Marvel the Mustang Where are You?

In the early years of the era of Christmas entitlement for children of the middle class, I wanted one thing and only one thing for Christmas.

I didn’t get it.

Television was still working its way into being the dominant social force of American culture. My parents, having been raise in the depression, were not clued into the new reality. Christmas was no longer about religion, family, mistletoe, sleigh rides or pictures from Currier and Ives, or even Norman Rockwell. Christmas had been transformed by a cabal of Baby Boomer greed and Madison Avenue into a season where children had to get what they wanted – or else.

What I wanted (as you may have surmised from the title,) was Marvel the Mustang. As the clever theme song told me, he was “almost like real.” The grainy black and white (at least on our set,) TV advert mesmerized me during my scheduled viewings of Bozo the Clown and Romper Room (for some reason, I don’t think they sponsored Captain Kangaroo.) For weeks, I waited breathlessly for the commercial’s opening frames, so I could run and drag my parents to the TV console and show them what I REALLY wanted for Christmas.

As Mom stayed at home with us kids, it didn't take long to show her the ad, but her response was the ominous, “We’ll have to check with your father.”

The problem was that Dad didn’t get home until around 6:30 each night, and kids afternoon programming gave way to boring adult stuff around 5. How was I ever going to show my father this advert? I asked him to take our portable (it only weighed 45 pounds,) 10 inch black and white TV to work with him to see the ad. 

 He refused without comment.

Back then, Dads could do that – a right they seemed to have lost in more modern times.

As Christmas neared I despaired. The week before the great event, Dad came home early to pack the family into the station wagon and get our annual live (though dead) Douglas fir.

“Headley! Into the station wagon! It’s time to go.”

Bozo was talking to a kid who was about to have his name transformed into a picture by an artist (who usually cheated in my opinion.) “C’mon commercials,” I pleaded to our brown mahogany god of broadcast media.

“Headley,” my father said (less patient this time,) “we’re waiting for you!”

“And now, kids,” Bozo said with a twinkle of Christmas magic in his eyes, “here’s a message from our sponsors.”

Dad had a hold of my arm, under normal circumstances a frightful thing, but I was filled with the spirit of Christmas greed and had the strength of 10 5-year-olds. “Wait, Dad!” I shouted. “Here come the commercials!”

“The commercials?” he said puzzled. The imbecility of his youngest son’s statement temporarily stopped him in the process of prying me from the temple of television broadcasting.

“Marvel the Mustang,” sang the ad, “he’s almost like real. Just saddle him up, with spurs on your heel.”

“That’s it!” I screamed in rapture!

“What?” asked Dad, who in retrospect looked more than a little concerned for my mental state.

“That’s what I want for Christmas!” I shouted triumphantly.

The power of my passion drew my father’s eyes to the screen, we watched together as happy children bounced with forward mechanical movement on five pounds of hinged molded plastic. Silently, though ecstatically, I thanked Santa, Rudolph, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, Bozo, and even Jesus in case he might have lent a hand as well.

The commercial came to its joyous end, as beautiful as the first time I saw it, but more meaningful as I was sharing it with my loving father – who also controlled the purse strings in our house.

Tears in my eyes, I stared up at my Dad rapturously. Surely he could see how Marvel the Mustang was the Holy Grail of Christmas gifts. Dad pursed his lips – a sign of thought, of consideration.

“Headley,” he said, “how old did those children look in that commercial?”

“I dunno,” I said, “maybe four?”

“More like three,” said Dad. “You’ll be six in March. You’re too old for that toy. You’d break it if you sat on it.”

In this age of eBay, I have on occasion searched Marvel the Mustang. Once in a while I find one, though rarely in working condition. Most of them were ridden to ruin by children that couldn’t remain small enough. Like tiny Puff the Magic Dragons, they lost their roars as thousands of Jackie Papers grew into their school-aged years.

My love/lust relationship with television advertisement was just beginning. There were many more toys I forced my bewildered Dad to view over the following years.

But Marvel the Mustang remains special. First love – even unrequited, never completely goes away.

FB friend AA showed me how silent monks stage their Christmas cantata.

Potpourri - Not the Kind You Smoke

So it's the week after Thanksgiving and I'm thankful that I have a bunch of pictures for this post - it means I don't have to write much.
I'm also grateful for safety.  For instance.

I have no surgery scheduled

I have no trips to NY NY planned

Our erratic ways have kept the aliens at bay

I don't work at McDonalds

Most of my deadly enemies are out of town

I haven't gotten much chain mail lately

I'm grateful for animals

And that cats don't know much about snowballs

Mice are so compassionate

Not sure if this counts

So THAT'S what it's all about

I'm grateful for oddballs

Between 10 and 2 will he be there

THIS is a guy I'd vote for!

And finally, I'm grateful that...

