Armagideon Time

During the opening weeks of 2008, the long overdue consequences of my lackadaisical oral hygiene manifested as a raging abscess on an incisor which had been reconstructed after shattering a few years prior. It was the first time I’d experienced such a thing, and so I ignored the escalating levels of pain until they bloomed into white hot agony requiring an emergency root canal.

I chronicled the event as it unfolded on the previous incarnation of Armagideon Time (whereas these days I will postpone writing if I feel a mild sniffle coming on). In my sleep-deprived, pain-wracked delirium my mind kept looping back to a specific song as a guidepost to a future free of wanting to rip my teeth out with a pair of vice grips. I don’t know why it settled on that particular track, which I otherwise hadn’t heard or thought about in ages. Perhaps, when thrashing in the grip of an unpleasant “now,” my subconscious decided to dredge up something cozy and comforting from the furthest recesses of childhood memory…

…and pulled up Elton John’s 1975 blue-eyed disco-funk ode to a women’s tennis team. In any case, I listened to “Philadelphia Freedom” at least a hundred times in the weeks immediately following the procedure, as some strange form of thankful affirmation.

The root canal itself went fairly well, although there was a unexpected round of additional agony between the local fading out and the antibiotics kicking in. The endodontist suspected this might happen, so hooked me up with a script for Vicodin to get through that initial rough patch. Unable to sleep, I sat on the living room couch sucking on ice cubes and playing Katamari Damacy to distract myself from the ache in my jaw. I really didn’t want to dip in to the Vicodin if I didn’t have to, but the pain got the better of my aversion to drugs.

I popped one, and nothing happened. I popped another an hour later, still nothing. Then a third thirty minutes later, and the pain remained lucidly as foregrounded as before. Eventually I passed out due to sheer exhaustion. When I opened my eyes the following morning, the infection — and the pain it caused — had been flushed by the penicillin. When I tried to stand up, the walls and floor wouldn’t stop moving because of the weird hangover that ended up being the only physical effect of the (slightly excessive dose of) Vicodin.

I’ve steered clear of mind-altering substances (besides a family history of addiction) because the idea of willingly surrendering control or becoming disoriented terrifies me. Other folks might groove on it, but I find that impulse utterly incomprehensible. This after-the-fact painkiller trip only confirmed my position on the matter.

It also caused another song to start cycling through my skull — a half-remembered relic of the late Nineties electronica boom buried somewhere in Maura’s pre-cohabitation collection of compact discs. The urge to hear it compelled me to stagger up the narrow staircase to our attic and dig out a dust-glazed copy of Crystal Method’s Vegas so I could flop out to…

…”Trip Like I Do.”

One might think that both these songs would’ve turned to ear poison due to their deep and abiding connection to what was one of the most excruciating experiences I’ve ever gone through. In fact, the opposite ended up happening. Ten years later, both remain in heavy personal rotation and my ears always perk up when I catch snippets of either in the wild. When I got back into buying records of personal import, I picked up the double-LP reissue of Vegas on its day of release and dropped a handful of dimes on a clean copy of the “Philadelphia Freedom” single.

As for the bad tooth, I balked at my insurance’s co-pay for a permanent crown and it eventually shattered, leaving behind nothing but a jagged stump with the metal post sticking out of it.

I should probably do something about that.

The softer side

November 29th, 2018

I have a lot of feelings about the protracted demise of Sears. It’s sad to watch an icon implode, especially one that occupied such a prominent place in both cultural sphere and my formative years. There’s been a odd symmetry to witnessing my grandmother’s death and the shuttering of the former retail titan in space of a few months, as she viewed Sears as the apex of department stores. Each trip there was an event that went beyond running to Caldors or Bradlees for a new cardigan and set of drapes.

Their near-coterminous departures felt like a connection to a World That Was had been permanently severed — which I guess it was, for me.

But even beyond the personal musings about nostalgia and mortality, I am genuinely concerned about where folks will now acquire the essential accouterments for their EAT NUTS PARTIES.

‘Tis the season

November 27th, 2018

Christmas is less than a month away, which means the slew of hot takes about That One Problematic Holiday Standard should start arriving at any moment. In previous years, I’ve striven to keep above this circular debate, but the sheer number of wrong-headed reads of the subject matter had compelled my to weigh in on the song’s true meaning

Yes, that’s right. Clickbaiters and content farmers be damned. It’s time I finally set folks straight on the true meaning of “Deck the Halls.”

