an essay on robots.
i sat in the dark yesterday, looking around my apartment, reflecting upon all the robots i have collected. ive always been into them, starting in 1983 when my dad surprised me with starscream, a trophy to shut me up, letting hasbro and childhood imagination raise his kid when he wasnt able. he started a trend in me at that tender age, and to this day id rather spend time alone with my plastic and die-cast minions than with most people.
i have easily hundreds of them now, only half put out on display. the ones who didn't make the cut are stowed away in a big rubbermaid bin in a closet somewhere, protected from the elements unlike their flashy brothers... and flashy they are, with lights and sounds, a few even speak heroic phrases in their native tongues at the push of a well-hidden button. the robots have histories that go back decades, allegiances and grievances, generations and specialities. they each have a name (great names like grimlock, doubledealer, computron, hakaider, brave maximus) , but that's not what is important to me.
when i get a new robot, it spends time on the kitchen table, the center of all my attention. it will get handled by passersby, transformed a few times, marveled at. this is the proving ground. it will strike many dynamic poses, it will test out it's joints... it's missles will not be lost. it will be put into battle against the other denizens of the table, mini-bruce lee and pencil-sharpening bulbasaur. it will be cherished for one great moment before being regulated to the wasteland with the rest of it's brothers and sisters.
the robots outnumber me in their stoic stance. they stand together, regardless of faction or creed, a silent army watching my every move. covered in dust, they are my own personal terracotta warriors, protecting me from adulthood, shielding my eyes from maturity. they file in great numbers above the television and workstation, never shifting, their design and attitudes serving as my muse and inspiration. they stand at attention, awaiting my command, slightly swaying with the rattle of the speakers and the thump of the bass. when nostalgia takes hold, i'll spend a long time in observation before choosing one in particular to dust off, to transform in front of the others, it's interlocking pieces putting my mind at ease while filling it's family with jealously. the majority of them are difficult puzzles, ratcheting into wooly mammoths or aircraft carriers, exotic cars and personal firearms complete with little plastic bullets. most adult people can't figure them out, and usually give up. i always have to step in and finish the job, rotate the head into the chest cavity, bend the arms to become the legs. they keep my mind young and unfocused, and help me to see things for what they really are, more than meets the eye.
the robots have always been a constant in my life. they are a reminder of simpler, happier times. the smell of the plastic lets me travel back in time 20 years. i started reclaiming them a few years ago when my friend shoichiro brought me a flash lioconvoy back from japan, and then it snowballed. my dad had destroyed what remained of my original collection... when you are in your twenties and start to have disposable income, you start to buy back your childhood, one piece at a time.
people will walk into my living room with wide open eyes, pointing instead of touching when it's alright with me (they are transformers after all... it's their nature to be handled). "i remember i had that!" "what's that one turn into?" "why do you waste your money on all this shit?" most people don't get it, but those that do are members of the robot museum for life.
-bobby
i sat in the dark yesterday, looking around my apartment, reflecting upon all the robots i have collected. ive always been into them, starting in 1983 when my dad surprised me with starscream, a trophy to shut me up, letting hasbro and childhood imagination raise his kid when he wasnt able. he started a trend in me at that tender age, and to this day id rather spend time alone with my plastic and die-cast minions than with most people.
i have easily hundreds of them now, only half put out on display. the ones who didn't make the cut are stowed away in a big rubbermaid bin in a closet somewhere, protected from the elements unlike their flashy brothers... and flashy they are, with lights and sounds, a few even speak heroic phrases in their native tongues at the push of a well-hidden button. the robots have histories that go back decades, allegiances and grievances, generations and specialities. they each have a name (great names like grimlock, doubledealer, computron, hakaider, brave maximus) , but that's not what is important to me.
when i get a new robot, it spends time on the kitchen table, the center of all my attention. it will get handled by passersby, transformed a few times, marveled at. this is the proving ground. it will strike many dynamic poses, it will test out it's joints... it's missles will not be lost. it will be put into battle against the other denizens of the table, mini-bruce lee and pencil-sharpening bulbasaur. it will be cherished for one great moment before being regulated to the wasteland with the rest of it's brothers and sisters.
the robots outnumber me in their stoic stance. they stand together, regardless of faction or creed, a silent army watching my every move. covered in dust, they are my own personal terracotta warriors, protecting me from adulthood, shielding my eyes from maturity. they file in great numbers above the television and workstation, never shifting, their design and attitudes serving as my muse and inspiration. they stand at attention, awaiting my command, slightly swaying with the rattle of the speakers and the thump of the bass. when nostalgia takes hold, i'll spend a long time in observation before choosing one in particular to dust off, to transform in front of the others, it's interlocking pieces putting my mind at ease while filling it's family with jealously. the majority of them are difficult puzzles, ratcheting into wooly mammoths or aircraft carriers, exotic cars and personal firearms complete with little plastic bullets. most adult people can't figure them out, and usually give up. i always have to step in and finish the job, rotate the head into the chest cavity, bend the arms to become the legs. they keep my mind young and unfocused, and help me to see things for what they really are, more than meets the eye.
the robots have always been a constant in my life. they are a reminder of simpler, happier times. the smell of the plastic lets me travel back in time 20 years. i started reclaiming them a few years ago when my friend shoichiro brought me a flash lioconvoy back from japan, and then it snowballed. my dad had destroyed what remained of my original collection... when you are in your twenties and start to have disposable income, you start to buy back your childhood, one piece at a time.
people will walk into my living room with wide open eyes, pointing instead of touching when it's alright with me (they are transformers after all... it's their nature to be handled). "i remember i had that!" "what's that one turn into?" "why do you waste your money on all this shit?" most people don't get it, but those that do are members of the robot museum for life.
-bobby