The Aisle of Misfit Toys: ‘Space: 1999.’

The year was 1975. I was twelve. A science fiction show, touted as the next Star Trek, had its American premiere. We approached it with some suspicion: we were jealous devotees of Star Trek and were wary of possible knockoffs and heresies. But it was a rather drab offering to start with and devolved more into Lost in Space in the second season. We never watched much of it. The show was soon washed away with the advent of Star Wars in 1977.

“Space: 1999 is a British science fiction television program that ran for two series from 1975 to 1977. The program, set in the year 1999 [that far-flung time!], follows the 311 inhabitants of Moonbase Alpha, which is hurtling uncontrollably into space due to an explosion of nuclear waste stored on the far side of the Moon. The runaway Moon, in effect, becomes the "spacecraft" on which the protagonists travel, searching for a new home. Several episodes of the first season (more scientific and serious) hinted that the Moon's journey was influenced (and perhaps initiated) by a "mysterious unknown force", which was guiding the Alphans toward an ultimate destiny. The second season used simpler action-oriented plots.” – Extracted from Wikipedia

Our one indulgence in its heyday was to get a Dr. Bergman ‘action figure’ doll. We liked the more scientific types; it may also have been deeply discounted by then. Hovering somewhere in size between the 12-inch GI Joes and the 8-inch MEGO dolls, it was never quite a good fit. It was soon dubbed ‘Sandman’ after the characters in Logan’s Run, which gave rise to the immortal satiric phrase ‘Sandman has a nice poo-poo.’ I think he’s still somewhere in the Toy Box, in relatively good condition as he was never used much in playings.

Years later, from a garage sale, we also bought the ship Eagle-1; there were also two primitive action figures which also didn’t fit any format. But the ship could be adaptable for playings with the Kenner figures until we could get REAL Star Wars ships. M-m-maybe we still have the battered hulk somewhere, somewhat the worse for wear from its years of storage out in the garage. We definitely have some mismatched remnants of the figures. So not quite completely 'Lost in the Toybox.'

Anyway, this was all brought to mind by watching an episode of Movies, Music and Monsters by Dan Monroe on Youtube, a peppy little show on pop culture with great production values. It strikes right in the sweet spot of my nostalgia, and considers phenomena themselves, the fate of their props, and their effects on the Zeitgeist of the genre. It amuses me because Robby the Robot and B-9 from Lost in Space are co-hosts and Dan himself looks kinda like my friend Alan Peschke. Check it out.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZGj9GBKXYWE

 

Mixed-up Memories

The Stevens Manufacturing Co. (Hong Kong) put them out in 1972, so that gives them some historical context. We got the Mixed-up Zoo Animals from a display box on the toy wall in Baenziger’s. I felt even then how low-security the arrangement seemed. It was a different age. Bizarre, whimsical mixes of different animals, whose names echoed their combos: Liolope, Rabbagator, Kangaboar, Catagator, Ostriphant, Sealag, Chickow, Dachsdeer, Giraphant. They went for 15 cents, which is equal to $1.16 in today’s money. We had them all, except Chickow (now that’s just silly!). My favorite was the Dachsdeer; he looked noble, almost heraldic. But I never cared for the Liolope; too unbalanced on his skinny legs. We had two Kangaboars. I suppose most (if not all) of them reside in the “little animal” toy chest over at John’s house.

The Tale of Primeval Projects

I am reminded on this grey, uncertain January day of three ‘projects’ I had in my youth. When exactly, I cannot say; my best estimate is sometime between my eighth and fourteenth year. And, of course, I did not have them all at once.

The first one I called The Continuing Dream. In an effort to make myself more interesting, I feigned that I had a dream every night that was continued the next night. I would tell them to John and Kenny (never Mike; he wouldn’t have stood for it – the skeptic!). I struggled to keep the tale going. I have a visceral memory of recounting some of it in the twilight privacy of the Toy Room. I eventually dropped it, I’m not sure why; lack of interest or I just got tired of it, I suppose.

The second was The Wonderful Wind-up. This was a toy or music box that partook of the nature the Groovie Goolies Cling-Clang music box or The Marvelous Toy or “the animated Valentine card Snoopy clips out of paper; which was, perhaps, the ultimate origin of a fantastic wind-up toy I imagined that was basically an entire kingdom with a castle, figures, a wood, caves, a dragon, and an encircling river complete with sea monster.  It was an image that, for a while, I never ceased to add to and meditate on.” A concept I never instantiated, of course, not even a drawing or plan.

