Behind almost every iconic snack or quirky kitchen experiment is a food scientist you’ve never heard of. But today, let’s meet the man who basically invented fun in your mouth: William A. Mitchell, a brilliant, eccentric chemist whose work transformed the American pantry—and probably your childhood.
Born in 1911, William A. Mitchell didn’t wear a cape, but he might as well have. He was a research chemist for General Foods, and in his time there, he racked up over 70 patents—a dazzling number by any standard. But what made Mitchell a legend wasn’t just the quantity of his creations—it was the sheer, joyful weirdness of them.
Let’s start with the headline act: Pop Rocks. You know the ones—those fizzy, crackly little candies that explode with delight when they hit your tongue. A mini firework show in your mouth. Mitchell actually invented them in 1956, though they weren’t released to the public until the ’70s. The science? Ingenious. He discovered a way to trap carbon dioxide gas inside sugar crystals at high pressure. When the candy melts in your mouth, BOOM—the gas escapes with a snap, crackle, and pop you can hear in your skull.
And then there’s Tang, the citrusy powdered drink mix that became the stuff of space history. Though Tang existed before the NASA partnership, it was Mitchell’s formula that turned it into the go-to beverage for astronauts. Yes, William A. Mitchell literally flavored space travel.
Not impressed yet? How about this: Cool Whip—yep, that famously fluffy, never-quite-cream topping—was also his brainchild. He engineered it in 1966 to be stable, tasty, and never melt at room temperature, which made it a supermarket revolution. You can thank (or blame) him for every Thanksgiving pie topped with a snowy mountain of the stuff.
Need more? Try quick-set Jell-O, instant pudding, and egg-free mayonnaise—all products of Mitchell’s genius in molecular food design. His goal was always the same: make food faster, longer-lasting, easier to ship, and fun to eat. He was the Willy Wonka of food science—but with a lab coat and a patent portfolio.
And yet, Mitchell never became a household name. He didn’t crave the spotlight. He didn’t market himself as a maverick. He simply created, tinkering in his lab until flavors fizzed, whipped, set, or powdered in just the right way. He was a dreamer in a beaker-strewn world, turning science into snacks that shaped American pop culture.
William A. Mitchell died in 2004, but his legacy lives on in every spoonful of instant pudding and every crackling bite of Pop Rocks. His genius was edible, his lab a playground, and his curiosity boundless.
So the next time you sip something neon or hear candy whisper secrets in your mouth, raise a glass (of Tang?) to William A. Mitchell, the unsung hero of artificial flavor and fizzy fun. Your taste buds owe him a standing ovation.
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Back in the 60s, when I was a kid living in Northeast Philadelphia, I had lots of toys. My sisters and I always had wonderful Christmases full of joy and goodies, but that’s a story for another time. One toy in particular I had was a little metal robot. He was maybe about 10 inches tall and brown in color. He looked really cool and was made in Japan. He looked like something out of a Japanese monster movie or a scene from the series Ultraman. I had another one that looked like him, but the main difference was that the face was a clear visor, and there was a man’s face printed inside. I like the first one better because he was a real robot, not a robot body with a human inside.
But this little metal robot was beautiful. The craftsmanship they put into making little tin plate toys in Japan was amazing. He took a couple of batteries, and you could throw a switch on his back, and he would walk, and two metal doors on his chest would open up, and at some point, a pair of clear plastic ray guns would pop out, light up, and make a rat-a-tat sound. It would do this for a few seconds, and then the doors would close, and he’d keep walking. I thought this was terrific. A brilliant idea conceived by some guy in Japan to bring joy to little boys in their sci-fi war games.
This is probably around the mid-60s, and I was probably 6 or 7 years old. But a few years later, when I was around 9 or 10 and had moved on to other toys, my father brought home a bigger robot like the one I had years before. This robot was around 17 inches tall and silver. He was bigger and had a more robust design, but basically did the same thing as the little brown one. But it was bigger. Better. He took three D batteries, and when you threw the switch on his back, he began to walk. But after a few steps, the metal doors on his chest would swing open, and the clear plastic ray guns would pop out and start their rat-a-tat-tat, lighting up in red. But this robot’s torso would rotate, firing at everything around it in its immediate area. He would make several revolutions, and then the metal doors would slam shut, and he’d start walking again, but in the other direction. What an amazing feat of toy engineering! Just a beautiful robot. It came in a big box with a cool image of the robot engaged in some sort of war, blasting its guns at all who would oppose it.
The name on the box was “Super Space Giant”. This was the king of all the Horikawa robots they made at the time. In the late 60s and 70s, this was a pretty expensive toy, maybe $20 or $30.
But here’s the thing. This toy wasn’t for me. My dad made that clear. I was fine with it because I had plenty of other toys to play with and was more interested in comic books, music, playing back in the woods, and riding my bicycle. I figured since my dad collected model trains like the old Lionel stuff, maybe he wanted it for his collection. He always admired the little brown robot he gave me, and maybe he wanted the big silver one for himself. He always loved science fiction, so this was a cool artifact for him to display on the mantle in our basement. But that’s not why my father bought this awesome metal robot.
As far back as I can remember, my father always had a camera in his hand. He took hundreds of photos over his lifetime. I think that although his life was in retail banking, he was always a bit of a frustrated artist. He loved science and nature, and all things artistic. But lacking any natural ability, he worked at the things he loved. Some of us are gifted with talent and sometimes squander it. Others have a bit of it and work hard at art and can become quite successful. It’s from doing the work, not from any born talent.
