Let me confess—I’m a Blockhead. For those of you who don’t know what that means, it simply implies that I am a fan of New Kids on the Block. Jon, Jordan, Donnie, Joey, Danny, and I go way back to the summer of 1988 when their second album, Hangin’ Tough, dominated the pop charts. I had posters (over 200 of them in my bedroom), pillow covers, beach towels, T-shirts, ten-inch-diameter buttons, videos, dolls, action figures, scrapbooks from their concerts, and all the teen magazines devoted to the group. I can sing every word to every song they recorded. I can tell you everything about each of them from when their birthdays are to their middle names, from their favorite books to favorite pets. I even camped out nine days for tickets to one of their concerts. (This should tell you two things about me: One, I had permissive parents and, two, all of this was happening in the days before the Internet.) And the best day of my teenage life may have been when I met Jordan, Joey, and Donnie in the hotel lobby after one of their concerts.

So you can imagine how crushed I was when the band broke up in 1994, despite the fact I was in college by this time and had moved on from their genre of music (I think at that point I was in my "angry chick" musical phase). However, I confess again that, over the years, I’ve followed their post-NKOTB careers: watching Joey and Jordan launch their somewhat successful solo careers; tuning into Boston Public and Dancing with the Stars to catch a glimpse of Joey; watching Donnie in his various movies and TV appearances; and even watching Surreal Life during the season Jordan was on the show.

What does all of this have to do with play? I think it reveals a bit about fandom, music, entertainment, and collecting-all types of play. Music offers a social connection for many people and, for the budding adolescent, it can replace the toys typically associated with childhood. Plus, the music we listen to during our youth serves as a pleasant form of nostalgia when looking back decades later at an age that, honestly, may not have had a lot of pleasantness.

Historically, toy manufacturers and the music industry have found a way to ride the wave of success together by marketing band-branded products to fans, thereby fueling the hype. You can see plenty of evidence of that partnership today. Do a quick scan of any toy store and you’ll find that it’s stocked with Hannah Montana, Jonas Brothers, and High School Musical bedding, dolls, posters, lamps, and party favors. None of that merchandise is a far stretch from the New Kids on the Block memorabilia I eagerly acquired in the late 1980s and early 1990s. These items, as well as conversations with our friends about our favorite bands, serve as "memory collectors" that at certain points in our life-be it cleaning out our parents’ attic or talking to an old friend- allow us to travel back to our youth.

For me, however, the most interesting aspect about my "play" as an adolescent pop music fan is that I’ve recently had the chance to do it all over again. In 2008, NKOTB (as they now prefer to be called) announced that they would reunite. I can’t explain the thrill I felt as I purchased my ticket for their October concert in Cleveland. Thinking this was a chance I’d never have again, I gleefully left Rochester that early October morning to meet some of my college friends in Cleveland. We didn’t have great seats, but that didn’t matter. As we sat in the sold-out stadium filled with 30,000 women in their late 20s to mid-30s, I thought, "Wow, times have changed." We could now send a text message to a Jumbotron in the stadium to try to win front row tickets; most of the parents at the concert were either mothers-to-be or the mothers of toddlers left at home with husbands (who were more than happy to take care of the children rather than be subjected to the five boys from Boston); and I didn’t have to camp out for my tickets…I merely had to be online at a certain time. Yet, once the concert started, present day realities disappeared. The women (who so dominated the audience that all but two of the arena’s restrooms had been designated as ladies’ rooms) were all time warped back to their youth. I have a feeling that this is what it would have been like for Beatles fans if they’d had the opportunity to experience a reunion tour. It was surreal, almost like being 15 again-only the best part of being 15. I also can’t help but think the band liked it, too, financial gains aside. What 40-year-old male wouldn’t enjoy 30,000 women in their 30s screaming at them in adoration?

I loved the show so much I saw NKOTB again in March in Niagara Falls with two colleagues from the museum (we now consider this our "personal research on the transformation from adolescent to adult play with respect to the music industry"). The three of us stayed up half the night seeking a brief encounter with the band in the hotel lobby or casino. We were quite happy to get our glimpses of Jordan, Joey, and Donnie going into the casino at midnight and again around 2:30 a.m. All in all, it was a great night, but we wanted to see more of the New Kids-and their managers complied. Two days after returning from the show, NKOTB announced their summer tour. Nearby Darien Lake was on the schedule and we were THRILLED.

