Head Meets Wall. Repeat.

Collectors! Have you ever accidently broken something in your collection? Maybe it was a major act of destruction, or perhaps only a minor nick, but nonetheless...

It's happened to me a couple times. Once, a few years ago, I went to pick up a toy robot and lightly -- I mean lightly -- brushed a small plastic antenna with the back of my finger. It snapped off, leaving me standing there, immobile, unable to think, relying on reflex to even breath, feeling my heart beat 100 times harder and my blood turn into a cold, slushy mess in my veins.

I lucked out that day, the break was clean and close to where the antenna met the rest of the robot. I was able to carefully glue it back into place and now, unless you know where to look, you can't even tell it was damaged.

Of course, I know exactly where to look. And I sometimes feel like my eyes are constantly drawn to that damn antenna every time I glance at my collection.

Usually, something like that might kill a toy for me, but when it's old or hard to find, I can suck it up and get over it. For the most part, anyway. But when it's a more modern toy, one that's easier to replace? I can't deal with it at all. I'll see the damage and think about the damage and turn it over and over in my mind until I kind of freak out. All that's left is to replace the thing.

Which sort of stinks, 'cause there's nothing fun about buying a toy again. That's money that could have gone to something new! But no one ever said toy collecting was a rational endeavor.

What about you, gang? Ever break anything even moderately significant? Did you keep it? Fix it? Replace it? Flip out and give up the hobby entirely? Enquiring minds want to know.

Somebody's Reading This Thing? Wow!

Many thanks to Chunky B at the wonderful Electorama blog for handing me a "One Lovely Blog" award. I'm one of seven blogs who received it under Mr. B's "Toys" category. And to think, I was told that writing about toys wouldn't ever get me anywhere. Suck on that, tenth grade English teacher Mr. Bellows!

This is my very first web award. Coming as it does from a blogger whose work I quite admire, it feels pretty good. But apparently, with neat awards comes, er, neat responsibility, and I've now got to pass on the honor to blogs that I think deserve the praise.

After giving it some considerable thought, I've decided to call out one of my favorite blogs: Webomator.

Featuring excellent, science fictional art, great writing, and all sorts of goodies, I think it stands as a good representation of what a blog can be. Definitely check it out!

Anyway, thanks again, Chunky. Say hi to Spock for me.

A Few Brief Thoughts On Why I Show Off My Toys

An interesting discussion on Alphadrome leads me to ask this question: Why do we show off our collections? Why isn't it enough to get the toys -- or whatever -- we want and then lock them away behind foot-thick doors, safe from prying eyes, sticky fingers, and the ravages of direct sunlight?

Someone pointed out that in Europe, collectors are a little bit more private than their American counterparts. Here in the States, we enjoy showing off our stuff, while across the pond, some of the biggest toy collections in the world are known to only a select few. While I can't speak for everyone, I've gotta say, yeah, I like having a chance to show off my stuff.

I'd be lying if I denied feeling a thrill every time a fellow collector stopped by and ogled a rare piece. And I'm happy to admit that I sometimes enjoy a bit of an ego boost whenever I tell someone about a great score. I'm human. But you know what? None of that's why I do it.

Truth is, I look at my collection like a mini museum, a humble attempt at capturing a certain cross-section of pop culture that thrived for a few decades before succumbing to changing fads. In those heady days before the space race really heated up, before we became mired in the sticky muck of reality, science-fiction toys embraced whimsy with fantastically, impossibly, and often ridiculously designed space ships, ray guns, and, of course, robots. They were inspiring, they were exciting, they were fun! And for no other reason than they could be.

It's easy to forget that, and in forgetting, to lose some of the spirit that drove people to dream the kind of dreams that often leave people standing with mouths agape and a sense of wonder overwhelming their brains.

In these toys we have tangible proof that a time existed when we knew rockets would take us to the colonies at the edge of the solar system. When we knew that robots would help make the world a better place. When we knew that the future wasn't a dark and scary place, but was instead a land of opportunity and adventure.

So okay, that's not how it all turned out. I know that. But looking at these toys makes me smile because I think to myself, "Maybe it's not too late."

And when friends and neighbors occasionally troop through my collection, I'm not hoping they look at the toys and think, "Wow, a Hook Robot!" Heck, none of my friends would know a Hook Robot if I used it to catch a fish. No, I hope they're thinking about how, once upon a time, a long time ago, the future was stuffed with possibilities. And then perhaps they whisper, "Maybe it's not too late."