One of his favorite aspects of photography was film. He loved movies and filmmaking and loved all the great directors. Stanley Kubrick was his favorite. My father had an eye and an ear for great filmmaking because I think he could see himself in their work. The ability to bring to life our thoughts, hopes, and dreams on the silver screen was an incredible talent. With a camera or a movie camera, you could make anything real. You could bring your imagination and fantasies to life.
My dad would shoot everything with his little Super 8 movie camera. Christmas, seashore, Halloween, or whatever was going on. He wanted to record it. I wrote about this in my book, Lawndale, where he’s got the camera set up on Christmas Eve and all of the bright movie lights to capture the moment. But the living room is so bright when the camera rolls, as we all come down the steps, we’re all squinting from the blinding lights. What’s better than being excited about getting a busload of toys on Christmas morning, but the night before there’s a guy yelling, “Action,” and you have to act in a movie where you’re hanging your Christmas stockings on the mantle. Just hilarious and beautiful.
We have dozens of films my dad made of us as babies and growing up through the years. It’s left an indelible memory on all of us in the family.
He was friends with a couple he had met through the bank where he worked. Jim and Ellie DiFrancesco. Jim worked for the government but loved films and photography. He and my dad became close friends. At one point, they made a short movie called The Living Tarot. It was a little art film shot on 16 millimeter film and was only about 10 minutes long. The theme of this movie short was characters from the tarot deck brought to life as living characters. There wasn’t much of a storyline, but I think they had more fun making it than producing it. The actors in the film were just people they knew and worked with at the time. It looked really cool, and one of the most memorable scenes is when a friend of Jim’s named Pete Renzetti, who was a blacksmith, appeared as the devil in one scene. It was the early 70s, and it was wild. I remember asking him why they made it, and he told me that they were just experimenting with filmmaking and maybe they would sell it to people so they could show it at parties. He even had little orange flyers made up to sell the film.
But it was the 70s, and they were just a group of friends having fun doing what they loved. Nothing ever came of the film, and I don’t know if a copy of it even exists anymore. I also think that maybe my dad found that he was doing more of the work on the project than Jimmy. This happens with creative and even business partnerships. One party always thinks they’re doing more work than the other. I’ve experienced this in my life. I may know someone who has a brilliant wit, and I want to write a comedy sitcom with them. It would be great because between the two of us, we could make something hilarious and original. I desperately want to work with them to bring it to life, but they’re simply not me. They have great ideas, but are not willing to do the work. It’s disappointing because I end up doing all the writing, and they contribute almost nothing. I see the potential for greatness, but the project never comes to fruition. I have to move on with my own thing and just imagine what could have been. But if something doesn’t get made with that person, then it wasn’t meant to be.
I remember being in the basement of our house at 312 Magee Avenue in Lawndale, and my dad would be editing the film and showing me how the editing process worked. He loved shooting films and using his little splicing machine to make the cuts and put together the film. I don’t remember Jimmy ever being a part of this, and my dad felt that. So I get it. They remained friends, but I think after a while, they drifted apart because Jimmy never really grew up enough to stand alongside my dad as a creative team.
But it was just a hobby. My dad had his toy trains and worked 9 to 5, five days a week, at the bank to provide for all of us. One guy is supporting five other people. A hell of a responsibility for one man.
But my dad still had the itch to create. He decided to make a short film on his own. He experimented with some different subjects. One was just us kids popping out from behind a tree wearing Halloween masks. We were all young kids, and the film was beautiful. I could see my dad was learning how to edit and fade, and splice a film together into a concise little movie. He was learning to make films. He even used one of the kids’ little magnetic letter boards to show the film credits. I’m pretty sure he named himself as the director, called “Joe Jumpcut.” Pretty funny.
He wrote a teleplay for a short film entitled The Ring about a failed love affair and a mysterious ring. He also wrote a shooting script about a bank robbery that relies on a train being on time. Good stuff that I hope to one day release as short stories in his honor.
I suppose you’re wondering where this is going because we started this story about a little metal robot.
Dad had a bigger project in mind. For his next picture, he wanted to make something beautiful. Another short film on 16 millimeter. He would go it alone without Jimmy. He wrote a treatment for the film and worked it out on legal pads, creating his storyboards. I still have all of the written work for this film and his other ideas.
He wanted to shoot a film about a little silver robot that wreaks havoc in a small town. It was to star my older sister and my middle sister. I would make an appearance at the end of the film. I was just happy to work on the film with my dad. I was glad we could create something together, even though I was only 9 or 10 years old. He realized it was his project and he’d have to do all the work, but it was a labor of love for him. I was there for support on the shoot and being a part of the film.
I’ll give you the elevator pitch for this picture. The film opens with two girls playing in the woods. The sun is shining and they’re having fun frolicking in nature’s beauty. Suddenly, this little silver robot appears and starts firing away. They get out of harm’s way and are terrified by the appearance of this strange entity. But they have to cross a bridge to get home. They think they’ve escaped, but the robot appears again. He’s blocking the bridge. My middle sister approaches him as a decoy, while my older sister sneaks up behind him and grabs him with a blanket. She throws him off the bridge and into the icy creek below.
This shot was accomplished by my dad doing some clever edits, and instead of the robot getting tossed, he put a big rock inside the blanket instead. It looks great in the film, and really looks like my sister pitched the robot into the creek!
