In 1982, my Grandmother pulled her green 1966 AMC Rambler into the Gibson’s parking lot. The car was a behemoth piece of iron. The doors were heavy to pull closed. Well, to a 10 year old. It ran rough, had no air conditioning, unless you considered the windows, the driver side door had a big rusty dent and the radio only picked up the AM band, something with Paul Harvey.
I had moments earlier gotten off the 10:15 Greyhound from Roswell. After the visit to Yucca Newsstand, my Grandmother and I drove down 1st street in Alamogordo New Mexico to shop the Gibson’s. There was a Gibson’s in Roswell yet this one felt much much different. The building looked like two buildings merged into one. The one in Alamo stayed open long after the one in Roswell closed. Walking into the store via the automatic doors that required you to stand on the pressure pad before they swung open, I immediately bolted for the toy department. It was to the back and right. The store was dark and quiet. I looked over the games, puzzles, pushed my way past the display of Glo-worms, the stacks of Rubik’s Cubes and the hordes of E.T. shit. The toys I wanted to look at weren’t in the Toy Department at all.
I walked down a little ramp into the other part of Gibson’s. This section was the Home Improvement, Electronics and Outdoor items. Toward the front was Electronics. Behind the counter, next to portable cassette players and Atari cartridges were the Star Wars figures. All the figures were hanging on J-hooks behind a huge glass display case. I had to tippy-toe just to get a good look at them. If I wanted to look closer or actually touch the things, I would need a parent or guardian. Yet, that didn’t stop me from asking to look at them. Sometimes, the clerk would allow me to hold them. I’d ask to see the AT-AT Driver or Cloud Car Pilot. The zit faced punk behind the counter would hand them to me and then act annoyed. He’d stare at me as if I just farted and filled the area with noxious fumes and ask if I was going to buy it. I’d shake my head and hand them back. Of course I would go find my Grandmother and beg for one. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. I don’t recall if I was able to buy that AT-AT driver that day or another day, but it was exciting to look at the figures and envy them. I would point out the ones to my Grandmother that I really really needed and asked her to share the info with the family and Santa Claus.
Gibson’s wasn’t a kid friendly store, as I remember it. Even much later when I was older (12 or 14) if I wasn’t attended by an adult, the staff would watch you constantly. Follow you around. And sometimes stand in the isle, mere feet from you. I’m surprised I never saw them do a ninja roll or do one of those army man crawls to sneak up on me. Usually, they were sly about it, but mostly they didn’t care and wanted to make you feel like a fuckin thief as you picked up the 1982 G.I. Joe Mobile Missile System with Hawk and heaven forbid wanted to look at the box closer. (I know what you’re thinking. Earlier I stated I was not aware of GI Joe until Fall of 1983. Yet, while searching my memory banks proved I do remember looking at the toys. I just didn’t think they were as cool until I saw the G.I. Joe: An American Hero mini-series cartoon. So I wasn’t lying just hadn’t remembered it as clearly as I would have liked.) To this day, I wonder if Gibson’s spent hours training their employees on how to be douches. Were there slide shows of how to spot an innocent child and assume they would pocket everything in sight? Seminars on Customers are only over 47 and Children are a Nuisance. You might as well used the greeting, “Welcome to Gibson’s, you little thief!”
If my grandmother didn’t need any kitchen bags or laundry soap, we’d leave Gibson’s with little fuss and go back to her little apartment. Lunch would be an early afternoon affair. And if I was lucky, it would include a hot Steak-um sandwich!
Denver Comic Con
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Remember the Alamo - gordo!
Every summer and perhaps every Spring Break and Fall Break, my mother would send me off to my Grandmother’s in Alamogordo New Mexico. I never minded. It was always a good thing, except for one summer where I missed the last 10 episodes of Robotech in the early summer days of 1985. I usually anticipated the trip. Simply, it was a time to get my comic books (that my grandmother would buy and save for me) and it meant ice cream before bedtime (which was always a special treat at Grandma’s and no where else.)
