GOING ONCE - GOING TWICE - GONE! (AND NOT COMING BACK EITHER)...

Marx Yogi Bear toy.  He'll be with me 'til I croak

As I sit in my cavernous Kid-Cave, luxuriating in all my tremendous treasures - toys, books, comics, records, etc. - I sometimes wonder what will happen to them all when I'm no longer around to cherish and protect them.  I'd like to think I'll have established a museum of childhood of the 1960s & '70s by then, but if I were to drop off the twig tomorrow, they could end up in a skip or charity shop - and, to be perfectly truthful, I'm uncertain as to which of these options is the greater evil.

When LEWIS CARROLL (Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, to give him his real name) died, his possessions were auctioned off, leading one of his friends, Frederick York Powell, to pen the following poem in despair at how his comrade's beloved belongings were disposed of.

At a Certain Auction...

                                         Poor playthings of the man that's gone,

                                         Surely we would not have them thrown,

                                         Like wreckage on a barren strand,

                                         The prey of every greedy hand.

                                         Fast ride the dead!  Perhaps 'tis well!

                                         He shall not know, what none would tell,

                                         That gambling salesmen bargain'd o'er

                                         The books he read, the clothes he wore,

                                         The desk he stood at day by day

                                         In patient toil or earnest play,

                                         The pictures that he loved to see,

                                         Faint echoes of his fantasy.

                                         He shall not know.  And yet, and yet,

                                         One would not quite so soon forget

                                         The dead man's whims, or let gain riot

                                         Among the toys he loved in quiet:

                                         Better by far the Northman's pyre,

                                         That burnt in one sky-soaring fire

                                         The man with all he held most dear.

                                         'He that hath ears, now let him hear.'

So I suppose that's another option open to me - just get everything cremated with me, but it's not one I'm too keen on.  I'd like my treasures to survive my passing, and, as long as I knew they would be looked after, other people would get to see and enjoy them as I once did.  And if they knew that all these wonderful things had once belonged to me, that would be the icing on the cake.

Ah, I can see it now.  The Kid Robson Museum of Childhood.  (No children permitted, of course.  They'd only break something.)

However, here's a question for all of you:  What would you like to happen to your most treasured material possessions when you're pushing up the daises?  Why not share your hopes with your fellow Criv-ites in the comments section.  And no cheating - none of that "I don't care, I'll be dead!" cop-out nonsense. 

FLIPPIN' 'ECK! IT'S FREAKY FRANKIE STEIN...

Copyright REBELLION

As a special treat (seeing as how you've all been behaving yourselves this last little while), here's an episode of FRANKIE STEIN from WHAM! #43, cover-dated April 10th 1965.  That means it more than likely came out on or around the 3rd, so you can argue amongst yourselves as to whether I'm early or late with it, seeing as how this is the 9th.  (Though considering it's 49 years old, it's certainly late regarding the year, even if not the month.)

Another KEN REID strip from when he was at the top of his game, I'm sure you'll agree.  Feel free to express your immense gratitude in the Criv-ites comments section.