 If you read everything on the site like you should, you know all about my adventures at my friend's creepy old house in an unloved farm town of Upstate, New York. The saga continues in this article. A few years back, it was determined that the highways and freeways weren't the quickest route home from the House. Instead, the first trimester of the ride is spent on local roads -- roads littered with shacks, slaughterhouses and signs that warn against crossing tractors. Though these rocky roads ruin the shocks on all cars brave enough to use them, there's a heck of a lot of neat stuff to see. Usually, it's just a case where we'll point, giggle and drive on. Sometimes, we'll pass something interesting and spend the next few minutes debating whether or not we should turn back and get a closer look. Rarely, very rarely, something grabs our souls and magically forces the car's sticky thingy into a "P" position, hurling us from the vehicle with wonder and cameras in tow. Introducing the craziest little gift shop in the whole wide world: "Gizmos & Gadgets!"  I admit it -- I wasn't completely sure the place was going to be worth a stop after persuading my friends to STOP THE CAR, STOP THE FUCKING CAR OR I'LL NEVER TALK TO YOU AGAIN. The crappy old Store looked like gold from the outside, but I've been through this too many times. I can't count the experiences I've had with stopping for what looks to be a junk culture gold mine in the middle of nowhere only to find out that they only sell, I dunno, tires or something. I knew better than to get my hopes up. Still, the sheer disorganization of the window displays and the variety of positively shitty things seen within them seemed promising. With three twenties in my pocket and the eyes of a six-year-old on line at an ice cream truck, I walked inside and saw Jesus' face in the dust. The Store was simply unbelievable.  I stood there for a moment, seeing a whole lot of shit but still not understanding what kind of outlet it was. The serious amount of real estate being allocated to sports cards makes me believe it was once a place for that specialty alone. A spot for the local kids to come trade Rollie Fingers to the gruff storeowner for three wads of chewing tabackee. A junk collector by heart who spends his weekends yard sale hopping and going to estate sales, the owner eventually began selling articles beyond baseball cards. In truth, he began selling anything and everything. Toys, books, party supplies, jewelry -- whatever he could get his hands on cheap enough. In stores like this, old stock is never pushed to the back. It is merely pushed to the side, affording more room for all the new entrants into this abysmal upgrade to the classic consignment shop. The Store has likely been up and open for decades, and since it attracts approximately four customers a year on average, all of the old shit is still there. Nothing is expensive, nothing is sacred. I didn't know what to call it, but after involuntarily pissing the floor with excitement, the fluid waste omeniciously spelled out a word on the floor: "Home." Omeniciously is our new word for today.  I don't know where to start, but I guess I already have. There was a lot of stuff in the Store, but 97% of it was purely lackluster. Old, yes, but not worth spending my last day off before a week's vacation back to Hades writing about it. It was the other 3% that brings me here. Nothing was singularly prominent, but the rush that came from seeing so many lost desirables all at once gave me retail fever to degrees even higher than when the Wawa down in Manahawkin went 4-for-1 on Wonder Bread. The only downside was that the friends I was with are pretty much normal, hardworking people, and thus had absolutely no interest in any of this crap. They put me on a strict twenty-minute time limit. Some of the stuff I saw in the pictures later completely eluded me while at the Store -- a painful recognition since it'll be a cold day on Hot Island before I drive for four hours to see it again, let alone convince anyone else to bring me back there. I had my chance, and a twenty-minute time limit blew it, just like it always does. The Store's owner wasn't present, leaving his wife to the register duties. A pleasant woman who made no bones about their fine establishment being a "junk shop," she told us at least a dozen stories. They must've been really boring stories, because I can't remember any of them. She took great curiosity and joy in my happiness with their selection, probably because she bet her husband that it would happen fifty years ago to the day. Finally, a dinner at Denny's owed! She advised us that items on the top shelves were for display only and not for sale, thus robbing me the chance to wake up to the tune of funky blasts by way of a Real Ghostbusters alarm clock shaped like Slimer, but all in all, I'm happy to know her. I hope she remembers me. I hope she used my money for something nice. I don't remember how much I spent in there, but despite everything being so unbelievably dirt cheap, the total wasn't low. Here's a look at some of the best junk I picked up -- the rest will have to wait for the follow-up article six years from now. Enjoy.  