With my mother working her butt off and never having any real time off, except two-paid-weeks-during-July, I usually went to Alamogordo on my own. The journey would always begin with my mother dropping me off at the Greyhound Bus Station on Main St. in Roswell. She would buy me a round trip ticket, she would watch me board the bus, watch the bus pull out and wave as it drove down the street. I remember doing this as early as 1982 , maybe 1981. I remember the first time I rode the bus alone to Alamogordo was a bit scary. My mother told the bus driver that I was only 9 years old and if he could keep an eye on me. I remember being embarrassed. The bus driver didn’t give a shit about watching some snot nosed brat for the next two hours. He just wanted to get the bus to its next destination and not play Romper Room Babysitter. I was also instructed, by my mother, I could not sit anywhere but the seat behind the driver or directly across from the driver. I did as I was told and not before too long, I was a hardened veteran and bus rides to Alamogordo were nothing.
The 117 miles to Alamogordo would fly by. I would read my comics, stare out the window and daydream or play my Milton Bradley Microvision game system (think Gameboy but much earlier). Sometimes, I would get off the bus at the pit-stop in Ruidoso and get a soda, even when I was told by my mother not to get off the bus for any reason unless it was on fire. And my Grandmother was always waiting for me when the bus arrived in Alamo. Yet, I do have a vague memory of the bus getting there and not finding her anywhere for almost 10 minutes. It was the scariest 10 minutes a 9-year-old could or would possibly go through. It was just a mild panic attack surrounded by fears of abandonment. Not to mention, it wasn’t like I could just whip out my iPhone and call or text her. I actually had to find a “payphone” and the handsets were always booger nasty. Plus, I used all my quarters on the soda in Ruidoso! Yet, as I started to panic, I turned and there she was. Her explanation was the bus drove too fast and was early. I forgave her. It never happened again, I’m positive.
When I got to Alamogordo, I would ask if we could stop at the Yucca Newsstand. I always wanted it to be my first stop. I wanted to look at the comics. I would buy issues of stuff I normally didn’t ask Grandmother to buy. I loved Yucca Newsstand. It smelled of musty paperback books and tobacco. The floorboards would creak and squeak. Not only the best place for comics that I knew of in 1982, it sold a variety of cigar and pipe tobacco along with coins. It was in Yucca Newsstand that I learned to love the smell of newsprint! I wish I would have been able to visit the store one last time before it closed. It will be missed.
Then, the next stop would usually be Gibson’s. Again, I wanted to look at the Star Wars figures. Oh, how I remember the Star Wars figures at Gibson’s…
more to come!
With my mother working her butt off and never having any real time off, except two-paid-weeks-during-July, I usually went to Alamogordo on my own. The journey would always begin with my mother dropping me off at the Greyhound Bus Station on Main St. in Roswell. She would buy me a round trip ticket, she would watch me board the bus, watch the bus pull out and wave as it drove down the street. I remember doing this as early as 1982 , maybe 1981. I remember the first time I rode the bus alone to Alamogordo was a bit scary. My mother told the bus driver that I was only 9 years old and if he could keep an eye on me. I remember being embarrassed. The bus driver didn’t give a shit about watching some snot nosed brat for the next two hours. He just wanted to get the bus to its next destination and not play Romper Room Babysitter. I was also instructed, by my mother, I could not sit anywhere but the seat behind the driver or directly across from the driver. I did as I was told and not before too long, I was a hardened veteran and bus rides to Alamogordo were nothing.
The 117 miles to Alamogordo would fly by. I would read my comics, stare out the window and daydream or play my Milton Bradley Microvision game system (think Gameboy but much earlier). Sometimes, I would get off the bus at the pit-stop in Ruidoso and get a soda, even when I was told by my mother not to get off the bus for any reason unless it was on fire. And my Grandmother was always waiting for me when the bus arrived in Alamo. Yet, I do have a vague memory of the bus getting there and not finding her anywhere for almost 10 minutes. It was the scariest 10 minutes a 9-year-old could or would possibly go through. It was just a mild panic attack surrounded by fears of abandonment. Not to mention, it wasn’t like I could just whip out my iPhone and call or text her. I actually had to find a “payphone” and the handsets were always booger nasty. Plus, I used all my quarters on the soda in Ruidoso! Yet, as I started to panic, I turned and there she was. Her explanation was the bus drove too fast and was early. I forgave her. It never happened again, I’m positive.
