I have toy robots. And I might use them.
You can learn a lot about a person by looking at what's on their fridge or on their desk. If you look at our fridge, you'll see we're hopelessly gushy about wittle kittens and innocent lion cubs. (The movie studio photo of Elvis on a surfboard riding fake waves is something else again.) When you look on my desk though, you know I mean business.
I'm armed to the teeth with toy robots.
Maybe it's because they're so retro. So wonderfully kitchy. So handmade looking, with their ill-fitting joints, their faux-menacing look, or the fact that they do some pretty goofy stuff when you wind them up. Maybe it's because I never grew up. Or that toy robots let me be a kid again. Whatever. I just know that I feel safe protected behind my private army. They're so wonderfully menacing. With names like Atomic Robot Man, Neutron Robot Man, and Sonic Robot, you know they mean business. The packages, originally created in the early 1950s, are covered with ridiculous artwork depicting an apocalyptic world that might only exist in the mind of George Bush or Don Rumsfeld, reflecting their vision of what Iraq might soon look like. Just wind 'em up and watch 'em kick butt. Oh, what my imagination can do sometimes.
If not for the world of imagination, I would be stuck in the world of reality. And that would be sad. So, when the sh*t hits the fan, I just reach over, wind up about two or three of my mecha warriors and order them to attack. I just know that it makes me feel so very, well, manly.
Ironically, my favorite desk toy isn't even made of tin. He's made of (gasp!) injected plastic. I'm taking about Rex, the ever-friendly green dinosaur from Toy Story. Maybe it was the goofy voice. His eternally enthusiastic personna. The slightly crossed eyes and humble demeanor. It's a certain je ne sais quois. But I know I just identify with him.
It is said that what defines men are their toys. Some men trapped in a midlife crisis meet their needs through expensive sports cars to make up for their diminishing supply of testosterone. But give me cheap, tacky, tin robots any day. Either I've never grown up, or it's all part of my plot to take over the world.
You decide.
You can learn a lot about a person by looking at what's on their fridge or on their desk. If you look at our fridge, you'll see we're hopelessly gushy about wittle kittens and innocent lion cubs. (The movie studio photo of Elvis on a surfboard riding fake waves is something else again.) When you look on my desk though, you know I mean business.
I'm armed to the teeth with toy robots.
Maybe it's because they're so retro. So wonderfully kitchy. So handmade looking, with their ill-fitting joints, their faux-menacing look, or the fact that they do some pretty goofy stuff when you wind them up. Maybe it's because I never grew up. Or that toy robots let me be a kid again. Whatever. I just know that I feel safe protected behind my private army. They're so wonderfully menacing. With names like Atomic Robot Man, Neutron Robot Man, and Sonic Robot, you know they mean business. The packages, originally created in the early 1950s, are covered with ridiculous artwork depicting an apocalyptic world that might only exist in the mind of George Bush or Don Rumsfeld, reflecting their vision of what Iraq might soon look like. Just wind 'em up and watch 'em kick butt. Oh, what my imagination can do sometimes.
If not for the world of imagination, I would be stuck in the world of reality. And that would be sad. So, when the sh*t hits the fan, I just reach over, wind up about two or three of my mecha warriors and order them to attack. I just know that it makes me feel so very, well, manly.
Ironically, my favorite desk toy isn't even made of tin. He's made of (gasp!) injected plastic. I'm taking about Rex, the ever-friendly green dinosaur from Toy Story. Maybe it was the goofy voice. His eternally enthusiastic personna. The slightly crossed eyes and humble demeanor. It's a certain je ne sais quois. But I know I just identify with him.
It is said that what defines men are their toys. Some men trapped in a midlife crisis meet their needs through expensive sports cars to make up for their diminishing supply of testosterone. But give me cheap, tacky, tin robots any day. Either I've never grown up, or it's all part of my plot to take over the world.
You decide.
posted by Brian at
12:28 PM
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