WWF Superstars Party Bags: (.60 per package) World Wrestling Federation birthday loot bags were the first items spotted when I walked inside -- a positive foretelling of what else might've be inside. From 1985, all of the wrestlers shown are considered legends today. Even more incredible is that 80% of them are still alive. Shown center stage is, of course, Hulk Hogan, wearing his alternate blue trunks, the ones he only wore when someone really pissed him off. Though Hogan's popularity still soars today, it's more of a pop culture novelty thing. In 1985, it may have been a pop culture novelty thing on many levels, but don't doubt that millions of fans across the world viewed him in the same light as other children viewed Superman, or Spider-Man, or the guy who played the gay male maid on the Golden Girls pilot. His word was gospel, so it's a good thing pro-wrestling hadn't quite hit the point where every interview didn't need a reference to asses with shit shoved up them. Our generation would've been so crude. Oddly, Jimmy Snuka (fourth from left) looks like a life-sized action figure standing beside real life chief allies and enemies. But then Jimmy was always odd. For those curious why my listed price doesn't match the 1.19 price tag shown in the picture: They were having a half-off sale on party supplies. Seriously, it's the first thing the weird lady told me after we walked inside. "Good afternoon...all party supplies are fifty percent off." Thank you, miss.  David's Salsa Sunflower Seeds: (.25 per package) I can't say exactly when they're from, but a quick look at the official site of David Sunflower Seeds proves that they no longer make 'em in "Salsa." "Jalepeno Hot Salsa," yes, but plain "Salsa?" No. Plus, there's no website address in the fine print on the packages, meaning they're at least from times before whenever that trend started. Can't be certain, but there's enough circumstantial evidence here to support the notion that, should I ever give in to my darkest temptations and eat the things, I'd be one of the only people in the entire world still able to experience David Sunflower Seeds: Version Salsa. If you can prove that the company continues to produce this variety, please, keep it to yourself. I need to keep my dreams alive, however few and far between they may be.  The Supergirl Storybook: (1.29) Because with a story this good, one form of media is never enough. The Supergirl Storybook, hardcover and loaded with color pictures, proves to be the Store purchase than interests me the least, but in the paraphrased words of that beeper company...for a buck twenty-nine, do you really care? I liked the film better than most, but can admit that the story just sucks in book form. "Kara had enclosed herself within its curved petals and was floating toward the Binary Chute." Better than counting sheep or downing poison, the words incapacitate me. I presume the editors realized this unfavorable trait, otherwise each sentence wouldn't have been footnoted with a leggy Helen Slater picture.  Trading Card Treats: (.19 per package) Okay, these made me giddy. Found at the last moment, they're packs of cards featuring very recognizable characters, stripped from old bags of "Trading Card Treats." If you think about them long enough, I assure you, bells will ring. Served up in 1991 by Impel, Trading Card Treats were marketed as a healthy alternative to giving out filthy candy on Halloween. While I certainly wouldn't have liked it if every house in the neighborhood gave out cards instead of candy, adding these to our treat bags provided the holiday a certain spice it wouldn't have otherwise had. The cards were based on everything -- theme sets ran the gamut from Super Mario to Inspector Gadget, Universal Monsters, Archie Comics and beyond. Part of the "National Safe Kids Campaign," I'm guessing the licensee owners lent their moneymakers out in a nonprofit charity gesture. The cards were terrific -- each featured a different character from some walk of entertainment on the front, with a short bio and additional illustration on the back. Each cellophane-wrapped pack contained three cards, and it was up to the particular house giving 'em out to be hip enough with the times to know that kids much preferred the Nintendo versions to the Archie Comics versions. Failure would only result in egg bombings.  Basketball-Related Cake Decorations: (1.00) Yeah, I'm offended too. I can only think of a few occasions where basketball-related cake decorations would fit, though I'm probably not the best to judge. Still, even if you've got a situation where Billy won the big game or Harry's birthday is coming up and he really likes basketball, these are pretty ugly cake decorations regardless. The company's vow to "paint everything" stopped short of the basketballs themselves, and that mixed with their rather misshapen design makes the figures look like they're holding horrific mounds of flesh recently ripped from the body of their nemesis. The set also provides a visual reminder of when shorts hit the point that they're too short. As for the three figures included, one can only guess that the giant guy is a team unto himself, playing against two much smaller midgets who were allowed to outnumber the opposing team in the interest of fairness. They used the little blue things to keep score.  Ninja Turtles "Greetings From The Sewer" Postcard Book: (.99) Some of the Store items picked up were met with some internal debate beforehand. It took some time for me to give up and accept that there was no way I could leave without a lot of the goods. