What Is A Labubu? Everything To Know About The Trendy Toy
In the era of sweet little treats and trying to ignore the dumpster fire state of the world with whimsical little trinkets, it's no surprise blind boxes are having a moment. Coming off the heels of Sonny Angels, Labubus are scratching that nostalgic and ugly-cute itch for those of us that grew up collecting Troll dolls or Beanie Babies back in the day.
Now, I bet you're probably thinking, 'Okay, cool, but what the heck is a Labubu?' Well, the furry little creatures hail from a series of books called The Monsters by artist Kasing Lung. Lung — a Hong Kong-based artist living in the Netherlands — took inspiration from Nordic folklore and mythology to create these little mischievous elves, with their huge eyes and jagged little teeth. Lung struck a deal with Pop Mart to bring his creations to life off the page, and the rest is history.
Besides Labubus, Pop Mart also sells collectibles of other creatures from the books. There's Zimomo, who is bigger than the Labubus and has a tail. He's the leader of the Monsters (fun fact: Labubus are canonically girlies!) and is described as being more mellow than the others. There's also Mokoko, who is pink, has a heart-shaped nose, and is described as a total sweetheart.
All these characters — plus a ton of others from Pop Mart's various blind box collections — can be found IRL at the PopLand theme park in Beijing.
While it's not too hard to find Pop Mart's other iconic collections, like Skullpanda, Crybaby, or Peach Riot (a personal favorite of mine, TBH), I'm sorry to say you won't be able to get your hands on a Labubu right now without putting up a bit of a fight first. That is unless you're A-OK with paying a boatload for resale or getting a Lafufu instead — the internet's teasing name for the plethora of decent-to-horrifyingly-botched Labubu knockoffs that have taken gas stations and flea markets alike by storm in the wake of the Labubu craze.
I've gotta be honest with you, Lafufus are kinda iconic.
As of right now, you can't simply walk into a Pop Mart store and buy a Labubu blind box off the shelves, unfortunately. If you happen to live near a Pop Mart Robo Shop (like the one off of Hollywood and Highland in Los Angeles, which is essentially a vending machine), they occasionally restock them IRL, but they tend to sell out in the blink of an eye, so you've gotta be fast. Your best bet is to try and snatch one in their online drops — either on their website or through the TikTok Shop during Pop Mart's livestream — for face value (which is about $30), then have it shipped to your home or pick it up in-store.
In my experience, I was only able to add one to my cart and cross my fingers as I checked out in hopes of it not selling out before I was able to press 'confirm,' but others have reported being able to use Pop Mart's virtual 'pick one to shake' option, which hints at which Monster might be inside (and confirms which one definitely isn't), allowing you to increase your chances of getting the one you want. This seems most common with Pop Mart's latest Labubu collection, Big Into Energy. In general, though, I've heard through the grapevine that the Pop Mart website tends to restock in small quantities around 7 p.m. PT daily, and that's how I got mine.
On the slim chance that they do find their way to a store near you, like they did a little over two months ago when Pop Mart opened a new physical store in Culver City, be prepared to go into battle. I truly wish I were exaggerating, but the turnout for their Big Into Energy collection was so overwhelming and chaotic that they had to cancel it until a later time according to those who attended.
All that being said…have you hopped on the Labubu bandwagon? Are you dying to get your hands on one or are you rolling your eyes at everybody losing their minds over a plushie? Or are you simply enjoying the secondhand serotonin from watching other people unbox theirs? Tell us your take in the comments below.
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Yahoo
4 hours ago
- Yahoo
Mental Illness Took My Dad. After His Death, I Discovered His Secret Past Inside An Old Filing Cabinet.
