Well here we go. Another year under our belts. Christmas came and went and I still didn’t get the Rock’Em Sock’Em Robots I’ve wanted since 1967. But that’s a whole other sob story altogether. Since then I have managed to amass a toy and game collection consisting of Operation, Monopoly, Trouble, a hundred different Star Trek and Star Wars figures and no less than 3 Lost in Space robots, two of which say ”Danger Will Robinson Danger!”, but no Rock’Em Sock’Em’s. All the stuff I wanted as a kid and never got. So you ask, “Tony D, why do you have 3 Lost in Space robots? Well, funny you should ask. The story goes back to the 1960’s…
I grew up in a two bedroom apartment in Brooklyn New York with 4 brothers and my mother and father. We didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Two brothers on a bunk bed and me and the youngest on a cot in one room. My parents in the other bedroom on the other end of the apartment. The view out my window was into an alley and a brick wall six feet away. To the left was the bedroom window of Paul Fasone, the building rich kid. He had everything. I can still remember his mother standing in the doorway of their apartment telling my mother about his genius IQ. They were those kind of neighbors. What ever was hot at the time he had. Bat Man figurines, a Star Trek phaser that shot little plastic discs, an I Spy brief case, and a Man from U.N.C.L.E. camera that morphed into a gun. And a two foot high Lost In Space robot that lit up. That bastard! I asked to see it once and he pulls it away and says, “No!” Spoiled freakin’ brat that he was. Meanwhile my best toy is a broom handle that I point at the city bus when it goes up our street and I make believe that I’m Vic Morrow on “Combat!” shooting at a German tank.
Of course none of the stuff did him any good as he couldn’t hit a ball in a straight line with his brand new Louisville Slugger, catch a pop fly with his genuine leather Mickey Mantle baseball glove, or throw a spiral with his official Joe Nameth football. He might have had all the toys but he was nothing but a nerd, a dufus, a spazz. Everybody knows a guy like this.
One of my favorite memories of Paul is of him showing up at our street hockey world series in the middle of 10th street. We’re using sticks that we took out of the hockey rink garbage cans and are holding them together with tape. We have the foam from sofa cushions that we found on the curb strapped to our legs, and key skates clamped to our Keds with a roll of black electrical tape for a puck and gloves that we stole off a Con Ed truck. He is dressed up in the complete goalie outfit of a New York Ranger. Helmet, hard chaps, shoe skates, everything. What an asshole!
We weren’t gonna let this get by us. He didn’t last ten minutes. He got a few well deserved body checks and then he ran home crying to his mommy. That was the end of his Bobby Orr fantasy and we never saw the suit again.
So now when people ask me why I have 3 Lost In Space robots in my living room, I tell them the story and the lesson, “WHO HAS THE ROBOT NOW PAUL FASONE. ME THAT’S WHO. YOU SON OF A BITCH!”
I grew up in a two bedroom apartment in Brooklyn New York with 4 brothers and my mother and father. We didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Two brothers on a bunk bed and me and the youngest on a cot in one room. My parents in the other bedroom on the other end of the apartment. The view out my window was into an alley and a brick wall six feet away. To the left was the bedroom window of Paul Fasone, the building rich kid. He had everything. I can still remember his mother standing in the doorway of their apartment telling my mother about his genius IQ. They were those kind of neighbors. What ever was hot at the time he had. Bat Man figurines, a Star Trek phaser that shot little plastic discs, an I Spy brief case, and a Man from U.N.C.L.E. camera that morphed into a gun. And a two foot high Lost In Space robot that lit up. That bastard! I asked to see it once and he pulls it away and says, “No!” Spoiled freakin’ brat that he was. Meanwhile my best toy is a broom handle that I point at the city bus when it goes up our street and I make believe that I’m Vic Morrow on “Combat!” shooting at a German tank.
Of course none of the stuff did him any good as he couldn’t hit a ball in a straight line with his brand new Louisville Slugger, catch a pop fly with his genuine leather Mickey Mantle baseball glove, or throw a spiral with his official Joe Nameth football. He might have had all the toys but he was nothing but a nerd, a dufus, a spazz. Everybody knows a guy like this.
One of my favorite memories of Paul is of him showing up at our street hockey world series in the middle of 10th street. We’re using sticks that we took out of the hockey rink garbage cans and are holding them together with tape. We have the foam from sofa cushions that we found on the curb strapped to our legs, and key skates clamped to our Keds with a roll of black electrical tape for a puck and gloves that we stole off a Con Ed truck. He is dressed up in the complete goalie outfit of a New York Ranger. Helmet, hard chaps, shoe skates, everything. What an asshole!
We weren’t gonna let this get by us. He didn’t last ten minutes. He got a few well deserved body checks and then he ran home crying to his mommy. That was the end of his Bobby Orr fantasy and we never saw the suit again.
So now when people ask me why I have 3 Lost In Space robots in my living room, I tell them the story and the lesson, “WHO HAS THE ROBOT NOW PAUL FASONE. ME THAT’S WHO. YOU SON OF A BITCH!”