So that's why I like showing off my toys. I'm showing off the future that never was, but might still be. Because if enough people say, "Maybe it's not too late," well, maybe it's not.

Aren't toys cool? Heck yeah...

Crass Commercialism! Stuff I've Got On eBay

I've got stuff for sale on eBay that I think you, my happy readers, might enjoy owning. Everything's got cheap buy-it-nows, but the starting bids (and, if applicable, the reserves) are even lower. So, without further ado, let the capitalism begin!

What's up for grabs? Swing on over here to see!

Toys That Never Were: Classic Robot Cinema

I've often mentioned the impact that Forbidden Planet's Robby the Robot had on vintage toys. The company Nomura, for instance, used him as a model no less than three times -- with numerous variations to each of those designs. Other companies followed suit, and that familiar domed head, those stubby arms, and puffy, "sausage-stack" legs became common on many kids' -- and later, collectors' -- toy shelves.

Two of Nomura's Robby the Robot inspired toys: Mechanized Robot (left) and Piston Robot (a.k.a. "Pug Robby")

But Robby wasn't the only robot roaming Hollywood's back lots. Science-Fiction films of the 1950s gave audiences numerous mechanical men to root for -- and against. Some of the greatest include the stoic and sublime Gort from The Day The Earth Stood Still; the robotic invaders from Target Earth; and the menacing creation from Satan's Satellites. Each provided a fantastic opportunity for some fun toys. 

Sadly, manufacturers never acted upon this opportunity, and it drives me nuts. But in the days before licensing deals and tie-ins, synergistic marketing and cross-over opportunities, Burger King glasses and McDonald's Happy Meals, movie studios just weren't thinking about turning their characters into toys. So while kids could spend a couple hours in a dark theater being wowed -- or terrified -- by these robots, they never had a chance to play with them at home. Consequently, they're not around for us to collect today. 

Not that some collectors haven't done their best to rectify the situation. Over the last 20 or so years, some of the more enterprising members of the hobby have tried to solve the problem of these non-existent toys by turning their talents towards the creation of custom pieces. Many came out remarkably well, a testament to the builder's skill and passion. However, only a small amount of these handmade toys were ever produced, and they're difficult to find today. Most collectors who do own them aren't looking to give them up.

One toy that did make it into production a few years ago -- and is still being made -- was Rocket USA's wind-up Gort figure. It's a well made toy, and features a walking mechanism as well as a flip-up visor. Sadly, unlike it's cinematic inspiration, it doesn't fire a death ray.

Rocket USA's Gort toy. 

It's also worth noting that B9, the popular robot from the TV series Lost In Space, managed to make his way out of Hollywood and into toy stores. By the 1960s, studios were finally licensing their properties, and this allowed the company Remco to release what has become one of the most commonly found versions of the character. While not super-accurate, the striking, plastic toy has today become a popular collectible. Another version of the robot was released by Hong Kong's AHI in the early 1970s, and still another -- similar to the Remco -- was put out by a Mexican company. Others followed suit (though not all were licensed).

The Remco B9 (top) and AHI's version of the robot. 

Still, that's only three robots. It's okay, I guess -- there are more than enough Robby and B9 variations to keep me busy for years. But as I'm sitting here, late at night, thinking about my collection, I can't help but feel a bit wistful about all the robots that might have been. 

The Six Stages of Collecting

I've been thinking about this, and it seems to me that there are six distinct stages of collecting. Of course, every collector will have his or her own personal experiences, but the first three definitely apply to me, and every collector I've spoken to seems to agree that, in broad terms at least, these stages are accurate and applicable.

I'm not sure what you're supposed to take away from this post, except that it might be some tasty food for thought. Or... Maybe I'm too lazy to take photographs tonight and this provides some convenient text-only content. Ahem. Anyway, without further ado:

Doc Atomic's Six Stages of Collecting

STAGE 1: DISCOVERY

The collector stumbles upon something new and infatuation ensues. The collector begins to hunt down any and all information about this new object of desire. Photos, essays, buyer's guides, online forums -- the collector can't get enough of them. In the discovery stage, the collector might buy one or two of whatever it is that's caught his eye.