In my memory, there are two dads: the Richard before mental illness — and the one after. The Richard beforenever seemed very rock 'n' was just another workaholic father, keeping his brick of an early mobile phone close, even on vacations, and coming home late from the family business, the Great American Tent Company. The one after ... well, I try not to dwell on him as there was a third Richard I knew nothing about until after he was gone. One day when I was 26, just months after my dad's death from congestive heart failure, I visited to check on my mom. I found her at the kitchen tablewith a pile of well-worn manila folders fanned out in front of her, an ashtray nearby with a half-smoked joint still smoldering. Mom was an old eBay queen from the '90s — she bought and sold Beanie Babies for profit back when that was possible — and I could tell she'd hunted up something good. I looked closer. Each file had a famous name written on it in my father's neat print: Lynyrd Skynyrd, Lionel Richie, Allman Brothers, Santana. 'What is this?' I took a seat across from Mom. 'Your father's rock files,' she said, toking on the joint. 'He kept everything from his days running Peace Concerts.' 'Peace Concerts?' 'Take a look!' I could tell she was high on more than just pot. She opened a folder and produced a yellowed letter that read, 'The Birmingham Hyatt House will not be able to accept any further rock group reservations. This directive is a result of many bad situations with these groups staying in the hotel and especially the malicious destruction caused by Lynyrd Skynyrd staying here over July 4th, 1975.' The letter said the damages amounted to $500.I looked up at Mom, eyes wide, and we laughed. My soft-spoken dad had dealt with these musical madmen? 'Richard said they were the nicest boys,' Mom said, 'when they weren't drunk.' 'You knew about this?' 'Not this,' she said, taking back the letter and handing me the joint. 'Why would Dad save this?' 'Eh, he was a hoarder. But also probably for tax purposes.' I dragged on the joint and ruminated with the smoke. That was Dad, always business-minded. However, I suspected there was more to the story. He'd always loved music, filled his days with it from the radio or cassette player, or his voice, smooth as Southern syrup, or his acoustic guitars, which he left me. He loved music until depression struck him down. In addition to his heart issues, my father spent the last dozen years of his life numbed by mental illness and antidepressants. Years ago, when he began to slip mentally, he paced our house at night, thought my mother was poisoning him, and believed my siblings and I were starving (even though we were all chunky). I've never been a big fan of Valentine's Day. Maybe that's because on that day in 2001, I came home from school, sensed something was off, and asked, 'Where's Dad?' My mom told me that she and my older cousin had taken him to the hospital, that he'd tried to jump out of the car on the way, that he was now admitted to a psychiatric ward. I was on the cusp of turning 14, my mother 44. Over the next dozen years, as I meandered through adolescence and early adulthood, I grew to resent this man, his apathy toward his family and even his own life, as he deteriorated mentally and physically. His nails grew long and yellow, his hair dreadlocked into a mat of gray wire. And after years of an all-fast food diet and not taking care of himself, his heart finally gave. But here was my father, an energetic young promoter, in folder after folder of rare rock memorabilia: a contract signed by the legendary guitarist Duane Allman, another by Glenn Fry of the Eagles, a promotional flyer featuring a 20-something Lionel Richie in some of the first concerts the Commodores ever did — all shows my dad booked. He was a pioneer in carving out a new Deep South concert scene, billing these rock shows as 'dances' because, as Mom explained, going to concerts back then wasn't yet accepted in the buttoned-down Bible Belt. Not once did Dad talk about this to me. I wondered if he was secretly ashamed that his dreams had deflated into owning a company that supplied concerts with tents, tables and chairs instead of attention-grabbing talent — a company that started from the leftovers of those rosy rock days, with an old red-and-yellow tent top Richard put up over the stage for his acts. 'Where did you find this?' I asked Mom. She waved me down the grungy, carpeted stairs to the basement, where a battered tank of a file cabinet stood tucked away in a nook. As a kid, I'd overlooked it a million times, more captivated by the toys and board games surrounding the 1940s-era metal tower. Opening a squeaking drawer, I saw it fully packed with documents, an extremely thorough paper archive focusing on Dad's time as a concert promoter from 1968 to 1976. He'd saved it all: contracts, guest passes, flyers and posters, ledgers, photos, receipts (sometimes scrawled on a bar napkin). Bathed in the sickly, fluorescent basement lights, I was overwhelmed by the gravity of these to do with all this? Back upstairs, Mom and I discussed selling some ofthe hoard. Dad had saved many copies. But I was hesitant. 