Anyway, the girls are seen looking down at the blanket sinking into the depths before they take off. The final shot of the film is a boy walking out to his garage. (Me making my cinematic debut as an actor!) He opens the garage door, and inside is a stack of his toys in boxes. He’s moving the boxes out of the way to get to a larger box on the bottom, and it’s marked with the image and the words, Super Space Giant, on the front. He lifts the lid to the box and… the robot toy is gone. The final shot is the boy looking out into the sunset with wonder and bewilderment. A brilliant performance.
The film was entitled The Traveler.
I laugh when I think of what the critics would have said…
Gene Shalit says, “The Traveler is a cinematic masterpiece!”
Siskel and Ebert rave: “Two thumbs up—Way Up, for The Traveler!“
But in all honesty, this little film. This project defined the age-old relationship between a father and his son, where, for a time, they met on even ground, where Dad made something that finally connected to his artistic son.
Even for a fleeting moment.
The film was shown to everybody, and we loved it. He would play a record for the soundtrack while we watched it. It was Camille Saint-Saëns – Danse Macabre in G Minor. (I’ve provided a link below.) I think if my father’s life had taken a different path, he could have been a filmmaker. But I think he would have been a great actor like De Niro, great. He definitely had that certain something for the dramatic. I also think my father would have been a great and beloved teacher at a high school or a college. He would have been great at that.
So we all loved the film, and it stayed in the family’s collection of home movies as part of our legacy. The Super Space Giant stood on the mantle in the basement. A beautiful toy I never played with, but got to be in a movie with. The box he came in was used to store toy railroad tracks. He even wrote the word “Track” on the box in pen.
Eventually, when we moved to Wildwood, New Jersey, in 1979. The robot was returned to its original box and stored in the attic for years.
Once in the ’90s or early 2000s, my dad was at one of the biggest toy train shows with his brother Jack in York, PA. They both collected toy trains and had loved them since they were children. They enjoyed spending a weekend together, being surrounded by people of like mind and collectors. I never went with them on these adventures because I wasn’t interested in toy trains. I’m a comic book guy. But my sister would go with him when she had the opportunity to join them.
I don’t know if he had brought the robot with him to the show or was talking to someone about old collectible toys when the robot was mentioned. The man my dad was speaking to said that he could get $1000 for a robot like that. A vintage toy from the late ’60s. My father wasn’t interested in selling it because I think he wanted to leave the robot to me.
In 2014, I took a trip down to Wildwood to pick up my comic book collection that was still in a black metal filing cabinet in my old bedroom. My dad went up to the attic and brought down the robot. He told me about the conversation he had had at the train show and said I could probably get $1000 for him on eBay, no problem. I told him I might just hold on to him for a while now that he was finally mine.
I showed him to my then-girlfriend Kate one night when she was over at my apartment. I put him on the floor and hit the switch. He started marching along, and then the doors opened, and he started to fire.
“Isn’t that cool?” I said.
“Seems kinda scary,” she replied.
There’s nothing scary about this little robot, which is now over half a century old. He was simply a marvel of Japanese engineering.
My mother passed away in March 2013, and my father passed in February 2016.
I kept the robot in its box without its batteries in case of leakage, and it stayed there for several years. I later asked my older sister if she wanted to display him at her house in North Wildwood as a memory item and antique.
She wasn’t interested.
So he remained in the closet, sleeping in his box until now. He never really got to do much of anything throughout his life. Only one great film role.
So this year, I decided to put him on eBay and find him a good home. I used to collect comic books and still have many in boxes in my closet. I’ve sold off most of my collection because it was fun as a kid, but as I’ve gotten older, I realized collecting things almost seems like an ailment. When I look back on my life, the greatest things in it were events and people and places. Not things. The things may have been part of it, but you can’t hold on to them. You can’t really hold onto anything but your memories. I guess that’s why I write books. At least I can leave my fond memories and ideas behind for someone to read when I’m gone. I can’t take things with me. What’s the point in owning so many things? There’s too much responsibility in that.
As you’re reading this, your mind and body are only being rented by your soul. Everybody dies. Everybody who has ever walked the earth dies. But there’s a ton of stuff left behind or passed on to other people who either sell it or pass it to another person. What’s the point? One of the true meanings of being alive is to have experiences. Good or bad, you always learn more along the way. Why does everybody want so much stuff? Why did my dad have to own so many sets of toy trains that he had to have special custom cabinets made to house and display them all? Why so many trains?
I get why he built a giant model railroad in the attic. It gave him something to do with his time. It was a beautiful hobby. I loved what he made up there. I remember he once said it made him happy because it was the only world he could totally control. Why would anyone want to control the world or any part of it? It simply can’t be done. The world was here long before we came along and will continue to spin when the dark wings of destiny scatter our days on the wind. Why would anyone even need a world they could control? It’s beyond all of our reach. Just enjoy your little hobby.
Back in the ’80s, when Hurricane Gloria hit the Jersey Shore, the police drove up and down the streets telling people to evacuate the area. Wildwood is one giant flood zone. It was going to be a crazy storm. My older sister gathered my mother and two sisters up and took them to her apartment out in Conshohocken.
My dad stayed behind with me at the house and refused to leave. We had a great night. Steaks, good wine, cognac, chocolate, and a great Charles Bronson movie. That was worth hanging out there with Dad. We had a fun experience just the two of us.
But when asked why he didn’t want to evacuate to the safety of the mainland during the storm, he said the following: “What if we can’t get back on the island due to flooding? There could be looting. They could steal my trains.”
