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Lines of dialogue come unbidden when this is before your poised lips: “Ms. Dix, letter, date June 18, 19XX, to Oswald Crane, at Crane, Crane and Reynaldo …” “We’re now thpeaking to you from Mr. Hayrick’th garage, where we have just seen the filthy girlth exit the building …” “I’m ain’t sayin’ nothing until I talk to my lawyer and … hey, what’s the big idea, HEY — ! …” The gold-thread cloth screen behind the two-piece cast-potmetal shell speaks of Chanel, cheap cigars, hand-rolleds, Old Grand-Dad. The cord leads (at the other end) to a heavy middle-sized object – a Weber-Carlson reel-to-reel tape recorder with a multi-tube chassis and enameled cast-metal face, and a green “Magic Eye” tube hooked up as a VU meter. It’s part of my very small collection of old-world multimedia tools.
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There was no reason to expect this formula to work: science fiction adventure played wooden marionettes and foot-and-a-half-long balsa-wood rocketships. Yet pound for pound, lovers of high-action melodrama and futuristic equipment could get more thrill out of watching Thunderbirds every week than a year’s worth of Star Trek. In the era of once-every-nine-months solo space shots, International Rescue had a personal rockets, six-wheeled cars, a mean, green cargo-carrier the size of a football pitch, a jet-powered submarine a tunnel-boring machine and – god – a SECRET UNDERGROUND HEADQUARTERS,This little trinket wakens my inner fanboy to remember one episode in which the Powers that Be were trying to move the Empire State Building on massive caterpillar platforms during an earthquake. It’s all a blur – I can’t even remember how Thunderbird 3 helped save the day. But now I cannot bear to remove this die-cast treasure from its blister pack, and risk spoiling the package, so juvenile and deeply rooted is my reverence for this mythology.
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Before 3D Studio Max, before CG animation, CAD, before Microsoft and Apple, before even IBM and Univac, a man would hunker over his drafting table, scratching away with a little sliver of graphite. Every so often, he’d reach over, stick its tip into one of these, give it a few spins of the wrist, and resume scratching, unaware of the tsunami of technology that would soon wipe away his toils and replace them with new pleasures and woes. This Leitz lead pointer is cast in thick iron – the pencil tip (for it is only used on mechanical pencils) is rubbed pointy against an internal drum that catches the graphite dust. It is coated in one of my favorite old-school industrial finishes – and if anyone knows its name, I’d be most grateful to learn more about it.
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A dense concentration of totemic power – symbols of meaningful events in life strapped to your wrist, proof against ennui, woe and forgetfulness. A long chain of chains leads up to your personalized collection: designers craft molds for cars, tools, creatures, buildings and states of the Union; Manufacturers pour, stamp, cut, enamel and polish hot metal. Distributors pin the charms to little priced cards and wholesale them out to gift shops in foreign cities, national parks, malls and jewelers’ shops. And you simply live your life – possessed here and there by a deep, organic need to measure your accomplishment with some tiny shape that you pinch onto the growing strand of icons. Juxtapositions occur unbidden, bat and pencil sharpener, race car and Houses of Parliament, adding machine and scuba diver – the hidden semiotics of trinkets spoken by your heavy metal biography.
