I find myself at that cold spot in my life. The one somewhere between that "young enough to party" stage and "true" adulthood, whatever the fuck that means. The stage where I kinda find myself missing some of the material shit I grew up with as a kid.
My mother sold them, you know.
I used to have this killer Wile E. Coyote drinking glass. It would greet me with a grin and 6 ounces of Orange Juice every morning. Gone to some stranger with a 10 cent sticker on it. She unloaded comic books, electric guitars, sports memorabilia, all kinds of things, sacrificed at the altar of thrift. Some of these things were sold with or without my permission, mind you, but it doesn't necessarily make it any easier to deal with.
The woman unloaded my youth, god love her.
You see, as I approached my late 30's, I've developed a disease I like to call Retritis. Its an horrible affliction of the explicitly nostalgic that includes, but is not limited to these symptoms: Overgrown collections, irritated family members, and a growing interest in damn near all things retro. This disease is hearkening me back to the era of those god-forsaken rummage-o-ramas that decimated the items of my childhood. And since I've developed this condition, I am starting to fervently wish I had back the trinkets of my golden years.
Why does a woman sell my shit? To what end? $1.25? There has to be an answer of some sort. I mean what motivation does a lady that nags a person about cleaning their room, when she only goes in there to clean it in the first place, have to bargain-bin my most treasured belongings? It's a quandary haunting me to this very moment. Of course it is, or I wouldn't be writing this drivel.
Actually, I think it would be unfair to say that she sold my ENTIRE childhood. Just large portions of my memories. To my own credit, I've gone to some lengths to re-acquire them. For example my 1978 Daredevil #154 featuring Paladin. (A victim of a 1985 yard sale). At the very least I've gotten some nice pics off of the internet of several long lost items. Being that retro items of the 70's and 80's could easily cost me the deed to my house if I wanted to repurchase the real deal, the photos will have to do. I've even retrieved a nice grab of my favorite cereal, Crazy Cow (and started a devoted facebook following of the long lost breakfast treat). Although I can hardly blame my mother for throwing away cereal boxes, they are garbage after all. Of course, in today's collector/buyer society, an original Crazy Cow box could probably fetch a couple hundred smackaroos from the right person.
Against my will though, on a dark day, she did sell my rather expansive (and expensive) Star Wars action figure collection. Who knows how many thousands of dollars that would be worth now? I don't care, really. I'm past the sting of lost-dollar-value items. I once gave away a box of basketball cards to a dear nephew, not knowing that the holy grail of NBA cards was in there, the Fleer Michael Jordan rookie. Mmmph. At least he thanks me for that when he sees me. Good on him.
I'm no Indian giver, so with him it remains.
I am sure, however, on the Star Wars front, those action figures would be more properly passed on to my sons, young men who are the members of yet another generation of memorabilia collectors of George Lucas ever-fattening franchise. They'd probably be upset, unfortunately, upon realization that they are no longer in their original packaging, or "carded" as the nerdlingers phrase it. That seems to be some sort of prerequisite among collectors these days when looking at old toys. The buyer gives you that "you smell like fermented cow intestines" look as he handles a 4 inch Han Solo figure with a pair of tweezers and a jeweler's loupe. Meanwhile, you're rolling your eyes and wishing you were elsewhere.
Shit, me, I'd just be happy if my Luke Skywalker still had his dog-chewed lightsaber.
(To Be continued)