Within a year of my father’s passing, all of the trains were sold, and so were the cabinets they were in. Now, it’s like it never happened. Sure, it was fun running the trains around the tree at Christmas, but once the real toys showed up, they were forgotten.
Collecting to me feels like you’re trying to fill something in your heart that’s missing. Your childhood, love, care, and nostalgia. I don’t know. Collecting things is a waste of time and won’t ever bring you any sustainable happiness. It’s just more stuff for you to worry about.
So now the Super Space Giant is on eBay. I took a lot of great pictures and even shot a little video to show him spinning and shooting his ray guns.
I listed him for $995. He’s an original in his box. There are replicas of him on eBay selling for $300-$500, and they’re beautiful, but they’re not the original vintage toy in great shape. Copies are never as valuable as originals. Just look at vintage cars. Collectors want the originals.
I wanted to test him before I put him on eBay, so I put three fresh D batteries in him and fired him up. As I held the little robot in my hands, his legs moved and his motor whirred just like he was new. But when I put him on my hardwood floor, he wasn’t strong enough to walk. It was puzzling. When I held him aloft, his legs moved fine, but as soon as I set him down, he wouldn’t take a step. He did, however, spin and open his doors and fire his guns. So I had to write in his description on eBay that he could walk, but his legs weren’t strong enough to propel him forth. I said he may just need a minor adjustment.
He’s been on eBay for about nine months now, and I’ve had no nibbles. I don’t care. He’s fine where he is. I’ve got time, and so does he. But there’s more…
Here is the item description I wrote for the robot:
Back in the late 60s or early 70s, my father acquired this robot. He used it in a short film he was making about a toy robot that escaped its box and terrorized the neighborhood. It was called, The Traveler.” I was born in 1962, so I was around 9 or 10 when he made this film. Two of my sisters are in the movie, and they thwart the robot’s plans. It was a cute little home movie, and my family enjoyed it for years. My father passed away a few years ago, and this robot was in some of his effects. I asked my sister, who had been in the movie, if she wanted to display the robot in her house. She wasn’t interested. He’s been resting in his box for a couple of years, and I want this lost traveler to find a good home.
He is an original from the ’60s or early ’70s. He’s complete and not missing any parts. Horikawa’s Super Space Giant stands out as a remarkable piece of vintage toy engineering, standing an impressive 17 inches tall, making it the tallest in Horikawa’s lineup and among the tallest in the industry overall. Available in silver, this battery-operated robot shares many similarities in style and functionality with Horikawa’s popular Super Astronaut robot, albeit on a much bigger scale.
Super Space Giant featured Rotate-o-Matic and stop-and-go action, with its chest door swinging open to reveal a blinking, shooting gun accompanied by realistic shooting noises as its upper torso revolved.
I took him out of his box and put 3 “D” batteries in, and flicked his switch. He came to life and started moving his legs. I placed him on the floor, but he didn’t walk. I picked him up, and his legs still moved. So he works, but maybe his leg mechanism just needs a little attention to make him walk. I placed him back on the floor, and his metal doors swung open, and his chest guns emerged and started firing, lighting up red with a rat-a-tat sound. It was good to see him again. He’s in really nice shape, and there is no oxidation in his battery area. My dad was good at taking care of things, and he always stored him without batteries to avoid leakage.
The box is original, but I see it is a little beat up. The old tape is yellowing to hold it together. I noticed that the word “Track” is written near the top front of the box. The robot stood on the mantle in our basement in Philly growing up, but I’m assuming my dad stored the track for his toy railroad in the box. But you can see all of the numbers and other information about the robot on the box.
But The Traveler is back in action, and I hope he finds a good home. Please contact me with any questions or if you need additional photos or videos.
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A few days ago, I got this message from someone who saw my listing on eBay:
Hi, what a beautiful story! It’s a shame you are selling it, I would love to own it and add it to my small collection of vintage robots (he’d need a warm coat, scarf, and woolly hat tho, as it gets cold here in North Yorkshire in the UK). Unfortunately, he’s way, way out of my price range! I hope he finds a good caring home though P.S, I’ve been repairing these vintage robots for 40-odd years, and I can definitely say the reason his legs move when suspended and not under his own weight is that the crown gear that drives the walking mechanism is split, so it has just enough ‘bite’ on the driving shaft to move the legs with no load, but spins on the shaft when there is resistance, it wasn’t an issue on older robots, as the gears were steel and brass, but later models all had nylon gears, which deteriorate with time, it’s an easy fix, especially nowadays, when hard to find parts like that can simply be 3D printed, as long as the right materials/plastic wire is used, hope this helps with the sale, if I were selling him, I would have no reservations in stating this in the description I’ll keep an eye on him, just out of interest! Good luck, Kindest Regards, Guy
I loved this message! I was so touched by his words, I thought, if this guy offers me $500, I’ll send him the robot. I wrote back to him and told him to make me an offer, and I’d make a deal with him.
His response:
Hi again, no problem at all, yes, I’ve been mending all things mechanical since I was little! I’m a (retired)engineer/designer and fabricator in the motorsport world, both racing cars and motorcycles. I wouldn’t insult you or waste your time with an offer. The fact is, it’s definitely worth what you are asking, to the right collector, it’s quite a rare and excellent condition little fella! (Well, not so little!) I’ve bought quite a few robots from the U.S, it’s about $80 to $120 depending on the location, etc, as far as I can remember, anyway, as a lover of these great toys (tho they are more great pieces of engineering) I hope he finds a good home, don’t take any really low offers, the right person will find him eventually
This is the type of person who understands the robot. He could fix him. Make him walk again. He’d give him a loving home.