When I got to Alamogordo, I would ask if we could stop at the Yucca Newsstand. I always wanted it to be my first stop. I wanted to look at the comics. I would buy issues of stuff I normally didn’t ask Grandmother to buy. I loved Yucca Newsstand. It smelled of musty paperback books and tobacco. The floorboards would creak and squeak. Not only the best place for comics that I knew of in 1982, it sold a variety of cigar and pipe tobacco along with coins. It was in Yucca Newsstand that I learned to love the smell of newsprint! I wish I would have been able to visit the store one last time before it closed. It will be missed.
Then, the next stop would usually be Gibson’s. Again, I wanted to look at the Star Wars figures. Oh, how I remember the Star Wars figures at Gibson’s…
more to come!
Friday, February 4, 2011
Half the Battle!
At the time, I didn’t know how doomed I was when I started to worship G.I. Joe. I couldn’t get enough. If I could have crushed and snorted G.I. Joe, I might have done it.
While watching the G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero mini-series in 1983, I saw several commercials promoting the battles of G.I. Joe and Destro (a alley of Cobra) in Marvel Comics’ G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero Issue #18. “On sale wherever comic books are sold!,” it said. One problem. I happened to live in back-ass-wards town! Where the hell do they sell f-ing comics in Roswell? I could only think of two places: the Walgreen’s on North Main. (this is where I regularly begged my mother to drive me on Sundays so I could buy an issue of Teen Titans) and the Newsstand on 3rd Street (they had a wobbly wire spinner rack). There was no freaking time to wait. I had to have the comic now! The Newsstand was helluva lot closer than the Walgreen’s. If I told my mother I was going to CBs house, I could make it there and back within an hour and half via my Black n’ Gold Huffy. Riding my bike to and from was all kinds of dangerous and my mother would have definitely whipped my ass with that humungous leather belt of hers if she found out. It was worth the risk. With a pocket of cash (most likely a dollar forty-five in coins; paper money was only for rich kids!) I began my trek.
Two hours later, I laid on my bedroom floor turning pages of that kickass comic. I think I read it three times that day. I had the buzz. I gotta have more. Yet, I had no way of getting every issue. The Walgreen’s never seemed to get a constant selection of comics (Teen Titans may be there one month and it might not). I couldn’t count on the Newsstand either. But there was one place that was more reliable. It was Yucca Newsstand in Alamogordo. I called my Grandmother and asked if she could go down there every week and look for G.I.Joe. She didn’t sound too excited about the request. But she agreed because she loved her little Grandson! I sweetened the deal. I told her that if there wasn’t a G.I. Joe comic there, she could pick up Teen Titans and/or Justice League. She accepted her mission. And I routinely sent my Grandmother an envelope with a few dollars in it to cover the books. (remember, comics back then were only .60 cents!) Thanksgiving weekend was the first time I could visit and she had a handful of comics waiting for me; including, G.I.Joe #20! Unfortunately, I missed #19 in the transition but I didn’t care. I was reading G.I. Joe! This would continue for another 11 years until it ended with issue #155 in 1994. (And I would get all the back issues.)
If G.I. Joe comics were Crack, then the figures were my Heroin. Not sure how I accomplished it but I bought over twenty figures between 1984 and 1985. Almost died trying to take Blowtorch home.
After school one day, I took all my money to ALCO and shuffled through all the figures. The coolest by far was the G.I. Joe team’s flamethrower. He was in this red and gold suit; he had a helmet with mask, tank and the flamethrower! I bought him. Then, I jumped on my bike to go home. He was just too cool for my flipping backpack so I decided to carry him home. One hand on the handlebars, one had holding my little 3 ¾ inch fucking flamethrower! This is wear I almost died. While riding along the side walk, I decided to spin the card around and look at all the other Joes (and Cobras; Cobra was always much more wicked). I dreamed. I drooled. And if not for the nice man racking leaves in his lawn, I would have slammed into a parked 1979 Ford Bronco. In that few nano-seconds, this man saw I was more preoccupied by my new toy, saw the impending disaster, and yelled, “watch it!” His shout snapped me out of a G.I. Joe induced trance and I looked to see the Ford blocking my path. I quickly reversed my peddles and skidded to a stop! Whew! A foot to spare to boot. Slamming into that truck would have been bad. I know. I could have been killed or worse (damaging the action figure of course!) Yet, I avoided death and Blowtorch was safe in his little plastic chamber.
