or threw up a shower of dirt or sent thencans tumbling high in the air.nOur main source of supply for fireworksnwas a candy store located justndown the street from the park. Thenstore was a magical, even a holy placenwhere every imaginable good thingncould be bought for a nickel, dime, ornquarter. In the rear was a soda fountainnwith wire chairs that had bluish grayncloth slipcovers pulled over their backs.nAlong one wall near the entrance was anlarge glass-fronted case containing candynbars of every known variety—BabynRuths, Milky Ways, Snickers, Mounds,nHersheys, O’Henrys, Mr. Goodbars,nClark bars, Mars bars, cream- and jellyfillednchocolates, whole cherries coverednwith meringue, marzipan, andnchocolate — and there were othernbrands that were wonderfully exotic butntoo expensive for us. In the large baynwindows facing the street was the fireworksndisplay — skyrockets shaped likenarrows with cones for heads, Romanncandles, enormous sparklers, enoughnfirecrackers of all sizes and degrees ofnlethality to blow up half the neighborhood.nAlong the wall opposite the candyncase was a big rack holding a vastnnumber of magazines, most of themnpulps: Operator-5, Spider, Doc Savage,nThe Shadow, Argosy, MarvelnTales, G-8 and His Battle Aces, all ofnwhich I bought and read with the mostnintense concentration. Then therenwere the science-fiction magazines —nAstounding Stories, Amazing Stories,nWonder Stories — which I took evennmore seriously because I had firmnplans to grow up to be either a chemistnor an astronomer and was already anregular mail-order customer of thenChemkit Chemical Company of Hagerstown,nMaryland, which suppliednme with test tubes, flasks, beakers, andnlittle wooden kegs of various concoctionsnfor my basement laboratory. Intook science-fiction so seriously that Indeveloped an addiction to it that lastednfrom about the age of nine untilnaround 16, when it seemed to me thatnthe quality of the writing had suddenlyndeclined.nThe covers of some of these magazinesnwere miracles of lurid eroticnsuggestiveness. A typical scene (andnthere were a thousand variations)nmight offer up a gorgeous flaxenhairedngirl clad in a pair of provocative­nly ripped black-lace panties and clutchingna torn piece of some other intimatengarment to her perfectly globularnbreasts — all this while she is thrashingnin the embrace of a dragon-faced spacenfiend who has long red fangs drippingnwith lust and who holds in one clawednhand a huge ray gun that is shooting anmolten stream of radioactive deadlinessnat a space-suited figure hangingnweightless in the gray cosmic distance.nAll these magazines had abundantnfront and back matter devoted to advertisements,nand these provided us with ansomewhat subfler kind of titillation andninstruction. They appealed not just tonour nascent sexual potency but to ournsense of complete impotence in allnother spheres of human endeavor. Innnearly every issue of the pulps CharlesnAtlas had a full-page ad in which henconfessed that he too was once an97-pound weakling with stringy musclesnand a scrawny chest. He illustratednhis former helplessness with a cartoonnshowing a 97-pound weakling beingnhumiliated at the beach by a burly thugnwho delighted in kicking sand into thenpoor devil’s face. But then Atlas toldnabout his discovery of a miraculousnexercise technique known as “DynamicnTension” that enabled him to developnthe beautiful bulging physiquenshown in the accompanying photographnof himself standing with gleamingnspread legs and massive flexednbiceps. After that achievement thenbeach bully never again dared to harassnhim, and the gorgeous girls in bathingnsuits couldn’t keep their hands off hisnbody.nThen there was the ad that promisednto send by return mail a new kind ofnX-ray telescope that made one capablenof seeing through bedroom walls andngirls’ dresses and that had us pop-eyednwith visions of possibility. Other adsnoffered instruction by an oracularlooking,ngoateed gentleman namednSherwin Cody in how to improve one’snspoken English until one could bencompletely at ease in dinner conversationnwith the highest levels of society.nOr there were courses that could bentaken at home In Your Spare Time thatnwould train one to become an expertnradio technician or to play a musicalninstrument, As Easy As ABC. Stillnothers assured us of similar quick ascendanciesnto various forms of luxury,nsocial prominence, good health, andnnnpower. One could buy Beautiful LifelikenPhoto Rings (Be the First on YournBlock to Own One); reading glassesnthat would make you look like a movienstar for $2.95; enough insurance toncover the entire family for just $1.00 anmonth (Think of the Peace of Mind);nPage’s Pile Tablets that would do fornone’s bowel movements what the Rosicruciansnand their Mysteries of Lifencould do for one’s soul.nIn short, at a tender age we werengiven a complete education in the verynbest promises of the American Dream.nThe magazine covers provided us withnmagnificent images of what sex wasngoing to be like if we ever became oldnenough to have any, while the adsnassured us that on the no less eroticnplane of solid American technologynand know-how we need have no fear ofnthe future because when we grew up, ifnonly we applied ourselves, we could allnbecome Charles Atiases, learn a rewardingntrade, speak properly, andneven play an instrument proficiently, atnthose gatherings where people begannby laughing when you sat down at thenpiano.nJohn W. Aldridge, professor of Englishnat the University of Michigan, is thenauthor of After the Lost Generation,nThe Devil in the Fire, and othernvolumes of criticism.nLetter From Albionnby Andrei NavrozovnIn Defense of ConspicuousnConsumptionnAfter my March letter, “Three Days innSodom, Two in Gomorrah,” readers ofnthis magazine have written to ask why Inam so down on conspicuous consumption.nI want to go on record here: I amnnot. But even a gourmand should disapprovenof gluttony, since pleasure existsnonly insofar as it is subject to will. If younthink about it, this applies to all humannactivity of which conspicuous consumptionnis the fruit: “Labor not for the meatnwhich perisheth,” we read in John 6:27,n”but for that meat which endureth untoneverlasting life.” The scientific advancesnin refrigeration, the spread of vegetarianism,nand the art of nouvelle cuisinenchange nothing.nJULY 1988/39n