Contrary to some performatively “woke” commentators, the song is not about Christo-colonial hegemony. Nor is the familiar “Fa la la la la” chorus a phonetic code referring to the genocide of indigenous peoples. While it’s easy to see how someone could jump to such an erroneous conclusion, the falsity of these claims implode upon a closer examination of the lyrics.

The “holly” with which the halls are to be decked was deeply associated with pre-Christian pagan traditions and the jolliness is clearly a reference to the orgiastic rites practiced its worshipers. The mention of “gay apparel” is an obvious appeal to reawaken the genderfluidity and non-binary sexuality of these ancient tribes.

“The blazing Yule before us” refers to the sacrificial pyres upon which captured enemies were offered up unto the Green Mother, as the revelers cast down the technological artifice of stringed instruments in favor of their own powerful voices.

Through such ritual cleansing, the new year would be ushered in with promises of rich spoils and unbridled ecstasy as the faithful cavorted heedless of the wind and weather. The “fa la la” parts are not a code but a primordial chant which precedes language itself, the very tongue of the Green Mother and her copious brood. To utter it is to channel the power of the ancient and eternal cycles of birth and death, sowing and reaping, and fecund ambivalence of nature most naked.

In short, the song is only “problematic” for those benighted souls who refuse to hear the pulse of the World-Serpent. May they pray they don’t find themselves caught out when the hounds of the Wild Hunt bellow their bloody hunger.

I’ve written about the “death of Disco” more than a few times over the course of Armagideon Time’s lifespan. Though not as flashy a topic as z-list funnybook characters or Atomic Age anxieties, that fad’s late Seventies flameout touches upon several points of retrological interest. Disco bubbled up from the fringes of pop culture, steamrolled past an initial peak to become a megamarket phenomenon, then imploded amidst diminishing returns and venomous backlash. Its collapse perfectly aligned with the malaise-tinged fatigue that closed out the Seventies and set up the retrograde shifts of the Reagan/Thatcher Era.

It passed from history into the stuff of myth, either in its own right or as part of some other cycle. It spawned countless narratives in the public consciousness. Some were mournful, some cackled with vicious glee, but all were selective in their analysis of What Actually Happened. That’s what makes disco’s so-called demise such a rich topic to delve into, the multi-layered interactions between commerce, culture, and community. So much so, in my case, that the sound of the music became secondary to parsing conflicting patterns.

I was seven when Disco Demolition Night gave the “disco sucks” backlash a profile boost. In a matter of weeks, the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack went from a sing-a-long staple to an invitation for peer ridicule. North Woburn was already a stronghold for Zep/Stones/Sabbath fandom, jean jackets, and reflexive homophobia, so slagging anything with a suspicious beat and a strings section came easy.

Disco was relegated to the stuff of lazy referential humor and embarrassed memories — using “I’ve got looks, I’ve got brains, and I’m breaking these chains” to mock an over-enthusiastic audition for the senior play while praying no one will ask why you still remember the lyrics to “Makin’ It” in 1990. I steered clear of it during my trash culture twenties. The stock was cheap and plentiful, but it was also tied too closely to the Seventies revival nonsense whose passage from ironic camp to blind acceptance is one of my generation’s greatest crimes. It was far easier and truer to my roots to embrace bubblegum pop and corporate rawk instead. I didn’t hate disco — even at the height of my punk phase — but it never managed to accrue the nostalgic appeal other retro artifacts held for me.

None of this really explains how I went from owning zero to three dozen disco seven-inch singles in the space of six months.

K-Tel certainly had a hand in it, thanks to some period compilations that framed the songs in their contextual moments. Maura was a bigger influence, shouting out recommendations for “good disco” (as opposed to “crap disco,” determined by some inscrutable personal metric) singles to add to the growing library. It also helped that I’ve hit an age where “coolness” is no longer a pressing concern, linked to the long-overdue, stone cold obvious epiphany about having a lifelong affection for catchy dance tracks.

Most of the purchases have come from either the funky early phase or synth-heavy final days of the disco scene, filled out by handful of classic diva jams and boogie standards. There are no Bee Gees or KC & the Sunshine Band singles to be found among them, because heavy rotation during their heyday turned them into sonic wallpaper where my ears are concerned…

…though the bleep-bleep effects have got me half-considering “Jive Talkin’” as a potential future purchase.