Like all addicts, I denied my problem. I could stop whenever I wanted. I was in control. Wasn’t I? Of course!
The G.I. Joe addiction was only half the battle. It would start a downward spiral of addition after addiction. These addictions would pinnacle twenty years later. But man! It was one helluva a ride! (I’ll get that later…)
While watching the G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero mini-series in 1983, I saw several commercials promoting the battles of G.I. Joe and Destro (a alley of Cobra) in Marvel Comics’ G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero Issue #18. “On sale wherever comic books are sold!,” it said. One problem. I happened to live in back-ass-wards town! Where the hell do they sell f-ing comics in Roswell? I could only think of two places: the Walgreen’s on North Main. (this is where I regularly begged my mother to drive me on Sundays so I could buy an issue of Teen Titans) and the Newsstand on 3rd Street (they had a wobbly wire spinner rack). There was no freaking time to wait. I had to have the comic now! The Newsstand was helluva lot closer than the Walgreen’s. If I told my mother I was going to CBs house, I could make it there and back within an hour and half via my Black n’ Gold Huffy. Riding my bike to and from was all kinds of dangerous and my mother would have definitely whipped my ass with that humungous leather belt of hers if she found out. It was worth the risk. With a pocket of cash (most likely a dollar forty-five in coins; paper money was only for rich kids!) I began my trek.
Two hours later, I laid on my bedroom floor turning pages of that kickass comic. I think I read it three times that day. I had the buzz. I gotta have more. Yet, I had no way of getting every issue. The Walgreen’s never seemed to get a constant selection of comics (Teen Titans may be there one month and it might not). I couldn’t count on the Newsstand either. But there was one place that was more reliable. It was Yucca Newsstand in Alamogordo. I called my Grandmother and asked if she could go down there every week and look for G.I.Joe. She didn’t sound too excited about the request. But she agreed because she loved her little Grandson! I sweetened the deal. I told her that if there wasn’t a G.I. Joe comic there, she could pick up Teen Titans and/or Justice League. She accepted her mission. And I routinely sent my Grandmother an envelope with a few dollars in it to cover the books. (remember, comics back then were only .60 cents!) Thanksgiving weekend was the first time I could visit and she had a handful of comics waiting for me; including, G.I.Joe #20! Unfortunately, I missed #19 in the transition but I didn’t care. I was reading G.I. Joe! This would continue for another 11 years until it ended with issue #155 in 1994. (And I would get all the back issues.)
If G.I. Joe comics were Crack, then the figures were my Heroin. Not sure how I accomplished it but I bought over twenty figures between 1984 and 1985. Almost died trying to take Blowtorch home.
After school one day, I took all my money to ALCO and shuffled through all the figures. The coolest by far was the G.I. Joe team’s flamethrower. He was in this red and gold suit; he had a helmet with mask, tank and the flamethrower! I bought him. Then, I jumped on my bike to go home. He was just too cool for my flipping backpack so I decided to carry him home. One hand on the handlebars, one had holding my little 3 ¾ inch fucking flamethrower! This is wear I almost died. While riding along the side walk, I decided to spin the card around and look at all the other Joes (and Cobras; Cobra was always much more wicked). I dreamed. I drooled. And if not for the nice man racking leaves in his lawn, I would have slammed into a parked 1979 Ford Bronco. In that few nano-seconds, this man saw I was more preoccupied by my new toy, saw the impending disaster, and yelled, “watch it!” His shout snapped me out of a G.I. Joe induced trance and I looked to see the Ford blocking my path. I quickly reversed my peddles and skidded to a stop! Whew! A foot to spare to boot. Slamming into that truck would have been bad. I know. I could have been killed or worse (damaging the action figure of course!) Yet, I avoided death and Blowtorch was safe in his little plastic chamber.
