I'm addicted to Phantom Boxes
The great thing about an addiction is that if you’re the discoverer of the substance you tend to abuse, you can become the principle dealer and enabler to yourself and all your friends. My new narcotic has many different names, though technically I believe it is called Phantom Box. At first the plan is always to give it out to friends, but as soon as I get home, I rip into it with the anticipatory wantonness of a panicky heroin banshee. But, just like a good little drug, my hasty immorality is rewarded with transcendental pleasure. It is always worth it.
Man, times have been rough lately and I've been needing my Phantom Box fix. I’ve been purchasing this little indulgence in serious bulk. If I am ever feeling pitiful, rollin' like a dump truck, hating, and weepy, I know that this little divine intervention will bless me with its wonders! If I am ever feeling lonesome, this little curiosity has made a tiny party just for me. If I'm feeling fat and oily, possessed with syndromes and inflammations, the cure awaits me within this petite box. Any variety of mental blight will be softly pet into a calm, meditative state. Life's most anxiety-ridden hot worries are reduced to little versions of themselves.
Surprises have been restricted to the regime of Cracker Jacks, clams, and fortune cookies now forever! Does cereal even have surprise stuff in it anymore? Why couldn't the Jeeesus make tiny fortunes and toys inside the peach instead of that giant nut? Or how cool would it be if every time you pooped, maybe you get a clown figurine. Or what if orgasms shot out Go-Bots? What if an exploding head was more like a piñata filled with blood, skull, brains, Bubble Yum, marbles, and mood rings!
No luck for me here on becoming anyone’s dealer. But for $3.99 at Toy Tokyo on 2nd Ave. you can cultivate your own problem. On the box label, you get a sense of the theme: mushroom kitchenettes, tiny shoes and purses, little sushis, elaborate miso soup preparation sets, wee cakes, tiny champagne glasses, miniature meats...but you don't know what you get till you open. It’s always a discovery and sometimes you get a surprise set that isn't even listed on the front. It’s a dream come true! The pieces are so tiny, you really have to concentrate on assembling them just right. Once pieced together, the Zen sets in. The Zen of tiny things. Small, beautiful surprises of life. It’s gonna be OK, maaan. O tiny sushi you make me smile again!