A certain holiday is still more than three weeks away

Hey!  At least it's not February yet.

Heritage of Donuts and Toilet Tissue

They say that the ozone layer is depleting rapidly (or maybe it’s increasing dangerously?) diseases are mutating at an alarming rate, and the world economy is standing at the brink of collapse. What I want to know is what’s up with Mr Whipple and Fred, the Dunkin’ Donut guy?

In my town, every child knew the big three rules 1) never play with matches, 2) walk facing traffic (I guess so we couldn’t say “I never knew what hit me”) and 3) “Please don’t squeeze the Charmin.”

I could have included – “It’s time to make the donuts,” but that wasn’t really a rule.

As I age, I’m dealing with the unpleasant realization that the trivial icons of my generation are resonating with fewer and fewer people. I now get the same blank stare I once gave old fogies who said to me, “Twenty-three skidoo!

What was that about, anyway?

The thing that’s most frustrating is that there’s no reason for today’s wrinkle-less, gray-less youths to learn about Fred and Mr. Whipple. Fred didn’t march with Martin Luther King, or even supply donuts to those who did. Mr. Whipple didn’t end the war in Vietnam – or even wipe up afterwards.

Fred and Mr. Whipple sold donuts and toilet tissue.

And they weren’t even that funny. Why did we think they were funny… Alright, I’ll speak for myself - why did I think they were funny? Why did I chirp, “Ring around the collar,” and laugh as I got dressed for school? Why did I chortle over “Let Hertz put you in the driver’s seat,” as I piled into the family station wagon? Why did I wander down residential macadam singing out, “If you think it’s butter, but it’s not…?”

Well, there was a reason for that last one. Being a little boy of the 1960s, I had fewer bad words available to me without serious repercussions. Though I and my pals sang the Chiffon margarine jingle correctly, what we heard in our heads was: If you think it’s butter, but it’s snot.”

Yes, little boys are gross.

Yes, I grew up – I’m taller than I was. What’s your point?

As much as we are defined by what we do, we are also defined by what our generation does. My father’s generation saved us from the Germans.

My grandfather’s generation saved us from the Germans.

(Maybe we were in a bit of a rut there.)

But what did my generation do? We watched TV and learned advertising jingles, and as shallow and downright (synonym of shallow used here for rhetorical flourish without enhancing meaning) we were, I still care about these two silly little men.

Are they still with us? Is Fred still making donuts, or has he been promoted to the great deep fryer beyond?

That doesn’t sound nearly as pleasant as I meant it to.

Is Mr. Whipple still meticulously stacking paper products – an act which was clearly anal (talk about subliminal advertising!)

Wherever they are, and whatever they are doing, I am grateful for having such trivial influences in my life.

Donuts and toilet tissue are a lot easier to think about than ozone, disease, and economics.

For those of you who A) want hard things to think about or B) want one last blast of the Christmas Season – here’s a Weird Al classic.

Modern Single Holiday

My most frequently published bit. Merry Christmas (thank goodness it's almost over.)

 

Modern Single Holiday

by Headley Hauser

Appears in A Christmas Sampler: Sweet, Funny, and Strange Holiday Tales 2009

Great Stocking Stuffer

We wish you a merry humbug.

We wish you a merry humbug…

– maybe I covered that in the first sentence.

Single men get labeled (unfairly) as Scrooge-like when it comes to the holidays. While it’s true that Ebenezer was a bachelor, it would be unreasonable to say that he was typical of our type. 

First of all, Ebenezer hardly lived alone. He had four ghosts in residence, including his Rasta ex-business partner Jacob Bob Marley. Secondly, the man had servants and never once slept in an unmade bed or ate a bag of microwave popcorn for dinner. Finally… I can’t think of a third reason, but who ever heard of a position without three points?

You might think that just because single men throw Christmas cards away unopened and snarl at shopping mall Santas that we lack an appreciation for holiday spirit. What you fail to take into account is that we, the unwashed denizens of studio apartments, have legitimate holiday traditions of our own.

Now, please remember that tolerance begins with appreciating the differences of others. Single men are rarely P.C. [?suggest “politically correct” in text or as footnote] (at heart), but we have no qualms about invoking [? “imposing?] such tripe on others. So stuff that judgmental attitude where the sun don’t shine, and enter the world of the Bachelor Winter Wonderland.

Deck the halls with dirty laundry.

What? Surely you’re not so close-minded as to insist on pretty lights, peppermint sticks, and frosted Dollar Store figurines to make a home festive? A chair is just a chair, but a chair with blue jeans, jockey shorts, and one odd sock is a festooned celebration of peace on earth and good will till laundry day.

I’ve always taken great comfort in that old favorite:

God rest ye single gentlemen, and sleep through church this day.

At night they light the candles, so wait for the display

To save us in that darkened hour so we can slip away

Without bindings or promises of toil – promise of toil

Such as deacon-work, our holiday to spoil.