Back to Wax #39: Tested patterns

November 19th, 2018

I have always been an early riser. No matter how late I turned in the night before, my body is incapable of staying in bed past 7:30 AM and anything beyond a quarter past six is spent in a state of fidgety restlessness. These behaviors have persisted despite a lifetime spent in the company of folks who would snooze until noon if given the chance, but I’ve come to enjoy that daybreak oasis of quiet solitude. It gives me the chance a take stock of my mental and physical condition, and meditate upon the overall state of things.

When I was young child, my mother used this to impart lessons of self-sufficiency via self-interest. Give a kid some breakfast, and you can go back to be for three hours. Teach him to make his own, and you won’t need to get up at all. Besides laying out a bowl, spoon, and a box of the currently preferred sugar-blasted cereal, my mom also wrote out a kid-centric summary of the local TV listings (with numeric and clock-hand pictogram timestamps) with my known favorites bolded in marker.

“7 AM: Scooby Doo (38), Sesame Street (2), Mighty Mouse (56)” — and so forth. (I really wish I’d managed to hold on to one of these through the years.)

This was back before the broadcast day was expanded into a 24/7 affair. On most weekday mornings, my televised companion during my first bowl-and-a-half of Alpha Bits was a test pattern accompanied by a stream of AM Gold standards of Me Decade. Chuck Mangione’s “Feels So Good” was prominent in the mix with MECO’s disco do-over of the Star Wars theme and Silver Convention’s “Fly Robin Fly” — songs that stuck in memory because of parental affection or personal fandom or dumb kid jokes.

Most of the tunes unspooled while I was distracted with stuffing my gob or playing with plastic army men or flipping through some picture book on aquatic life. There was one song, however, that would make me stop what I was doing and take notice…

…Arlo Guthrie’s rendition of “The City of New Orleans.”

The song’s subject matter (trains, which were up there with sea life and warships as a childhood obsession of mine) and its warm yet melancholy tone resonated strongly with the streak of sentimentality no amount of performative cynicism has managed to fully erase. It offered a glimpse at a bigger — and vanishing — world to a kid whose horizons began and ended within a couple miles of a single-road access North Woburn neighborhood.

The strange synchronicity between the “good morning, America, how are ya” refrain and being the sole person in the house (and probably the block) up at 5:30 AM further enhanced the experience. It’s a difficult thing to articulate and no amount of technical dissection can sufficiently explain that powerful alignment between material, moment, and mood. A few degrees difference along any of those axes and that deeply personal flash of transcendence might’ve just been “oh, yeah, I remember that song.”

I bought the single of “The City of New Orleans” because the asking price was low and the song holds a strong personal significance. That same resonance makes it difficult to listen to outside of rare occasions, lest the psychic weight of it squash me flat.

Second edition rules

November 15th, 2018

I’m not really keen on the self-promotion game, but I feel obligated to inform you that Advanced Death Saves is now available through Comixology.

This follow-up to the original Death Saves anthology further explores matters of tragic mortality around the gaming table, and expands the concept beyond the boundaries of the heroic fantasy genre. It also includes “Sawbones,” written by yours truly and beautifully rendered by the mighty Matt Digges. Like “Brassfist of the Gore” from the original Death Saves book, it’s based on an incident from my undergrad gaming days and Matt did a fantastic job bringing it to visual life.

While I’m on the subject of Matt, check out these lovely illustrations I recently acquired from him:

On the right is Dr. Cesspoole, a Stumbo the Giant adversary (from Harvey Comics’ Hot Stuff) I suggested for Matt’s skull-themed “Inktober” art jam. On the left is Brassfist, doing what he did best.

Anyway, if you’re are into role-playing games, tragic and/or comic character deaths, and great work by a talented crew of folks, go check out Advanced Death Saves.

Flipped and translated

November 13th, 2018

In a strange bit of synchronicity, Seven Seas recently announced the upcoming release of a Space Battleship Yamato manga collection. I found out about it because a number of thoughtful souls noticed my current Star Blazers obsession and felt obligated to give me a heads-up.

During the course of one of these conversations, I brought up the Star Blazers photo — or, more accurately, “cel” — comic softcovers which a Maura purchased with her babysitting money during her teenage fangirl years. This led in turn to a wider discussion about the early phase of the localized manga craze, a weird and wild time when the offerings and formatting were limited yet all over the place.