STAGE 2: ACQUISITION

The collector buys three or four more items. The purchasing is indiscriminate -- if it's one of these great new things, the collector has to own it. It's about building mass and developing density. Shelves quickly buckle under the weight of so much new stuff.

STAGE 3: FOCUS

The collector realizes that, while he might have many of these new things, none of them are particularly special. The collector has learned more about his new obsession and has begun to identify the examples that really get his blood pumping. He decides to go after those particular pieces. In doing so, he also discovers that some of the older stuff is just getting in the way of the better things, and he begins to sell off some of the overflow. The signal to noise ration begins to improve.

At stage three, collections take shape and begin to reflect the tastes of those who own them. Most collectors linger on this stage the longest. And if the collector's area of interest is large enough -- or expensive enough -- then it's possible to never get everything; the collector stays at stage three forever. Stage three is, for many people, the most enjoyable part of the collecting life cycle.

STAGE 4: COMPLETION

The collector owns every piece he wants to own. There aren't many new discoveries. His shelves have remained unchanged for a while. The hunt has ended, but the collector feels a sense of peace and contentment. He gets enjoyment from looking at the collection he's built, and he's proud of his accomplishments within the hobby.

For some collectors, during stage four, the individual pieces of their collection become less important than the collection as a whole -- it begins to feel like a singular object, and can even be admired as a giant work of art.

By the way, the collection doesn't need to be large or contain every piece ever made. For some collectors, it's enough to own the ones they love -- even if there are only three or four on their shelves.

STAGE 5: BOREDOM

For many collectors, this is the inevitable end of stage four. The collection is no longer interesting. The objects become part of the background, barely noticed and rarely engaged. Not every collector experiences stage five -- some people go to their graves with a deep appreciation and lingering infatuation for their stuff. But for the rest, they've returned to eBay, only this time they're not hunting for additions to their collections... they're researching prices to figure out what their collection might be worth.

STAGE 6: LIQUIDATION

The magic has left the collection and the collector has decided to sell. Maybe something new has caught his eye and moving the collection will raise the necessary funds to pursue this new interest. Maybe he just wants to clear space. Whatever the reason, the collection is dispersed back into the ether from which it sprung, perhaps fueling some other collector who is, at that very moment, entering the first stages of his newfound love affair.

Rinse. Shake. Repeat.

Some Thoughts On Becoming a Collector

Recently, another collector described growing up with an aversion to collecting. He had seen the rather compulsive attitudes of the adults around him and decided, at an early age, that he'd never go down that path. And then, of course, he grew up to collect robots.

Personally, I never had any such fears as a kid, but then again, I don't think I ever experienced that kind of hardcore collecting. My mom was a collector, definitely, but she wasn't too crazy about it so it never struck me as odd. We did have a lot of ceramic chickens and ducks in our house, but it felt more like a theme than anything else.

I was always a packrat, and I constantly accumulated piles of junk: toys, weird bits of metal that I'd pick up off the street, books, stones, foreign coins, and whatever my relatives might have brought back to me during their travels to exotic lands. (My grandparents were always globe hopping, and they'd often come back with some of the coolest souvenirs this 10 year old would ever see.) But I was never a collector. I lacked the discipline to really research a subject and figure out what existed and what I liked. I distinctly remember being younger and saying to myself, "I wish I could be a more motivated collector." For a long time, though, it just never clicked.

And then I discovered comic books in the fifth grade, and that changed everything. Comics are numbered, they're clearly documented, they have story lines that continue from book to book. With so many clearly outlined parameters, they're the perfect gateway into the world of formal collecting.

Interestingly enough, I didn't collect much else while collecting comics, and even after I stopped -- lack of room, lack of comics worth buying on a regular basis, many other reasons -- I took my time before finding something else to attract my attention. I eventually landed a real job with a real paycheck. Not long after, I discovered robots and ray guns. 

I think that, by this point, I was ready to collect. I had learned how to curate a collection. I developed an eye for what I liked, a knowledge of the subject, and the simple dedication to pursue the toys that were most important to me. I had help, of course, a whole roster of rogues and scallywags and other unrepentant toy nuts who happily indulged my endless questions. In the end, it all combined to allow me to become the collector I am today.

Coincidently, at just about the same time, I learned to live on a lot less money... Ah, the double-edged world of the toy collector!

