? And I LOVE waiting for the person who is standing right in front of the thing I want to look at. I LOVE IT. I really do. Now please fucking move. Please.

Christmas shopping PTSD is very real. Don’t be afraid to talk about it.

Special shout out to all my comrades out there working retail at Christmas. I’m a retail vet myself. I did several tours back in the day. War is hell.

Bumble is made by Funko in their line of Pop toys, a series of figures made of vinyl that are 3.75 inches tall. I normally don’t give a crap about stylized vinyl figures, but when I found out Rudolph-themed ones existed, it became a whole different story. There are also Year Without Santa Claus versions featuring Snow Miser and Heat Miser. They’re five bucks a pop, a total deal.

I would love to have seen a Hermey figure, and especially a Yukon Cornelius. That guy rules. Or a misfit toy. Here’s a piece of trivia I learned from Wikipedia: the Dolly for Sue on the Island of Misfit Toys doesn’t appear to have anything wrong with her. That’s because her problem is depression! Apparently Sue rejected and didn’t love her.

But of my available choices, I knew it had to be Bumble. I dig Bumble. He used to scare the hell out of me as a kid. I mean, he almost kills and eats the entire reindeer family and Hermey, too. It’s dark stuff. Rudolph is some crazy shit. Children’s specials today aren’t nearly as unsettling.

However, in the end, everyone knows that Bumble is just a misunderstood softie. Just look at him:

ADORABLE. This guy is made really nice. I love the minimal detail about him, and yet every detail is precisely the perfect detail. He’s got a lot of personality. It’s a solid, cool toy, and it’s bad ass enough to stay out all year. Of course, Christmas is when he really shines.

Don’t worry about what’s going on in that picture. Bumble is not about to devastate the Playmobil Nativity. He’s only saying hi.

I’ve been seeing some really legit stocking stuffers out there this year, and this one is a particular favorite. I found this at Target on sale for less than five bucks. Just take a moment to admire that packaging. It’s the total embodiment of the true meaning of Christmas. And yes, in case you find yourself lost and searching this season like so many others, you have just found it. The true meaning is Surprise Monster Jam Trucks.

Reflect on it. You’ll get it.

I always wanted to go to a monster truck rally as a kid. It’s big cars riding over little cars! There’s fire and bone-crushing deaths! I’m certain monster truck rallies had bone-crushing deaths, three words that can make a child salivate. Everyone always thinks of children as innocent, but the truth is kids are little psychos. Little psychos who cry when Bambi’s mom dies.

Plus I knew there would be popcorn at the rally, the kind that comes in a little cardboard box with red stripes on it. I REALLY WANTED TO GO BAD.

Instead my parents took us to museums and parks. One time, we did go to an exotic animals show inside an arena, so at least I broke even in the sketchy arena shows department.

There was a monster truck rally around here recently. Admission was only like fifteen bucks, and I think the first 100 people admitted got a free can of Bud Light. Something like that. Can you believe the wife didn’t want to go? Maybe I should have mentioned the popcorn in little cardboard boxes with red stripes. Sometimes that’s all it takes.

Each box contains a surprise monster truck pictured on the back. I desperately want mine to be the Holiday Hauler so that I have an excuse to put this with my Christmas decorations. And by desperately, I mean that if my particular box does not contain the Holiday Hauler, I may just lose my mind, drive back to Target, and promptly purchase a case of them in search of the golden ticket. I’m imagining a future together with the Holiday Hauler, year after year as a cherished piece of my Christmas decorations.

However, that Superman truck will do. And I probably won’t slit my wrists with a rusty butter knife if I end up with the lame Grinder Monster Truck.

Then again, I can get really emotional.

I love this packaging. It really captures the essence of stocking stuffers. There should always be that something in the stocking that goes the extra mile, and this does it. The detail down to the tire tread prints on the box is just awesome.

Plus I can totally use this nifty little box to wrap another gift.

In the tradition of Clark Griswold, “drumroll, please.”

The Gravedigger. It would have been third on my choice list, which isn’t bad given my general luck with these sort of things. I like it. It pays small tribute to my bloodthirsty nostalgia for death. Maybe the wife will fill my stocking with another shot at the Holiday Hauler. Hint hint hint hint.

THAT WAS A HINT.