I may reach out to him and tell him that if I don’t sell him in a certain amount of time, and if he would pay for the shipping to the UK, I’ll give him the robot for free.
Because what he wrote to me was better than collecting stuff, and better than money. It was real. And money can’t buy that sort of connection. That experience.
The Traveler would travel to the UK! Seems fitting for this amazing little robot.
Here are some photos of his bots he sent me.
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Here’s his little workshop!
Plenty more robots in boxes!
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(I’m no longer on Facebook, but if you are, please copy the link to this story and post it in one of the Lawndale or Lawncrest Groups on Facebook so they can enjoy it.)
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On a final note, writing this story has been a lot of fun. It’s inspired me to write more Lawndale stories like this one. Maybe if I get enough, I can release LAWNDALE in a special hardback edition with the additional stories included. Thoughts?
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But in the meantime, if you liked this story, there are plenty more in my book, Lawndale!
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Thank you for reading my blog. Please like, comment, share, and most of all, follow Phicklephilly. All of my books are available on Amazon in Kindle, Audible, and paperback formats.
When Netflix debuted Love, Death & Robots in 2019, it felt like a punch of pure imagination—unfiltered, wild, and unapologetically adult. Each episode stood alone: a short, animated story drenched in sci-fi, horror, or dark humor. But this bold anthology didn’t appear out of nowhere. Its DNA can be traced back to a rebellious magazine from the late ’70s and an equally irreverent animated film from the early ’80s. The true ancestor of Love, Death & Robots? Heavy Metal.
A Magazine That Changed Everything
In 1977, an English-language version of the French magazine Métal Hurlant launched in the United States under the name Heavy Metal. It wasn’t your average comic book. This was a glossy, surreal fusion of graphic storytelling, eroticism, violence, and high-concept science fiction and fantasy. Its pages were filled with dazzling, intricate artwork from legendary artists like Moebius, H.R. Giger, and Richard Corben, and it wasn’t afraid to explore provocative or philosophical themes.
For a generation of readers and creators, Heavy Metal was an artistic awakening. It pushed the boundaries of what comics—and storytelling—could be. Its influence extended far beyond print, seeping into music, video games, and film.
The 1981 Animated Film: Cult Classic Chaos
In 1981, Heavy Metal was adapted into an animated anthology film. Staying true to its source, the movie was a collection of disconnected stories loosely tied together by a glowing green orb known as the Loc-Nar. The animation was raw, the music heavy (featuring Black Sabbath, Blue Öyster Cult, and more), and the tone unmistakably adult. It was weird, sexy, violent—and instantly iconic.
Though critics were mixed at the time, the film developed a cult following. For many budding animators and filmmakers, Heavy Metal was proof that animation could be mature, experimental, and deeply creative. One of those fans? A young Tim Miller.
Enter Tim Miller and David Fincher
Fast forward a few decades. Tim Miller, founder of Blur Studio and future director of Deadpool, teamed up with acclaimed director David Fincher (Fight Club, Se7en) to reboot the Heavy Metal movie for a new generation. They envisioned a fresh animated anthology, bringing in different artists and studios to craft unique short films.
The project bounced between studios for years—at one point, even James Cameron and Guillermo del Toro were attached. But despite the high-profile interest, the reboot never got off the ground as a feature film.
Then came Netflix.
Love, Death & Robots Is Born
Miller and Fincher pitched the idea to Netflix as a streaming anthology. The name changed, but the spirit didn’t. Love, Death & Robots became the spiritual successor to Heavy Metal, updated for the 21st century. It embraced cutting-edge animation, diverse storytelling, and a freedom rarely seen on mainstream platforms.
Each episode became its own universe—one might be a dark satire, another a photorealistic sci-fi thriller, another a whimsical fantasy. The only constant was the show’s commitment to pushing boundaries, just as Heavy Metal had done decades earlier.
Why the Connection Matters
Understanding the roots of Love, Death & Robots enriches the viewing experience. It’s not just an anthology for animation fans—it’s part of a legacy that champions visual storytelling without limits. It’s a love letter to pulp science fiction, bold ideas, and the artists willing to take risks.
So the next time you’re watching an episode of Love, Death & Robots, remember: this strange, beautiful, disturbing ride began in the pages of a rebellious magazine and a cult film that refused to play by the rules.
And it’s still breaking them today.
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Thank you for reading my blog. Please like, comment, share, and most of all, follow Phicklphilly. All of my books are available on Amazon in Kindle, Audible, and paperback formats.
Not the version of you shaped by paychecks and praise. Not the version polished for job interviews or social media. I mean the true you—the one born into this world already carrying something rare, something sacred. A gift. A pulse beneath the noise.
For a long time, I didn’t know. Or maybe I did, deep down—but like so many of us, I buried it beneath responsibility, routine, and the subtle, relentless pressure to be normal. I worked jobs. I wore the clothes. I played the part. I smiled through meetings and shook hands with people I never truly connected with. And yes, I did well—because talent will always find a way to peek through. But none of it ever made me happy.
Because I never felt like I belonged. I was there, sure. Present. But not part of it. I was always the outsider. I walked among them but never with them. I wasn’t cut out to follow, and I wasn’t interested in leading. I preferred the quiet path. The solitary way.