The third and last Primeval Project was The Infinite Map. This one, I know, came after The Hobbit and after I got the Map of Shakespeare’s Britain. This was one where I actually did something. I had been drawing a lot of maps. But this one was ever-expanding. I’d fill a page, put another by that, and fill that page. They all connected up. By the time I ran out of steam I had about nine pages, all put together rather flimsily with Scotch tape. I must admit that by the end the ‘add-ons’ were getting rather scanty with wide open spaces, not as crammed with features as the early sections. I put it on top of the china cabinet for safe keeping, then one day Mom cleaned up the cabinet and just … threw it away.

Looking back on these improbable, impractical plans, plans that maybe only the mind of a child could conceive, I am struck by the thing they all have in common. They are of a nature to be infinitely expanding, endlessly elaborated, almost never-ending in their potential for growth. What a wild ambition! Nowadays I am happy if I can get to the end of a short story. Perhaps in some kind of paradisal afterlife I will have the time and talent (and memory) to bring such plans to life. It’s an unlikely but encouraging thought, and a rather wistful fancy on this grey, uncertain January day.

A Blockage in the Brain

Some people claim to never dream, or at least don’t remember having dreams. Whether it’s my irregular, fitful sleep patterns or what, I seem to have a plethora of them. Or maybe it’s because I make an effort to recall them, reconstructing them as best I can before I open my eyes, instead of just shaking off sleep and starting a new day. I suppose it’s an effort to find patterns in my life, some sort of psychological insight. There may very well be a supernatural element in the habit, of the old idea of dreams being a message from beyond, that contributes to my interest. It might be a combination of both, if you interpret the murky depths of the subconscious as ‘beyond.’

I have plenty of dreams where the import is clear: anxiety dreams about being stranded and trying to get home, of disasters like floods or tornados overwhelming me, of being swamped with work and being behind schedule. But there is one recurring element of dreams I find unusual or puzzling. I often find myself dreaming about blocks.

I mean plain, ordinary, wooden children’s building blocks, the kind (usually exactly the kind) that we’ve had since … forever, it seems. The dreams about blocks seem to be of two types: those where I’m protecting the blocks that I have from being scattered or lost, and those where I find blocks at garage sales or second-hand stores and want to add them to my collection. They are never stacked in a building. They are always just loose, but in a collection.

To be clear, I still have many, maybe most, of the blocks we had as kids, darkened with decades of handling. We had two sets, one larger, one smaller (the smaller has pictures as well as numbers), and some that could be considered building bricks rather than blocks. I remember making a wall of them across the backroom doorway at the old house. I always wanted more of them. When I got older, I used them to construct ‘dioramas’ or sets for our action figures, so I was playing with blocks a lot longer than most people do. One of the first gifts I bought my grand-nephew was a set of wooden blocks; I mentioned to my niece that I should keep buying him more and more blocks at every gift-giving occasion, as a sort of sideways way of fulfilling my old dream. She said I’d better not.

I just had another block dream a couple of days ago. This morning I decided to ask AI what the possible meaning of such a dream could be. This is what it suggested:

“Dreaming of building blocks often symbolizes life's foundational elements, representing your inner self, habits, or goals, with details pointing to incomplete aspects of your life or anxieties about your personal development. These dreams suggest you're either actively creating or reflecting on the structures of your life, whether it's your personality, relationships, or future plans, with each block representing a fundamental piece. They can represent the basic components of your life, suggesting a focus on establishing a solid foundation or concerns about what's missing.”

And that makes a lot of sense. I can see myself trying to protect basic elements of my past, perhaps elements never completed or fading away and lost, like people and memories. I can see myself trying to fulfill or supplement those elements; perhaps finding them at garage sales and the like are hints that those things I want have been abandoned by many people in the ‘modern’ world. Not seen as worthy of keeping. But I want to find what’s missing or lacking and build a solid foundation at last.

Well, that’s one possible interpretation. Maybe I just plain-de-ole want some blocks. Perhaps I should take the old ones out and fiddle around with them a bit. While I still can. They are one of my last palpable links to a primeval childhood.

"That Must Have Been Some Doll'

In relation to my Mrs. Beasley story, John reminds me:

"We did, however, win a Baby Secret doll - which was seen as a 'hoot' considering we were all boys, until some of us actually started playing with her. Baby Secret said whispery little things when you pulled her string. Which doesn't lessen her creepy factor. I remember I played with it with Wendy sometimes, much to parental concern. I remember when Pop won it, it sort of cheesed them off, like it was rigged to kind of be a joke on them having only boys. He sort of claimed it as an F--- you to them. Maybe regretted it later! I remember Wendy did have a Mrs. Beasley."