Christmas is about subtlety.

And besides, I still came up with a way to work it into my decorations:

I’m a purist for getting a real Christmas tree. Christmas requires proper pain and suffering. It requires sap and frostbite and risking bringing a spider’s nest into your home. It requires agonizing with the tree stand for thirty minutes, turning those dumb little screws over and over, like that makes any difference.

Your plastic thing sucks and it’s made from lead and vinyl in a cancer-causing Chinese factory. That’s just bad mojo, and that don’t mix with the Christmas spirit, man. You know what else doesn’t mix with the Christmas spirit? That Giant-brand egg nog that comes in the creepy yellow container. It especially doesn’t mix with what you had for dinner, at all. Don’t do it, people.

I’m serious. Don’t do it.

Among us tree purists, there are two camps—and I’m certain the tree-chopper-downers sneer at us piddling tree-lot-warblers. But look, I did pull over on the side of the road at the tree lot and interact with a man who was wearing a sweatshirt that had “HILLBILLY DELUXE” emblazoned across the front. He was also selling sketchy cantaloupes which I’m certain aren’t in season. Just saying. Even if I didn’t get down on my knees in the snow and saw down a tree myself, I still did my share of required pain.

Side note: seeing sketchy fruit is always traumatic. Exhibit B: That three-pronged thing at the Asian supermarket.

One thing us tree purists can agree on is the scent of fresh pine. But I think we often overlook the most awesome part of a real Christmas tree. It’s a freaking TREE. INSIDE YOUR HOUSE. A TREE! THAT YOU DECORATE! It’s the ultimate houseplant on steroids. This is amazing. Life is amazing.

Every year, one of me and the wife’s Christmas traditions is to each pick out a new ornament for the tree. We go to Valley View Farms, a garden center that becomes a Christmas compound with 543394835 ornaments in one place. That’s the exact number. I counted them.

So in what has become a blog tradition, here is what we picked out.

MY PICK: THIS STING RAY.

He looks like he’s swimming in the tree. I had this guy in the running with a basketball playing sock monkey. If there had been a gorilla ornament in the animals section, I might have gone gorilla, but after seeing this guy swim in the tree, I have complete confidence in my 2011 pick.

THE WIFE’S PICK: ANOTHER PIG.

We have a bit of a pig problem in our household. The wife swears that she does not collect pigs. She claims that all her pigs were acquired because people gifted them to her. Over the years, she became pinned as the girl who liked pig stuff, and it became an uncontrollable thing. A pig thing. This is what she claims. I’m letting the pig out of the bag. She totally buys that shit.

“You already have like a million other pig ornaments,” I said.

“This is not a pig. It’s Olivia,” she said.

Whoever that is.

“Alright fine, but then the tree is going to be dominated with pigs.” I said.

“You don’t like my pigs?”

“Our tree is going to look like A Very Country Christmas.”

The ornament wars had begun. Ornament wars are very real and can be more contentious than closing-the-cabinet wars and loading-the-dishwasher wars.

“Maybe we should just pick out one or two of the best pigs for the tree,” I said.

“Whatever.”

She let the subject change and we proceeded to check-out. I figured I had won. I felt pretty good about myself. One or two of the best pigs. Marriage is all about compromise.

…
…
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Of course, you the reader know as well as I do that all the pigs are on that tree right now. And before you think I’m a jerk for even questioning the pigs, I think it’s because you haven’t actually seen them and will take my side in the ornament wars. So here they are.

PIG OFFENDER #1.

Jingle Bell pig. He’s missing a leg, so I sort of feel bad for him. I’d let this pig stay. He ties in with Christmas.

PIG OFFENDER #2.

This one is sort of neutral and alright, I guess. I’d let him stay, somewhere in the back of the tree.

PIG OFFENDER #3.

This one is terrible, but at least I get it. The wife used to take ballet. So there’s that.

PIG OFFENDER #4.

Golf-playing pig is where I start to get uncomfortable. It’s garish and weird, and not in a good nostalgic way. Why does she have a golf-playing pig? She doesn’t even like golf. Also, the size of this thing is approaching infant size.

PIG OFFENDER #5.

I’M UNCOMFORTABLE.

But hey, like I said, Christmas requires proper pain and suffering.

