How Much Is That Doo In The Window?

On the rough-and-tumble block of 8th Avenue between 43rd and 44th Streets sits a porn emporium called the Playpen, housed in a delicate movie parlor of 1916 vintage. Walk inside, and the sharp smell of cleaning fluid hits the nostrils; walk out and you're likely to be approached by a large woman with an ill-fitting wig asking, "Is the police in there?"

These days, you'll also see a mound of fake poop on display in the window, alongside books with titles like The Complete Guide to Lock-Picking. In March, the Funny Store, a joke and magic shop that once resided in an Art Deco building on the corner of 42nd and 7th, made an unexpected reappearance after a decade's absence, sharing its space with an establishment known for tricks of a different sort.

"At one time, every other block in Times Square used to have a magic shop," says manager Arnold Martin, who chronicles the store's history with obvious affection. One by one those places closed, forced out by skyrocketing rents and corporate redevelopment. In 1995, when the original Funny Store shut its doors after 36 years in business, it was one of the last of its kind. Now it's the sole vestige of a once-proliferate and colorful Times Square tradition.

"Our number-one seller is the fake doggie doo," Martin says without hesitation. Priced at $3.99 for a small pile, it's flown in from Spain and is made of papier-mâché instead of rubber, creating a startlingly lifelike appearance.

"It's a work of art," Martin enthuses. Fart spray in an aerosol can, fake vomit ("sprinkle a little water on it, it looks very realistic"), guides to hypnotism and fortune telling-all can be found within the store's narrow space.

"There are a lot of new numbers too," chimes in an older woman sitting in the corner, as Martin pulls an electronic whoopee cushion from the rack. This is Anna, who worked at the original Funny Store and was a close friend of its late owner, Edward Cohen. With her coiffed salt-and-pepper hair and thick New York brogue, she lends the place an air of old-school authenticity. When Martin suggests, disingenuously, that the lock-picking book is for people who accidentally get shut out of their houses, Anna lets out a loud, knowing, "Hah!"

Of all the Funny Store's wares, its books are the strangest, the variety of titles staggering: How to Get Anything on Anybody, Bounty Hunter, Hydroponic Heroin (one of several drug "do-it-yourself" guides), Screw the Bitch: Divorce Tactics for Men, and, as if in tribute to old criminal days on the Deuce, How to Pick Pockets for Fun and Profit.

Then there's Care and Feeding of Tenants, whose cover depicts two hapless renters eating out of a doggie bowl. Martin points to its companion book, Tenant's Revenge: How to Tame Your Landlord, as proof of the store's "something for everyone" philosophy. He then hands over a pen that looks normal enough, but once its cap is pulled off, all hell breaks loose. There's a loud exploding sound, which in turn sets off the "Spider of Doom," a black furry creature that descends from the ceiling and lands on a man who has just stepped into the store. For a moment he looks annoyed, but then he smiles in appreciation of the gag.

"Hey, how much is that pen?"

-David Freeland