Like all addicts, I denied my problem. I could stop whenever I wanted. I was in control. Wasn’t I? Of course!
The G.I. Joe addiction was only half the battle. It would start a downward spiral of addition after addiction. These addictions would pinnacle twenty years later. But man! It was one helluva a ride! (I’ll get that later…)
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Now you Know!
My refusal to Grow Up and my determination to remain a Toys R Us Kid has guided my preference in hobbies and likes/dislikes even into mid-life adulthood. Although, I have definitely relaxed many of the associated burdens in the last few years (I’ll explain later).
I’ve always been a dreamer. I’ve always looked away and imagined a better world. This can be justified by why movies and TV impacted my life so greatly. The unfortunate fact is: the little box with pictures was a surrogate parent for most of my childhood. Even into teen years and early adulthood, I found it a comfortable crutch to fall back on in tough or stressful times. With a click, I was transported into another world or time. The characters around me were much more interesting than the ordinary people in my life. A sad fact from my early childhood was using every birthday wish, penny into the wishing well wish, prayers and shooting stars wishes asking—no pleading—for the worlds of Star Wars and Battlestar Galactica to magically take me away. (I still wish it from time to time.)
The string of stellar events that would define me would start with the release of Star Wars; jump back to Six Million Dollar Man, move forward with the debut of Battlestar Galactica; Superman: The Movie; G.I. Joe; Robotech and Star Trek: Next Generation. Over the years, each would return and in some ironic set of events repeat my preference for each.
So, as my childhood progressed, Star Wars was interrupted in 1983 by a cartoon known as G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero. Suddenly, there was something just as cool as Star Wars but grounded here on Earth. And there was a Ruthless Terrorist Organization Determined to Rule the World, known as Cobra! The show debuted Fall 1983. It was a five part mini-series based on the Hasbro toy line but at the time, I was just not aware of the toys. I had focused so much on Star Wars, I had missed it. I can’t explain how awesome this show was for me at 10 (going on 11) years old. I raced my bike home every afternoon to catch the next episode. And when it was complete, I begged the TV to play more. KCOP in L.A. would re-run it a couple times along with debuting its mechanized cousin, The Transformers mini-series. The show caused me to box up the Star Wars figures and head out to the store. Kmart had nothing! ALCO had nothing! WTF! I want me some fucking G.I. Joe figures. I know they exist as I saw the commercials. Hell, the show was a glorified toy commercial! There was a little off-the-wall toy store in the mall that mainly sold bears, dolls and constructive toys not the big commercial ones. I found one G.I. Joe figure in there. It was a Short Fuze. It wasn’t even a new 1983 figure. It was an original 1982 version, non swivel grip arm, before there was a Cobra listed on the back of the card, figure. But I didn’t care. I borrowed against my allowance for four consecutive weeks and bought him. (price tag was $3.99!!) This was the very first G.I. Joe figure I ever bought! And it was F-ing rad!
Let me back up just a few weeks. I said the Short Fuze was the first G.I. Joe figure I ever bought. It was. But it wasn’t my first G.I. Joe figure ever. With the cartoon mini-series, I became aware of G.I. Joe toys. One Saturday, SM and me went to ALCO via our bikes. In the toy isle, I held in my hands the ultra rad ninja ass-kicking Cobra known as Storm Shadow. I was 10 and had only a few pennies to my name (to which I would spend down at the Five and Dime on Penny gum later). The price tagged read $2.49! Two dollars and 49 cents was a helluva lot of money. It could have been a million dollars. Yet, SM had a solution. He would take it into the ALCO bathroom. What the Fuck? Does Stormie need to take a dump? I quickly questioned SM why? He told me to shut the fuck up and wait for him in the toy isle. After a few minutes, he returned and said “let’s go.” I followed. We rode our bikes around to the back of the Plains Park Shopping Center where he pulled from his crouch ol’ Stormie! He gave him to me and said “he’s all yours.” At first I was so astonished I forgot that: first:, it was just inside SM’s underwear!! Eww! Second, that he just fucking stole this figure from ALCO. Ahh, that’s why he went to the bathroom! I asked Stormie if SM had molested him in the bathroom but he said he didn’t want to talk about it. I felt it best to just let it go. And thus, he was my first G.I. Joe. (for the record, all of my other Joes were paid for and obtained honestly, ethically and in accordance with local laws!)