Summertime Blues and New Equipment

As mentioned in my last post, I've been out of the loop for a few days; sorry about the lack of posts. I know how twitchy people can get when they go through toy withdrawal! But that's summertime for you -- I plan on being away for a number of weekends in the ensuing months, so while I'll do my best to shore up the posts before I leave, be prepared, and try to be strong. Think of the puppies and children.

In other news, the Attic has upgraded its resources. Previously, photos were shot using a Canon D7 point-and-shoot digital camera. I say "point-and-shoot," but the truth is, the D7 is a lovely little device that takes superb photographs. However, I've recently stumbled into ownership of a Nikon D60 digital SLR, a camera that's leaps and bounds ahead of the D7 in terms of picture quality and image control. By SLR standards, it's strictly entry level, but since I'm an entry-level photographer, this isn't really a problem. 

The Hook Robot, posted earlier today, was photographed using the Nikon. Obviously, I'm still learning to use it; for instance, it's capable of a much narrower depth of field. So narrow, in fact, that it's easy to take the macro affect too far and screw up the picture. There are also some color and exposure issues I've yet to work out. Let's just say that I'm glad these cameras don't use film, because I'd probably be burning through it at an alarming, and expensive, rate.

But I'm learning -- through experience -- and hopefully the photo quality will soon match my ambitions.

The Super Secret Origin of Doc Atomic

I lent my camera to a friend, so let's take a moment to tell a story. More pictures of cool toys tomorrow.

So how did it all start? How did I find myself chasing tin, lusting over lithography, and otherwise indulging my baser instincts with toys old enough to be my parents'? Blame it on science fiction, and a train trip from NYC to Harrison, New York. 

It was about 10 years ago, I hadn't yet moved into New York but was working full-time at a magazine here. I was on my way home when I decided to kill some time at a small toy shop in one of the station's retail areas. It was the kind of boutique that focused on educational and hand-made toys, and weird, pop-culture artifacts that probably interested parents more than kids. In one corner, wedged in among the stuffed animals, old fashioned board games, and puppets was a stack of tin robots. Their boxes said Atomic Robot Man. I didn't realize it at the time, but it was a reproduction of a toy from 1949. Not that I really cared; I was smitten.

At the time, I didn't know anything about vintage toys. I just couldn't get over the robot's primitive construction, the old-school vibe, the feeling that it had fallen through a time warp for me to find and take home.

I'd been reading classic science fiction stories for a while, books by authors like Arthur C. Clarke, Robert A. Heinlein, Alfred Bester, Theodore Sturgeon, and anyone else who's copyright page had a date prior to 1962. I'd also started collecting vintage, first edition science fiction paperbacks from the Forties and Fifties, and the cigar-shaped rockets, bubble-helmeted space men, and especially the mighty robots that adorned their covers became obsessions. The little robot I'd picked up at the train station felt like an extension of these interests, classic science fiction rendered in glorious 3-D. (And without the need for red-and-blue glasses!)

A couple months later, I ended up in Los Angeles on a magazine assignment. I had an extra day to myself, so I decided to check out Universal Studios. That's where I found the store dedicated to tin toys. I can't remember what it was called, but when I close my eyes, I clearly see the cases filled with metal animals, cars, and... whoa!... robots. One in particularly demanded my attention: It was maybe nine inches high, shaped like a bullet tipped up on it's end. It had a pointy dome, dangling arms, and small, flapping feet that stuck straight out from its base. The lithographed text, spelled out in lightning bolts (!) said "Mr. Atomic."

When I was in middle school, there was a girl. To my 12-year-old eyes, she was the most beautiful girl in the world. Mostly because she started wearing a bra before all the other girls. When I first saw her, I had a weird sensation in the pit of my stomach. A fluttery, jittery, gurgling feeling that coursed through my veins and lit up my heart and had me floating through the rest of the day. 

Compared to how I felt when I saw Mr. Atomic, that was nothing.

I ran over to the store's owner, yanking out my wallet and grabbing two twenties. "How much for the Mr. Atomic?"

"$400," he replied. I stared at him. "It's a reproduction of a Japanese toy," he said, seeing the confusion on my face. I carefully slid the bills back into my wallet, put the wallet back into my pocket, thanked the man for his time, and sulked my way out of the store. $400? I felt like the hot chick from middle school was laughing at me. While making out with the quarterback.

Clearly, I was missing something.