'Some items should be off-limits,' I said. Out of respect for Dad, for his story, for this side of him I didn't know. Mom agreed. So we went through each document of Dad's old music promotion business, Peace Concerts. I read the print too tiny for Mom's eyes and wrote descriptions while she priced and categorized. For an eye-catcher, we chose a silvery, vintage poster of a bare-chested Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham when they were still a dad had booked the last concerts they did before joining Fleetwood Mac and made a bundle on those few shows. The pair were treated so well that Nicks later said in an interview: 'We could join Fleetwood Mac or we could move to Birmingham, Alabama.' Mom and I decided we would not part with the poster. However, we did make glossy reproductions and sell them for $20 a pop. On a too-brightspring day about a year after Richard's passing, I packed my mom's car with the rock files anddrove us to our first record show at a modern, red-bricked convention center. Set up in a large room by plate glass windows, we sold 'retro musical mementos' mostly to old rock 'n' rollers and longhaired hippie-looking characters, all grizzled or gray now, some with a limp or cane. Yet when they browsed the faded posters and dog-eared flyers, a smile would break across their faces as they remembered that packed after-party my dad threw for Stevie and Lindseyfor their sold-out show at the Alabama Theater, the last concert they played before merging with Fleetwood Mac —or how everyone's ears were ringing after that raucous Lynyrd Skynyrd concert at Rickwood Field in '74, the first time that group performed 'Sweet Home Alabama' in the state. For this generation, music was a spiritual experience, and my dad was at the center of it. Well, center backstage. I fidgeted in my chair as I nodded along, jealous that it seemed like these strangers knew my father better than I did. Occasionally, one would squint at meand say, 'You look just like him.' It's true. I have my dad's red-brown curls and intense blue eyes. Although I always thought his shade of eggshell blue was far prettier. Music was another thing we had in common. Dad possessed a sweeter voice, but I was the better guitarist. I didn't start learning until I was 16, so he never played music with me nor expressed an interest after the depression sank deep inside him. Years into his isolation, I visited to perform for him. I must've been 20 and studying classical guitar, eager to show off my new finger-style skills. But after I finished my first piece, a difficult and delicate arpeggiated prelude by a Paraguayan composer named Barrios, he snapped at me, 'That's good, andI won't even count those two mistakes you made.' My throat clenched —my voice evaporated. His ear was still so sensitive. It wasn't a spotless performance, as he'd demanded of his local bands back in the Peace Concert days — he'd told my mother how he kept detailed, sometimes harsh, performance notes from his spot in the back row. I wanted to snap all my guitar strings. Instead, I never played for him again. For years, a feeling of shame flooded over me when I flashed back to that memory — and I carried my resentment around inside like a balled-up mass of old strings. So it went at the record shows: After selling for several hours, Mom and I would gingerly repackage everything back into her car, and I'd drive us back home. We'd split the cash, and I'd roll us a joint. 'For Richard,' we'd toast as thick blue smoke unfurledaround our heads. 'Did he hang out with the acts other than just working with them?' I asked. Mom bit her lip and thought about it. Long ago, Richard told my mom some of Peace Concerts' history — how he saved money from his job at the telephone company to book his first acts, and how promoting was like gambling and he lost it all on a bad run of concerts where the ticket sales didn't materialize. 'Not really,' Mom said. 'He wasn't in it for that. He liked making money — and he did it for the thrill.' The thrill of the risk, or of creating an event that would reverberate in people's minds for decades? She said she didn't know. My mom, Shari, met my dad when she was 22. A theater major and techie, she'd just blown out of college from Michigan State, headed 700 miles south before landing in Birmingham and met him just three days later, introduced through a mutual friend. By then, he'd lost everything to concert promotion. Their first 'date' was him grilling steaks on his patio, The Marshall Tucker Band's 'Can't You See' playing loud on the turntable. I asked Mom when she learned about Dad's rock days. She had to think on it — her hair gray and down to her back now, unlike the dark bob she'd sported most of my life. 'After just a few days together,' she said. 'He said, 'I'll tell you my story, but only one time.'' 'Whoa, it was like that?' She said he hated old concertgoers wanting to wax nostalgic with him about the glory days.I figured Dad, like me,always had big dreams hounding him down. Time spins like a vinyl, and after doing a few of these record shows and hearing every tale Mom knew, I began reaching out to Dad'sold friends and work associates from his promoting prime. Yet I heard the same thing I already knew: Dad was a 'workaholic.' 