And when I got older—finally stepping out of that manic, noisy, approval-hungry world—I started to feel something return. A faint but familiar voice, like the one I heard as a boy. That boy who used to draw for hours. Who sculpted little monsters out of clay, built plastic models with precision, wrote songs when he could barely strum a chord. That kid who found joy in the simple, sacred act of making something that hadn’t existed before.
That was me. That’s always been me. And I realize now that I had wandered away from him for too long.
School was never built for people like me. It’s a factory floor, built to produce the obedient people who will follow the rules, color inside the lines, keep their heads down, and not ask too many questions. But I was always asking questions. Always dreaming. Always making. And I realize now, in this chapter of life, that creation isn’t just what I do—it’s who I am.
I’ve spent decades chasing the wrong things. Status. Comfort. Pleasure. And all it gave me was distraction. But now? I sit with myself. I write. I remember. I create. And I feel… peace.
It began slowly. A blog post here. A short story there. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t perfect. But it was mine. And that small act—placing something into the world that didn’t exist before—was like a spiritual balm. The more I did it, the more I remembered who I am. The more I healed.
When I was a teenager, the moment I could strum a few chords on a guitar, I didn’t try to mimic someone else’s song. I wrote my own. Everyone else was trying to play the greatest hits. I wanted to make the next one. Even back then, I felt it. I didn’t want to replicate—I wanted to originate.
That was my gift.
My father, a man with a deep love for music, art, and literature, once said something I’ve never forgotten. He told me he admired those things, cherished them, but could only look, listen, and read. Then he looked at me, this curious boy who never had a lesson in his life, and said, “But you—you can make them.”
That moment stayed with me.
Now, years later, I see it all clearly. This is who I was born to be. A creator. And I say that with no ego, only clarity. I don’t need the world’s permission or applause anymore. I just need a quiet room, a good idea, and the will to bring it to life. And at this stage in life, that has become my truest joy.
No office. No boss. No ladder to climb. Just the simple, sacred rhythm of creation. Every story I write is a thread I weave into the tapestry of my life—proof that I was here, that I saw, that I made something.
What if you knew who you really are?
I can only tell you what I’ve learned: joy is not found in chasing what was never meant for you. It’s found in returning to what was always yours. Your purpose. Your voice. Your gift. That little flame that never went out.
And once you see it, once you know it, you can never unsee it again.
That’s when the peace comes.
And oh my, it’s so beautiful.
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Stretching for over two miles along the sandy shores of Wildwood, New Jersey, the iconic boardwalk has been a beacon of summer fun for over a century. What began as a simple wooden walkway in 1900 has evolved into one of the most vibrant and beloved seaside destinations on the East Coast, drawing millions of visitors each year.
In its early days, the boardwalk was a modest path built to protect beachgoers’ feet from the hot sand. Over time, as Wildwood grew in popularity, so did the boardwalk. By the mid-20th century, it had transformed into a bustling hub of entertainment, earning its reputation as a hotspot for family vacations and youthful escapes.
The golden era of the 1950s and 60s saw the rise of iconic attractions that cemented Wildwood’s status as a premier resort town. Hunt’s Pier became a cornerstone of boardwalk culture, offering thrilling rides like the Golden Nugget Mine Ride and unforgettable family memories. Today, that legacy lives on through Morey’s Piers, which took over in the 1970s and continues to push the boundaries of fun with state-of-the-art roller coasters, water parks, and carnival games.
Perhaps the most enduring symbol of Wildwood’s boardwalk is the tram car. First introduced in 1949, the unmistakable yellow tram, with its famous “Watch the tram car, please” announcement, has ferried generations of visitors along the bustling strip, becoming as much a part of the experience as the attractions themselves.
Over the years, the boardwalk has also embraced change, adapting to shifting tastes while preserving its nostalgic charm. Classic arcades and saltwater taffy shops coexist alongside modern eateries and boutique stores, offering something for everyone. Despite economic shifts and occasional storms that threatened its structure, the boardwalk has always bounced back, stronger and more dynamic than ever.
Today, Wildwood’s boardwalk is more than just a place to stroll; it’s a living piece of history that captures the spirit of summer. Whether you’re indulging in Curley’s Fries, screaming on a coaster at Morey’s Piers, or simply watching the ocean from a bench, the boardwalk offers a timeless escape that keeps visitors coming back year after year.
As the boardwalk continues to evolve, its heart remains unchanged—a place where memories are made, and summer never ends.
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Wildwood, New Jersey, isn’t just known for its boardwalk and beaches—it’s also home to one of the largest collections of mid-century modern architecture in the United States. This unique style, dubbed “Doo-Wop architecture,” defines Wildwood’s retro charm, transporting visitors back to the heyday of the 1950s and 60s.
Doo-Wop architecture takes its name from the music of the same era, reflecting the playful, bold, and futuristic designs that defined post-war optimism. The motels of Wildwood embraced this aesthetic wholeheartedly, featuring neon signs, kidney-shaped pools, angular rooflines, and space-age themes. Bright pastel colors, plastic palm trees, and whimsical names like the Starlux, Astronaut, and Caribbean added to their allure, creating an atmosphere that felt more like a movie set than a seaside resort.
During the mid-20th century, these motels boomed as Wildwood became a vacation hotspot for families and young couples. Affordable and exciting, they offered a perfect escape, combining kitschy fun with modern amenities. Visitors flocked to these futuristic motels, where every design detail seemed to celebrate leisure and indulgence.
