on being a collector

In my life, I’ve collected a great many things. As a child I collected stickers and friendship beads and marbles and rocks. In my teens, I collected figurines of wizards and dragons, chunks of gems like amethyst and quartz, and romance books. As an adult, I’ve collected Santa Claus(es), candles and candleholders, sex toys, and erotica books. I’ve known people who collect coins, stamps, books, Precious Moments figurines, and more.
But there’s a guy in Iceland who collects penises. No, really.Not pictures of penises, mind you. Or ancient art or pottery which features penises prominently. The guy collects real, honest to God, used-to-hang-with-nads penises from all around Iceland. He’s got 40 penises from the 42 mammals indigenous to Iceland. Some dried, apparently, some in formaldehyde, some on wall plaques like a moose head. He runs the Icelandic Phallogical Museum and considers himself a phallologist.
I read about the guy from a semi-hilarious article on Salon. I’ve always considered myself a penis conniseur, so to speak, but I’ve got nothing on this guy.
If you’re visiting Iceland, for four bucks you can visit the Museum in all its phallic glory. Apparently the guy is even ready for his first human penis – he’s got several people who have agreed to donate their penis after death to the museum.
I no longer feel so odd about my collections. As is nearly always the case with people, there’s always someone a little stranger than you.