When the Robots Quit Coming

I first became aware of Dan Monroe, not from his YouTube channel, but from the B9 Robot Builder’s Club. I was of the opinion that building a life-size replica of the Lost in Space Robot was within both my skill set and my budget. Having spent years building props and gimmicks for Brent Lefavor, I figured this would be easy. It’s just fiberglass, light woodwork, and some basic electronics.

My loving spouse believed I should “grow the hell up!” So, life-size robots were out for me. Besides, where would I put it? At the time, I had an office, a studio, and an entire fishing cabin. Where I would put it wasn’t a real objection. The real objection was that, she believed in her heart, with a little guidance from her, I would become a man much more like my father than I was. I just had to “grow the hell up.” Dan’s wife, it seems, wasn’t so burdened.

Dan’s Robot, I knew, had the crinkly first-season legs. The first time around, they cast the latex rubber for the legs too thin, and they came out wrinkly whenever he moved. By the second session, that was resolved. There were only three seasons. Enough to fill a lifetime.

When I was a child, we had convenience stores called “Tote-Sums.” A man from Vicksburg figured out a way to scrape the ice crystals made by freezing Coca-Cola, sort of like Italian Ice, and serve them from a machine. They called it “Icee” and their mascot was a polar bear in a knit cap.

Since I’d been good, my mother figured I deserved a small Icee and maybe some bubble gum, so we stopped at the Tote-Sum. Pretty soon, I’d be off to my first adventure at summer camp, where I learned about Rudy, the green monster.

In the back of the store, there were two spinner racks full of comic books and a handmade magazine rack. My brother had been reading “Creepy” Magazine every time he could get his hands on one, so he skipped the comic books and looked for that in the magazine rack.

On the magazine rack, next to the Creepy magazines and a copy of “Argosy” magazine, was something I’d never seen before: a magazine with an actor dressed like Shazam on it, and the most amazing things behind him. “What the hell is this?” I thought. It was 1973.

At summer camp, my dog-eared copy of Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine was more popular in our cabin than the reconstituted mashed potatoes, archery lessons, or tug-of-war, but not more popular than stories about Rudy the green monster.

Inside were stories about Dracula, Frankenstein, Robots, Rocketships, and more. In the “Letters to Dr. Acula” section, they talked about poor ole Son of Kong, who gave his life to save Carl Denham. While I’d seen the movie, I never saw a photograph of the champaigne colored ape. I did my best to draw him in my Prang Manila Paper Sketchbook.

The Campbell kids didn’t have an allowance. We had access to a very small bit of the dividends from our company stock, but only if we were good. I filled out the form for a subscription to Famous Monsters, asked my mother to take the money from the $100 I got every quarter from the stock my grandfather gave me, and send it to Karloffornia so I could be a member of the Famous Monsters Fanclub.

In return, I got a button, a certificate of membership, and an entire year's subscription to Famous Monsters. It came every month (more or less) in a manila envelope with my name on it. MY NAME. Not my dad’s name. Not my mom’s name. Not the dog’s name. MY NAME. My first issue as an official member of the Famous Monsters Fanclub had the damaged robot from “Westworld” on it. How cool is that?

The next time I wrote to Karloffornia, I purchased three Super 8 mm films from the back of Famous Monsters: “When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth”, “Rodan”, and “The Mummy’s Curse”. An entire film lasted ten minutes. They cut out some parts. I also ordered small plastic skeleton hands that seemed to crawl out of your pocket, and a poster of King Kong, looming large over the New York skyline, holding Fay Wray, who was somehow taller than the Chrysler building.

Many years later, I met Mrs. Wray. She wasn’t that tall in real life. She was tiny, and pretty, and quite old.

I no longer had to settle for the world as it is. I now had options.

I wrote to Dr. Acula several times to ask questions about movies, but they never appeared in any of the magazines. “I’m sure they get a lot of letters from little boys,” my mother opined.

Dr. Acula was the nom de plume of one Forrest J Ackerman, editor of Famous Monsters. They called him “Uncle Forry.” I called him amazing. Sometimes they would show photos of his house, the “Ackermansion.” It was the most amazing place in the world. More amazing than the Chocolate Factory at Wonka, but real. No chocolate, which was distracting, but filled with monsters.

Though he had yet to answer any of my letters, I imagined Forry was my friend. My friend lived in a more remarkable world than any I could imagine.

May fifth, 1977. Star Wars plays at the Deville Cinema in Jackson, Mississippi. Holy snakes and toads, kids! FM Magazine had several fantastic “Star Wars” issues. They had issues with Battlestar Galactica, where they offered authentic, kid-sized Battlestar flight jackets for sale. I was still a kid, but I was an unusually big kid. They didn’t have any in my size. They were only around $40, but none of my size.

Between Star Wars and The Empire Strikes Back, I discovered girls—or rather, they discovered me. My young life was falling apart, but an actual angel said I had to dance with her—or else. I chose to dance.

Over the years, there would be something like (mumble, mumble) three dozen women in my life, but none like that.

As the years passed, new magazines emerged, but I continued to keep my FM subscription. I left high school and spent a year chasing nursing students in Junior College. The last issue of FM came out. It had a cool painting from Jim Henson’s “The Dark Crystal” on it. Henson was from Leland, Mississippi. Leland was where the wompus cats were. Nobody said it was the last issue of FM. It just was.

Since I’d been working between encounters with nursing students, I had enough money for a trip to Hollywood, California, that summer. I knew from the magazine and from friends that Uncle Forry offered free tours of the Ackermansion on Saturdays. Even if it wasn’t true, I’d get to see Hollywood!

Inside the Ackermansion, the first thing I noticed was that they hadn’t changed the avocado green shag carpet since 1972. With all the stuff jammed inside the house, I could see why.

“Wait, is that Rick Baker, monster maker? Who’s that with him?”

With him was John Landis, who made a little movie called “Animal House” that would be the model of my very existence when I went to Millsaps the following fall.

The good stuff, I’d heard, was in the basement.

Oh my stars and gartars! Is that the Stegosaurus from “King Kong?” Is that the Washington Monument and the Capitol Building from “Earth vs. the Flying Saucers?” Was that an actual Mutant Mask from “This Island Earth?” FORRY! What the hell is going on, son?

Every tour ended in the living room, next to his replica of the False Maria from “Metropolis” and a Battlestar Galactica Cylon costume, worn by a department store mannequin. He wore a cape worn by Bela Lugosi in a stage production of “Dracula” and the red stone ring from “Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein” that Lugosi just walked home with when shooting was over.

When I got home, trying to fit into a new college, with new friends, and new girls, I wrote Uncle Forry a letter. I’d written him many times. Once I got a signed photograph back.

“Hey, Forry. What happened to the magazine? It’s been months and months.”

A letter came back. This one was still on official Famous Monsters letterhead; eventually, he’d run out of that.

There may not be any more Famous Monster Magazines. He was working on other options and possibly a new publisher, but FM, as we knew it, was gone.

gone?

gone.

How the HELL could it be gone? That’s my childhood. How could it be gone?

I thought about writing about the attempts at a revival. The conmen and assholes and court cases, the death of Wendy, the pet squirrel, the Polynesian giant who became his caretaker, and all the horrible and wonderful things that came after, but I’m reaching the limit of how many words my friends will read.

Let’s just say it was unpleasant and my first taste of genuine bittersweet. The world handled the most amazing man I ever knew, who wasn’t my father, in a very unpleasant way.

Dan Monroe is making a YouTube video called “Whatever happened to Famous Monsters.” I’m sure I’ll love it. The actual answer to the question isn’t something I like to talk about. But the rest of it—boy, am I in for that.