The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

I have a very alert friend who knows how to tweak my sensibilities. He sent me a link about an auction of movie props. I could own my very own, screen-used X-Wing Fighter. Or the insides of a T-800. How about the outsides of an Alien? This is precisely the kind of thing that makes me revert to my fifteen-year-old self as I begin to shiver in geek anticipation. Just as abruptly, however, the fifty-year-old me gives that kid a nudge and asks where we would store such treasures, since we would have to sell our house and take a lien on the dog to afford them.
Still, when you walk into the living room, you might be impressed to see the portion of the movie poster collection I have mounted on my wall. You might also be interested in the scale model of the Deathmobile from "Animal House." Or maybe the light saber in my son's room. The one that isn't just a flashlight at the bottom of a PVC tube. It has really nice weight, and the sound effects are amazing. It's like having a really expensive flashlight at the bottom of a PVC tube.
These are the kinds of relics that have filled my house for decades. I bought a Darth Vader mask back in 1977, sure that someday it would be worth the forty dollars I paid for it. Plus shipping. I've got a Chewbacca mask form that same era that would probably be worth more if I had taken better care of his mat of Wookie hair. That's really the bottom line. I'm not much for the whole MIB thing. Not Men In Black, but Mint In Box. I want to handle these artifacts. I want to take them out and play with them. My older brother shows this kind of restraint. I don't. In this way, my house is more like one of those touchy-feely kids' museums where everyone is encouraged to touch and handle everything. And it's all covered with a thin film of daily-use filth.
That's okay. I don't mind living in an interactive world, but it's a bummer that I'm not going to have my very own face-hugger to wear to the Christmas party this year.