Ratchet Robot (Nomura / 1956 / Japan / 7.5 inches)

There's something very functional about Ratchet Robot. He's got that tool clutched in his right hand, and that's certainly the sign of a can-do kind of guy. But the primitive, boxy design and industrial colors declare this a robot ready to work. A robot that knows the ins and outs of a rocket ship and knows how to take us to the stars. A robot that can keep the machines of humanity humming as we blast forth into the future!

But at the same time, there's something about the expression on his face... it's blank but still somehow conveys so much personality. Maybe it's the big round eyes or something, but I always feel like when I look at this robot, he's looking right back and wondering what makes me tick. 

The Ratchet Robot is a fairly straight-forward toy. Wind him up and he walks while sparks flash in his chest and behind his eyes. He's actually related to a longer line of battery-operated robots created by Nomura called Zoomer and Radar. While those toys come in a dizzying variety of colors, there was only one Ratchet Robot: blue.

I always knew I'd own this toy. It's relatively inexpensive and pretty common in good condition. Consequently, Ratchet's a great gateway drug toy for up-and-coming collectors.

Gear Robot (Horikawa / Early 1960s / Japan / 8 inches)

With his jaunty, red cap, the Gear Robot wins the prize for best-dressed robot in my collection. Admittedly, it's not much of a contest -- robots, as a rule, go through life naked. Or maybe with a coat of paint, which, let's be honest, doesn't leave a hell of a lot to the imagination. Toy porn, indeed.

With its boxy shape and industrial grey finish, the Gear Robot is a classic example of a mid-century robot. His techno-tastic chest panel and brightly colored gears give him a playful pop, and the round, red eyes lend him some pleasing personality. Wind him up, and he walks forward while his gears spin and sparks shoot from his chest and burst against the clear front panel. This is a toy any kid (and, ahem, certain adults) would be proud to own.

The Gear Robot is an early release by perhaps the longest-running toy company, Horikawa. For something like 50 years, their robots have appeared in many shapes, sizes, and materials, with all sorts of different actions. Most collectors have at least a few of the toys, and because there are so many different ones, many people actually create mini Horikawa collections within their main collections.

I'm particularly fond of what are known as the "small scale" Horikawas, like the Gear Robot. These toys generally top out at about nine and a half inches tall, though they maintain the dizzying variety of features found throughout the Horikawa line. Some are extremely rare, but most are common and inexpensive enough that they provide an easy entry into the hobby for new collectors. 

I'll be honest, it was a while before I began to appreciate Horikawa robots. Many of them, especially the later toys (which featured a larger proportion of plastic parts), left me kind of cold. See, a big reason I love vintage toy robots is that they provide a window into an era I never got to experience. But I grew up with some of the Horikawas, and that familiarity made them boring. 

Now, ask any collector who's been around for a while, and they'll talk to you about how their tastes have changed and developed over time. Toys they loved in the beginning sometimes lose their allure; toys they hated eventually become obsessions. In my case, I never lost interest in the toys that initially attracted me to the hobby, but I began to pay more attention to some of the toys I'd previously ignored -- particularly the Horikawas. Their lines, their actions, the little details that made them unique.  

The Gear Robot was the first one I added to my collection. It's as old-school as you're likely to find and easy for me to wrap my head around. Frankly, it was only my strange resistance to Horikawas in general that kept me from noticing it in the first place. Since then, the Gear Robot has become one of my favorites.

Which just goes to show that every robot deserves a second chance. Even if they've just gotten out of prison.

Wait, what?

Sparky Robot (Yoshiya / 1957 / Japan / 7 inches)

Many Japanese tin robot were like canvases for some astonishingly creative lithography. Diminutive Sparky was by far one of the most ornate. Somehow, artists found a way to cram a ridiculous amount of detail in this great, six-and-a-half-inch robot.