I had completely forgotten Baby Secret, but I remembered it after a while. I looked at a video of her saying her phrases, and it was creepy.

Loop Drive Memories

Middle Period View: Scratchy Closet Doors

I woke up at about 4 AM this morning with odd memories of life at Loop Drive running through my head. This was of things as they were when we were little kids. Of hanging our belts on the back of the bedroom door, and the jangling sound they made if you shut the door. Of the long flat ‘keys’ kept over the doorsill to pop the bedroom and bathroom locks if they got accidentally locked with no-one inside, or if a very young kid couldn’t figure out how to use the button lock. Of the wall-mounted heaters; they were in the bedrooms, the living room, and the dining room. The bathroom had a different, ceiling-mounted model all its own. Pop would open them up and clean them out before winter. Of how they’d smell, and the little sound they made as they were starting up. Of the rumbling slide doors on the closets that grumbled hollowly when you opened them, and of the penny that got stuck in the round ‘handle’ hole in one that never came out. Did I do that?

I must have seen those heaters every day of my life for decades, but I could not tell you what brand they were. I remember the sound they made when you zithered your fingers across the vents. They eventually all broke down and most of them got hidden behind furniture. Susan made a series of photos of the empty rooms before we sold the house; I suppose I could see the heaters there if I ever got really curious. Or nostalgic. The closet doors got pretty beaten up over forty years; a couple of them sprung off their runners. A bunch of memories about a bunch of commonplace fixtures. But they all got 'mythogized' when I was a kid, then demythologized, and now, with age and memory, 'remythologized.'

"That there is what I'd call a doorway to a place of enchantment." 

The Odd and Somewhat Distressing Tale of Mrs. Beasley (A Christmas Memory)

I probably don’t have to explain Mrs. Beasley to a certain vintage of my peers. She was a doll owned by Buffy on the show Family Affair (1966 -1971). As such, she was a plaything, but also an imaginary friend whom Buffy pretended to talk to and whom she supposed to have a life of her own. The idea of an imaginary friend was a sort of uncanny concept to us when we were very young. Mrs. Beasley somehow partook of the weirdness of voodoo dolls and ventriloquist dummies; this was not helped by her wide-eyed stare of happy madness. We did develop our own imaginary friends in time, but they were “imaginary imaginary friends”, if you get my meaning. We were never deluded into actually believing they were real.

All of which would be neither here nor there if it weren’t for one very early SMI Christmas party. It was a grand bash held once a year at the enormous New Braunfels Wurstfest Hall. Tables and benches filled the enormous space, barbecue plates and soda were supplied, and every employee got gifts for himself and his wife, and a bag of hard candy (I particularly loved the rare hard licorice candy, wrapped in silver paper) or a book of Life Savers for each of his kids. There was an enormous fake sausage at one end of the hall to explore and the grown-ups danced and Santa appeared on a dais and was available for photo ops with the kiddies. We still have several of those pictures. Christmas music was bellowed over the loudspeakers, and I think this was the first place I ever heard Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree. We just wandered around in a daze trying to amuse ourselves in an atmosphere of beer drinking and cigarette smoke. There was little adult supervision; we just had to remember where ‘our’ table was.

There was one other feature of the party and this was the ‘drawing.’ As I recall it, there was a big pile of prizes on a raised stage. Names were put in the tumbler and drawn, and the winner could go home with a nice bonus present. I think you could choose it, but it may have been more random than that. And here is where Mrs. Beasley enters the tale. A Mrs. Beasley doll was quite prominent on the prize pile, and I conceived a strange desire to have her and a wild hope that we might win her.

My parents, once I unveiled this thought, were rather distressed. Pop, in particular; I can imagine what dark suspicions seethed in his mind. Why would one of his sons want a doll? And what would people think if he went up to claim such a prize? Everyone knew he had only boys at the time; would he take a ribbing for harboring a sissy? The idea was flat out denied. So why did I want a spooky Mrs. Beasley? I probably couldn’t express exactly why even at the time.

I certainly didn’t want a ‘dolly’ for dress-ups or tea parties or anything like that, and I never would have asked them to expend any actual money for Mrs. Beasley. Now, for free, sure maybe, and she was the most interesting thing on the table. I’m rather ashamed to say its rather feeble allure may have been mostly merchandising; if Mrs. Beasley was in our grasp, we would be one degree closer to the glamorous world of television, a tangible link to the TV Time Loop. Perhaps we could bestow it as a present on one of our cousins and win kudos that way. But only after prising those square glasses off her face for use as a prop in our own toy ‘adventures’, perhaps perched on Chester O’Chimp’s nose.

