A while back, my daughter and I were in Toys “R” Us looking for a new video game. As usual when we frequent that fine establishment, we eventually found ourselves in the Barbie aisle. She’s too old for Barbies now—so am I, come to think of it—but we still like to check out the product line.
The Barbie universe never ceases to amaze me. Only 19 (forever), she’s simultaneously an archeologist, a veterinarian, a doctor, a soldier, a crew member of the Starship Enterprise, a mall clerk (who can say, “Have a nice day!” and “Credit approved!”), Scarlett O’Hara, and an angel princess, among other things. There’s a constant parade of new Barbies, not to mention Barbie’s circle of friends and relatives, which includes Courtney, Theresa, Kira, Skipper, Staci, Kelley, and even poor clueless Ken. (Whatever happened to Midge?)
We found a little display (behind a locked window) of several rather upscale Barbie models. I forget what they were—perhaps Beads ’n’ Spurs Barbie, Whips ’n’ Chains Barbie, or Avenging Prom Queen Barbie—I don’t remember. But behind the three Very Special Barbies was a G.I. Joe who seemed to have had an old bald guy’s head transplanted to his body. I suddenly realized that this was supposed to be Dwight Eisenhower, leader of the Normandy invasion, former president, and great American.
What was he doing there lurking behind Special Edition Surf ’n’ Diamond Barbie, Mighty Hair Barbie, and Super Shiny Gown Barbie? Near as I could figure, he represented a set of collectible historical figures. Here’s a good scam, I thought to myself. Plop Napoleon’s head, or George Washington’s, or the Pope’s on Ken’s body, and presto! You have yourself an overpriced salute to the never-ending panorama of human history. Shell out your 30 bucks, throw it on the bric-a-brac shelf in the original packaging, and wait patiently for its market price to rise. What an honor.
The truth is that dolls, action figures, and comic books aren’t for kids any more. They’re for collectors. The comic books remain in little plastic bags. The plastic figures never come out of the fancy box.
And collectors have become a bit of a problem. They snap up new toys so fast, there’s none left for those who might actually, you know, play with them. If two of them should come across the same Violator or Boba Fett at the same time, it can lead to big trouble. As quoted in the San Francisco Chronicle, a spokeswoman for Target claimed, “In a lot of stores, they have gotten into altercations and screaming matches.” Tug-of-wars! Fistfights! Over Spawn’s inert body!
To combat this situation, Target Stores is experimenting with a new policy. At selected sites in northern California and New Mexico, “Target began intentionally damaging toy packages…to deter collectors who demand mint-condition toys and boxes.”
This is a peculiarly American response to a crisis, another example of what someone once called “The Butterbox Principle.” You have a refrigerator to keep things cold; it makes the butter hard. So you put a butterbox inside the refrigerator to keep it soft. Or if you live in an extremely hot climate, you air-condition your car. But then it gets too cold inside the car, so you buy a car coat to keep you warm. You go to the trouble of making a product attractive to consumers, but then it becomes too attractive, forcing you to deface it.
I don’t see how this really addresses the problem. The problem is: What does “collectible” mean, anyway? The more wired we become, the more stuff we accumulate in the “real” world. Only we no longer do anything with it, we just store it. Collecting seems to be a kind of nostalgia for consumerism. We don’t consume things any more, we “use” them. (What do we call a consumer in the digital domain? The end user? Hmm?)
The collecting mania may spread to the virtual realm as well. Already, we bookmark favorite Web sites. We can buy CD box sets of defunct rock groups and old Atari video games. Sooner or later, I predict, we’ll collect old operating systems, AOL installation disks, and user’s guides. We’ll spend hours in antique stores hoping to find the third edition of Peter Norton’s Inside the PC. We’ll start to snap up old Macintoshes—not to use, of course (what would be the point of that), just to display proudly in their dusty, intact packages, next to the die-cast racers, Ulysses S. Grant, the Kiss action figure set, and Ginger Spice.
Or maybe we’ll come to our senses and put the responsibility of defacing dolls back in the hands of young girls. Hacking off hair with plastic scissors, placing skinny legs in pencil sharpeners, or scribbling on Barbie bodies with crayons—frankly, it’s a job best left to gifted amateurs.
If we must collect, let’s go back to first editions of Melville, bootleg tapes of Bob Dylan concerts, and broken hearts. Believe me, we’ll all be better off.
Ian Shoales once had the very first Spiderman comic, which his mother sold at a yard sale for a nickel. Someday he may forgive her. He lives in San Francisco, collecting dust. You can reach him via email at mkessler@ix.netcom.com.