Ghost House LSI Hand-held game

Just pulled out my Ghost House, an "LSI" game from 1985, which I bought in Tokyo at the time. This was pre-Nintendo, Sega, etc. It was very exciting to play at the time, but of course, it was completely novel. And the game itself designed so nicely with the relief goblins on each side of the screen whose eyes glow red while playing.

Ran on 2 AA batteries. A little boy goes around zapping ghosts and goblins who try to get him! Woo-hoo!

Pulling out the Japanese toys....

I've started going through my immense Japanese toy collection and pulling a few items to sell. It's like archaeology. I start at the surface---the toys that I have lesser a connection to now, 27 years since I began collecting. Thanks to the internet, I've been able to see others' collections and the accolades they have gotten for their collections. Many were my customers back in the 1980s.

There is a certain flood of sensory memories, revisiting the boxes, the smells, the colors, and the names. Names of robots like Mackerel, Cabarov, Soltic, Ironfoot...all evocative of a chapter in my life when I was going to Japan to find toys like there was no tomorrow.

More to come, as I learn more about the current state of Japanese toy collecting.

I'm starting with my Dougram 1/144 scale collection (above).

Never Make Left Turns

I love this story from Michael Gartner, president of NBC News and a Pulitzer winner for
editorial writing. About his father and mother:

My father never drove a car. Well, that's not quite right. I should say I
never saw him drive a car. He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old,
and the last car he drove was a 1926 Whippet. "In those days," he told me when
he was in his 90s, "to drive a car you had to do things with your hands, and
do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could
walk through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it."

At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in:

"Oh, bull----!" she said. "He hit a horse.""Well," my father said, "there was
that, too."

So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The neighbors all
had cars -- the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 Dodge, the VanLaninghams
across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsons two doors down a black
1941 Ford -- but we had none.

My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines, would take the streetcar to work and,
often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the streetcar home, my mother
and brother and I would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him
and walk home together.

My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes, at
dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none. "No one
in the family drives," my mother would explain, and that was that.

But, sometimes, my father would say, "But as soon as one of you boys turns 16,
we'll get one." It was as if he wasn't sure which one of us would turn 16
first. But, sure enough, my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my
parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts
department at a Chevy dealership downtown.

It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, loaded with
everything, and, since my parents didn't drive, it more or less became my
brother's car. Having a car but not being able to drive didn't bother my
father, but it didn't make sense to my mother.

So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her to
drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned to drive
the following year and where, a generation later, I took my two sons to
practice driving. The cemetery probably was my father's idea. "Who can your
mother hurt in the cemetery?" I remember him saying more than once.

For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the driver in the
family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of direction, but he loaded up
on maps -- though they seldom left the city limits -- and appointed himself
navigator. It seemed to work. Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My
mother was a devout Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an
arrangement that didn't seem to bother either of them through their 75 years
of marriage. (Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.)

He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 years or
so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin's Church. She would walk
down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the back until he saw
which of the parish's two priests was on duty that morning. If it was the
pastor, my father then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother
at the end of the service and walking her home. If it was the assistant
pastor, he'd take just a 1-mile walk and then head back to the church. He
called the priests "Father Fast" and "Father Slow."

After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother whenever she
drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If she were going to the
beauty parlor, he'd sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if it was
summer, have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game
on the radio. In the evening, then, when I'd stop by, he'd explain: "The Cubs
lost again. The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire
on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base scored."

If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to carry the bags
out -- and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream. As I said, he was always
the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving, he
said to me, "Do you want to know the secret of a long life?" "I guess so," I
said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre.

"No left turns," he said."What?" I asked."No left turns," he repeated.
"Several years ago, your mother and I read an article that said most accidents
that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming
traffic. As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your depth
perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make a left
turn." "What?" I said again. "No left turns," he said. "Think about it. Three
rights are the same as a left, and that's a lot safer. So we always make three
rights." "You're kidding!" I said, and I turned to my mother for support "No,"
she said, "your father is right. We make three rights. It works." But then she
added: "Except when your father loses count." I was driving at the time, and I
almost drove off the road as I started laughing.

"Loses count?" I asked."Yes," my father admitted, "that sometimes happens. But
it's not a problem. You just make seven rights, and you're okay again." I
couldn't resist. "Do you ever go for 11?" I asked.

"No," he said." If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call it a bad
day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can't be put off another day
or another week."

My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her car keys
and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, when she was 90.

She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102.
They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought a few
years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother and I paid $8,000 to
have a shower put in the tiny bathroom -- the house had never had one. My
father would have died then and there if he knew the shower cost nearly three
times what he paid for the house.)

He continued to walk daily -- he had me get him a treadmill when he was 101
because he was afraid he'd fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to keep
exercising -- and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he
died.

One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had to give
a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us that he was
wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about politics
and newspapers and things in the news.

A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, "You know, Mike, the first hundred
years are a lot easier than the second hundred." At one point in our drive
that Saturday, he said, "You know, I'm probably not going to live much
longer."

"You're probably right," I said."Why would you say that?" He countered,
somewhat irritated."Because you're 102 years old," I said.

"Yes," he said, "you're right." He stayed in bed all the next day. That night,
I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him through the night.

He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look
gloomy, he said:"I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is
dead yet."

An hour or so later, he spoke his last words:"I want you to know," he said,
clearly and lucidly, "that I am in no pain. I am very comfortable. And I have
had as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have."