And that’s how I got my first two G.I. Joe figures.
Now you Know, and knowing is half the battle!
I’ve always been a dreamer. I’ve always looked away and imagined a better world. This can be justified by why movies and TV impacted my life so greatly. The unfortunate fact is: the little box with pictures was a surrogate parent for most of my childhood. Even into teen years and early adulthood, I found it a comfortable crutch to fall back on in tough or stressful times. With a click, I was transported into another world or time. The characters around me were much more interesting than the ordinary people in my life. A sad fact from my early childhood was using every birthday wish, penny into the wishing well wish, prayers and shooting stars wishes asking—no pleading—for the worlds of Star Wars and Battlestar Galactica to magically take me away. (I still wish it from time to time.)
The string of stellar events that would define me would start with the release of Star Wars; jump back to Six Million Dollar Man, move forward with the debut of Battlestar Galactica; Superman: The Movie; G.I. Joe; Robotech and Star Trek: Next Generation. Over the years, each would return and in some ironic set of events repeat my preference for each.
So, as my childhood progressed, Star Wars was interrupted in 1983 by a cartoon known as G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero. Suddenly, there was something just as cool as Star Wars but grounded here on Earth. And there was a Ruthless Terrorist Organization Determined to Rule the World, known as Cobra! The show debuted Fall 1983. It was a five part mini-series based on the Hasbro toy line but at the time, I was just not aware of the toys. I had focused so much on Star Wars, I had missed it. I can’t explain how awesome this show was for me at 10 (going on 11) years old. I raced my bike home every afternoon to catch the next episode. And when it was complete, I begged the TV to play more. KCOP in L.A. would re-run it a couple times along with debuting its mechanized cousin, The Transformers mini-series. The show caused me to box up the Star Wars figures and head out to the store. Kmart had nothing! ALCO had nothing! WTF! I want me some fucking G.I. Joe figures. I know they exist as I saw the commercials. Hell, the show was a glorified toy commercial! There was a little off-the-wall toy store in the mall that mainly sold bears, dolls and constructive toys not the big commercial ones. I found one G.I. Joe figure in there. It was a Short Fuze. It wasn’t even a new 1983 figure. It was an original 1982 version, non swivel grip arm, before there was a Cobra listed on the back of the card, figure. But I didn’t care. I borrowed against my allowance for four consecutive weeks and bought him. (price tag was $3.99!!) This was the very first G.I. Joe figure I ever bought! And it was F-ing rad!
Let me back up just a few weeks. I said the Short Fuze was the first G.I. Joe figure I ever bought. It was. But it wasn’t my first G.I. Joe figure ever. With the cartoon mini-series, I became aware of G.I. Joe toys. One Saturday, SM and me went to ALCO via our bikes. In the toy isle, I held in my hands the ultra rad ninja ass-kicking Cobra known as Storm Shadow. I was 10 and had only a few pennies to my name (to which I would spend down at the Five and Dime on Penny gum later). The price tagged read $2.49! Two dollars and 49 cents was a helluva lot of money. It could have been a million dollars. Yet, SM had a solution. He would take it into the ALCO bathroom. What the Fuck? Does Stormie need to take a dump? I quickly questioned SM why? He told me to shut the fuck up and wait for him in the toy isle. After a few minutes, he returned and said “let’s go.” I followed. We rode our bikes around to the back of the Plains Park Shopping Center where he pulled from his crouch ol’ Stormie! He gave him to me and said “he’s all yours.” At first I was so astonished I forgot that: first:, it was just inside SM’s underwear!! Eww! Second, that he just fucking stole this figure from ALCO. Ahh, that’s why he went to the bathroom! I asked Stormie if SM had molested him in the bathroom but he said he didn’t want to talk about it. I felt it best to just let it go. And thus, he was my first G.I. Joe. (for the record, all of my other Joes were paid for and obtained honestly, ethically and in accordance with local laws!)
And that’s how I got my first two G.I. Joe figures.
Now you Know, and knowing is half the battle!
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