I don’t think that there’s too much of a middle ground when it comes to Andy Kaufman : either you love him or you hate him. We can probably add a third category, too - maybe you’re a little bit scared of him. Or, here’s a fourth category as an afterthought : you’ve never heard of him. Here’s some Wikipedia for you. Digest it and come right back.

Kaufman was a scary mystery to me for a long time, just as he was to many of his viewers - but after many years, it became clear that Andy’s entire public persona was an enormous, life-encompassing performance piece. All of the bizarre twists and turns in his life were planned - the angry guy who refused to read his lines and trashed TV studios as an alternate personality, the fake marriage announcements, the wrestling - all of these were events that he approached with a straight-faced conviction that they completely confused any spectators. So, when he announced what was to be the only unplanned twist in his bizarre life, the world actually doubted whether or not Andy actually had cancer. His audience had been trained to believe that even his bout with cancer was probably another hoax.

It’s this kind of mythology that drives me to fascination, be it the mysterious persona of Jandek, or the Poe Toaster, or The Residents. Being a child of the Information Age, conscious misinformation (or a clear lack of information) is a wonderfully alienating, exciting experience. When you combine that with my more concrete love of action figures, there’s really nothing left to want.

It’s not often that a company will make a stand-alone figure of a real person, unless said person is a musician. Sure, there are a million Johnny Depp action figures, but he’s always a guy with scissors for hands or a pirate hat or a Victorian doctor or an eccentric who owns a candy factory - there are no action figures of a definitive Johnny Depp. So, it’s an unusual thing to get an Andy Kaufman figure, but almost exactly 24 years after his death, Jakks Pacific has created an action figure of Andy Kaufman.

Toy enthusiasts will recognize Jakks as the primary creator of wrestling action figures, and they’d be right - Kaufman is delicately slipped into an ongoing collection of wrestling action figures called WWE Classics, right alongside Jerry “The King” Lawler - both clothed in the same costumes that they wore during the bizarre and notable bout that riled up an excitable Tennessee audience and put Andy in a neckbrace. The action figure two-pack comes with said neckbrace, a crown, and a beat-up stretcher (that has no real relevance aside from being one of many, many ring props that Jakks includes with their wrestling toys).

This is the kind of thing that qualifies as an ‘event’ to me, and my brain starts yelling, “Why aren’t more people completely excited about this? This is the most unique thing to happen to action figures and entertainment-based toys in a year!” Even if you’re not a toy fan, or a wrestling fan, an Andy Kaufman action figure stands out as a pop cultural, iconic THING, falling safely within the boundaries of many genres of collecting. Because the set is limited to Toys ‘R’ Us, and has been produced in relatively small numbers, I’d be doing a disservice if I didn’t loudly announce its existence to anyone who can hear me. At the time of this writing, it can still be purchased from the Toys ‘R’ Us website for just over $20, or on eBay for around $30. I’ve been unable to spot one at actual retail thus far, but that doesn’t mean they’re not out there.

As figures go, it’s a pretty simple thing. A ball-jointed neck and shoulders combine with a cut-joint waist and hinged wrists, elbows, hips, knees and ankles for a total of 16 points of articulation, which isn’t enough for complex ring acrobatics, but certainly enough to run away and taunt with. Most interestingly, Jakks has captured Andy’s likeness perfectly and honestly, unibrow and all. It’s almost eerie to see such a haunted, smirking face on an action figure. It’s respectful and even manages to grasp the emotional quality of Andy Kaufman, and I’d even venture that Andy would love to see himself as an action figure, especially in a wrestling line. I doubt we’ll be seeing Taxi action figures anytime soon, anyhow.

This unusual inclusion only serves to bewilder another generation of pop culture enthusiasts, and even spans that bewilderment into a whole new genre of entertainment. Even 24 years after his death, Andy’s pulling pranks in the toy aisles.

A few years ago, I had written in a personal blog about a certain gentleman who comes into my workplace that bears a striking resemblance to Andy Kaufman. Our Kaufman would wander around and leave strange notes by the computers, stare off into space or at women, and eventually attempt to start an altercation with me across the desk after I asked him to stop yelling profanity, but blogging about the situation actually earned me an e-mail from a prominent Kaufman enthusiast (well, as prominent as a guy who hunts dead celebrities can be) who was actively trying to prove that Andy remains alive to this day. So, not unlike the Elvis that he expertly impersonated, Andy’s earned his own mythology.

