How much is that doggy in the window?

This week I succumbed to the inevitable gay hobby of antiquing. The term 'antiquing' comes with an inherent, fascinating sense of anticipation. I always imagine being bombarded with great finds and amazing little gorgeous, Anoushka Hempel-type things that I can put in my apartment and incite oohs and ahs from my friends and various gentlemen callers who don't even know my first name.

My big thing now is looking for toys that I owned when I was a child. I recently found a toy that brought me hours of amusement in my days as a plucky and tragically interesting lad who made mudmen in the backyard after the summer rain. It was an old pull toy, shaped like a dog and named "Little Snoopy." When he rolled across the floor, a mechanism attached to the axels made a simulated barking noise that brought so much delight to my lonely days. One day, my sister got mad and she pulled his springy tail off. My mother threw my doggie in the garbage and I never saw him again... until now.

I saw another copy of my fun little toy and I bought it immediately. I did have a problem with the fact that those mother fuckers charged $19.95 for the bloody thing, but all of that went away when I pulled Little Snoopy across the floor and heard him bark again.

Antiques are little time machines that are capable of transporting us to happier times in our lives. I don't live in the past, and I don't think it's unhealthy to stay connected with the things that made me the person I am today. It could be worse, really. I could have bought a velour Last Supper tapestry to hang over my dining area like the one we had in our house!