Suing Charizard

By Crispin Sartwell

At our house, Pokemon is an obsession and a curse. It started with Vincie (aka "the Poodle") playing the Gameboy and watching the television series ("gotta catch em all"), and proceeded into the trading cards. Last week, he blew fifteen hard-earned bucks on a Charizard.

Pokemon is a world teeming with hundreds of creatures, each with different powers. Some of the Poodle's best cards, by his own account: Kangaskhan, Beedrill, Mewtoo, Snorlax, Poliwrath, Hitmonchan. They constitute a game, though I've never actually seen Vincie play it, and Venomoth's power is described like this: "Once during your turn you may change the type of Venomoth to the type of any other Pokemon in play other than Colorless. This power can't be used if Venomoth is Asleep, Confused, or Paralyzed." I lived through the Power Rangers, but this is something else again: it's an incredibly elaborate, detailed, information-rich environment, which is why it's so absorbing. Nine-year-olds are capable of sustaining a conversation of several hours on the subject. Every day.

These kids are intense. Pood had a card stolen at school. There have been conflicts about whose card is whose, fights because some kid made a trade, then reflected. Southern Elementary sent home a notice the other day banning Pokemon cards, which were described as "extremely disruptive."

And parents, too, are fighting back. Pokemon is a creation of Nintendo, and Poke-anon parents have filed a class-action lawsuit against the company, claiming that Pokemon cards are a form of illegal gambling rather than a harmless kiddie fad. The argument is that the coolest and most valuable cards are extremely hard to find in store-bought packs (that is true). So kids buy pack after pack trying to find the one or two cards they don't already have. It's like a lottery, the argument goes: the point is to find that rare winning ticket. Some parents have blown thousands of dollars.

I feel your pain. I personally have heard enough begging for Pokemon stuff to last me through several incarnations. But this suit is absurd.

The sad fact is that children (like adults, by the way) are basically obsessive. The difference, if any, is that children aren't into delayed gratification: in fact under the right circumstances, a few minutes between now and Pood getting what he wants seem absolutely intolerable to everybody. So the pressure that a kid can bring on his parents can be incredibly intense. Nevertheless, though it's a pain in the butt, you can say no. If you spent thousands of dollars last year on Pokemon stuff, that was your choice, not your child's. Pretend you've got a frigging backbone.

For the Poodle, Pokemon cards are assuredly not a form of gambling. His older brother Hayes ('the Raisin") had the sudden inspiration that he could go into business reselling Pokemon cards to younger kids and make a fortune. He never did this (because we didn't let him), but Pood never saw the point of the whole idea: if you were buying Pokemon cards, why would you sell them? Vincie is into the intrinsic experience of having and appreciating the cards themselves: they are their own point. He looks at them the way adults look at Vermeers.

Trading cards have a certain seductiveness: there's something voluptuous about them. Back in the day, the boys collected Batman cards while the girls collected Monkees cards and devoted weeks to deciding whether Mickey or Davey was the cutest. We were all completists: we wanted every single card, which as I recall with Batman cards constituted several runs of 500. Perhaps our parents were irritated and out some money. But we all survived.

When Pokemon finally dies down (and it's showing signs already), the kids will find something else to beg for. It ain't the card; it's the kid. And then you'll have another decision to make: file a class-action suit or just say no. If I were you I'd pull out my Roget and start practicing right now: over my dead body, the hell you say, you and what army?, not on your life, try and make me, I'll see you in hell first, include me out, hang me if I do, it's no go, nothing doing, nada, nix. Then take the kid to Toys R Us.

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