Putting aside critical darling prestige one-offs like Barefoot Gen, localized manga’s push into the American direct market started on the heels of the Robotech craze, which had ridden the Transformers-fanned updraft for giant robo fare. Comico’s Robotech funnybooks were domestically produced imitations of the manga “style,” but they sold like hotcakes and became the subject of short-lived speculative frenzy. Meanwhile, Frank Miller was shaking up the realm of superhero funnybooks with a bold and unique style which he partially credited to the influence of groundbreaking Japanese comic artists.

The initial wave of localized titles was fairly small and eclectic. Eclipse, in a publishing arrangement with Viz, floated bi-weekly floppies of the ninja drama Kamui, the gore-flecked coming of age serial Mai, The Psychic Girl, and the mercenary jet opera Area 88. First Comics got into the game with the Miller-endorsed samurai epic Lone Wolf and Cub, released as “prestige format” squarebound single issues and Marvel’s Epic imprint began publishing a colorized version of Akira.

The success of these offerings led to further releases, which was when I hopped aboard in earnest. The bombastically nonsensical Xenon, an ultra-violent and barely coherent cyber-superhero tale, was the first manga series I followed on a regular basis. It was soon joined by two other Eclipse releases — the squarebound Appleseed (visually gorgeous but hard to follow) and the licensed-but-domestically-produced Dirty Pair miniseries which launched Adam Warren’s career.

Drought-driven novelty was the dominant force behind the fandom. There were no shelves packed with cheap paperback covering every manner of manga subgenre in those days. If you were fascinated by the art styles and storytelling techniques, you were willing to settle (often eagerly) for whatever you could find. In that sense (for my crew of enthusiasts, at least) the first-phase manga boom dovetailed perfectly with the 8-bit gaming era — a small but steady stream of fascinating oddities licensed and imported to fill a steady demand. What few fanzines filtered down into our hands and tantalizing references in the Mekton RPG’s campaign notes further whetted out appetites.

To pad out the page count, some of the manga books would run pertinent essays about Japanese life and culture or include letters pages where offended old school purists could rail against “flipping” the art for the benefit of left-to-right reading audiences and provide pedantically long complaints about translation mistakes. While I later learned to avoid such souls at all costs, their back-and-forth exchanges with the editorial staff provided further insight into the process and cultural contexts involved.

The real golden age for translated manga unfolded after Viz decided to publish its own releases in the direct market, launching with a mix of squarebound and floppy titles which became the core of my pull list for the next couple of years — Grey, Justy, Pineapple Army, Lum (aka Urusei Yatsura), The Fist of the North Star. My memory tends to skip over them when I think back over my comics-buying during that stretch, but the two longboxes presently containing these books tell a different story.

Those comics and my experiences with them dwell in their own universe, a temporal pocket realm almost entirely isolated from the final days of my mother’s life and my first days at college. There are places where the realities do overlap. I can’t look at the first two issues of Appleseed without remembering how I fished them from my mother’s sewing cabinet the depressing day after she passed away. (She was interested in reading them, for some reason.) Otherwise, they feel like artifacts from a strange parallel life from which the worst traumas have excised.

That might be why I chose to hold onto them when I liquidated the bulk of my trash comics collection last summer.

We must be strong and brave

November 8th, 2018

On an overcast afternoon, some time in 1980, my father picked me up at elementary school and dropped me off at my maternal grandparents’ place. I can’t remember the reason for this break in regular routine, but there did always seem to be some minor crisis going on with my family in those days.

The door was locked when I got there, so I fished out the “back-up” key hidden behind the old circular washing machine in the back porch and let myself in. My grandmother had left a note on the table to let me know that she had to run out and take care of an errand with my pre-school age brother and that there were whoopie pies on the counter and juice in the fridge. Next to the note was a blister-carded Captain America branded Hot Wheels Trans Am, which the note said Lil Bro had picked out for me when they went shopping earlier.

I gathered up some treats and my sweet new prize and plunked myself down in front of the tiny color TV in the living room. After a few minutes of turning the dial and fiddling with the set’s rabbit ears, I settled in to watch the latest installment of Star Blazers.

The chopped ‘n’ dubbed localization of Space Battleship Yamato was my first exposure to the world of anime and also happened to hit several of my pre-teen sweet spots — an epic space opera akin to Star Wars, told in serialized format like a comic book, and featuring futuristic iterations of massive naval vessels. (Some kids obsess over tyrannosaurus rexes and pteranodons. I obsessed over the Bismarck and the Hood.)

