Here is proof that mankind has gone too far into the maze of delirium that is the internet, which is a Gordian knot of distraction, an essentially infinite morass of come-hithers and self-reflexive desire-loops.
This old ad, and its numerous cousins (Sell Grit, Footlocker of WW2 Soldiers, etc) that once proliferated in comic books and kids' magazines, not to mention fireworks catalogs and seed catalogs boasting things like Praying Mantis Egg Cases and a Dwarf Tree Bearing Multiple Fruits, were once all I needed to look at. Who knows how many hours I spent looking at these simple icons of "man, I want that"?
Would I ever earn prizes or cash? Not a chance. I never even tried calling Peggy. If my materialistic reveries ever stalled out in a consideration of reality, I knew I hadn't the balls to go door-to-door, nor the adult approval, nor the proper density or affluence of neighbors. There were only about eight homes within a mile of my house, and I could picture none of them buying anything from me. I would have to take my sister with me, and then she would win the prizes. No, it was far more comforting to pore over the page of brain-stimulating sigils and just WANT them.
I wonder if anyone ever sold Grit, or Olympic cards. Maybe it was all a plot by our corporate masters, to instill deep longing for junk in our pre-consumer neuronal pathways.
I wonder if there ever was a Peggy.
This old ad, and its numerous cousins (Sell Grit, Footlocker of WW2 Soldiers, etc) that once proliferated in comic books and kids' magazines, not to mention fireworks catalogs and seed catalogs boasting things like Praying Mantis Egg Cases and a Dwarf Tree Bearing Multiple Fruits, were once all I needed to look at. Who knows how many hours I spent looking at these simple icons of "man, I want that"?
Would I ever earn prizes or cash? Not a chance. I never even tried calling Peggy. If my materialistic reveries ever stalled out in a consideration of reality, I knew I hadn't the balls to go door-to-door, nor the adult approval, nor the proper density or affluence of neighbors. There were only about eight homes within a mile of my house, and I could picture none of them buying anything from me. I would have to take my sister with me, and then she would win the prizes. No, it was far more comforting to pore over the page of brain-stimulating sigils and just WANT them.
I wonder if anyone ever sold Grit, or Olympic cards. Maybe it was all a plot by our corporate masters, to instill deep longing for junk in our pre-consumer neuronal pathways.
I wonder if there ever was a Peggy.