Mr. Atomic was cool, but he was made of tin. $400? And what did the guy mean by "reproduction of a Japanese robot?" I couldn't let it go. When I got back from L.A., I jumped online and began hunting for tin robots. I discovered a number of stores, all selling these so-called reproductions. But reproductions of what? I kept digging. I found some websites devoted to tin robots, and this time, they were originals. I began reading. I stared at the photos until my eyes crusted up. A small thought was taking shape in my churning brain, a thought that demanded more and more attention with every click of the mouse: These toys were freakin' awesome.

I began buying reproductions, along with whatever new robots were being produced. I was aimless, grabbing whatever crossed my path. I didn't know any better, I didn't have anyone to talk to for advice, all I wanted to do was fill my shelves with tin. And then, one day, I discovered a refuge for blundering addicts like myself. An online forum, a discussion group full of space toy collectors whose collective wisdom was greater than anything I could hope to find on a singular website.

Alphadrome. 

I felt like I'd come home. I began talking with collectors, bugging them with questions, begging them for advice. I found myself paying more attention to the toys I was seeing on eBay. I took note of prices. Scarcity. Condition. Suddenly, without realizing it, was looking at these toys in a whole new light. I was looking at them like a potential buyer...

These toys appealed to me on two levels. The first was purely aesthetic. Robots are cool, old robots are even cooler. Old, new, repro -- it didn't matter as long as they had that classic look. This is the attitude that dominated my early days as a collector.

But soon, the second level kicked in and age began to matter. The vintage toys were a direct, physical connection to previous science-fiction and robot fans. They were owned and played with by some kid who might have been me if I'd been born a few decades earlier. I began to see the reproductions as merely models of how people today thought of the past. The original toys, though, felt like the actual memories. 

That's what I wanted to collect: memories I never had for myself. The relics from the past, not the imitations. There was a problem, though: I couldn't afford them. Vintage tin robots generally start in the very low hundreds of dollars, and then climb -- fast -- into the depths of space. I was young, I was employed, I had minimal commitments, but I still didn't have that kind of money.

Here's the funny thing, though. As I sat one day looking at all my reproduction robots, I began thinking about how much they'd cost me. Each one was relatively inexpensive, but taken together, it added up to a whole pile of cash. More than enough for a decent vintage toy.

I also started to consider the idea of quantity versus quality. At the time, I owned a couple dozen reproduction and new toys. If I'd used that money on vintage robots, I'd own maybe one or two. But those vintage pieces, I realized, would mean much more to me than a whole shelf of reproductions. 

After a few weeks of thinking about it, I decided to take the plunge. The moons had aligned: Three toys appeared on eBay, any one of which I'd be happy to own. A freelance check was burning a hole in my pocket. A willful disregard for my own need to pay for food, rent, and utilities had successfully overtaken common sense. The time was right: Three toys, three bids. Bam, bam, bam! I was committed.

I know, it sounds crazy. But I didn't expect to spend all my money. After all, what were the chances that I'd win all three toys?

Apparently, better than I'd realized. I was a science fiction convention the day the auctions ended. I owned a first generation T-Mobile Sidekick at the time, and using its painfully slow internet connection to check the auctions was a pretty nerve-wracking experience. People kept asking me if needed to lie down. When I asked them why, they said that copious sweating, a deathly pallor, and nervous twitching were all signs of imminent expiration. I hissed at them and they left me alone. 

And then it was over. Shocked, I discovered that I'd won all three robots. Then my shock turned to elation. I'd won all three robots. I was the owner of three vintage robots! It was like a new, geek-tastic world opening up to me. Who cared if little miss Rocket Launcher in 7th grade was dating the quarterback? I had me some robots!

The best part? The first auction to end was for an original Atomic Robot Man -- the reproduction I'd picked up at Grand Central Terminal so many months earlier.

And that's how it all began. 

Welcome To The Attic!

Robots, rockets, and ray guns. In the mid-20th century, space was the place and the future was just around the corner. Today, space toys represent yesterday's vision of tomorrow. They're imaginative, evocative, and just plain fun. Doc Atomic's Attic of Astounding Artifacts is a place to find some of these great old toys, as well as collector interviews and profiles, related ephemera, and, of course, lots and lots of opinion. So climb on up and discover the future all over again. 

Remember, if you have anything to add or questions to ask, please leave a comment!