A short time later, he died.

I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I've wondered now and then how
it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so long.

I can't figure out if it was because he walked through life, Or because he
quit taking left turns.

Life is too short to wake up with regrets. So love the people who treat you
right. Forget about those who don't. Believe everything happens for a reason.
If you get a chance, take it. If it changes your life, let it. Nobody said
life would be easy, they just promised it would most likely be worth it.

ANDY HANSON: 1932-2008

A really good friend has passed away. A friend of hundreds here in Dallas, but I always had the feeling we shared some private joke together. I'm sure he gave others that impression, too. Andy was a regular in my toy store Right Brain/Left Brain from the 1980s to 1990s, and we always had a shared humor about odd Japanese toys I'd bring in. He was an inveterate and eccentric collector--just my type--and we shared a same kind of outsider view of living in Dallas. I've read other blogs about Andy that said he never spoke unkindly of the thousands of people he covered in his years as a photographer at the Dallas Times Herald forward. Maybe not "unkindly", but not uncritically. He had a sharp sense of himself and the often unreal social situations he found himself in. But, there was not a kinder, sharper more beautifully eccentric man in Dallas, and seeing Andy always gave me some hope that Dallas wasn't beyond salvation from superficiality.

The most prolific photographer I've ever met, Andy took photos of the Beatles 1964 visit to Dallas, Walt Disney and Ray Nasher looking over plans to build NorthPark and too many more to enumerate. I'm including a photo he took of Mance Lipscomb that I bought from him in the 1980s, along with some other photos including one of Lightnin Hopkins. I remember being impressed that he even knew who Mance Lipscomb was.

A friend of mine called the police when Andy didn't show up at the State Fair on the last day. Ironically, I had decided to go by myself and make one last trip to the Fair on that last day, to have that one last corny dog and root beer. It was a lovely day, Big Tex standing against the big blue field of sky. Wish I could have toasted Andy that day.

Andy, I enjoyed every conversation we had--from toys to rubber stamps, odd facts and stories that always seemed to come up. I'll miss your face out and about, reminding me that every Dallas social gathering had some salt of the earth with your presence.

IN HIS DREAMS....

Haven't blogged in a while. Too busy keeping up with all the great political commentary. Here's my two cents (sorry for the poor photoshop skills).

SPAM POEM

I took the subject headers from some of the spam I've received recently and made a poem.

FROM MR BANGALI, URGENT,TOP SECRET AND CONFIDENTIAL

Your girlfriend is pleased
You will make her 5 times a night
A small thing that makes your lady happy.
Vgaira for you!
Sensation news for you. fowls china.

Private message for you. cooped pion.
Do you mind? :)))

DNC Rules Committee Compromises on Florida & Michigan: Clinton People Go Delusional

Like a political geek, I watched most of the 6 hours of the DNC Rules & Bylaws Committee on Saturday. Tell me to get a life, okay? But, really, I found the inner workings of the Party fascinating, and I think they did a great job with a messy situation.

Afterwards, I received an email from the Hillary Clinton campaign and went to their site to read their statement. I encountered one of the most shocking and despicable stream of invectives, as I read the blog comments on Senator Clinton's website. Never have I seen so many venomous, hateful, destructive angry emails. These Clinton supporters were practically spitting their words out. What was sad was that the majority are claiming they will vote Republican this year if Hillary is not the nominee. Or they say they will write her name in. Sad. I tried posting a comment to ask for people to calm down and to think reasonably. Of course, the Clinton webmaster would not post my comments, only the rabid ones denouncing the Democratic Party, the DNC and everyone else BUT Senator Clinton.

I find it hard to believe that anyone who would vote for Hillary in the first place would travel ideologically to an anti-choice, war-prone Republican who would seat 9 Scalia's on the Supreme Court if it were his choice. They would vote for a candidate who has NO national Health Care plan. Really. Does this make sense to anyone? I try very hard to see the logic. I'm hoping it's just that they're so disappointed their candidate won't have enough delegates, that they have to turn their anger on Obama.

But why not channel that anger at the Michigan and Florida legislatures? They're the ones who broke the rules and subjected their voters to the DNC punishment. I guess it's true that Democrats are just as susceptible to passing the blame as Republicans.

And furthermore, where is Senator Clinton in all this? Doesn't she have some calming and reasoning words to communicate to her constituents? You have to come to the conclusion that she wants the anger and vitriol.

I had to email one of my favorite people, Donna Brazile, an undeclared Superdelegate on the Rules & Bylaws Committee, who ran Al Gore's 2000 campaign and who is a major Democratic Party adviser. You see her often on CNN, and she is always right on with her comments and political observations. I emailed to congratulate her on a job well done, because I noticed that someone on the Hillary blog had posted the email addresses of all the Rules & Bylaw committee members and I was sure they got so much hate mail, it would sicken you. I congratulated her and the rest of the committee on a job well done under really impossible circumstances. I told her that I knew she was going to be getting a lot of venomous emails. She replied, "If only you knew the hateful, scornful and vile emails. It's sad."

Sad. Yes, it is. Once more the Democratic Party insists on shooting itself in the foot. If I had had any inkling of support or sympathy left for Senator Clinton, including acknowledging the possibility that she's been treated in a sexist way, well, it's gone now. Her judgment is showing.