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles postcard book, on the other hand, found itself immediately shoved into the 7-11 handcart the owner stole once I spotted it. What began purely as a purchase of habit (I was bound to buy anything with Ninja Turtles on it...) became something more later, after I actually got a look at the postcards. Though an officially licensed release, it's hard to imagine that the artists involved had any knowledge on the Turtles whatsoever. All of the illustrations put the our green heroes and friends in situations the likes of which had never been seen in any other form of TMNT lore. Take this card, for example. They got the look of Shredder and Krang down perfectly, but what the frig is going on? Why is Shredder proposing to Krang? Other postcards follow suit with the artists portraying only the most basic knowledge of things related to Ninja Turtles -- there's one where the four teens are trapped in a glass bottle like a model ship, and another where they're all dining on a particularly gigantic slice of pizza. Evidently, the artists believed that the Ninja Turtles, though humanoid, were indeed the size of turtles. Each postcard features spaces for stamps, addresses and goodwill on the back.  California Raisins Noisemakers: (.25 each) So here's the sitch: You're planning a big party next weekend. You've got the right food and a good mix of guests coming, but can you really be sure it'll go off without a hitch? What's the only thing in the world that could guarantee a good time? What can a person do to ensure the proper level of entertainment value for their soiree? California Raisins Noisemakers. You know, the kind you blow into. From 1988, they're the action-packet baubles of whistling paper fun that turn party favors into party savers. At least, that's what the elderly shopper standing beside me in a black veil said as I picked them up from a crusty Tupperware container. Then she vanished in a sulphur-smelling cloud of purple smoke, like my old online girlfriend used to do after we got in a fight at the Red Dragon Inn.  Captain Power Helmet Masks: (.60 per package) Captain Power featured some of the most high-tech toys I've ever had -- even more technologically futuristic than that old Spy Tech gadget that let me hear everyone in a two mile radius having sex. Disregarding the chic sci-fi television show, the toy series consisted mostly of large, battery-operated ships with a whole lot of infrared bullshit going on within 'em. There were several videotapes available that worked with the toys, affording kids the chance to shoot invisible missiles at poorly rendered CG enemy ships on television. Captain Power, the leader of the hero squad, is immortalized up above with his own line of party favor masks. With rubber band settings that were always too loose, too tight and never just right, kids dealt with the pain only long enough to decree that the eye slits were too small to continue wearing the masks. Vaguely considered party supplies, the nice lady running the joint reminded me that they were half-off. No conventional use for Captain Power paper masks exists today, but I won't miss the sixty cents anywhere near as much the chance to don the Holy Head and call myself important. Oops.  "Noogies" Figure: (2.49) Well folks, here it is -- my single most expensive purchase from the Store. Made by Redbox, I have only a vague recollection of the "Noogies" line, a series of putrid "ring fingers" to be worn on the knuck. The figures made assorted screaming sounds when pressed, which judging by the line's success probably wasn't the number one trait children looked for in their toys. There were four different, and of course, I got the least interesting character of the pack -- "Shattered Ice," a headbanging heavy metal fan with broken glasses and a jacket that screams cool. Noogies were from the corner of Toy Universe that things like Barnyard Commandos and Food Fighters resided. Sometimes bought, mostly thrown to clearance bins, but somehow, some way, still remembered.  Gags & Pranks: (.79 each) Hooray! Another batch of hilarity-birthing pranks and gags to add to my collection! The selection was most pleasing, including everything from floating eyeballs to miniature whoopee cushions -- there's even a phony razor blade that makes everyone think you're in serious trouble when slipped atop your finger. It's the very definition of a good time. On the nastier side is a prank-worthy "hot tea bag," which will fail to make your foil's tea spicy but succeed in making it taste like shit. The Store's first lady took particular interest in the "phony lit cigarette" gag, claiming she's had much luck "with that one" before pulling one from a desk drawer and puffing away. The surreal swarm of anxiety that swept over me while watching this aside, the gag actually does work nicely. Well I'll be.  