In the end, we were all spared the embarrassment. Pop did not win the drawing for Mrs. Beasley (I have the vague impression he got something else, but I can’t tell you at this distance what it might have been), and the incident was put behind us. I don’t think it helped my reputation as a shy, strange boy very much, except to reinforce it. But it is a very early example of my franchise involvement and toy fixation.

The Yellow Thanksgiving

This year it has been so mild and relatively dry that my mind keeps going back to what I have called the Yellow Thanksgiving. Maybe it wasn't actually Thanksgiving, just a date near the holiday. It was, perhaps, one of the last times we had one of the wider old family gatherings at Loop Drive. Because we were celebrating it must have been before the JW's time. There was smoking and cardplaying and Pop hauled out the old coffee urn he had leftover from his bar days (the only way he could prepare suitable quantities). It was so very mild, warm even, that we had all the windows open. I remember looking out of the dining room window to see the driveway unusually filled with family cars and thinking how very yellow the carpet grass looked. When we kids and the cousins played games in the front yard, we kicked up a lot of dry grass and dead leaves. Witch Oh Witch, Red Rover, London Bridge. Time it was, and what a time it was.

It Was in the Cards

The other day I was shuffling some stuff between a black trunk that contained photo albums, photo packets, memorabilia, and even three undeveloped disposable cameras, and one of the empty gray bins, with the aim to make the trunk lighter and its contents easier to access. One of the things I ran across was an elderly boxed set of Skip-Bo, which numbers 162 cards (with 144 cards numbered 1 - 12 and 18 Skip-Bo cards, which serve as wild cards and are printed with instructions). We played innumerable games to amuse Mom while she was confined to her wheelchair, but we used the brightly colored deck now familiar to all. This old deck was printed with the familiar suits of a regular deck and the instructional wild cards, and they look so pristine I doubt that anyone ever played with them.

But they did remind me of other family games. While Mom and Pop were demon poker players, regularly gathering with the uncles and aunts and cousins for endless rounds of nickel and quarter bets, we tended to tamer games around our own kitchen table. Go Fish, of course (I remember we had some happy rounds with Omi), and Battle, and Slapjack, when we were very young. But there was a more complicated game popular when we were in our teens which we played with all the intensity of poker. And that was Liverpool Rummy.

Perhaps John will remember exactly who infected our family with the game; I don’t [He says he thinks it was Larry and Irene Ranft]. Here are the rules that I remember, copied from Wikipedia; the actual article mentions some refinements and terminology I don’t recall ever using.

“The game consists of seven deals of the cards. The objective is to be holding the lowest valued cards at the end of each deal. At the end of each deal the score for each player is written down, and the player with the lowest total score at the end of the seven deals wins the game.

“In each deal, the players reduce the value of the cards held in their hands by laying on the table, melds comprising sets and sequences of cards, usually known as Books and Runs.

• A Book consists of three or more cards of the same rank, such as 8♥ 8♣ 8♠.
• A Run consists of four or more cards in sequence, all of the same suit (hearts, clubs, etc), such as 3♥ 4♥ 5♥ 6♥ 7♥.

“The game is played with standard 52-card packs plus the Jokers: 2 packs for three or four players or 3 for more than four players. The ranking from low-to-high is 2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-J-Q-K-A. Aces can be high or low (see section on card play where aces can be used in a high run or low run but not wrap around). Jokers are wild.

“The dealer deals 10 cards to each player for the first 4 rounds, then 12 cards to each player for the last 3 rounds. After all the players' hands have been dealt, the rest are placed face down as the stock and its top card turned face-up to start the discard pile.

The player to the immediate left of the dealer plays first. Play continues, in alternating turns, until one player goes out, or has no cards left in their hand. Points are tallied and recorded by a score-keeper. All of the cards are shuffled and the next round of play commences.

“The requirements for each round of play are as follows:

• First - 2 books of three (6 cards)
• Second - 1 book of three & 1 run of four (7 cards)
• Third - 2 runs of four (8 cards)
• Fourth - 3 books of three (9 cards)
• Fifth - 2 books of three & 1 run of four (10 cards)
• Sixth - 1 book of three & 2 runs of four (11 cards)
• Seventh - 3 runs of four with no remaining cards in hand, no final discard (12 cards)

“Once a player has laid down, they can then attempt to further reduce the number of cards in their hand by adding to other players' laid cards.

“For example, a 3♥ could be added to an existing set of 3s (3♦ 3♣ 3♠) or a suitable a run of hearts (4♥ 5♥ 6♥ 7♥) from another player.

