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THE DAYS OF DISCO MICRO
I have a
cousin who got married and decided to have kids of his own -- two tiny brothers,
to be precise. So the older I get, the more cousins I accumulate. It's like
rings on a tree, or bags under my eyes, or chins on my face. Only, you know,
these are cute -- unlike the bags. And they’re small -- unlike the chins. And
they should be just right until about the age of thirteen. Then, if they're
anything like me, they should be avoided until they get out of college and are
ready to reenter society. The littlest brother in this cousin cavalcade arrived
a year ago, which means it's birthday present time. Or, as I like to call it:
“The time to make amends for all those other birthdays.”
So I'm
wandering through my local Toys'R'Us, spending only as long as I need in the
baby section because, like all guys, I’m allergic to pastels. After running
into the fifth giant Elmo poster (seriously, the fuzzy red freak’s face is
plastered in so many places that I started to wonder if I hadn’t stumbled into
some sort of Muppet North Korea), I decided to search elsewhere. That's when I
noticed something missing from the shelves. It's a big thing, or I should say,
small, and it used to have its own giant section in every toy store across the
nation. Not finding it, I got curious and asked.
ME: "Hey, where's the
Micromachines?"
For those
of you who don't remember, Micro Machines were basically miniaturized cars and
playsets that were everywhere from the mid 1980s through the early 90s. And
when I say miniaturized, I mean
miniaturized! Hot Wheels? Fat asses!
Tonka trucks? Blimpin’ Orcas! These things were so small that carpenter ants
could drive them from your kitchen to your lawn and still get three inches to
the milliliter on a couple of cents. And the only thing you could do about it?
Install a toll at the doggie door. They were made by Galoob, a company
that sounds like a Danish euphemism for snot. And what's more, they were every
parent's worst nightmare. I mean, you know those warnings on products?
Caution! Choking Hazard: Some parts maybe too small for children under 3?
Well, that was whole product! They may as well have put a warning on the box
that said, "Caution! This will kill your kid, no question about it." Now, some
may call choking to death on a 3 cm long 1969 Dodge Charger a tragedy. Me? I
call it natural selection. Seriously, we’ve gone
years now without Micro Machines, and since then what have we got? Lower test
scores, an increase in violent crime, and eight years of George W. Bush. That’s
why I recommend all kids be handed dangerously prickly shards of easily
digestible Micro metal, and whatever happens, happens. It’s the universe’s way
of balancing itself out, and really the only sane thing to do. And it’s
precisely for those reasons that I’m sure I’ll be nominated for a Nobel Peace
Prize any day now. But enough about me… back to the store:
CLERK: "The what?"
ME: "Micro Machines! You
know, the little cars. I was shopping for a baby gift and I realized I didn't
see any Micro Machines around here."
CLERK: "You're not buying
that for a baby, are you?"
ME: "Well, not AGAIN. But
now that the statute of limitations is up and my relatives’ medical bills are
paid off, I figure it’s safe for me to buy toys for toddlers again.”
CLERK: "Well I haven't seen
those in years. They've been discontinued."
ME: "What!? But why!?"
CLERK: "I don't know.
Probably because kids kept choking on them."
ME: "Yeah, that's what made
them great! How else are we supposed to know which kids are worthy of
propagating? The survival of the species is at stake! If we’re ever to evolve,
we have to know which ones will live… and which ones... must die."
CLERK: "Sir, I'm going to
have to ask you to leave."
ME: "Please show me where
it's written that adults can't wander aimlessly around a children's toy store?"
Then he
showed me exactly where it was written that adults couldn't aimlessly wander
around a children's toy store. Really, it was pretty big -- right above the
cash register. Not sure how I missed it.
ME: "A pox on you! You
purveyors of lead base painted Peking produced baubles!"[i]
Then I
spat at his feet. And then he made me clean it up. But I did so grumblingly,
and thus had the upper hand. Then I told him he could kiss my hairy Giraffe and
stormed out of there -- stopping only to fill out the store's Win a Disney
Cruise Contest (out of spite).
Maybe I'd
be a little less belligerent if Micro Machines hadn't played such an important
role in my childhood. I mean, you have to remember, before 1988 most kids
didn't have Nintendo. An assortment of tinker toys and the occasional Atari
2600 was it. Unless, of course, you had a television. In which case, you were
treated to what was one of the greatest ad campaigns ever.