Shown left is my favorite entry from the gags & pranks series -- and also the cheapest of the lot at just thirty-nine cents. It's a "Ghost Paw," and if you don't know what that is, a Ghost Paw is something worn like a pocket protector whenever one would be better off looking ghoulish. The glow-in-the-dark skeleton arms cling over your shirt pocket, dangling to and fro like so many spooks, challenging all who'd normally laugh you off to consider your obvious grasp over voodoo culture and think twice. The package recommends Ghost Paws only for those at least five-years-old, because anyone younger could not possibly deflect the cursed bolts of spirit lightning the bony fingers tend to hurl. Dinosaurs Attack! Trading Cards: (.45 per pack) Yesssssssssszzzzzz! Jesus Christ YES. Been a long time since I've held and adored these babies. Dinosaurs Attack! cards, made in 1988 by Topps, were some of the most legit creepy things I've ever collected. Back when Garbage Pail Kids ruled the bubblegum roost, I remember putting all of the stickers on my wall, only to spend the subsequent weeks and months afraid to look at said wall. Most were goofy and plenty were really gross, but certain Garbage Pail Kids cards were -- to a kid -- unsettling. As bad as it was with those (I eventually threw away all of my GPK cards as rumors swept the school that they brought bad luck), the Dinosaurs Attack! series disturbed me on a whole new level. The basic storyline to follow within the numbered series involved dinosaurs time-warping into present day, or something like that. Trust me, it wasn't no Jurassic Park. The cards were gruesomely detailed, each depicting one or a group of humans being absolutely ripped to shreds by the dinosaurs. The artists and writers got even more creative than that, sometimes employing giant, prehistoric mosquitos that ripped scalps clear off their victims' heads -- in full, glorious detail. You've seen the trends lately; there is no way Dinosaurs Attack! cards would be made and marketed towards kids in today's world. They weren't just violent and disgusting -- they were inspiredly violent and disgusting. A closer look...  The card in the center is from a small sub-story at the end of the series where one of the lead characters sacrifices himself to what appears to be a dinosaurized-version of Satan to save the human race. This particular group of cards is what upset me so much. The back of each card told the story shown on the front in more detail, and I'll never forget the back of "Sacrifice" card. It had a real life photo of a guy, covered in flames, ready to accept his doom as he shouts parting words to his wife. I was barely nine-years-old when the Dinosaurs Attack! series hit stores. Stuff like this gave me nightmares. I bought every pack they had left at 45 cents a pop, and the nice lady threw in the display box for free. It's why I didn't kill her and steal the contents of the safe.  Various Party Tableware: (Various Party Prices) Super Mario and Lazer Tag tablecloths, Ninja Turtles napkins, Nintendo napkins, other junk, low low prices, buy buy now. I plan to convert the tablecloths into tapestries and mass market. The napkins...no big plans for them yet. Just before leaving, I spotted a rack of comic books. Nothing too interesting, but for the heck of it, I asked how much they were. "Whatever it says on the cover" was the lady's response, making comic books the only ancient item in the entire ancient store still being sold at their original retail cost. Nowhere else would such rates seem overpriced, and I would've skipped on the deal entirely had it not been for one old Wonder Woman comic book. I didn't buy it for Wonder Woman, though...  The Greatest Ads In The History of Print: (Whatever It Says On The Cover) Though I more frequently spotted them in "Boys' Life" magazines, the two eighty-eight cent ads seen on this page can absolutely be credited with shaping my life. They instilled a forever lasting obsessions with getting things in the mail, with the anticipation of material goods and with wasting money on stuff I don't need. They taught me the meaning of "SASE," they caused me to know the minute differences in fake vomit produced all across the world. They are my King and Queen. On the bottom left is the infamous 88 cent ad from the Johnson Smith Company, the more upscale of the two novelty distributors. The 88 cent ad for Brad's Fun Shop, at top right, featured similar items of a less well made nature. I ordered from both without bias. I ordered from them all the time, carrying the goods (still in the big mailing envelopes) to school as a hunter would a dead moose on the way back to the lodge. There is not an item featured in either advertisement that I haven't bought from the companies at least six or seven times. Still, as big as my obsession was with the 88 cent ads, the sickness only got worse when both companies simultaneously shifted to selling all of the items for 50 cents each, competing against each other like car dealerships on opposing corners of the same intersection in the middle of a city where everyone buys ten cars a month. Seeing that glorious price reduction for the first time is how I got my stroke. Not bad for a chance visit to some dilapidated old gift shop, aye? It remains to be seen if I ever make it back to the Store, but I can't shake this feeling that, if I ever did try to go back, all that would stand in its space would be an empty lot and zero evidence that a store was ever even there. Then all the stuff I bought would disappear, post dream sequence style, spiting me all the more. Maybe it's best I don't go back. I've had one stroke already. The End. You've seen the Store...but how about the House?
|
|
|
