Week 85: M.G. 1100

I love vintage items, and you've probably seen the app on the right highlighting items from my vintage curiosity shop Nickadizzy. While after more than a year and a half into this blog I still get a tremendous kick out of selecting shiny new Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars from the store displays, I also love the old ones, like this week's Matchbox Series No 64 M.G. 1100. This is one of the early Matchboxes, when they were made in England by Lesney.

a vintage Matchbox comic of
mine that has nothing to do with
this blog -- it's just cool

This diecast has a little plastic guy driving -- kind of spooky really, all milky white with vague, mummy-like features, but it's all in the context. As a kid, these little guys in the cars were friends, but see a full size faceless guy like this walking toward you and you'll wet yourself. I'm hoping my picture above doesn't have that affect, or, if it does, you're not reading this blog at work.

As a child, my favorite toy was one similar to that driving man, a little toy guy affectionately named Yellow Man. Yellow Man was molded yellow plastic and about an inch and a half or so tall. He had once been part of a fireman set -- he was the guy jumping onto a plastic trampoline from a burning building.


Yellow Man was the ultimate hero, smarter than Bond, braver than Batman, and more mysterious than Racer X from Speed Racer -- odd, really, since he originally was the only guy in the toy set fleeing the scene and he was, well, yellow, but that's how it went -- the firemen in the set were soon lost, the trampoline broke, but Yellow Man lived on for years, building a legacy that eventually transferred to my younger brother.

Yellow Man wasn't much to look at, mainly because his hands and feet had been broken off after somehow getting stuck in the bathtub faucet, but that had been in the formative period as his character was being built in my mind. Like the ghostly guy in the car above, he had never been painted, but after the bathtub and other incidents he had become even less human like, with most of his mannequin face eventually scraped off. Basically, he was a little blob of dirty yellow plastic, with stumps.

I will never understand how or why Yellow Man became the legend he did, or how it was I never lost him, but he was always there. My guess it was his singularity -- there were green toy soldiers, red toy fireman and brown toy cowboys, but he was yellow, completely different than the others, with no duplicates in the set. He even had an entirely different pose with his bent knees and little stumps up in the air, which could make him look like he was flying, swimming, or jumping over rubble, depending on the imagined scenario.

Yellow Man became mythic, developing a rough, unflappable demeanor that was tested in virtually every type of dangerous situation I could imagine. His power came from the history that developed -- other toys came and went, but he seemed to change with me, and it was that accumulation of many years of loyalty that gave him his power, for even though he matured, he never aged. At some point, I completely stopped seeing the actual plastic toy, instead seeing who he was -- now tell me that isn't a great symbolic lesson for a kid.

At some unknown Puff the Magic Dragon point, Yellow Man and I parted ways, but I'm sure he isn't moping in some cave in Honalee -- he always was a bit of a loner, so is probably right now stumping down some lonesome road, stoic and noble, ready for adventure but never looking for a fight.

If you see him, don't wet yourself.


NEXT WEEK: WAS YELLOW MAN ACTUALLY CHUCK NORRIS?? (Okay, that really won't be next week, but you have to wonder.)



Photo of my vintage M.G. courtesy of Phil Pekarcik. This car, by the way, was not one from my childhood collection -- none of them fared so well. This came from a group of old Matchbox cars my folks picked up for me at an estate sale, so thank you -- this one, particularly, is a beauty.

Week 84: 1970 Chevelle SS

I  love Chevelles, from the squared off yet hip 1964 debut through the early 70s Chevelle Malibu wagon through the 1973 Chevelle -- the body style changed in 1974 and they kind of lost me then, but that was nonetheless a great 10 year run.

Chevelle, the rock band, was the last real rock concert I attended, by the way, when they opened for the Foo Fighters. My wife and I had taken my then teenage son to the show some seven or so years ago, before either of my two youngest children were born. Since then, no concerts. I did hear snippets of a Stones song being played by a cover band at some distant stage at a carnival a few years back, but then I had to chase my toddler as he ran off toward the Loop-O-Plane, after which the smell of funnel cakes distracted me and the stage was forgotten. For some reason, babies interrupted my rock-and-roll lifestyle.

Maybe it's approaching age 50, or maybe something else, but lately I've been hankering to attend a full-fledged rock concert again. I've found myself seeking out recorded concerts on late night cable or catching great shows like Austin City Limits, even sometimes sitting through PBS telethons, which often air music events, just to see a show. Old bands, new bands, PBS friendly bands, it doesn't matter -- I watch them all. I'm missing concerts.