Hey it’s December! The rest of the world may have begun the psycho parade procession toward Christmas back in August, but I’m only getting warmed up right now. I put up the outdoor Christmas lights last weekend. That’s right—last weekend, which was December. I don’t put that ish up in November, folks. Oh yeah, and I got a hot tip for you in the lighting department. The $12-a-pop Martha Stewart lights are worth it. You might be tempted to save money with the $7-a-pop off-brand lights, but stick with your girl Martha. They’re way brighter and nicer.

Anyway, it’s time for some Christmas counting down. Over the next two weeks, I’m going to be doing mad Christmas posting and blowing up your life XMAS STYLE. I got something awesome for the first post.

The other day I was at the thrift store. This is the kind of thrift store where old people’s lifetimes of accumulated knick-knacks go to die. It’s heaven if you’re a hoarder—or if you’re me. I’m not a hoarder. I’m an artist. I collect things with utmost discrimination. This next thing was no exception.

Check this out.

VINTAGE SANTA DOOR COVER.

Let’s take one moment to worship those people on the packaging. They sure can appreciate a decent Santa door cover when they see one. I love that girl’s admiring gaze.

Back in the day, this thing would have set you back a dollar and some change, but I got it for SIXTY SIX CENTS, still sealed. MINTY NICE. (Gah, I’ve been perusing on eBay too long.) The vinyl sheet was crisp in the package, factory folded and untouched. I was all over it.

I mean, it just screams Christmas. Weird 1960s Santa! A door cover!

Christmas door covers are a lost art form.

I love this old artwork. They just don’t make Santa as manic and drunk-looking these days. And Santa definitely is both of those things.

To me, Christmas has always been about old, weird things. Man, I wish all of my grandmother’s Christmas decorations still existed somewhere in a place besides my head. She used to have some of the weirdest stuff. It was always for more than just displaying. Christmas decorations were bizarrely elaborate with purpose. There were ceramic elves that had tiny hooked hands for scaling the table centerpiece. There were snowmen candles that played music with wicks that could never be burned lest it destroy the electrical innards. There were plastic holly leaves for hanging off ledges, with soft plastic berries that gave a little when you squeezed them, and it was just enough.

The other thing was the smell of the decorations. The vinyl and plastic and PVC sitting in cardboard boxes all year up in the attic was a ripe recipe for the intoxicating and chemically polymer smell, sweet like gasoline. Jesus, they don’t make plastic like they used to. It just doesn’t smell that good anymore. Forget pine and sugar cookie. This is the true the smell of Christmas. I’m probably slightly brain-damaged from huffing boxes of old-ass plastic Christmas decorations as a child.

Sigh.

I guess that’s why I dig these old things. It’s not nostalgia. It’s my craving for fumes. And the Santa door cover? It delivered. Big time. As I opened the package and began to unfold the vinyl, there was a whallop of fifty-year old polyvinyl chloride unleashed for the first time. It was like the nuclear cloud of shower curtains. It was the good shit.

Also, check out those hot specs:

Waterproof! Can be used indoors or outdoors! Fits standard doors! And my favorite, EASY TO ATTACH. And if by “easy to attach” you mean scotch-taping that sucker to the front door, then my God, YES IT IS THAT EASY to attach. Dang, those specs smoke my HD TV.

There’s something passé about taping a plastic sheet to your front door, but I’m bringing it back. The thing I love about my wife is that it didn’t even phase her when I taped that bad boy up on the door. She just looked at it and noted its brand-new condition for its age. She’s so pragmatic, it’s sickening.

And they didn’t lie. It was easy to attach. Tape is so magic. Anyone who has ever put up a single Christmas decoration knows that tape is, in fact, the Christmas miracle. I’ll leave you with that thought tonight.

Every couple of months I do a post where I show off the latest and greatest crap I’ve collected over the last couple months. Today I’m showing off the stuff I found in the last gasps of flea market/yard sale season before the warm days finally gave way to chilly mornings and even a rare snow in October.

This past weekend I also went to the Greater York Toy Extravaganza, a massive toy collector show of over 800 tables filling an entire expo center in Pennsylvania. Taking place the Sunday after Thanksgiving, the toy show has become my annual tradition, a way to cap off another year of collecting junk. Even though most of the dealers are overpriced and scary in a Pennsylvania way, I always find a few rough gems. As usual, I’m always looking for oddities and random unloved things. This year did not let me down.