I strove to catch the show when I could but it aired almost immediately after the school day ended, which was prime “dicking around with my neighborhood friends” time. Despite some gaps, I did follow it closely enough to understand the overall gist of the plot.

By this time, the series was substantial way through its second season, in which the members of the Star Force had reunited to confront a new threat to intergalactic peace. That threat is the fearsome Comet Empire, a bunch of lime-complexioned evildoers who roam around the universe in a weaponized Roger Dean painting while ominous organ tones play in the background. While the concept was pretty much a weak retread of the first season’s urgency-driven quest to save Earth from becoming a radioactive tomb, the weaknesses were offset by greater sophistication on the animation and plot-weaving fronts.

The episode I tuned into that afternoon was a critical one. Having returned from its intel-gathering mission to planet Telezart and conferred with its very wispy and very blonde last survivor, the Battleship Argo joins up with the rest of Earth’s defense fleet to make a desperate final stand around Saturn. Facing them is the entire naval might of the Comet Empire minus its support carrier groups, which had been destroyed by an Argo-led sneak attack.

The looming confrontation between the two fleets was the Star Blazers equivalent of “Oops! All Berries” — an episode length space battle with scores of imagination-capturing capital ships blowing the bezeejus out of each other with the fate of humanity on the line. I savored every minute of it, my body riding one adrenaline spike after another as the tides of war shifted back and forth on the small screen.

The Earth armada eventually prevailed over its invading counterparts, but only after suffering severe losses from the Empire’s superior weaponry. The victory celebrations were cut short, however, by the arrival of the Comet Empire’s wandering throneworld. Even a massed volley of continent-shattering “wave motion gun” shots can’t stop the behemoth from wiping out the Earth fleet within a couple of minutes.

Its engine ablaze after a collision with one of its escorts, the wounded Argo can only drift helplessly as the leader of the Earth forces wishes the Star Force good luck as he rams his dying flagship into the throneworld as a final gesture of defiance.

Thankfully my grandmother wasn’t there to hear me mutter holy shit as the end credits came up and I tried to process what I had just watched. It made such an impression that I managed to retain other associative details alongside it — the feel of the Hot Wheels car in my hand, the texture of faux leather ottoman I was sprawled across, the painless welts the orange pile carpeting left on my forearms.

I only caught the episode once (until recently) but it loomed larger in influential memory than anything from Star Wars or Star Trek combined. Multiple reams of manila drawing paper were given over to trying to recreate the tableau from memory or etch my own epic space battles. The doomed flagship Andromeda became my platonic ideal for spaceship design, and the subconscious need to capture the grandiose scale of that episode tripped me up while trying to get various Mekton campaigns off the ground.

About a month or so back, I got the itch to go back and watch the first two seasons of Star Blazers. I’d tried to do it a few times over the years, but the dated animation and “it’ll do” dialogue dubbing drove me to give up after a couple of episodes. This time, I did manage to stick it out (by switching to subtitled episodes of the original Japanese run about halfway through, which include a lot more on-screen suicide and creepy fanservice than what us North American kiddies got).

A lot of it is hokey and nonsensical by contemporary standards, but a surprising number of the emotional beats have retained their power. One moment, I was rolling my eyes at a goofy line read. The next, I was gripping the arms of my chair with white-knuckle tension. The second season was an even more interesting experience because I remembered so little of it apart from that one specific episode. I could feel myself getting twitchy as that moment approached. This was partly because of the dramatic tension building up to it but also because I’d be confronting a significant artifact from my past for the first time in almost four decades. There’d be no nostalgic inflation or rose-tinted filters, just the genuine article in the raw.

I caught it earlier this week and…it still affected me on multiple levels. I tend to be a sucker for doomed acts of defiance, a personality trait that operates in a “chicken or the egg” relationship with my leftist politics. The animation was cruder and the battle slightly less majestic than I remembered, but the holy shit came from my lips as reflexively as it did when I was eight. In some ways, it shook me even more as an adult presently living through painfully “interesting” times — the sense of camaraderie and support among the crew of a vessel that spends a great deal of time getting the shit blasted out of it.

