I seem to remember back when these crappy plastic photo cubes were ubiquitous on my family's living room coffee tables. Also, how they all turned yellow instantly because of the cheapness of the plastic .
I love the way-too-confusing instructions, the arrows flying every which way, the fact that it apparently takes two people to "operate" the cube (just go ahead and try to get both of your hands into that position) : "Place your left thumb and forefinger exactly 2/3 of the circumference of the square root of pi from the bisecting..." AHHRGHH, math, I hate that stuff!
And look closely, because I don't think that picture is going to fit -- Nope, that picture of Uncle Buddy on a mo-ped is going to get all f-ed up and Mom and Dad are going to get in a huge screaming match, and the babies will start crying, and suddenly "you've ruined Christmas!" Just you watch.
Let's assume they do manage to get a picture in there, it seems to me like rather a lot pressure to pick out those 6 perfect snapshots that exactly encapsulate (en-cube?) your domestic bliss.
That's why the geniuses at the photo cube plant in Hong Kong (by way of Sweden, from the look of all these whities) decided to give us some examples of what you should display in the form of pictures of anonymous people.
First, apparently, find an image of yourself or a loved one most likely to inspire a Stepford Wives analogy:
Hi, there! I'm Sally Cubenstein, and gosh darn, isn't life just super-duper great?
Then, find a picture that says:
Hey, there tall, dark and handsome. Wanna have sex in my UFO? The one I've landed somewhere in Siberia? We can do it right here, on this cold, modernist couch that resembles a hospital bed. Let me just finish reading this copy of Rolling Stone with a completely ominous black cover.
Then, of course, insert a Polaroid of your post-coital bliss in which you have also, of course, dropped acid:
Wow, Sally, this quite a UFO you've got here. Say, I like your groovy headband and, gee, your whole space-outfit. Is it just me or could you go for a tall, cold glass of lava lamp right about now? Wanna have raunchy sex again?
Not now, Sven, I'm too f-ed up!
Then slip in an off-center shot of your crappy polka dot rainbow mugs (what no mushroom paraphernalia?) and centerpieces taken on the bluuuuue table in the bluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuue room on the edge of bluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuue forever.
Hey, how do we get out of here? It's so blue. I think I'm having a bad trip. My eyes are burning.
Just head for that crappy polka dot rainbow gravy bowl. The colors! The COLORS!!
Finally, end with a shot of you at 72 years old, fondly remembering shagging what's-her-name (Cubey? Stacey-Cubist-something?) in her UFO in Siberia, back when you didn't need a fistful of Viagra and hallucinogenics just to get your ass out of bed in the morning.
Oh, I think I'll just rest here until I die... Hey, you'd better not be taking my picture and sticking it in a photo cube, you little m-f-er! At least let me put on a non-1920s prison labor shirt and some pants, fer Chris' sakes!
Too late, grandpa, this Kodak moment has been encubed for posterity.
Ah, the 70s. What would a trip to the thrift store be without them?