At the end of each round when a player goes out, the rest of the players total their scores by counting up the value of the cards remaining in their hands. Cards are valued as follows:

• 2 through 9 are 5 points each.
• 10, J, Q and K are 10 points each.
• Aces & Jokers are 15 points each.

“The player with the lowest point total at the end of final round wins, so players usually work to lower their scores by going down, playing off other players who have gone down and, secondarily, replacing high cards (such as face cards and aces) with lower ones.”

We simply called ‘books’ ‘sets’, and another part of our personal terminology was ‘black holing’, drawing an unusual number of cards off the discard pile to reach the one you want. It could be a risky strategy. The one who did so would be called a ‘Zuckuss’ because he sucked all the cards up. We had marathon sessions, and sometimes they would end up with temper tantrums. But we loved playing.

It's been many years since I’ve played a round of Liverpool Rummy, though it is sometimes mentioned rather wistfully at family gatherings. I wonder if anyone (especially the new generation) would have the patience to play it.

Gnitpicking

I don’t know why this washed up on the shores of my mind today, but here it is. Back when I was in middle school I was just starting to learn how to draw, mainly by tracing Pauline Baynes illustrations or trying to copy the folds of cloaks from Brothers Hildebrandt paintings. That was for my fancier productions. But for just doodling, for fun, I came up with something only slightly better than a stick figure. This was a ‘Gnit.’

A gnit (pronounced ‘GUH – nit’) was basically a sort of a puffball, resembling a tribble. But unlike a tribble its body (which was also its head) sported eyes, a mouth, antennae, and stick figure arms and legs. There were, in fact, many gnits, scrambling over every page in every position, wielding weapons, flying planes, waving, grinning, grimacing, doing dozens of cartoony actions. A single page might be overdrawn in spare or dull moments in class. Not great art, but great fun.

Fun I shared with my friend Steve Jones (memorialized here on the Niche in Brother Silas). Anybody could draw a gnit and soon we were sharing productions where we mocked our ‘enemies’, played out corny jokes and situations, and scribbled up great battles. Steve’s dad was in the Air Force, and it was Steve who provided the slightly better-drawn planes that some gnits would tool around in. I seem to recall vague thoughts that their simple design would be easy to produce as a cheap toy, something not unlike the troll doll. Steve and I vied with each other to produce the most awful wordplay, where any -it word would be replaced by gnit. Real groaner, juvenile stuff.

Well. I still have one or two pages surviving from that time. I never made any scans of them in the old days, and ‘twere tedious to dig them out now. I suppose I could easily draw a reproduction of one, but somehow that seems to be cheating. It would lack that fine, first, carefree crudity of an original gnit. Worst of all, it would not have the ‘spirit’ of the thing, laden as it would be with the burden of decades. So I will just record the memory of it here, and of the two gnitwits whom they amused.

In The Mood for Cartoon Food

Seeing that Popeye ‘steak’ and the bowls of potatoes and desserts being poured down his throat reminded me of just how much ‘food porn’ there was in the old theatrical cartoons and hence in my childhood viewing. These cartoons weren’t particularly made for kids; they had a lot of mid-level appeal in their time. And one thing people wanted to dream and drool about throughout the Great Depression and World War II food rationing was abundant and beautiful food, a hunger that carried over into the more prosperous Fifties with the emphasis transferring onto a prime floppy slab of beef or a well-spread table.

Such food was never easily available to all economic levels. You might be eating beans and dreaming about steak. Fruit was a treat, ‘nature’s candy’, and a pineapple more exotic than you’d think these days, with some pleasures like watermelon a seasonal delight. And butcher cuts were not glued together from meat scraps and fruits not so embalmed with chemicals to keep them fresh and naturally low in flavor. A generous picnic basket could be a treasure chest of delights and a well-roasted juicy turkey leg a convenient hand-meat.

An animated piece of food could be as appealing as a pretty girl to any man with a healthy appetite and would at least make one subconsciously attracted to the animation studio’s product. At my own economically straitened level during childhood the appeal of ‘food porn’ carried over from war-rationing into our inflation-feuled scramble for sustenance, where food was always adequate but seldom fancy or bountiful. Even subsistence food like spaghetti, if drawn and painted adequately, would arouse my appetite.

Would, and will. With my tastebuds dulled (by age? Covid? Ozempic?) I still find myself yearning with remembered appetite for the flesh-pots of animated food. It reminds me of the Greek Underworld punishment of Phlegyas (not as popular or well-known as Sisyphus and his stone). Phlegyas is shown to be in Tartarus entombed in a rock by one of the Furies and starved in front of an eternal feast.