However, by the 1990s, Wildwood faced significant change. Aging motels were demolished to make way for high-rise condos, threatening the Doo-Wop style that gave the town its identity. Concerned locals and preservationists stepped in, forming the Doo Wop Preservation League in 1997. This organization worked to save Wildwood’s architectural treasures, promoting their historical significance and even relocating structures to protect them.
Today, efforts to preserve Wildwood’s Doo-Wop heritage are thriving. The Doo Wop Experience Museum celebrates this iconic style with vintage artifacts, neon signs, and educational exhibits. Meanwhile, many of the surviving motels have been restored, blending retro charm with modern comforts. The Starlux Hotel, for example, stands as a shining example of how Doo-Wop design can be celebrated while catering to contemporary travelers.
Walking through Wildwood today feels like stepping back in time. The motels, with their glowing neon and whimsical facades, are a reminder of a bygone era when architecture wasn’t afraid to be fun and flamboyant. As Wildwood continues to evolve, the Doo-Wop style remains a cherished part of its identity, ensuring future generations can experience the magic of mid-century modern design at the Jersey Shore.
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Perched on the rocky shores of North Wildwood, the Hereford Inlet Lighthouse stands as a beacon of both history and mystery. Built in 1874, this picturesque lighthouse has guided mariners through the often treacherous waters of Hereford Inlet for nearly 150 years. Its Victorian-style architecture and lush gardens make it a striking landmark, but its past is steeped in intrigue, from storms and shipwrecks to whispered tales of ghostly encounters.
A Lighthouse Born of Necessity
The Hereford Inlet Lighthouse was constructed in response to numerous shipwrecks along the New Jersey coast. Designed by Paul J. Pelz, who also worked at the Library of Congress, the lighthouse was both functional and elegant, with its unique stick-style design setting it apart from traditional lighthouses. Initially staffed by dedicated keepers, the lighthouse’s bright beam helped sailors navigate the perilous inlet and safely reach their destinations.
In 1913, a devastating storm severely damaged the lighthouse, prompting it to be moved 150 feet inland to protect it from future erosion. Despite the relocation, the lighthouse continued to operate until it was decommissioned in 1964, leaving its light dark and its halls quiet.
Legends and Lore
As with many historic landmarks, the Hereford Inlet Lighthouse is shrouded in legends. Some locals and visitors have reported eerie occurrences, such as flickering lights, unexplained footsteps, and the feeling of being watched. These tales have sparked speculation that the spirits of past lighthouse keepers or shipwrecked sailors may linger in its halls, adding a layer of mystery to its already storied past.
One enduring story involves a shipwrecked schooner whose crew allegedly sought refuge at the lighthouse during a brutal winter storm. While the details remain murky, some believe their spirits still wander the grounds, especially on foggy nights.
A New Era
After years of neglect, the lighthouse was restored in the 1980s, thanks to the efforts of local historians and volunteers. Today, it operates as a museum and historic site, welcoming visitors to explore its exhibits, climb the tower, and wander its beautifully maintained gardens.
A Living Legacy
The Hereford Inlet Lighthouse is more than just a navigational aid—it’s a symbol of North Wildwood’s resilience and maritime history. Whether you’re drawn by its beauty, fascinated by its history, or intrigued by its mysteries, this iconic landmark offers a glimpse into the past and a touch of the unknown.
You can read about my summers in Wildwood here:
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Here’s my latest book!
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If you love stories but don’t always have time to sit down and read, Audible is a game-changer. Whether you’re commuting, doing chores, or just relaxing, audiobooks let you enjoy books anywhere, anytime. And the best part? You can get a free trial and start listening today—including my books!
What is Audible?
Audible is Amazon’s audiobook platform, home to thousands of professionally narrated titles across every genre you can imagine—mystery, romance, sci-fi, nonfiction, self-help, and much more. With an Audible membership, you get:
1 credit per month to redeem for any audiobook, no matter the price
Unlimited listening to Audible Originals and other curated content
The ability to keep your books forever, even if you cancel
Easy listening across devices: phone, tablet, Alexa, or desktop
Start browsing and use your first credit to grab a book, like one of mine!
Where to Find My Books on Audible
Once you’re in, just search for my name or the title of one of my books in the Audible library. If you’re already a fan of my writing, hearing it come to life with a great narrator adds a whole new layer to the experience.
Whether you’re new to audiobooks or already hooked, Audible is one of the best ways to fit more stories into your life. And with the free trial, there’s nothing to lose—except maybe some quiet time!
Let me know what you think if you give one of my books a listen. Happy reading (or should I say—listening)!
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“Rick and Morty,” the animated series created by Dan Harmon and Justin Roiland, is more than just a cartoon. It’s a mind-bending journey through the multiverse that tackles existential questions, absurdity, and the complexities of human existence. In this blog post, we’ll explore the brilliant truths hidden within the layers of humor and chaos that make “Rick and Morty” a cult favorite.
Embracing Absurdity
One of the central themes of the show is embracing life’s absurdity. Through the character of Rick, the show challenges the very notion of meaning and purpose. The universe, as Rick sees it, is chaotic and indifferent. The characters navigate through dimensions, where the rules of reality are ever-changing, highlighting the absurdity of existence itself.
The Nature of Intelligence
Rick, the eccentric genius scientist, is a symbol of high intelligence and, simultaneously, a troubled soul. His vast knowledge and scientific prowess often lead him to nihilism and despair. “Rick and Morty” reminds us that intelligence can be a burden, and even the brightest minds can be plagued by existential questions.