For all the time spent showcasing the scars of past psychic traumas here, I still tread lightly when it comes to the “High Eighties” period. That block of time — roughly spanning 1984 to 1988 — is such a tangle of regret, embarrassment, and pain that anything associated with it dredges up muck better left undisturbed.

They were my junior high years, which would’ve been agonizing enough without all the extra flourishes thrown in my direction. My family moved from North Woburn to the center of the city. The spacious new digs were a welcome upgrade from a crowded two-room apartment, but it also brought home how much my childhood circle of friends had drifted apart. Though the move seemed like it would alleviate some of the pressures on my already dysfunctional family unit, the respite was short-lived and followed by an escalating downward spiral of deterioration.

On top of all this, I was trying (and mostly failing) to get a handle on my raging adolescent hormones and struggling with what in hindsight was a minor nervous breakdown brought on by crippling anxieties over an imminent-to-my-eyes nuclear holocaust. To cope with all this, I leaned heavily into geeky escapist tendencies that only amplified my sense of alienation. I futzed and fumbled through those years with little in the way of self-awareness or personal restraint, leaving a wide trail of debris in my wake.

It was awful and I knew it was awful, but I couldn’t help myself. It’s why I consciously decided to seal that part of my past off, behind my mother’s death, behind punk rock, behind a reflexive disdain for anything that remotely evoked those memories. Very select bits and pieces of it were allowed to remain in my ever-shifting personal narrative, but the bulk of the memories remained walled up in a psychic quarantine zone.

The cordon held for the better part of three decades, with the first breaches only opening in the past few years or so. Maybe it’s because I was forced to confront it when working on the series of RPG posts. Maybe it was a natural reaction to sifting through physical artifacts of those times while cleaning out my late grandmother’s house. Or maybe I’m just getting old and realize that the shame actually does have a half-life.

I wouldn’t call it nostalgia, but an ongoing process of re-evaluation. It’s hard to romanticize when even the few cherished blossoms sport vicious barbs beneath the petals. There’s very little sweet in the lot without a stiff dose of the sour thrown in for good measure.

This tragic case of after the fact introspection has also begun to manifest in my record collection. I’d already reclaimed specific Sixties soul and pop releases from my wayward youth, where the quality of the material transcended any unpleasant memories it might have evoked. Approaching more contemporary stuff was a trickier business, fraught with questions such as “do I really want to listen to this” or “will Maura think any less of me for admitting I kinda like this thing?”

Before I slipped away before anything resembling a social circle, before I stopped paying attention to the current Top 40 and went all in on the sounds of two decades before, my musical tastes were shaped by Top 40 radio and music video programming local broadcasters threw together in hopes of nabbing a little of that sweet MTV action.

There was no tribal sense of a “sound” or “scene” involved (though I did semi-incline towards hard rock and pop metal, thanks to my North Woburn upbringing). It was entirely predicated on videogenic allure and whatever slotted into my current flavor of adolescent sentimentality –

– and nothing exemplified this quite like “Lights Out” by Peter Wolf, in which the former J. Geils frontman goes solo and sounds even more like his old band that he did when he was with them.

The song is pure MOR party rock, extruded and polished to an acceptably scruffy sheen. It’s uptempo enough to keep the toes tapping but with enough melancholy schmaltz to close out a DJ’s middle school dance set. In other words, just the sort of song an emotionally addled thirteen year old would latch onto as he looked up from his pile of Deathlok comics and wondered if there was someone out there for him, somewhere. (It turned out she lived two towns over, was three years older than him, and was listening to Siouxsie and the Sex Pistols at the time.)

The entire thing is cheesy to the core. When I spun the single for the first time last week, I had face-flushing flashbacks about borrowing my famous junior high dance moves from Wolf’s white hipster gyrations in the video.

But I still love the damn song. God have pity on my soul.

Return to base

November 1st, 2018

There’s nothing like embarking on a theme month to inspire a host of potential essay topics that have nothing to do with the matter at hand.

For eleven months of the year, I flagellate myself trying to come up with marginally workable material. As soon as the Halloween Countdown starts, however, the ideas start coming in fast and furious and can’t be put to proper use until the festivities have ended. The vast majority of these concepts are either “now or never” deals that fade fast if not immediately acted upon, or simply get lost in my skull’s day-to-day churn. It’s rare for one of these flashes to linger long enough for me to get back to it at the start of November, but it does happen — and this post is proof of that.