The mechanical graphics are striking, like something Wally Wood might have concocted for Weird Science. But what really grabs my attention is the subtle shading on the lithoed "panels"; very few toys display this level of detail, and one of the few that does costs just about $10,000. Considering that Sparky costs a mere fraction of a fraction of that, you definitely get a lot of artistic bang for you buck. 

I particularly like Sparky's face, which looks like a mask. It has a dehumanizing effect on the toy, which I think might have been the exact opposite of what his designers were hoping to achieve. But the haunting, blank expression gives the toy a lot of impact.

While Sparky Robot looked like a million bucks, he relies on a basic, wind-up walking mechanism that causes his legs to move back and forth while sparks fire off behind red gels in his eyes. His antenna acts as an on/off switch -- a nice touch, actually. 

Sparky was available in a number of different color and litho variations: Blue with two types of graphics; silver with two types of graphics; two different khaki-greenish-goldish versions; and an unlithoed silver version. The plain silver toy is the most common; mine is rarer than the other lithographed silver version, and perhaps one of the khaki-greenish-goldish toys. But the rest are really rare, and often sell for a lot of money. I know it's a bit confusing, but if you quickly sketch yourself a little chart, it'll all make sense.

It's funny, I never liked Sparky. I was only familiar with the two more common versions of the toy, and for whatever reason, they didn't get the oil pumping through my tubes. But when mine appeared on eBay and I saw the incredible details, I just fell for it.

Coincidentally, on the day the auction ended, I was editing a very short documentary about toy robots for a grad school class. My partners suggested filming me as I put in my bid and (hopefully) won the toy. But no, I couldn't do it. I've a hard and fast rule in journalism that I never appear in my own stories as anything other than a reporter. Sadly, my friends never got the shot they wanted.

I, on the other hand, did get the toy. So it worked out just fine for me. 

Sparkling Mike (S.N.K. / 1956 / Japan / 7.5 inches)

I'd never even heard of Sparkling Mike when I first stumbled upon him during one of my regular, gonzo, all-night eBay search-fests. It was early in my career as a collector and the holes in my knowledge were big enough to fire a rocket though. So I didn't know anything about Sparkling Mike when his auction page popped up in front of me. Except that he hit me like a ton of bricks, and I had to own him.

Sparkling Mike's got that classic robot look, all boxy and silver with smooth lines and just a little bit of rivet-like detailing and clean, stylized lithography. Then there's that facial expression, those soulful eyes that seem to see the world through a haze of wonder. Asimov's robots might have looked like Sparkling Mike. Also the character "Adam Link," who appeared in an earlier story by two brothers writing under the pseudonym Eando Binder. One friend of mine described Sparkling Mike's eyes as looking haunted; a woman I know fell in love with him because he seemed so sweet and innocent. That's the thing about Mike: he's like a blank screen just waiting for us to supply the image. Such a simple toy, but maybe that's why he's so compelling. 

On the surface, Sparkling Mike seems like a pretty simple toy. He uses a key-wind mechanism coupled with an on/off switch to walk while sparks spit from a hole in his chest. 

But look a little deeper and you'll see that he's more sophisticated than you might think. He uses a unique walking mechanism that combines the up/down motions of pins extending from the soles of his feet (similar to pin walkers like the previously discussed Atomic Robot Man) with legs that move forward and back. This gives the toy an appearance of heel-toe movement that's astonishingly life like and a whole lot of fun. Sparkling Mike definitely has my favorite walking mechanism among all the toy robots. 

Sparkling Mike is part of a series of three, similar looking "brother" robots that includes Flashy Jim (which uses a battery-operated remote control to walk, and has light-up eyes) and Robbie the Roving Robot (which features stiff legs and a traditional pin-walking mechanism). Of the three, Mike is the most common, followed closely by Jim. Robbie is definitely the rarest. To be honest, though, Mike is my favorite. 

I actually owned Flashy Jim for a while. I won him at an auction for a fraction of what he's worth. I enjoyed the toy, but after a while I realized that he didn't affect me quite like his Sparkling brother. There were toys I wanted more, so I ended up selling him. While I made money on the sale, I was also able to give the buyer a great deal, so I feel like it worked out really well for everyone. Even Flashy Jim, who's now in a collection where he's properly appreciated. 