I have always loved music - rock, folk, funk, zydeco, blue grass, soul, indie creations of all flavors -- but my recent desire isn't about any particular band or musical style, but about the experience of the live show. I miss the energy, and strangely, the community.

Similarly, I've found myself dreaming of going to an actual movie theater. I understand the irritations involved, but I don't care -- I want to see a giant screen and a movie like it was meant to be watched, even if I would rather watch an old black and white movie.

I mention this because this rock concert/movie theater thing is relatively recent -- I've only started thinking this way over the past ten or so months, and I'm not sure why. I mean I understand why I love the live music and movie theater experiences, I just don't know why I have suddenly become so interested again after all these years. Even before the Foo Fighters show, I hadn't attended many concerts or gone to the movies much since before my oldest son was born, and that was way back in 1989. I'm telling you, I think this might be an age thing.

Whatever the case, the practicality of actually going to movies and concerts again with a house full of kids is what it is -- not really there, and I'm okay with that. More reasonably, however, I think I will make a real effort to get out to at least one concert and one movie with my wife this year -- that should be doable.

Until then, maybe I'll drop by my oldest son's apartment.

He now has a high definition widescreen TV, perfect for watching a PBS friendly concert, and, if I'm lucky, he'll let me turn it up loud.


Thanks to Phil Pekarcik for the hand, literally, and the photo of my Chevelle.

For the record, a few years ago my wife and I did take the kids to see They Might Be Giants, but it was during the day at the Tops KidFest, so the band was only doing their children's songs. Still, it was a lot of fun -- and the audience was really well behaved.

Week 83: 1970 Pontiac GTO "The Judge"

Big news -- In addition to Daddy's Tiny Cars, I now will be writing a bi-monthly daddy column for Northeast Ohio Family magazine, with my first piece running next month -- it will also be online at http://www.neohiofamily.com - exciting!

Additionally, I will be helping to grow the Tri-County BusinessJournal here in Northeast Ohio as the Business Editor, and will continue to be involved in various business aspects at Stadtlander Woodcarvings, all the while expanding my vintage business Nickadizzy and my free-lance writing. This is a far different world than the one I left a year and a half ago at my Keurig-cupped, cubicle-mazed office filled with both comradeship and polite animosity. A far, far different world.

The shift from punching a clock to becoming an independent has been a quirky, and at times (and that would be at ALL times), daunting process, and while I would like to say I would have gone this route even if I hadn't lost my job, I'm not so certain that is being truthful. Losing my full-time job was the best worst thing to ever happen to me.

The biggest struggle, besides staving off poverty, has been to maintain structure. I am attempting to reintroduce some trappings of normalcy and routine (such as regular exercise and remembering to eat) to the non-child-raising aspects of my life, even though I'm not ready to forgo the odd hours. I often find myself working on projects at 3 or 4 in the morning when the house is quiet. The blessed part of these hours, however, is that I have seen the stars in the still of the night sky more in this past year than ever in 16 years of office routine. I suspect they were up there even back then. I think I simply forgot to check.

Working in a home office, though, means more diligence with where I set things. While occasionally someone at the office might walk off with my Sharpie or scissors, the culprit probably would not scribble on the wall or cut off my shoe laces with my own office gear. At home with small kids, that is not always the case.

The other day I was preparing to package a small vintage vase (a great little Blue Mountain Pottery number) when I went off to do something else -- I have no idea what. I left a block of repurposed Styrofoam, but luckily not the vase, on the ottoman -- after all, this is material meant to stop things from breaking, so what could possibly go wrong?

I came back to find this:

                                                                                                  and this:

The pictures don't capture the extent of the mess - my house looked like an Ohio April snow storm had hit - inside. Little pieces of foam all hopped up on static were clinging to the couch, the carpet, and my son's hair, and when I tried to vacuum them, they just kind of blew away from the vacuum cleaner, going anywhere but into its whirling vortex. At one point it looked like we where in a snow globe.

Apparently my son had clobbered the Styrofoam with either a Wii remote or a plastic tube of PVC for no better reason than to do it. He wasn't shy about it and made no attempt to deny the carnage -- in fact he seemed to see no issue or downside at all. I guess if he fell he would be better cushioned, so perhaps he had mangled my Styrofoam in the name of safety.