Wideo Wednesday: Well, Blow Me Down

“These cartoons are products of their time and may depict ethnic and racial prejudices that were commonplace. These depictions were wrong then and are wrong today; the cartoons are presented as originally created to avoid claiming these prejudices never existed.”

So yesterday I was looking at my YouTube shuffle and saw that this came up, Top 10 Darkest and Adult Popeye Episodes That Aren’t Just For Kids:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hQCpcYQ7qcY

I don’t know that they were particularly ‘adult’; they seemed more in poor taste, and certainly racially offensive, full of once-popular stereotypes and World War II propaganda.  Perhaps they meant only adult minds could deal with them without being tainted, and that impressionable children should not be exposed to them without someone to put them in context.

It certainly reminded me of two Popeye cartoons I hadn’t seen for at least 50 years.  They were Pop-Pie a la Mode and Popeye’s Pappy. I don’t remember them as awakening or feeding any prejudices.

What I remembered mostly from Pop-Pie a la Mode (1945) was food being poured down Popeye’s throat (I've always been a sucker for animated food), a bathtub being pulled apart to reveal a huge stewpot, and being somewhat tempted by the enormous floppy steak Popeye was flattened into. It didn’t move me to prejudice, just mild cannibalism.

What I remembered from the 1958 Popeye’s Pappy (a remake of the 1938 Goonland) was stuff about Popeye’s family: his mother, his Pappy with a black beard, and Popeye as a baby. The makers of this cartoon, set on a tropical island, seemed to assume all ‘natives’ were cannibals, and vaguely black. They were a menace, but not evil, even attractive. The real ‘villain’ was ‘King’ Pappy, who was hedonistic and unfeeling at first, and something of a tyrant before his family affection reawakens.

The only place I could find these cartoons in full form were as reviews on Brandon Reacts TV on YouTube. I can’t say he is the most informative commentator, but he did allow me to satisfy my curiosity about these elderly memories.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lsEqvjrtObA

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ABlAFguPIl8

I can see why they are not rerun broadcast for general consumption.

'Preserved in the Documents of the Time'

I’m sorry, but I still have a few things I want to say about The Broadsheet. “Full of broken thoughts/ That I cannot repair.” I’ll do one more post and then probably drop the subject for another thirty years. Unless I want to put in one of my old Book Reviews, or something.

One of the things that struck me is that I wondered if any of my contributors even remembered their stuff from forty years ago. I mean, probably Alan Peschke does, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he had his own file box on the subject somewhere. Wylie Reeves has passed away. Does Kathleen Moore remember Pegasus? Does John have any more than general memories about The Goblin? There may be some things that I think even Peschke would rather forget.  I know there’s some work I did that I would. But we were all so much younger then, struggling to find our way. And memory gets overwritten.

What strikes me now is how cocky I was, so ready to lay down the law about ‘my’ genre. While many of the positive book reviews covered classic books and established masters, the reviews of the more contemporary, low-level Fantasy that I was more or less forced to read by circumstances were gleeful occasions to let loose my bile and spout my own theories about art and life, not considering judging them on the level of mere entertainments. Or even as journeyman works. Dennis L. McKiernan, whose The Iron Tower Trilogy (TIT) drew the worst of my ire, went on to have a long and improved career with works that are now generally critically approved and he himself considered 'a Master of High Fantasy.' Not that that makes the Trilogy any better.

But what looking back on The Broadsheet does for me personally is that it helps me remember the mindset of the Early Young Me. I mean I still have memories of myself, but time tends to edit and bury the ‘scabby, gabby, frantic to be noticed, tormented’ conditional self of the time. There, in The Broadsheet, I can see the shyly vain and show-offy guy I was at the time, and to some extent still am. But that exact version of Me remains, visible perhaps only to my eyes, stuck in the amber of those pages. In some ways it’s better than a photograph.

 

Broadly Speaking

Well, it continued to grow on me until it became an obsession. I would have to take out my old copies of The Broadsheet and have a look at them. It wouldn’t be easy because I was not sure exactly where they were. I thought I would have to haul out several heavy trunks and go rummaging through them, and I really wasn’t looking forward to that. Then I suddenly remembered that a while ago I had made a document, What Is in the Box, where I had catalogued the contents of my bins so that I could avoid just such troublesome tasks. Perhaps it would provide me a clue to the exact whereabouts of the copies. I looked it up and, sure enough, found the place there and was able to put my hands on it in minutes. Thank you, Past Me. Sometimes you’re not such a dullard, after all.

