Typing Monkey publisher and unofficial cultural ombudsman, S.L. Kreighton, tried to shame us the other night by regaling the staff with tales of Christmases past.
Apparently the man grew up a street urchin in Victorian London, where a tangerine, some Brach's candies [the neapolitans were delicious -- ed.] and perhaps a fresh pack of Authors cards was the best a lad could hope for on the morning of December 25, provided you didn't die of consumption and scabies first.
We think he's full of shit. However, by chance we showed him the following commercial for Kenner's Alien doll, circa 1979 and he fell into a funk so deep, it would shame Charles Foster Kane on his death bed.
We're sorry you never got the Alien doll that year, Kreighton. Perhaps it's time to let go.