(Me? Anthropomorphize these toys? Never! Ahem... moving on.)

Sparkling Mike also has a distant cousin called Robot 5. It shared the basic S.N.K. body and head, but had much more complex lithography, and was available in three colors: grey, pink, and blue. These toys are extremely rare. Extremely, rare. I mean, "Buy this robot or pay your rent for a year" rare. And that's New York rents, buddy. All of which is very unfortunate, since aesthetically, the blue and grey versions are two of my favorite toy robots. Did I mention that, of the three, the blue one is absolutely the rarest, with only three known to exist? 

I find it amazing how I can constantly redesign my own personal vision of hell. A minor circle of hell, to be sure, but still, sometimes I wish I fell in love with Go Bots or something. 

Sparkling Mike is actually responsible for my becoming friendly with a long-time collector and dealer named Jay Brotter. He currently owns an online store called Robot Island (www.robotisland.com) and has one of the foremost collections of plastic robots. Jay was the person selling Sparkling Mike on eBay way back when, and after I won it, we discovered that we both lived in NYC. Jay suggested I pick it up from his place, and we ended up having a nice, face-to-face chat. Since then, Jay's left NYC for greener pastures (quite literally). However, thanks to various toy-robot related events and activities, I've still sometimes have the opportunity to say hi -- and buy some more toys!

Sparkling Mike: Bringing people together. So they can spend more money.

Atomic Robot Man (Unknown / 1949 / Japan / 5 inches)

It all started so simply. An eBay auction. A six-inch tin robot. An extra freelance check burning a hole in my wallet. A couple clicks, some bated breath, and victory! Suddenly, after having collected reproduction tin robots for a few months, I was the proud owner of my very first vintage piece: Atomic Robot Man.



I know, you're asking yourself, "Does that freak have two of them? Has he no restraint whatsoever? Is he so depraved that he can't resist the siren call of a beautiful piece of tin?"

Well, yes, no, and, perhaps unsurprisingly to anyone who knows me, absolutely, positively, rapturously yes. But that is not why I've got two Atomic Robot Men. Before I explain what's going on, let's take a general look the A.R.M.

Atomic Robot Man first hit stands in 1949, making it the second toy robot ever produced. (The first is called Lilliput, and was produced in 1938. More on that when I actually manage to get one; it's super expensive, so don't hold your breath.) A.R.M.'s one of the more primitive robots, with a body made from basic, geometric shapes -- boxes and cylinders stacked to roughly approximate a man. His hollow eyes can't see, and yet somehow they seem to take in the world all around him. A.R.M. has a compellingly eerie personality, which might be why this is one of my all-time favorite robots. And even though one or two rank high enough to more-or-less tie, this is the robot I want to buried with.



Atomic Robot Man was available in two basic versions. The first, released in 1949, featured cast metal arms; the second had two-piece tin arms. All versions feature a key-wound pin-walking mechanism. (And no, that's not why I have two; I don't own the tin-armed version. Hold tight, all will be revealed...)


Note the pin-walking mechanism.


My A.R.M. appeared on eBay at the same time as two other robots, an Atom Robot and a Television Spaceman (more on these later). I really wanted the Atomic Robot Man because it was the model for the first reproduction tin robot I ever bought, the one that really got me hooked on the idea of old toys. But looking at those other toys... they were so cool, and I wasn't certain which was the one I really wanted at that moment.

I'd just gotten paid for a rather lengthy magazine article, and the lingering feeling of financial security is the only excuse I can think of for what I did next: I placed a bid on all three. Part of me figured I'd be lucky to win even one, so I didn't worry too much about the potential expense. And now I'm sure you can see where this is going...

Fast forward a week. The auction's about to end and, appropriately, I'm at a science fiction convention, frantically hunting for a computer so I can see which toy I won. Surprisingly (to me -- you readers can guess what comes next), I won all three.