I imagine that the band and its promoters have been equally thrilled to realize their audience has more purchasing power than when they were teenagers. For instance, instead of posters, towels, and bedspreads, I can now buy a Five Star VIP ticket pass to a pre-concert party with the band (which includes dinner and better tickets) or a ticket on a 3-day cruise. I didn’t buy the latter, but some colleagues and I will enjoy our VIP passes to the Darien Lake concert this weekend. We can’t wait.

NKOTB won’t tour forever, so I know how lucky I am to have had this special opportunity to relive part of my youth. As I look back, I can treasure both my childhood and adult memories with my favorite band! And, as I look around at popular bands these days, I think about the bonds girls and boys are forming with each other as they discuss concerts and TV appearances and collecting their memorabilia- this unique form of play. My only hope is that a current Jonas Brothers fan will have the same opportunities in twenty years to see them reunite and to be able to reconnect with them the way I did. So kids of today, hang tough. Only time will tell.

I snagged my prom dress off the Macy’s sale rack for $26. What was wrong with that? Nothing, I suppose—until my mother discovered that I’d mentioned it in an interview with the local newspaper. Apparently, I should have kept my mouth shut when told that I looked like a million bucks. But whether you were a prom penny pincher like me or a big spender, your prom mementoes and memories belong here at Strong National Museum of Play.

For many of us, proms are landmark events from our adolescent years. Proms serve as a bridge between youth and adulthood. Kids often role-play to imitate and explore adult society. While they might not admit it, teenage prom-goers are doing something similar as they dress up in adult clothes and try on “grown-up” roles in this high school rite of passage.

Modern proms evolved from upper-class debutante balls of the 1800s. By the early twentieth century, colleges and high schools regularly held semi-formal banquets for their graduating classes. Proms of the 1950s, however, more closely resembled today’s affairs. Girls wore dresses with full skirts, high heels, and gloves. Many boys wore white sport coats. This 1967 lunch box illustrates the event’s increasing opulence, with students granting their most beautiful and popular classmate the title of “queen.”

The word “prom” is a shortened version of “promenade,” the type of procession we often associate with Hollywood celebrities strolling down a red carpet. My high school hosted such an event prior to our dinner-dance at a Philadelphia hotel. A faculty emcee announced guests’ names as we passed under an archway to pose for family and friends. (See this video of a high school promenade from 1987.) This was an important event for our loved ones, who anticipated the sadness of letting us go—literally and symbolically—as we climbed into limos and made our way off campus.

Many adolescents feel glamorous, mature, and independent for an evening when they attend their prom (the awkwardness is best viewed in hindsight). It may be their first chance to wear gowns and tuxedos, an incentive to practice etiquette in a formal setting, and a rare opportunity to court potential partners without parental supervision. Prom perfectionists have probably always been prone to anxiety—though maybe with good reason since you’re likely to have your fashion choices, hairstyle, and date immortalized in photographs. This photo from the museum’s collection is one such souvenir. It shows Churchville-Chili High School students Melissa and Steven at their senior ball in 1993. After the dance, Melissa, Steven, and their friends showed off their formal wear around Rochester, visiting Perkins Restaurant, Wegmans, High Falls, Manhattan Square Park, and Churchville Park.

Since at least the 1980s, the post-prom celebration has been just as important as the dance itself. New Jersey prom traditions practically required my friends and me to visit a diner for some greasy food after the dance. I fulfilled a lifelong dream when I slid into that booth, crinoline and all. After a satisfying meal, I headed to a friend’s house, plucked dozens of bobby pins from my hair, and stole a few hours of sleep before heading for a day at the beach.

I got to thinking more about proms when scholar Steven Mintz visited Strong National Museum of Play last month to deliver a public lecture on the history of childhood. Mintz recently told the New York Times that in tough economic times, some families have continued to spend money on the prom to avoid revealing their financial hardship. Did a member of your family attend the prom during the Great Depression or this recession? Has your family made sacrifices to make someone’s prom night possible?

