There once was a boy who grew up in a time of wonder and amazement. A time of comic books and a time of controlling television with a joystick. A time of movies that were subtitled by brothers by the name of Shaw and of music that was meant to dance to in three-piece polyester suits. A time of heroes wielding sabers of light and of Six-Million-Dollar-Men. A time of giant reptiles with atomic breaths and plastic robots that could launch their rocket powered fists. He was happy.
Then one day the boy found that he had magically grown up. But in his mind he had not. He yearned to play with the toys of his youth but his friends and family chastised him and laid siege upon his person, pelting him with rocks and bottles finally chasing him into an abandoned windmill. After fifteen minutes of taunting they were bored rigid and exited to play golf and invest in high interest yielding money market accounts. He was sad (but happy that they had left but sad again because of the flesh wounds).
The old windmill was a cold and desolate place but he found solace in it. While rummaging through the basement for something to eat he found a box of curiously shaped pieces of plastics. He tried to eat them hoping they would hold some nutritional value but instead found that they were painful upon exiting his body. Yet he was sad again.
Then one day in a fit of boredom the man-child tinkered with the inedible pieces of plastics. He found that they mysteriously attached themselves to each other. He was pleased. Giddily he built structure upon structure until his fingers ached and his eyes burned often succumbing to slumber in unusual positions. He did not eat yet he thrived. Amazingly, he was not for want for he found sustenance in building. Day and night he would toil on his silly little creations. Days turned to months, months into years, years into decades until the windmill fell into ruin. He was never seen again.
It is rumored that he perished in that windmill a babbling old fool. Others say that those curiously shaped pieces of plastics reversed the aging process and he is now an eternal youth of thirteen years.
The following is a record of the creations found in the ruins of the old windmill. New creations are being excavated constantly. Reviews of the creations are encouraged but be are aware that the spirit of the "man-child" have been known to haunt this webpage.
Jeff Ranjo - Curator
All of the creations presented are in the memory of my brother Philip R. Ranjo (6/10/67-3/22/2001)