It
starred John Moschita Jr., America's greatest meth success story and fastest
talking man in the world. In it, he extolled the virtues of “Micro Machines,
Micro Machines, Micro Machines!!!” Cause, you know, once wasn't enough. It
normally took three times to arouse us out of our Cocoa Puffs stupor. I don't
know how many TV spots he had, but Saturday mornings were just chock full of the
manic, mustached micro-pusher. Each time he'd pop up in his silly cap and
Technicolor NASCAR hand-me-down jumpsuit, looking kinda like a one-man pit crew
for Rainbow Brite. Then he'd tell you everything you needed to know about Micro
Machines, Galoob, the theory of Atlantis, and the secret of cold fusion all
before you could say, "Ka-ching!" It was like three commercials in one -- and
in half the time! If only everybody in TV land was on meth, commercials would
be six seconds long and Lost would be over in one season.
Apart
from their ad campaign, Micro Machines were also insanely inventive. I remember
the first time I saw a Micro Machines playset back in 1987. I went to my
friend's house and he pulled out this plain looking plastic toolbox.
It looks
like an ordinary toolbox,” he said. “Right?”
"Yeah," I said.
To which
he replied, "Now look!" Then he unlocked the latch and flipped open the top,
revealing a scale model of a full sized city complete with airport, emergency
departments, marina, night-club, gas station, river, and miniature Golden Gate
bridge.
My God,
I thought. What sort of devilry is this!? "Witch! Witch!" I screamed,
and pelted him with rocks. Once he regained consciousness, we both had a good
laugh, and six short months later I was allowed back into his house. From that
point on, I was hooked.
Oh, and
how easy their transformative playsets made it, too. Car batteries would turn
into airports. Gas cans into national parks. The oil tins morphed into lube
shops. The car wax became car washes. The snozz berries tasted like snozz
berries.[ii]
It was like that scene in Big where Tom Hanks’ man-child complains about the
robot that turns into a building: “I don’t get it… it’s boring… let’s make it a
bug!” Well somebody at Galoob, God bless them, sat at a Jiffy Lube, stoned out
of their mind, and thought, “A can of gas? Bullcrap! Let’s turn that SOB into
the fucking Grand Canyon!” And not only was it done, but let me tell you, it
was the closest thing I’d ever get to car maintenance again in my life.
Seriously, my can of Penzoil doesn’t transform into a Fish’n’Chips place? Screw
that. I’m going to Midas.
Of
course, part of the allure of Micro Machines was the misguided conception that
you were getting more for your money. After all, being a kid wasn't always
about having the biggest stuff. Half the time, it was about having
the most stuff. And Micro Machines filled that void quite nicely. Like
primitive Pokemon for Department of Transportation enthusiasts, the
mantra was "Gotta collect them all." This meant grabbing a series of miniature
playsets which you could snap together to form a larger municipality. It was
like Voltron meets Simcity. And if you had a god complex like me,
this was a dream come true. Connect set after set across your whole den and
create your own micro-universe. Pair them with other toysets, and create your
own fucked up fantasyland! I had Micro Machines in one corner, Lincoln Logs
in another, Legos along the wall, a Brio railroad bringing up
the rear, and -- for no good reason – the Ghostbusters firehouse in the
middle. Just how I managed to reconcile impossibly huge wild west log cabins
with miniaturized 20th century skyscrapers is a bit of mystery -- but I do
remember operating under the assumption that all Micro Machines had a flux
capacitor. Oh, and time traveling makes you small… or bigger. I forget.
Except for the Ghostbusters. They were always huge. Why? Because that Stay
Puft Marshmallow fluff they got soaked in at the end of the movie had mutant
powers. (Hey, I was eight. My diet consisted of Fruit Roll Ups and Hostess
Cupcakes. I'm surprised I made any sense at all!)
Of
course, worlds of this magnitude took an obscenely long time to build. That’s
because Micro Machine playsets were long, laborious affairs requiring a
gazillion decals, four hundred seventy-two snap on parts, and that one piece
that would never quite fit back in the case properly so you couldn’t close it.[iii]
It was worse than setting up a game of Risk. This must’ve driven my parents mad
-- and I distinctly remember the day when my dad gave up on fatherhood
altogether and tossed me the unopened playset box, saying, “Here. Happy
Birthday. Now build it yourself.” I never felt more like a man. And I never
would again either… (Sadly, mine is a shallow, decalless adulthood).