Well, that was the end of my check, but the beginning of my collection. Years later, I can't say I mind. Since the Atomic Robot Man ended first, and arrived in the mail first, it wins the honor of being my first vintage toy. Strangely enough, I can't remember whether the Atom Robot or the Television Spaceman showed up next. Let the record show that they're tied for second.

"Nice story, Doc. Now, you degenerate, care to tell us why you've got two of the little buggers?"

Certainly. First, let's flip them around:




The second Atomic Robot Man, on the right, is known as the Science Fiction A.R.M. on account of the stamp adorning it's back, which says "Souvenir of the New York Science Fiction Conference." This is an extremely rare variation, one of only two three known examples. The first resided until recently in the collection of Bob Lesser (long-time readers will remember Bob from the post of two days ago...). He got it from the great science fiction collector, fan, and publisher Gerry de la Ree. It sold at the Lesser auction to a guy I know. Mine came from a woman who originally obtained it from legendary science fiction and fantasy artist Roy G. Krenkel. (Let's pause to reiterate that: Mine was originally owned by Roy G. Krenkel. If you don't know who he is, I suggest a Google search.)



So what's the big deal? What's the stamp mean? Why were all the known examples originally owned by science fiction bigwigs? Why would it drive me to own a toy I've already got sitting on my shelves? Before we get to that, let's drag out the pain just a bit longer to compare the two toys more directly. Besides the stamp, there were a number of cosmetic differences, including color and lithographic details:




Two A.R.M.s. The SF version is on the right.



Spot the differences in the chest litho. The SF A.R.M. is on the bottom.


Alright, alright. Now, finally: The Stamp.

As it says, the toy was used as a giveaway at the New York Science Fiction Conference, which was held in 1950, from June 1-3, in New York City at the Henry Hudson Hotel. Also known as Hydracon, it was sponsored by the Hydra Club, a group of New York science fiction luminaries that included Frederik Pohl, Lester Del Rey, William Tenn, David Kyle, and many others. (For more on the Hydra Club, see David Kyle's wonderful essay "The Legendary Hydra Club" in Mimosa Magazine: jophan.org/mimosa/m25/kyle.htm.)

As for why the toy only seems to appear in the collections of old-school, hardcore science fiction guys, that can be explained easily enough: They were the ones who not only went to Hydracon, but also had obsessive enough personalities to hold on to the swag they got at the convention.

So... What about my need to own the toy against all better financial judgement? As some may have figured out, I'm a huge science fiction fan. More so, I'm a fan of classic science fiction. I enjoy reading it, I enjoy reading about it. I go out of my way to speak with that authors from that era -- it's only stalking if they catch you hiding in their closets -- so that I can hear first hand what it was like in the days before overt, crass commercialization took hold of science fiction and (nearly) throttled the sense of wonder out of it. I find no fantasy more alluring than the one where I use a time machine to go back to one of these old conventions. (Okay, shooting myself with an Inviso-Ray and then hanging out in Anne Francis' dressing room while she made all those costume changes during the shooting of Forbidden Planet ranks a very, very close second.)

For me, the SF Atomic Robot Man is a tangible link to not only the past, but to a specific time and place in the past. It is that time machine, one that connects me to Roy Krenkel and everyone else at Hydracon. To have the time machine take the shape of one of my favorite robots is icing on the cake.

I'll admit something: I debated selling my first A.R.M. when I won the SF variation. The latter cost me almost three times what I paid for the former, and even acknowledging the sweet deal I got on that first toy (the eBay gods were smiling on me that day), the new one cost me some serious cash. Selling my A.R.M. would inject some vital funds into my bank account.



But I just couldn't do it. As much as I love the SF A.R.M., I don't think anything can compare to the weird, special magic of that first toy, the one that sets up what has since become a major source of pleasure in my life.



So I keep them both on my shelf, side by side, two tin peas in a Swedish glass, metal, and chipboard pod. Can't get much nicer than that, right?