'And how exactly did he fall out of promoting?' About this I'd heard different stories. Mom had always said he'd lost it all on a bad concert run with Joe Cocker, and that he was distracted chasing a woman nicknamed 'Little Red' who never reciprocated my father's interest. But I'd heard more than one old associate say that Dad had also been outgunned by a hotshot New York promoter namedTony Ruffino who today gets the credit for putting Birmingham on the map for big rock bands. One old rock buddy who used to hang up flyers and do other promotional work even said that Richard tried to go rogue and represent Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks on his own, and for this the record biz blacklisted him. 'But what was he like as a person?' I'd ask these strangers who knew 'the old Richard.' That was always harder for them to answer. 'He was a private guy,' was the best answer I got from a man named Wendell, a partner in an early booking agency my dad founded and later sold. 'He didn't talk much about what was going on in his head.' I became desperate, looking to our family albums and VHS tapes for answers. But here, too, Dad was the invisible promoter, so frequently on the other side of the camera capturing/directing holidays and trips instead of being in them. A backstage man, even in his personal life. Wendell suggested I visit the iconic 2121 high-rise in downtown Birmingham to see my father's old office, where he built his Peace Concerts empire nearly six decades ago in what was then called 'the penthouse,' room 1727. When I told Mom about the idea, she smiled and said Richard used to point out the 2121 building in their earlier days, telling her he worked at the top in an office with a view. So I drove a half-hour into town to see for myself, uncertain what Wendell thought I would findso clarifying there. Riding the elevator up, my reflection rippled in the scratched, stainless steel doors in front of me, looking like a leaner, taller ghost of my father. On the top floor, I saw only three suite numbers: 1700, 1710, and 1720. I rang the bell at 1700, where a woman with graying blonde hair and sleepy eyes answered. I explained I was writing something about my relationship with my father and trying to hunt down his old office. Albeit bemused, she was nice enough to let me in and give me a quick tour. She explained that this suite connected to 1720 but there was no room #1727, not even 27 separate offices on that floor. The place had clearly been redesigned since my dad last stepped foot there. It was hard to believe that any rock concerts were ever planned in this now drowsy, overly air-conditioned space. But what I did see, everywhere I looked, were plate glass windows waist-high to ceiling. It was the kind ofspace where an overachiever could dream big while watching the world spin down below — exactly like something I would prefer, for I need a window nearby to write. 'I'm sorry I don't know any more,' the office worker said before walking away. I snorted a laugh and had to accept that I would never know my father like I wanted — that a history of objects can reveal but never resurrect — and also that, to some degree, he'd been there right in front of me. That private but friendly guy always working, always dreaming — that was my dad. A dozen years after my father's passing, the days of selling rock files are done. My mother eventually sold what was left in the file cabinet to a local collector who's creating an archive of the Birmingham music scene with the hopes of turning it into a museum. The archivist hauled away that clanky metal thing that, although lighter from fewer files, still had to be hand-trucked out by two strong one day, Dad's papers and accomplishments could be on public display. Mom kept a few favorites, including that black-and-white poster of Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham, forever frozen in their 20s, forever beautiful, boldly staring back at the viewer like wild-haired rock gods. Mom displayed it in her living room, a reminder of when she and Richard were young. Over the years of sellingrock documents, the parent I got to know was my mom. Even though she frequently griped about Dadnot being more involved in child care and housekeeping, I could tell part of her still loved him — the version of Richard before the disease of depression stole himfrom us. That's why she kept selling these rare items, not for the money, which she didn't need, but to keep his memory living and moving,just like the music they both craved. Remembering is also reacquainting. Although I thought I never played for my father again, that's not entirely true. I never played for him in person. While writing this essay, a memory returned to me: I used to keep in touch with Richard over the phone in the early days of his decline, when there was still some little spark of the old dad inside him. I must've been practicing guitar during a call one evening (a habit I still have) because he grew silent, listening to me play. I stopped plucking the strings, anxious. 'You sound good, son,' he finally said. 'Sound really good.' Do you have a compelling personal story you'd like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we're looking for here and send us a pitch at pitch@
Forbes
11 hours ago
- Forbes
Pop Mart's Wang Ning Is China's 10th Richest Thanks To Labubu Mania
