You don’t go looking for a Mold-A-Rama. That’s not how it works. It’s true that a Google search will reveal all the locations of these 1960s-era souvenir machines, including at least 20 around Chicago. But ideally you stumble across one, glowing quietly in a vestibule or stairwell, with its translucent bubble dome waiting for you.
Every Mold-A-Rama experience is slightly haunted by the ghosts of disappointments past and future: there’s always the chance that one’s exclusive product will emerge from the molds misshapen or headless, or that the injectors will malfunction and extrude molten sludge. (Although I don’t specifically remember this, I must’ve seen an out-of-order unit that had met this fate, and now the idea of it is fused firmly, like melted plastic, to my Mold-A-Rama gestalt.)