Mortality and Meaning
The show doesn’t shy away from the dark truths of mortality. Characters die and are replaced by alternate versions of themselves. Morty, the innocent and naive grandson, is a poignant reminder of the fragile nature of human existence. The series delves deep into the struggle to find meaning in a seemingly indifferent universe.
Moral Ambiguity
“Rick and Morty” blurs the lines between right and wrong. Rick’s actions are often morally ambiguous, reflecting the complexity of human nature. The show forces viewers to confront ethical dilemmas and challenges traditional notions of good and evil.
The Multiverse
The concept of the multiverse, a central theme in the series, opens up a universe of possibilities. It explores the idea that every choice we make creates an infinite number of parallel universes, each with its own outcomes. This idea prompts reflection on the consequences of our choices.
Self-Reflection
The characters in “Rick and Morty” are far from perfect. They grapple with their flaws, insecurities, and vulnerabilities. This mirrors the human experience, where self-reflection and self-acceptance are crucial for personal growth.
Conclusion
“Rick and Morty” is not your typical animated show. It’s a philosophical rollercoaster that delves into the profound questions of existence. The brilliance of the series lies in its ability to combine dark truths with humor, creating a unique and thought-provoking experience. “Rick and Morty” challenges viewers to embrace life’s absurdity, confront their existential anxieties, and find meaning in a seemingly chaotic universe.
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In the world of music and sound, few objects hold as much allure and mystique as the humble effects pedal. Among the many stompboxes that have left an indelible mark on the music industry, the Univox Super Fuzz pedal stands out as a legendary and enduring icon. This unassuming device has a rich history, a unique sound, and a dedicated following. Join us on a journey through time as we explore the glorious history of the Univox Super Fuzz pedal.
The Birth of the Super Fuzz
The story begins in the late 1960s when the Univox company, a Japanese manufacturer of musical instruments and amplifiers, introduced the Super Fuzz pedal. At the heart of the Super Fuzz’s unique sound was its ability to generate thick, velvety fuzz with a distinctive octave doubling effect. This characteristic set it apart from other fuzz pedals of its era and became the hallmark of the Super Fuzz’s sonic identity.
The Birth of Grunge
The Univox Super Fuzz made a significant impact in the world of music during the 1970s. It was particularly popular among the emerging punk and underground rock scenes. Bands like The Stooges and Hawkwind embraced the Super Fuzz’s powerful, saturated tones to create a wall of sound that was aggressive, raw, and rebellious. However, it was in the 1980s and 1990s that the Super Fuzz truly found its stride. This was the era of grunge, and no pedal was more emblematic of this genre than the Univox Super Fuzz. Seattle-based bands like Nirvana, Mudhoney, and Soundgarden relied on its distinctive growl to shape the anthems that defined a generation.
A Sonic Time Machine
The Univox Super Fuzz is often referred to as a “time machine” in a box because it captures the essence of a bygone era in the world of rock music. With the Super Fuzz at your feet, you could transport your sound straight back to the raw, unadulterated energy of the ’70s and ’90s.
The Resurgence of a Legend
In recent years, the Univox Super Fuzz has experienced a resurgence in popularity. A new generation of guitarists and musicians, driven by a hunger for the authentic and a reverence for the past, has embraced the Super Fuzz for its unique tonal characteristics. Many boutique pedal makers have even released their own interpretations of this classic design, keeping the spirit of the Super Fuzz alive and well.
The Legacy Lives On
The Univox Super Fuzz pedal is more than just a piece of gear; it’s a sonic time capsule. It encapsulates the rebellious spirit and raw power of the genres it helped shape. Its enduring legacy continues to influence artists and inspire new generations of musicians to this day. In the ever-evolving world of music, where trends come and go, some classics stand the test of time. The Univox Super Fuzz is undoubtedly one of those classics. So whether you’re a grunge enthusiast, a punk rocker, or simply a lover of rich, saturated fuzz tones, the Univox Super Fuzz pedal is a piece of history you can carry with you on your musical journey, and its glorious history lives on through the power of sound.
On a final note, I had one I got for $40 in 1979. The guitarist in my first band Renage used one and I loved the sound it made. I used the Univox Super Fuzz for years and loved its performance. 30 years later I sold it for $1000 to a company in Europe. I assume they wanted it for its guts in order to reproduce the sound in their own pedals.
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, I would love to own it and add it to my small collection of vintage robots (he’d need a warm coat, scarf, and woolly hat tho, as it gets cold here in North Yorkshire in the UK). Unfortunately, he’s way, way out of my price range! I hope he finds a good caring home though 
P.S, I’ve been repairing these vintage robots for 40-odd years, and I can definitely say the reason his legs move when suspended and not under his own weight is that the crown gear that drives the walking mechanism is split, so it has just enough ‘bite’ on the driving shaft to move the legs with no load, but spins on the shaft when there is resistance, it wasn’t an issue on older robots, as the gears were steel and brass, but later models all had nylon gears, which deteriorate with time, it’s an easy fix, especially nowadays, when hard to find parts like that can simply be 3D printed, as long as the right materials/plastic wire is used, hope this helps with the sale, if I were selling him, I would have no reservations in stating this in the description 
I’ll keep an eye on him, just out of interest! Good luck, Kindest Regards, Guy
!) I’ve bought quite a few robots from the U.S, it’s about $80 to $120 depending on the location, etc, as far as I can remember, anyway, as a lover of these great toys (tho they are more great pieces of engineering) I hope he finds a good home, don’t take any really low offers, the right person will find him eventually 
Phicklephilly 