It all started with a photo in the Journal of a kid camped outside an electronics store in Albuquerque. He literally was camped out, determined to be the first to purchase his own version of PlayStation3.
All of that reminded me of the time a few short years ago when armies of people gathered around a building, armed with cots, PJs, reading material, sleeping bags and electronic gadgets. They snaked around the Krispy Kreme outlet, hoping to be among the first to consume some of that artery-clogging nutrition when the store opened early the next morning.
We wonder whether the PlayStation guy is a close relative to the Krispy Kreme types. But perhaps we should have more respect and admiration for the doughnut types, for their moment of glory is over. At least in Albuquerque, the Krispy Kreme stores just recently closed.
Or are the doughnut-PlayStation types all related to a distant cousin of mine whom I ran into several years ago as we entered a Raton movie house to watch one installment of the Star Wars trilogy. “This is the 13th time I’ve seen this movie,” my cousin said, “and each time it’s like watching a new film.”
One could easily see why not much of the flick has rubbed off on him, as I noticed him dozing shortly after the opening credits.
So the fascination for electronics and movies in which things go zap and pop in the night is clear. And maybe it’s wise to throw in a doughnut here and there.
The PlayStation3, by the way, is a high-resolution, high-powered, high-tech, high-priced game console that hooks to a TV set. It features anything from games for kids to the kind that whet one’s appetite with the more violent shoot-em-ups. Sony shipped only a limited number, increasing the demand. All the consoles shipped to the Las Vegas outlet quickly sold out.
According to a store employee, many of those pricey units aren’t intended for use by the buyer, but for resale on e-bay at a tidy profit.
So covetous are people of the PlayStation3 phenom that two armed men in Hartford, Conn., tried to rob a line of people waiting for the new game system. The hold-up men weren’t necessarily interested in acquiring the game, just the money they knew people in line were carrying.
Electronic gadgets such as the X-Box and Game Boy are already showing up on the Letters to Santa Claus, which the Optic will be printing later this month.
Compare those requests with the quite modest supplications to Santa of a few decades ago. The writers of letters back in 1934 obviously led Spartan lives. Let’s take a peek:
A set of roller skates sold for 89 cents; a tricycle went for $5.98 and a girl’s bike was $40.95 — all available at the local Wards store. Forty bucks plus for a bike was a fortune, in a community whose residents felt affluent if they earned a dollar an hour.
Skates, dolls, gloves and candy were the most-requested items for little girls of that era. Here’s a sampling:
Genoveva Garcia of Railroad Avenue, Tomasita Trujillo of Blanchard Street, Isabel Sandoval of Sapello Street, Emma Rael of Perez Street, Corrine Vigil of Railroad Avenue, Tomasita Salazar of Tilden Street, Margaret Ortiz of New Mexico Avenue, Fern Edna Valverde of Railroad, Feloniz and Rosita Peña of Railroad, Aurora Lucero of Ninth Street, Gloria Maes of South Pacific, Mary Brown of Gallinas Street, Margaret Silva of Chavez Street and Marcella Trujillo of Rosenwald Avenue — all of these begged and bugged Santa about their allotment of simple toys, and a bit of candy.
And what did boys request?
Leandro Crespin of South Pacific asked for boxing gloves; Joe Hidalgo of West National asked for a car with lights; Leo Montoya of Alamo Street sought boxing gloves; Edward Trujillo of Tilden asked for a BB gun and skates; Wilfred and Johnnie Sandoval of South Pacific asked for two-wheeled bikes; Louie Peña of Railroad asked for a football; Frank Baca of Tilden asked for a wagon or truck; Johnny Lopez of New Mexico Avenue wanted a real watch; Joe Ludi of South Pacific requested a “Treasure Island” book; Charles Cox of Gallinas Street asked for Lincoln Logs and a typewriter; Amadeo Peña of Railroad asked for a punching bag.
Probably the most altruistic request among the many letter-writers — people who today would be in their 70s — was from a resident of Sapello Street, Ismael Kavanaugh, who wrote, “Please send toys to others because of mutch cost.”
Somewhere there must be a resident who can explain what a “Triangular Arithmetic” book was. Except for the usual clothes, gloves and hats the youngsters requested, the TA book was the most-requested non-toy item.
The following requested such a book: Octaviano Ortiz, Charlotte Baca of Grand, Rafelita Sena of South Pacific; Margaret Ortiz of New Mexico Avenue, Dorothy Ortiz of South Montezuma Street, Natividad Chacon of Sapello Street and Margaret Silva of Chavez Street.
If this were in fact a required school book, why didn’t the state provide it free of charge? Did the students all have dogs that made a snack only of “Triangular Arithmetic” but left the other, less-tasty texts alone?
Was it instead a comic book featuring Superman-type characters named “Triangular” and his faithful Indian companion “Arithmetic”? Can someone explain?
Another observation is the long-held belief, even in my generation, that it’s more fun to receive toys than clothes. Several Christmases ago, my grandson and namesake, at about 30 months, did the honors of distributing gifts in our household. As he tore open gifts addressed to him, any item of clothing got tossed into the air, as if it were wrapping, designed only to get in the way of the real prize — a toy.
We still wonder how he learned that clothes under the Christmas tree don’t count.