When I was six, I got a ‘Stretch Armstrong’ doll after much begging and cajoling of the parental unit.

I think Santa had fucked up that year and given me a v-neck sweater, so I blubbered and stamped my feet until my folks, out of guilt or exhaustion, finally conceded and allowed me a rare off-season present. They even chauffeured me in the dilapidated station wagon to my childhood mecca, Toys ‘R Us.

In his glossy box at Toys R' Us, Stretch Armstrong looked like the answer to all of my action-figure needs. In retrospect, his black bikini briefs, golden locks, muscular physique and malleable rubber body made him the paragon of Turkish-bath-loitering Chelsea queen, but at age 6, Stretch was the answer to the void in my soul.

My GI Joes were in bad shape. Their fuzzy little afros looked post-chemo and most of their Kung Fu grip fingers were missing, like maybe Duke had gambled away his digits in drunken bouts of five-finger fillet. Their ph...