As the
years grew on, I grew more and more bold. Finally, my greatest creation spanned
three rooms, two couches, and a lazy boy chair. It was a lego-micro-machine
metropolis the likes of which you only see in the most warped minds of America’s
greatest glue sniffing sci-fi writers -- or in present day Tokyo. It took a
whopping seven days to build. And my brother destroyed it in seven seconds –
before I could get a picture. And for that, he still has a Micro Machine shaped
dent imbedded in his skull.[iv]
Eventually, the day would
come when I’d grow out of Micro Machines. Other things grabbed my attention –
such as legos, card collecting, and increasingly more advanced playthings (like
girls).[v]
With the advent of Super Nintendo and PC-CD ROM games, my tinker toy craze died
for good. With it went the scores of chokeably delicious metal cars and their
insanely complicated fold-out labyrinths that my imagination used to call home.
I never knew they’d be gone for good. How could I?
Unfortunately, the bottom eventually fell out of the mini-motor industry, and
Micro Machines vanished after Galoob was bought out by Hasbro (or, as I like to
call them, HasBLOW). Why Michael Moore didn’t make a movie about this, I’ll
never know. But it sure would’ve been a lot better served than Roger & Me.
Some attempts were made to resurrect the franchise in 2002, but they were lame
and halfhearted at best. A go was made to shrink the Star Wars vehicles. But,
while not the worst idea, the thought of Vader’s Tie Fighter getting stuck next
to my miniature Jeep Wrangler on the 405 heading into Orange County just seems
kind of weird. And let’s face it, Star Wars is many things. But small? Not
one of them. If I want a Star Destroyer in my home, I want it to be the size of
a large meat freezer. I want something so big that all the kids in my
neighborhood cower in fear as I threaten to blow their shitty little ice moons
halfway to Dagobah. You can’t do that with something that fits in your pocket!
A star destroyer the size of dime is a prelude to a schoolyard beatdown and
nothing more.
The other
attempts were strange European knock-offs: the yitty-bitty Yugo, the
infinitesimal Fiat, the Ford Prefect. Many were military themed (see my Star
Wars argument for why that brilliant idea didn’t work). The rest were just cars
that seemed to have no basis in reality whatsoever. And that one hurt the most
cause Micro Machines always prided itself on scaling down real-life vehicles.
As John Moschita Jr. always said at the end of every commercial: “Remember, if
it doesn’t say Micro Machines, it’s not the real thing!” Which is really kind
of funny – since the real thing would be a two ton hunk of vulcanized rubber and
polished metal costing upwards of $18,000 (give or take the options) -- but the
point still holds!
Years
after Micro Machines went off the shelves and where are we now? Today, the
“real thing” is a national infrastructure where bridges collapse on a whim,
Detroit is still the tenth circle of hell, our cars still can’t fly, and
gasoline may well be pushing 5 dollars a gallon before the year is out. Perhaps
it’s best, then, that Micro Machines doesn’t come back. It wouldn’t be the
same. They came from a more innocent time.
That’s
why I’m giving my baby cousin a gift that will be forever sweet, timeless, and
pure of heart…
Grand
Theft Auto 4.
You’re
welcome little buddy. You’re welcome.
Note: I am immensely indebted to the Micro Machines
World site at
www.m-m-world.com for these images. Go there. Show your
support. Let them know that they may take our freedom, but they’ll never take
our Micros!
[i]
Actually, it was more like, “Kiss my ___ you ___ ____ ____and eat my
_____ before ____ my ____ on a bed of hot _____ _____ ______ _____. You
look like a _____ banana cream pie that ____ his ____ mother in the ____
and ____ ____ ____ on a____ hot dog maker!” Note: I probably would’ve
told him what he could do with the banana cream pie, but there were
children present. So I held back.
[ii] And if you don’t know what a snozz berry
is, there’s a chocolatier waiting to cut your tongue out and feed it to
an Oompa Loompa.
[iii] Seriously, I think the guys back at the factory
were trying to screw with our heads.
[iv] No, really. Why do you think he wears that
stupid gray Confederate cap all the time? Nostalgia Critic fashion
statement my ASS.
[v] Which I still have yet to master. Really,
just ask them -- they’re pretty forthcoming.
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The Matchbox cars in my collection was huge. The box probably weighed the same as a gold brick. I recall collecting the limited Batman and Robin cars back when I liked that film (don't kill me, please...) and the grand-daddy of them all, the Dodge Viper. The car owns everything. Blue car, with two go-faster stripes over the top. Perfection, thy name is Viper.