I’ve also done posts on the toy show in previous years. In 2009, the wife/then-girlfriend came with me for the first and last time. This was back when we first began thinking about moving in together. She was still weighing whether or not she wanted to get seriously involved with a collector, as in, living with all of it. She walked around the toy show in horror saying things like, “If I move in with you, I’m going to have to live with this kind of stuff. What if we get married? This could be my life forever.”

Meanwhile, I was dealing with my own personal struggles. I was deciding whether or not to buy a half-used box of Ninja Turtle Band-aids. Surely if they had existed this long in the universe, didn’t it mean God intended them for me? But ultimately I passed on them to assuage the girlfriend’s existential meltdown over dating someone who bought unused Band-aids from the 1980s.

Whatever. The keyword is unused.

Then in 2010, the Ninja Turtle Band-Aids WERE STILL THERE. And once again, I struggled over whether or not to buy them. By now the girlfriend had said yes and agreed to marry me, so I felt secure enough to bring home Band-aids with Michaelangelo’s face on them. But we lived in a cramped, tiny apartment, so I had to be prudent. I purchased only necessary items this time around, like plush potato dolls.

So now, this year, I was all set to buy those Ninja Turtles Band-aids. I’ve got an entire basement to fill, which is my home office, writing space, and man cave. Except, here’s the heartbreaker, guys. The Band-aids weren’t there this year. But don’t feel too sorry for me. I was only being half serious about them. I think.

So let’s dive in and take a look at what I picked up at the toy show, as well as the flea market/yard sales before it got cold out.

Little Rubber Guys! I’ve been picking up MUSCLES and other little figures here and there ever since I started collecting them back in August when I scored a whole bunch of them for five bucks at the flea market. I started out with twenty and now I have like a hundred. I found a few more at the toy show including the guys in the far left row. The dealer wanted a buck each for them, but I knocked him down to fifty cents a piece. Does anyone know who they are specifically?

Trash Bag Bunch! A quarter a piece, yard sale find. These are the Trash Bag Bunch, a toy line produced by Galoob in 1991. This toyline had an earth-friendly theme about recycling and the environment. Each figure came packaged in a bag so you couldn’t tell which figure you’d receive. Figures included monsters, aliens, and robots, a hat trick of awesomeness. The bag would fizzle and dissolve in water, revealing the secret figure inside.

Digging around online shows the line of toys was surprisingly complex with droves of figures released and many more planned, including even a crane-like “grab and dip” playset and trash bags sold separately for re-bagging the figures. Yet, the concept flunked in America, somewhat ahead of its time in selling blind surprise packages, something that is all the rage now.

Batman Stuff! Free, flea market. Yeah, I actually got both the game and the flash light for FREE. The sellers at the flea market were packing up and yelling that everything was free for the taking, so I nabbed these items.
I’ve never really been a Batman or traditional superheros fan, but I love the colors, style, and fonts on these two items. I guess that’s weird, to feel nostalgia more for the font or color more than the character. Or that Kay Bee sticker.

Vintage toy store stickers are neat stuff. It takes me back to when I was a kid, standing in the aisles of the toy store feeling small and overwhelmed, full of bottomless want and hunger. I assumed Santa, like God, was omnipresent, so I’d walk down the aisles praying to Santa mentally, hoping he was listening and knowing he was. This is what I want. This. And this! This, too! Are you listening? Are you taking this down? Do you need a pen? You better have a pen. Soon we’d leave the store and the mall would swallow us again, and I’d want a soft pretzel. And a Coke. No, an Icee. Make it a blue one.

MUPPET BABIES LUNCHBOX! I typed that in all caps because a MUPPET BABIES LUNCHBOX should always be typed that way. And it’s tin. It is that awesome. Scored it for $1 at the flea market. I love the cartoon theme song. It’s so gorgeous and sublime. If you listen to it as a song, it has awesome harmonies, too.

Why the hell is Muppet Babies not even on DVD yet?

Totally Sick Ninja Turtles Collection! (Even Without the Band-Aids!) I’m no longer simply collecting Ninja Turtle stuff. I’m now amassing it. A friend gave us his childhood Rubbermaid bin of Ninja Turtle toys for our wedding gift. And by “us” and “our,” I really mean just me.