My troubles weren’t over, however. After several transfers from place to place over the years the pages had got rather mixed up and needed sorting. My dating and pagination hadn’t exactly been what it should have been, and I spent several hours sorting things out. Even now I not quite sure if I have everything correct. Certain sections seem to be missing. The whole wad of papers suffered some damage during the Great Termite Devastation. But, as the doctor might say, “It’s BETTER than it WAS.”

I find on examination it did indeed start as The Broadsheet of Fantasy Literature, then changed to The Broadsheet of Fantastic Literature, before finally settling down to The Broadsheet of Imaginative Literature. Much of the space was filled with Faces of Fantasy Authors, Fantasy maps, known fantastic poetry, weird notes and anecdotes, and my own editorial maunderings. I have made a list noting any original writing and the author; where no author is cited (such as for the Book Reviews) you can assume that it was me. So. January 1985 to May 1986. It was a time. No releases in the summer months of June, July, and August, I notice.

 

January 1985 (First Issue)

10 Most Recommended Single Fantasies

Book Review: The Talisman, by Stephen King & Peter Straub

10 Most Recommended Serial Fantasies

10 Best Children’s Fantasies

February 1985 (Second Issue)

Book Review: Crewel Lye, by Piers Anthony

The Worst Fantasy Novels That I’ve Read

Robert of Randleston: Part One, by Wylie Reeves

Poem: Pegasus, by Kathleen Moore

Poem: Expatriates of England, by Bryan Babel

March 1985

“Ring-Day” Celebration

April/May1985 (Fourth Issue)

Book Review: Isaac Asimov’s Magical Worlds of Fantasy #3: Cosmic Knights

Robert of Randleston: Part Two, by Wylie Reeves

September 1985

The Books of Autumn: A Review

(Short Story) The Goblin, by John Babel

Call of Cthulhu: A Game Review, by Alan Peschke

October Issue 1985

Book Review: The Iron Tower Trilogy, by Dennis L. McKiernan

(Article) A Grimm Look at Werewolves, by Alan Peshke

November 1985

Book Review: In the Suicide Mountains, by John Gardner

Book Review by Alan Peschke: The Illuminatus! Trilogy, by Robert Anton Wilson

Dead End Circle, by Alan Peschke

December Issue 1985

(Poem) The Answer, by Bryan Babel

(Short Story) Grandpa’s Tale: An Elfin Christmas, by Alan Peschke

January 1986

Book Review: The Witches, by Roald Dahl

The Broadsheet Volume 2 Number 1 (January) 1986

A Short History of Fantasy

Book Review: The Chronicles of Narnia, by C. S. Lewis

Short Story: Villa de Vaca, by Alan Peschke

February 1986

Book Review: The Long Lays of Beleriand, by J. R. R. Tolkien

Obituary: Frank Herbert

Apotheosis, by Alan Peschke (Short Story)

The Invocation of the Crystal, by Alan Peschke (Poem)

March 1986

‘Ring-Day’ Celebration Honored

Book Review: Homunculus, by James P. Blaylock

A Word About Woses

Short Story: The Sentinel, by Alan Peschke

April 1986

Faces of Fantasy: William Shakespeare

May 1986

Book Review: Merlin’s Booke, by Jane Yolen

Book Review: Little, Big by John Crowley

Editorial About Fantasy and Wargaming

Undated

A Short but Useful Guide to Analyzing Fantasies

 

Remembering The Broadsheet

 

It was the middle Eighties (I can remember that without looking, because I ran an obituary of Frank Herbert, 1986) and I was in the last sputtering remnants of my experiment with college. I decided I would try my hand at what was known as a ‘fanzine’ at the time, a self-produced, typed, xeroxed, and stapled magazine, the distant ancestor of many a modern blog. I called it The Broadsheet of Imaginative Literature. Broadsheet after the 17^th Century format, long pages with fewer leaves than a full-blown newspaper, to give it that olde sound; Imaginative Literature because Fantasy (which I was far more interested in) at the time inevitably took most people’s mind to Sexual Fantasy (via Fantasy Island; thanks a lot, Mr. Roarke). Also, Imaginative Literature covered Science Fiction and Horror as well.

My contributions were mainly articles; I remember one being about Ten Fantasy Books for Autumn, tales I felt as most suitable for the season. There were contributions of stories and poetry by my brother John, my friend Alan Peschke, Yen’s friend Wiley Reeves, and Yen’s then-girlfriend Kathy Moore.  I don’t remember ever producing any creative writing myself (maybe a poem or two, I can’t quite recall); I was content to be the editor of it all. I would type everything up in double columns on my old black Brother typewriter (an unnecessarily onerous task, as it didn’t print that way naturally; but I thought it looked cooler) and grab copied line illustrations from medieval works, Pauline Baines, Howard Pyle, and Fritz Eichenberg. Then I’d paste it all together and run off a few copies, at least enough for the contributors. I don’t think I ever made more than five copies an issue; at a nickel a page it was about what my finances could bear.