If you have memories, horror stories, photographs (embarrassing or otherwise), or other prom paraphernalia to share with us, we’d like to hear from you. How did you choose your outfit? What was your prom theme? Would anyone care to share the male perspective on this milestone event? And of course, if you’re still preparing to attend your prom, please be safe and remember to save a souvenir for the museum!

At a loss for what to write next, John Steinbeck embarked on a tour of the country in 1960, accompanied by his standard poodle, Charley. The trip resulted in an extended meditation about the state of American life called Travels with Charley. Beyond the travelogue and observations that the book offers, Steinbeck shares numerous comments about his canine travel companion. The great novelist thought Charley was smarter than he was, in some respects. And when he looked into Charley’s eyes, Steinbeck thought he saw a mind-reader. Most dog owners will concur in these two opinions-especially developmentally speaking. After all, no human infant will play keep-away with a Frisbee at five months old. Steinbeck also was convinced that dogs “think humans are nuts.” However, based on observing my own Charlie, who is just growing out of puppyhood, I’d say only that dogs just think we are a bit slow to catch on.

Even if they’re dubious about our mental capacity, dogs have a long history with people.  The most needy and companionable wolves took up with us about 15,000 years ago (some say the relationship goes back much farther than that). Ever since, dogs have been charming us and teaching us how to play. This playful relationship has worked out well for dogs as a species, strategically speaking-for every wild wolf in Canada and the United States there are more than a thousand domesticated dogs.

Here’s an example of the way dogs train us to play. Compared to Steinbeck’s dog, the mutt in my household is only half-poodle (and half mini-poodle at that). But true to the other half of his dubious ancestry, the maternal golden retriever, my Charlie will drop at my feet a ragged tennis ball, a time-honored stick, a much-chewed rope-caterpillar, or a tooth-marked returnable bottle. With a bright look, Charlie seems to say, “Hey, lookee, I’ve got a ball, wanna play?” and then “What do you know, here’s a stick! You throw it, I’ll fetch it,” quickly followed by “I’ve got this great idea. Here’s this bottle thing, you could toss it, then I’d go get it and bring it back.” And next: “Can you believe what I’ve got now? This toy I’ve been chewing would also be perfect for running after.” And seconds later:  “Let’s try playing a game with this stick!” And so on and on as if each insistent invitation is also a revelation. Ignore the summons and I’m treated to urgent groans and much scampering about, and maybe a tug at a pant leg or a nip at a toe. Let’s face it, when it comes to play, dogs are dogged in their devotion to the game.

When my Charlie was still just a puppy, he traveled to Cleveland with us for a weekend with friends. There he met Darby, a Wheaten terrier four times his size and ten times his strength. The encounter began the first evening with several hours of domination by Darby. But nearly a full day of counterattack followed. Charlie’s poodle-half knew how to stand on his hind legs and reach Darby’s ears with needle-sharp puppy teeth. Youch! With that, a non-stop, top-speed chase was on, with the terrier fleeing from the goldendoodle across the slippery kitchen tile, up a flight of stairs and down another, peeling out on the wooden floor in the den, over the couch and around the coffee table and up the stairs again.

This was a delightful and somewhat vengeful game for Charlie. But then, in a remarkable turn, Darby discovered something Charlie wanted more than revenge: a buggy-eyed, red rubber beetle that squeaked in a most beguiling way. Darby would stop at the stuffed chair, cast a glance over his shoulder to make sure that Charlie was watching, and then take off, feet churning again in the effort to find some traction, the prize in his mouth, the doodle at his heels, and the humans diving for cover. Darby’s strategy replaced rough and tumble play with a gentler game of keep-away-a doggie version of win-win. The next day we observed that the two had reached an accord, and the fierce little lamblike mutt literally lay down and snuggled up with his new, more respectful, lion-colored friend.