If you have kids or have even been around them for a few minutes, you know this type of weirdness is commonplace. The day after the Styrofoam incident this same son, Baby G, had colored the tops of his feet with markers, telling me he had given himself tattoos. He had proudly shown me the different colors of his ink.

 Such is working at a home office with kids.

Even so, the destructive results balance with my knowledge that my kids have no interest in being destructive -- they simply enjoy exploring, creating, and seeing what will happen, a spirit not all that different than that required to be an independent, and god knows I've ended up many times with metaphorical Styrofoam stuck on my sweater. I don't even wear sweaters or actually know what that means, but I do know it has probably happened to me as a result of one of my good-idea-at-the-time moments.

Tonight, however, as it was getting late, all three of my kids came in while I was doing some inventory control work on the computer. I was flummoxed by a difficult Excel spreadsheet, and all the kids asked if they could help. The two youngest fought briefly to both sit on my lap, but once I got them situated I gave them each a Hi-Liter and had them do some very important coloring on the scrap inventory sheets I had printed. While they colored, I talked to my 6th grade son about spiders, nutrition and Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas. Outside it was dark, but I knew behind the clouds were stars, and I knew I wasn't going to forget they were up there again.

In all my years at the office, I never had such good help.


Thanks to Phil Pekarcik for the picture of my Judge, one of my favorite muscle cars, a 1970 GTO. While I made no effort to tie the name or design of the car into this week's blog, know to me this choice fits completely. I appreciate the opportunities I have been given, even through their associated challenges, and I am happy with my family, my career, my life. This little car captures the essence of this blog when I began it 82 weeks ago -- this little car just makes me happy.


POST BLOG NOTE: I stepped out to pick up some soy milk for breakfast (the littlest guy pictured has difficulty digesting regular milk), both because we were out but also because I love the surrealism of grocery shopping late at night. Flakes of snow were falling from the black sky, having already covered my windshield.  I mean, I think that must be snow ... Baby G!!!

Week 82: 1968 Ford Mustang GT California Special

I am happy to be back home to Ohio, my family, and my tiny cars, after days away in New York, where I helped a friend run a display at the Northeastern Woodworkers Association’s (NWA) Fine Woodworking Show in Saratoga Springs, NY.

The friend, an engineer by trade, is also a respected and accomplished woodcarver who teaches carving and has a shop that carries thousands of different products with intimidating (to me) sounding names like gouges, slip strops and rough outs.

Being of an immature nature, I laughed to myself about the many NWA hats and shirts I saw, thinking about the notorious 90's gangsta rap group N.W.A. that once featured Ice Cube and Doctor Dre. N.W.A. songs feature impressive amounts of profanity and violent lyrics, and likely were not in heavy rotation with
the woodworkers at this show. In general, I just don't picture gangstas looking like Santa with big grey white beards and flannel.

Carve us a woodland gnome, M---erf----r.

The show was a success, we sold a lot, and I learned much about wood carving. I also saw some amazing wood art, but by the end of the show I was ready to get home, particularly since this was the first time I had been away from home for any time since my youngest was born, and also because working a show like this is a lot of flippin' work. Still, I had to worry about what I would find when I returned. Let me explain.

Before I departed on my trip, my five-year-old son Racer A had said (with a melancholy tone), "I probably won't remember you when you get back. I'm so sorry, Daddy."

"I understand," I told him, patting him on the head and grabbing my duffle bag as a dramatic movie score in minor keys played in my head. I gave hugs and love yous all around and crammed into the cab of the Chevy truck, New York bound.

As it turned out, my son did miraculously remember me, likely as a result of the memory-enhancing gummy vitamins he takes, and I received the best welcome imaginable from all three kids when I returned.

I even picked up a few souvenirs from the show. Woodworkers, ever conscious of safety, know the importance of good signage, and were offering free reflective stickers like the one below to put in one's work shop. Not having a wood shop, I think I'll just put my sticker on my car.

I think people will appreciate my commitment to safety.

Thanks to Phil Pekarcik for the photo of my Hot Wheels Mustang. The limited edition California Special only had a production run of 4,118 cars in 1968, a fitting pick, I thought, for the custom, small run works of wood art I saw over the weekend. 


To check out the carving work of my friend Robert Stadtlander or to learn about upcoming carving classes, go to his showcase website at
http://www.stadtlandercarvings.com.


For woodcarving supplies, please go to his e-commerce site here. If any one carves a wooden tiny car, please send a picture!