Labubu dolls on display at a Pop Mart store in Shanghai, Around the world, toys based on the character by Chinese toy company Pop Mart are flying off store shelves. VCG/VCG via Getty Images Wang Ning, founder of toy maker Pop Mart International Group, has joined the ranks of China's top ten billionaires for the first time, as the company's Labubu dolls fly off store shelves in Asia, Europe and the U.S. Wang, who is the Beijing-based company's chairman and CEO, is now the 10th richest man in China, according to the Forbes's Real-Time Billionaires List. With a net worth of $22.7 billion based on a Pop Mart stake, the 38-year-old is the youngest member of the country's top echelon of tycoons, which includes ByteDance founder Zhang Yiming, Nongfu Spring Chairman Zhong Shanshan and Tencent cofounder Ma Huateng. The price of Pop Mart's Hong Kong-listed shares has tripled to more than $270 ($34.40) this year. Designed by Hong Kong-born artist Kasing Lung, the company's Labubu dolls are being collected by celebrities around the world including American pop star Rihanna, English-Albanian singer and actress Dua Lipa and Lisa of the South Korean girl group Blackpink. The rabbit-like Labubu, which has pointed ears, jagged teeth and a mischievous smile, is causing havoc in stores. After Pop Mart launched a third edition of the doll in April, fights broke out in one London store among fans desperate to fork out £13.50 ($18.30) to £50 per doll. In its home market of China, a human-sized Labubu doll was auctioned on Tuesday for a whopping 1.08 million yuan ($150,000) in Beijing. China's Ping An Bank tried to entice new customers by offering Labubu toys to anyone who opened a new account and deposited more than 50,000 yuan. That practice was recently stopped by financial regulators, who said the bank was offering improper incentives to attract deposits. Amid the seemingly insatiable demand for Labubu, investment banks Deutsche Bank and Morgan Stanley are substantially lifting their price targets for Pop Mart shares. Deutsche Bank, for example, lifted its target by 52% to HK$303 due to the company's strong overseas growth momentum. "It is rare for a comic/toy IP [intellectual property] to break the culture wall and be embraced by both Asian cultures as well as mainstream Western pop stars and sports stars," Deutsche Bank analyst Jessie Xu wrote in a research note. A Pop Mart representative says the company has no comment on its share price. But not everyone is convinced it can last. 'Overall, we view Pop Mart's shares as overvalued from a long-term perspective,' Jeff Zhang, a Hong Kong-based equity analyst at Morningstar, says by email. 'While top IPs such as Labubu have maintained strong sales growth, we think long-run business risks remain high, as consumers' traction may shift to competitors' IPs.' When that might happen is difficult to predict, Kenny Ng, a Hong Kong-based securities strategist at Everbright Securities International, says by WeChat. The long-term growth of Pop Mart depends on whether its designers can keep creating hot products, he says. As for now, Ng says the shares are a bit expensive. The HK$365 billion company currently trades at more than 50 times its estimated earnings for 2025, he says. Pop Mart says sales during the first three months of this year grew as much as 170% year-on-year without providing specific figures, according to preliminary first quarter results announced via the Hong Kong Stock Exchange in April. The company had previously estimated that full-year sales could grow over 50% year-on-year to more than 20 billion yuan in 2025. Last year, its revenue surged 107% to 13 billion yuan, while profit attributable to owners of the company jumped over 180% to 3.1 billion yuan. Ng says short-term investors might need to wait and see. 'I think there might be an investment opportunity if the shares fall a bit,' he says. 'They are definitely not cheap.'
Yahoo
13 hours ago
- Yahoo
Human-sized Labubu doll sells for more than $150,000
A human-sized Labubu doll was sold this week for a record 1.08m yuan ($150,324; £110,465), according to a Chinese auction house. The 131cm (4ft 4in) figurine was sold at the Yongle International Auction in Beijing. The auctioneer said it is now the most expensive toy of its kind in the world. Labubu dolls are quirky monster characters created a decade ago by Hong Kong artist Kasing Lung, which have increased in popularity in recent years after a number of celebrity endorsements. Labubu dolls, sold by Chinese toy company Pop Mart, usually cost around 50 yuan. This week's auction was dedicated entirely to Labubu. Forty eight items were put on sale with around 200 people in attendance. The auction house said it raised a total of 3.37m yuan. The figurines have sparked a global buying frenzy after frequently appearing in social media posts by Lisa from the K-pop group Blackpink. The soft toys became a viral TikTok trend after being worn by other celebrities like Rihanna and Dua Lipa. Former England football captain David Beckham also posted a photo on Instagram of a Labubu attached to his bag. Earlier this year, Pop Mart pulled the dolls from all UK stores following reports of customers fighting over them. The Chinese retailer often sells the collectable toys in mystery "blind boxes". These items are popular with customers who only find out the design of the figurine once they have opened the packaging.