It was a totally worthy wedding gift, too, because the bin wasn’t like some crappy beat-up, old-ass Ninja Turtles. Oh no. It was PACKED with GOOD FIGURES and VEHICLES and had all of the original accessories. April even has her original microphone, briefcase, and video camera. INSANITY.

Like, not only did this kid get EVERY AWESOME NINJA TURTLE, but he also TOOK CARE of them. If my original childhood TMNT collection still existed, it would make a shameful gift—turtle arms missing, common figures that every kid had, not a cape or sword or sai among them.

The wife can treasure her new Kitchenaid blender and Calphalon omelette pans all she wants. This Ninja Turtle collection is likely going to end up one of the most valuable gifts we received. I’ve seen decent lots of TMNT figures sell for $200+ on eBay. Imagine what they’ll go for in 20-30 years.

My favorite thing is I have a COMPLETE KRANG with walker, arms, and ray gun:

I even have Krang’s Android Body, which I picked up at the toy show for three bucks:

And Now Here’s The Moment In Which I Admit I Even Have (And Display) A Rapidly-Deteriorating Raphael Birthday Candle:

Don’t judge me. It was in that wedding gift bin. It’s not like I could throw it out. Besides, he’s now stored in a cool, dry, smoke-free basement. Maybe it’ll even firm him up a bit. It’s not even the worst thing I own, nor is it the lowest point in my collection.

Because the lowest point in my collection and perhaps my entire life is the next thing I’m going to show you:

THE WORLD’S LAST EXISTING FREE WILLY FIGURE!

I really felt ashamed of myself for buying this at the toy show. But it was only a dollar. I felt like a sociologist discovering something new about humanity. I did it for history. I did it for you. You, the reader who is right now marveling that a Free Willy figure existed. That a bendable toy of Jesse, the boy from freaking Free Willy, was mass-produced and sold in toy stores.

Or perhaps you’re thinking nothing at all because you don’t even know what this is. Fine. Be that way.

Free Willy was a movie about the tender relationship between a boy and an Orca whale. While it feels like some obscure random thing that no one remembers now, I assure you that movie was ridiculously, massively popular in 1993. For a hot minute, every kid in fifth grade wanted to be a marine biologist because of this movie.

Let this mint-on-card boy-from-Free-Willy show that this movie was once deeply embedded in our collective psyche in ways that are just now being uncovered. Or perhaps I’m only speaking for myself and it’s only my psyche that I’m uncovering in purchasing this.

Wow. I own a figure of Jason James Richter. Dude, I am creepy and weird. I need a support group, sitting around in chairs clutching small Styrofoam cups of black coffee. I hope they have doughnuts. Or at least Pepperidge Farms cookies. At least.

Here’s another thing that makes me think wow: Free Willy spawned two sequels. Free Willy is a trilogy. Think about that one for a minute.

Vintage Star Wars Stuff! Five bucks for the lot, flea market. I never see Star Wars stuff at the flea market because I don’t mosey in there until about 9am. You see, the hardcore collectors and ebayers get there in the pitch blackness of 4am with flash lights looking for Star Wars, GI Joes, Legos, and Beatles records. But somehow, this small, humble lot of Star Wars stuff lasted until I got there. The whole lot is probably worth about $20-$30, so take that crazy flashlight people!

Boglins! $1, flea market. Here’s one the crazy flashlight people wouldn’t even know about. Boglins are bank on eBay, flashlight people, and I scored this guy just as it was reaching noon. Boglins were a line of rubbery, monstery hand puppets from the 1980s. At the time, they were viewed as a knock-off of stuff like Ghostbusters and Gremlins, but since then, they’ve achieved a mini-cult status among nostalgists and collectors.

Kongs! Fifty cents each, at the toy show. I have a thing for gorilla figures with special love bonus points if the eyes are mispainted on. Special love bonus points are very esteemed and reserved. The little guy has earned a million of ‘em. Just look at him. He is nothing short of spectacular.

Random Bottom of the Bin Toys! Seriously, that wedding gift bin just kept on giving. These were scattered along the bottom underneath the piles of Ninja Turtles. I think they were actually my favorites of the whole lot. I love that dinosaur, that tomato thing, that red thing, that green thing, that little machete-wielding dinosaur, and that little dude. SO MANY SPECIAL LOVE BONUS POINTS TO GO AROUND. Some days, it’s just like that.