For a very short time there was a half-assed club associated with The Broadsheet: called The Inn Mates, meant to indicate eccentricity (inmates of the asylum) and companionship (mates who met at the inn). It met only one time, a rather token gathering hosted at Wylie Reeve’s house. I fear I was too reserved a character to lead such a club with any amount of spirit. It soon fizzled out. Somewhere there is a photograph memorializing the occasion.

Well. All the spare copies of The Broadsheet (including the master copies) are tucked away in the Files somewhere, sad little stillborn memories taken out now and then, found almost by accident while looking for other things, to be gazed at wistfully as a reminder of when we were all young and alive. 

The Tale of the Ruby Top Hat

I’ve told this story before, but I thought I’d go into it in a little more detail. Why? Grampa’s rambling again.

I was in Third Grade, so it was probably the fall of 1972. We were having a school fair for all the families; besides an enchilada plate there were a variety of activities, like clothespin fishing for prizes and tossing games. Also on the agenda was a ‘country store’, where donated items were on sale to raise funds for the school. The table was set up for it during the school day, so we all had a chance to spy out the goods ahead of the evening festivities. There was one thing I became fixated on: a red glass top hat.

When the time came around, I begged Mom for the money. All of us kids were giving a certain amount to spend; as I remember it the hat cost a little more than my budget. That meant no other activities for me, but I thought that worth it. I knew there was a girl who had her eye on the hat, so the first thing I did was I sped to the ‘store’ and snatched it up. I had to carry the glass item the rest of the evening. I’m sure my parents must have thought I was an odd duck, but Mom did indulge me.

I learned much, much later that it was made by a company called Fenton, that produced a wide variety of glass top hats for table settings. Most of the smaller ones seemed designated as toothpick holders; my red one was a bigger example. I’ve seen them described as everything from candy dishes to candle holders. So why did I want one?

Well, as I’ve stated before, top hats were part what might be called my ‘pop cultural relics obsession.’ The hats used to be everywhere, symbols of authority, from rich men to reverends. Perhaps because of the care needed to preserve them. ‘Broken’ examples could appear on carthorses, scarecrows, and snowmen. Or on bums with some pretension, especially after the Stock Market Crash and the Great Depression. They persisted for a while as a necessary accoutrement for solemn occasions: bridegrooms and presidents were expected to wear them on their way to take their oaths. John F. Kennedy was the last president to be inaugurated wearing a top hat. By the time I was growing up they were again relegated to ‘bums’: hippies might wear them as well as retro ‘granny glasses’ for a cultural statement.  Oh, and glittering Broadway musicals. I wanted a top hat, and this was the only example I’d seen in the wild, as it were. If only for playing purposes, I had to snatch it up.

Of course, for playing purposes it uses proved to be limited. While it would be a proportionate fit for say, Chester the Chimp, it couldn’t stay on, and be top-heavy at that. Eventually I settled down on it as a nest for our Formulette toy owl, Owlie, who snuggled down into it as just the right size. 

When I was past a certain playing stage the hat should have been stored or displayed somewhere appropriate; instead, it resided in the regular toybox where, despite its thick glass, it inevitably broke and was thrown away.

But I was always on the lookout for top hat replacements. There was one up in the garage rafters, a little black plastic one, in a batch of parental memorabilia, apparently a party favor from a wedding or something.

 We decided we couldn’t extract that one; not from any respect for our parents’ memories, but just for fear that we’d be caught. Wonder what ever happened to that. Eventually we got a red plastic top hat, attached to a velvet -flocked toy bank.

 It was just the right size (if not a perfect fit) for another squeaky, ‘Professor Worm.’ Over the years we got several action figures with their own little top hats.

 

Susan and John both found me a couple of smaller examples of Fenton glass hats at various sales. One was clear, the other as red as my remembered one.

With Aughra for Scale

Then Steampunk rolled around, and top hats became fashionable again (for a certain factor of fashion) and much more available. I remember our cousin Kirby (our great-aunt Maggie’s son) started wearing a brown top hat during the last months of his life. He was dying, and no longer gave a hoot what people might think of him in our little Texas town. It might help people remember him when he was gone; I got the impression that he, too, always wanted one, and was ready to let his freak flag fly. I wonder whatever happened to his hat when he passed away. I’m not saying I exactly wanted it. But I wonder.