Yours truly, aged six, holding the triple-missile-firing Colonial Scarab. I had the original Viper and Cylon Raider too, before they were reissued with non-firing missiles.
The weird thing about the BSG line is that the vehicles came with 2-inch figures that fit into the cockpits, so you couldn’t actually use—not without awkwardness, anyway—the official 3¾” figures with the vehicles.
There’s a race track on my left, possibly the Hot Wheels Double Scare Speedway. Wish I knew what was in those other presents. I’m assuming Star Wars. The green one right in front of me looks tasty, right? Is that a Micronaut next to my right knee? A jigsaw puzzle next to my left knee?
Let me tell you about that chair. It rocked and swiveled, and when my parents weren’t around I beat the everliving crap out of it. I flung myself into it at full speed, rode it like a bucking bronco, rolled off the top when it bent all the way back and slammed against the ground. I put one knee on it and spun myself around like it was a cheap playground merry-go-round. I hid unwanted food items in its crevices.
It was Tatooine, G.I. Joe Headquarters, an obstacle in the Danger Room, a rock that hid me from the Ringwraiths, a starfighter.
I curled up on it every morning and watched cartoons on the only TV in the house.
That damn chair was hideous-looking, dirtier than a dump, and dangerous as a box of rattlers.
How I miss it.
* * *
One more post on Monday, and that’s it for me until 2014. I’ve got a nasty cold, and my plan this weekend is to stay in bed and watch Christmas movies. It’s time for the kid to meet Santa and the Three Bears…
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2 Warps to Neptune 