More Random Figures! Quarter a piece, yard sale. UM HELLO SLURPEE DRINKING HOT DOG. Screw this life. I want to live in that world. What about that Raisin wearing pink boots and carrying a matching pink boombox? Hot. A squatty little ET figure? Yes, please. Sugar Bear? Kool-Aid Man? Energizer Bunny? I’ll take them all.

Old School Video Game Stuff! Picked up both of these at the toy show. Board game was two bucks, the Pac Man Tomy game was seven. I love what these things represent more than anything, a time when everything was cross-merchandised to extremes. There was never just a video game. There was a cartoon, a comic book, a lunch box, a board game, bed sheets, a snack food, a cereal, a Happy Meal toy, a carnival prize, and a frozen pizza.

There’s something just so unique to the 1980s about board games based on video games, and really, board games based on any pop culture trend. If it was A Thing, a board game existed of it.

A close up of the Pac Man game:

This was made by Tomy, and I’ve always thought Tomy made some of the coolest toys to ever exist. Here is another Tomy find, Atomic Arcade Pin Ball:

Five bucks, at the flea market. I almost passed on it, too. I’m not sure why, because it’s awesome. But I was going to walk away until I took it out of the box and saw the minuature working scoreboard. Something about the scoreboard sold me completely.

Monsters! A buck each, at the toy show. Three of these are Tales From The Cryptkeeper, a cartoon based on the HBO show, Tales From the Crypt, which also had a comic book, a pinball machine, a line of POGS, and on and on. While I have no special love bonus points for them, I just dig monster action figures. However, I DO have special love bonus points for that monster bendy dude. Anyone know if he’s anything specifically? I’m assuming just some generic 70s/80s made-in-China bendy.

Thundercats! $19.99, Toys R Us. Did you know there is a new re-boot of the Thundercats cartoon? I don’t really care about it, but I do love the excuse to also reproduce some of the vintage Thundercats toys. There are a couple of smaller eight-inch vintage Thundercats in the stores, too, but I had to go with this “Mega Scale” Lion-O just so I could enjoy the mega-scale production of those fibrous cat man thighs. The 80s were a really weird time. I have a feeling I’ll be explaining that a lot to my children one day.

Finally, I’m capping off the post with a Toilet Pencil Sharpener!

About two weekends ago, we went to Gettysberg, PA. Even if you’re not a Civil War buff, it’s worth the trip for the neat little town and quirky gift shops. Me and the wife are like “neat little town” addicts. There’s all these strange Civil War exhibits and mini-museums, each worthy of their own posts. The one that stood out to me most was the Gettysberg Diorama, which advertised having the world’s largest military diorama. Since they had to specify “military,” I just hope there is a diorama of something else that is even larger. Please let it be dinosaurs. Please let it be dinosaurs.

The diorama is gorgeous in a creepy 1970s way. The thing about dioramas is, they seem to want to capture mundane, relateable things, even among the mini battlefield soldiers—soldiers looking out window, soldiers cooking food—things you could point to, and think, hey, look, dioramas are just like people! Just like us!

The diorama filled an entire, echoing hall. We were the only ones there that day, and we paid five dollars EACH to watch a THIRTY MINUTE program, alone in the room with the diorama. It was like being trapped in a time bubble, and well, like being trapped, period. THIRTY MINUTES OF THIS BUT WE PAID FOR IT SO WE HAVE TO STAY. The technology stopped somewhere in 1985. We watched a film strip and listened to a narration with a wicked electric grounding hum that made it difficult to hear. A few flickery strobe lights highlighted the action on the battlefield/diorama. It was awesome.

But even more awesome was the gift shop, which ought to advertise that they have the world’s largest selection of shot glasses and die-cast pencil sharpeners. Which is how I came to have a miniature die-cast toilet. I agonized over that decision for at least twenty minutes. I’d finally narrowed it down to the diver’s helmet, the 1980s television, and the toilet, but I knew I was going to pick the toilet the whole time. Still, it’s always good to choose runners up.

And you know what? Since there’s plenty to go around, special love bonus points awarded to the die-cast toilet. And to you.