Of course there’s the twelve days of Christmas (in the sink).

On the twelfth day of Christmas my scrub sink held for me

Twelve spoons from coffee,

Eleven knives from toffee,

Ten forks spaghetti,

Nine pans Crocker Betty,

Eight cups a-soakin’,

Seven dishes broken,

Six things best-not-spoken,

Five drops of Joy…

(La – la – la)

Four Tupperware,

Three sauce pans,

Two really grungy pads,

And a crock pot I got from Aunt Marge.

Let’s pause a moment, in the midst of our euphoric gaiety, and salute the very reason our kind survives, sometimes for decades, past college graduation: the female relative. If it weren’t for Aunt Marge, Mom, Sis, Grandma, Niece, and Soft-hearted-neighbor-lady-who-adopts-strays, your average bachelor would be eating wet sawdust off the floor before his twenty-eighth birthday. (I mention twenty-eight because that’s the year most women, quite correctly, recognize that the bachelor, so appealing in years past, has now spoiled like a soft cantaloupe and will never be trainable as a proper husband.) These noble women (if you’re having trouble following this paragraph, just ignore all parenthetical asides) provide edible food and helpful laundry tips in sufficiently frequent intervals to keep bachelors from such feral acts as eating raw tuna-helper while peeing in the shower.

(Only the ignored single man does both at the same time.) Their visits to the bachelor’s home ensure that he will wash (or throw out) the dishes, do his laundry, and hide debris regularly.

Back to traditions.

Oh little mound of Doritos bags, how still I see thee lie

On my trash heap and way down deep in my laundry not yet dry.

Yet with your sparkling presence your green and red doth glow.

When from my seat I see none to eat, to the convenience store I go.

For Christmas many single men turn to the hot Doritos. If the trashcan, like a merry heart, is overflowing, it just makes sense that bags should be green as well as red. It’s not that we want to eat Doritos actually, it’s that we know they are so nutritionally balanced. There’s nacho cheese (dairy), corn (grain), hot peppers (fruits and veggies), and the hydrogenated animal fat… (distant cousin to protein?).

Away in a futon, no room on his bed,

The cherubic bachelor with dreams in his head

That Jesus and Santa will work side by side

And bring him an X-box and a Porsche-a to ride.

Of course we know that Jesus was born a baby, ignorant of social customs and incapable of caring for his own needs. Sound like someone you know? Perhaps we, the full-sized infants known as single men, expose our pathetic ineptitude during the holiday season as a public service.

Or maybe we’re just hoping that Scrooge’s ghosts will stop by and tidy up a bit.

Looking for the perfect Christmas gift for that someone special?

Tale of Two Seasons

So… Holiday Season, Huh?

I borrowed from the local library that timeless Holiday treat, the Ken Burns Documentary, Baseball.

Shoot me – Christmas is not my favorite season.

It being early December, I found the two themes merging - especially as Burn’s depiction of the steroid scandals produced visions of sugar-pills dancing in my head.

Deck the Arms with THG

by Headley Hauser

Tis the season to hit homers

falalalala lala la la

Be a star and not a roamer

falalalala lala la la

Practice hard and toil and lug more

falalalala lala la la

Of send your agent to the drug store

falalalala lala la la

Deck your arms with THG

falalalala lala la la

Hit thirty homers instead of three

falalalala lala la la

Erasing marks from by-gone ages

falalalala lala la la

Clubhouse full of steroid rages

falalalala lala la la

 

We are now the mighty gloved ones

falalalala lala la la

Who cares if we beat our loved ones

falalalala lala la la

Some complain about our stat-ploy

falalalala lala la la

Wouldn’t want to be the bat boy

falalalala lala la la

Let’s be fair, PADs (performance affecting drugs) are as American as marijuana brownies, and a constant part of baseball tradition. Dwight Gooden (and the 86 Mets)

couldn’t have beaten my beloved Red Sox without their white powder. Until recent decades, chewing tobacco was practically issued to every ballplayer, not only to calm their nerves at the plate, but to give spitballs that little something extra. Booze was such an important part of the game that several teams were owned by beer barons. Babe Ruth and Mickey Mantle got so wasted that they weren’t even hung over until the 7^th inning stretch.

So let’s stop being so hypocritical and embrace our chemically pumped heroes of the last generation. Heck, put a statue of Balco in the Hall of Fame.

We wish you a Merry Andro

We wish you a Merry Andro

We wish you a Merry Andro

And a bottle of clear

You’ll play like a dream

Long as you use the cream

We wish you a Merry Andro

And a bottle of clear.

As far as Christmas is concerned – you think a few ho-ho-hos enable “eight tiny reindeer” to push a fat man and several billion toys around the earth in less than 24 hours?

 

Vaguely related video