And now, they both have action figures.

The wide world of Wrestling was always kind of a bizarre shadow that lurked between the end of Pee Wee’s Playhouse and the beginning of American Gladiators, perched curiously between the worlds of live action childrens entertainment and live action pseudo-adult entertainment, a kind of segue of mentalities that never coalesced properly. If you can call running around in giant hamster balls and fighting with enormous q-tips, and I’m not talking about the Pee Wee segment of the morning here, ‘pseudo-adult themed entertainment’. I remember mention of The Undertaker closing The Ultimate Warrior into a thematically-appropriate casket, and feeling my first few pangs of sympathetic claustrophobia.

The Ultimate Warrior survived the ordeal, because it was scripted that way. Having actually survived a stint where he was called ‘The Dingo Warrior’ probably prepared him for anything that life might have thrown at him, like kids named ‘Enis’. He’d hold the Intercontinental Championship title for a while, legally change his name to ‘Warrior’, write his own wrestling storylines (which apparently involved a magic smoke that only he and Hulk Hogan were immune to, as well as mirrors that only Hulk could see), be presumed dead-and-replaced, wear a singlet with muscles painted onto it, become a right wing mini-pundit, and finally, sell himself on eBay.

Well, not HIMSELF, but signed action figures of himself at ridiculously inflated prices, attracting the ridicule of many a wrestling fan and eBay seller alike. I’d been reading about these auctions on various nerd-boards throughout the internet, but it didn’t really attract my attention until I saw his most recent auction offering - a motivational phone call, for an additional 200 dollars over the original auction price. I mean, after all, he’s said that “The family that I live for only breathes the air that smells of combat… with or without the facepaint I am the Ultimate Warrior!” Clearly 200 dollars is a bargain if we’re going to get more such gems.

Recent discussions of celebrity collectibles have proven the psychological validity of wanting to own an item close to your favorite celebrity in some way, even if it might occasionally step into creepy territory. Where exactly does the creepometer fall when the celebrity is marketing odd shreds of themselves to anonymous bidders? We’re not talking about the book signing at your local Barnes and Noble anymore - we’re talking about a personal phonecall from an ex-celebrity.

Perhaps this couldn’t get any creepier than Corey Haim’s wacky eBay adventures. Sure, the poor guy was one of the statistical child stars that succumbed to a fast, hard life and lost control, but somewhere in the midst of this, he decided to sell his teeth and hair on eBay, neatly shaved from regions unknown and sealed in convenient cases for your collecting pleasure. While in itself disgusting, the auctions have become something of a legendary Pillar of Ridiculousness. I love the screen work of Steve Carrell, but I don’t want his toenail clippings.

Alas, these aren’t the only cases of desperate celebrity types declaring themselves ‘collectible’. You might expect as much from a wrestler who wore a cape with an idealized painting of himself on said cape, but Vincent Gallo, another controversial personality, saw himself as far more than collectible, and for one million dollars, he’ll gladly provide the genetic material to any woman who wanted to actually create another one of him. His website is also selling his childhood bedspread, and a book of his that he happened to read that has nothing to do with him creatively in any way, but is signed by him. One day, I hope to also be famous enough to sign any given tomato at the grocery store and have it double in value. Triple, even.

Also, like the Ultimate Warrior, I hope to change my name. I think I’ll change it to “Awesome Rocketlord”. If Prince can change him name to an unpronounceable symbol, I conjecture that I can change my name to the physical action of giving me a dollar. I’d be rich by sundown if I had any friends.

Celebrities, in the truest sense of the word, have no need to sell themselves. Even the most forgotten ex-celebrity can find a safe place in a VH1 reality show. Those things sold by ex-celebrities are another category of celebrity collectibles entirely - items of scary desperation, instead of iconic symbols of glory. Do we do a good deed by helping them eat for another day, or does placating them just encourage them into more irredeemable depths of arrogance and delusion?

When Mark Hamill starts selling his old toothbrushes, I’m going to stage an intervention.