I mentioned Mattel’s Flying Aces toys a while back during a post about beloved childhood playthings. The planes and playsets ran neck and neck with Kenner’s gyro-powered SSP cars for most favored status in the pre-action figure era, and one of the Polaroids I unearthed from my grandmother’s estate featured my six year old, platinum-haired self proudly clutching an oversized flight deck launcher as I sat in one of her kitchen chairs.

For decades the franchise existed as the dimmest of memories. The name and manufacturer of the line were lost to me, and my generational peers had few if any recollections about the toys. I’m pretty sure one of my earliest Yahoo searches was “Ideal foam rubber planes 70s,” which turned up diddly squat. Things didn’t start falling into place until a kind soul uploaded a page-by-page scan of a mid-Seventies Sears Wish Book to a photo-hosting site around the same time AT was launched. Tucked away in a grainy B&W cul de sac for last year’s Big Things was a listing for the aircraft carrier playset along with the correct name and company responsible.

The discovery launched a decade of periodic eBay searches for Flying Aces toys. Actual listings were few and far between, as wedges of molded foam rubber designed to be launched from catapults tend to suffer a high attrition rate over the course of forty years. What did survive the ages was either too rich or too shabby to merit serious consideration. I probably could’ve scored some random plane in decent condition, but I was really searching for one item in particular.

During the warmer months, my dad used to take his 1973 T-Bird (.05 MPG highway) down to the car wash in Wilmington on Saturday mornings. The place was just a couple of do-it-yourself power-washing berths and a bank of coin-op vacuum cleaners. It wasn’t nearly as exciting as the fully automatic one on Cambridge Road in Burlington — where you got to sit in the car and watch the giant rollers and buffers descent from the rafters — but tagging along with the old man could be an adventure in itself, since it often concluded with sipping a grape Fanta and watching the freight trains roll by on the Boston to Lowell line.

The car wash was located next to a post-industrial brownfield strewn with all manner of rubbish, which meant it was a perfect place to tool around while my dad buffed and polished his petroleum-guzzling land barge. On one unforgettable occasion, I was kicking my way through the discarded pull-top cans and stryofoam fast food containers when I spotted what appeared to be an abandoned Flying Aces jet. Granted, five year olds are prone to seeing a lot of shit that may or may not actually be there, especially coveted prizes magically manifested from thin air.

I ran over to the place where I thought I saw it and found nothing but more wind-herded garbage. After a few minutes (which equals “six hours” in five year old perceived time) of walking in circles and digging around, I was ready to believe my eyes (and greed) and played tricks on me.

And then I found it — an almost new Flying Aces jet plane, whose coffee-colored fuselage and orange-yellow markings provided natural camouflage among Carter Era consumer detritus. I scooped it and ran back to show it to my father.

“Some kid must have lost it,” he said, inspiring a brief pang a guilt until he followed with “but it’s yours now.”

The jet became my special prize, proof that the cosmic lottery had shown me some small favor. The strangeness of its color scheme and markings added to the mystique. My other Flying Aces planes were either WW2 American fighters or contemporary NATO jets. This was neither and sported a color palette which exemplified the era. To this day, the first thing that comes to mind is a mental image of the plane resting on the back of the orange-plaid family sofa beneath the beige macrame netting of my mother’s hanging spider plant.

I’d never run across a similar Flying Aces model during my various searches, until a couple of weeks ago. Some estate sale firm in Florida had put up a near-complete flight deck set for a relatively low asking price. That along was enough to get me to check the listing, but closer look sealed the deal. In addition to the two planes that had originally come with the set, the lot included an additional jet with original backing card — the coffee-hued mystery plane of the Wilmington brownfield.

After a quick consultation with Maura, whose response was “just go buy it before someone scoops it up,” I dropped the dough and had the thing in hand by the end of the week.

Most of these types of purchases are followed by a profound sense of disappointment. The real deal either fails to meet inflated expectations or inadequately salves whatever ancient wound I hoped it would. I’m full aware of this going in, yet it rarely stops me because that’s my particular psychological damage to bear. This one, though, was different.

The jet (a Chinese MiG, as it turns out) had existed in an such an ambiguous state of memory for so long that handling the genuine article gives my the chills. It’s smaller and less detailed than I remember, but it’s decidedly real and with enough heft to sustain the psychic weight I’d placed upon it — memories of a lucky break and happy times and a world cast in warm earth tones.

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