DT Presents: The Foofa Chronicles, In Four Parts

Day One, Monday: Did not know LA is closed on Mondays. On our way to visit Yolk, [closed] we parked in front of Monkeyhouse Toys [closed] which has Yo Gabba Gabba! dolls in the window. We resolve to visit it again on Tuesday.

That night, anticipation of a visit to "The Yo Gabba Gabba Store" is running unusually high.

Day Two, Tuesday: We return to Silverlake in the afternoon. The kid wants to buy a YGG! doll, and for some reason, I say, "we'll see." Once we're in the store, it's obvious that Yo Gabba Gabba! is the most corporatist, mainstreamest toy they have. The kid's adamant, totally impervious to my suggestions of Mister Toast and whatnot.

Even though her arms don't move, and her head doesn't move, nothing moves, in fact, we buy the only Foofa doll.

The kid plays with the doll, the box [which comes with a Foofascape backdrop inside], and even the bubble packaging. Foofa-in-carbonite. Foofa comes to dinner. Foofa gets in bed.

Day Three, Wednesday: Yes, Foofa can come with us to the Getty, but not her box. That has to stay in the hotel.

Foofa goes to the garden. Foofa goes to the bathroom. Foofa admires some French aristo's pull-out sofa bed, aka a lit a la turque, which the gang of Christian homeschoolers are busy sketching. Foofa stands by in the Sketching Gallery, while the kid sketches her first balls, which are on a plaster cast of Juggling Man, a penisless 1565 bronze by Adriaen de Vries.

As we drive down Sepulveda, starving for In-n-Out, we realize Foofa is still in the Getty. Somewhere. No one can say where. We flip one U-turn, then realize we have no chance of finding the doll, so we flip another. The kid dissolves into a pool of tears.

We weigh the Important Life Lessons we wanted to be teaching: we don't just buy everything we want because we want it [oops]; TV stays on TV, we don't buy stuff from a TV show [umm...]; you've gotta take care of your things, or you'll feel the pain of loss [not going well]; or, if you do lose something, your dad will drive right over to Giant Robot on Sawtelle Avenue and replace it half an hour later. And if they don't have Kid Robot stuff [and why would they?] maybe another Mister Bony doll would make you happy, honey? If I buy you another pseudo-indie toy, will you stop crying, Veruca?

We decide that we'll call the museum tomorrow and see if Foofa makes it into the Lost & Found, then they can mail her to us. [This, of course, preserves the option of buying another doll in case the original doesn't turn up.] The kid says we should call today.

Day Four, Thursday: Kid wakes up at 6:30 AM. Did we call yet? 8:30, I finally call, just as Foofa arrives at Central Security, to be logged in as a lost&found item. I give the guard my name. We schlep back across town. The Getty is not the kid of place you just drop by. We park four flights down. Take the tram up the hill. Dodge the army of docents wanting to give us maps and tour listings. We wind down to the security desk and get the doll back. Because we pre-empted the logging-in process, we have no idea where she was found. She's a little dingy, though, so I'm guessing the garden.

The kid is ecstatically questioning Foofa about what she did during her sleepover party at the Getty. Now we've got to hoof it all the way back to the east side to meet Mister Jalopy.