So what can dogs tell us about play and life? John Steinbeck thought his Charley understood French best, as if a francophone heritage was as basic to a poodle’s repertoire as walking on two legs. But all dogs communicate in their own language. They bow when they want to play-it looks like stretching to us, but actually says “Wanna play?” in canine talk. My Charlie and my friend’s Darby were two mismatched pooches who had accelerated, altercated, negotiated, accommodated, and finally affiliated. When conquest failed, the older, wiser, and larger Darby had patiently and ingeniously “self-handicapped” in the interest of prolonging play. Over the course of three days they had become old friends. In the process, they showed us one of the principal dividends that play confers on all players: a heightened social intelligence and the enlarged capacity for friendship. Crafting that kind of bond through play isn’t something we humans do as rapidly or easily as canines. I guess Steinbeck was right; dogs often are smarter than we are.

Donald Trump never knew how close he came to competing with me-and not because I wanted to play a boss on reality TV. No, the truth is that, as a kid, I dreamed of making it big in the world of high-profile architecture and real estate development. If things had worked out differently, I might have ended up going toe-to-toe with “The Donald” instead of becoming a museum curator. But show me a Kenner Girder and Panel construction set, and I still can recall those years as an aspiring builder of subdivisions, office towers, and shopping malls.

Construction sets have been popular toys for generations. If I’d grown up in the Roaring Twenties, I’d have undoubtedly worked out my architectural yearnings with an Erector Set. I did have Lincoln Logs among my toys and used them to build the occasional cabin or fort. But the Lincoln Log pieces never stayed together all that well (the roof slats had a frustrating way of sliding off with a clatter), and the Wild West look didn’t fit with my taste for chrome and glass. If I’d been born a few years later, LEGO bricks would undoubtedly have been my favored building material. As it was, growing up in the 1960s meant that Kenner construction sets and I were a perfect fit.

I’ll be the first to admit that my hometown of Columbus, Ohio, isn’t typically known for its glamorous buildings. My knowledge of New York City skyscrapers was pretty much limited to what I saw in the movies or absorbed through Life magazine photos. When I was ten, the neon splendor of Las Vegas dazzled me during a family trip to the West Coast. But what I really wanted to construct was my familiar landscape-my own middle-class, Midwest world. My elementary school had been constructed in the late 1950s and its one-floor layout, floor-to-ceiling windows, and “daring” circular kindergarten room (I never had to worry about being told to stand in the corner) fit the modern mode. Add a second story onto my school and you’d have had the same look as a Holiday Inn motel-my ideal of roadside luxury on those family vacations.

So, I was thrilled the year that I got my first Kenner Girder and Panel construction set. Looking back at a 1966 Kenner catalog in the museum’s library, I’d guess it was Set No. 21 or 22. (For a look at a set similar to mine, check out this 1957 TV commercial.) My set wasn’t the grandest option in the Kenner product line, but it supplied plenty of red molded-plastic girders and beams that snapped together securely and allowed me to create the kind of dramatic cantilevered structures featured in the instruction manual. I was particularly taken with the set’s bubble skylight panels, and remember using them on just about every building’s roof. I could even build a pretty accurate reproduction of my own school.

When I received the Kenner Build-a-Home & Subdivision set the following year, I had everything I needed to recreate my suburban landscape-houses perfect for any cul-de-sac and buildings for a neighboring office park. If I’d known that there was such a thing as a Kenner Bridge & Turnpike Set, I’d have probably wanted that too, but that didn’t stop me from driving my toy cars along the imaginary roads that linked my Kenner houses and buildings.

Once I was “too old” to play with my Kenner sets, my quest for real estate fame and fortune didn’t shrivel away-it just turned a different direction. Those were the years when my best friend Larry and I spent summer hours at the picnic table in my backyard, drawing the products of our multifaceted global conglomerate. Fictional car models, posters for movies from our imaginary film company, and real estate developments filled the back of page after page of scrap paper from my history professor father. Venturing into a box marked “mementos” in the basement recently, I retrieved examples of my architectural output from those years-designs for the same kinds of corporate headquarters, shopping malls, and housing developments that I’d been building with my Kenner sets a few years earlier.

Have I created great architectural designs? Am I famous and fabulously wealthy? Not the way I imagined as a kid. But, looking back at my buildings and drawings, I still say, “Donald Trump, eat your heart out.”