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Triquarterly Bimonthly Review
Sep. 21st, 2005 12:24 pmnumismatist: n-u-m-s-t-i-4-zc-s, numismatist
The Sabellas, Rob and Mike, were fraternal twins that lived a few houses down from my house. They were the same age, of course, and I was also the same age, resulting in my being in one class or another with either one throughout elementary school at Fulton Ave. School #8. We also went to Hofstra Summer Camp at Hofstra University where I'm currently enrolled as the undergraduate. I would wait for the bus to camp in their house while they ate cereal and watched Scooby Doo. I was never the type to eat breakfast because of it made me sick and I hated Scooby Doo because each episode had the same resolve, save for the ones in which the villain wore two or more masks. Mike wore hearing aids in his ears because he was hard of hearing. Their parents were Bob and Sandy.
I think I was in Mrs. Gimble's third grade class with Rob when one day it seemed as if I was the only kid in the room who didn't get an invitation to their 10th birthday party which was to be held at Mickey's Fun Cottage. I loved that place. You'd pick out a ceramic wall hanging, most of which were the heads of popular cartoon character, to paint and then you'd paint it. Then you left it to dry and played free video games in the back and eat pizza and ice cream cake. When your wall hanging was all dry it was time to go. You'd get a loot bag and your mom would pick you up. I must have gone to at least 12 birthday parties at Mickey's Fun Cottage.
Thinking it was a clerical error, I asked Rob, "why didn't I get an invitation?" He looked straight ahead and said, "good point." He probably meant to say "good question," but was too stupid to get it right. We were lined up in the gym after lunch to return to class was when I started crying. Mickey's Fun Cottage ruled. And I didn't like it that I, one of the more popular kids, famous being the shortest kid ever and having impeccable comic timing with material ranging from boogers to boobies to a spot-on impression of Steve Urkel, was the only one who wouldn't be at this party.
The next day there was an invitation on my desk. It didn't change the fact that I never really considered myself to be friends with them, rather acquaintances who happened to live in the same vicinity. But come on. Birthday parties weren't about friends back then. They were about getting as many presents as possible. I got them a pair of socks to share between themselves. And I painted a ceramic Bart Simpson, played free video games, ate pizza and ice cream cake, got a loot bag, and my mom picked me up. It was great.
They had a huge dog named Brandy. We were having fun with her one day, the Sabellas, Evan Greenberg, and I, outside Rob and Mike's house. We tested Brandy's response mechanism by walking her about 50 ft. away and then calling her back from whence she came. Evan had Brandy by the leesh when she burst into a sprint upon be summoned from the distance. He held on to Brandy's leesh and was able to run at the same pace. I thought to myself, "I gotta try this. If Greenberg can do it, I can do it even better. He's such a loser. I'll have full command of this sport. Then they'll see." I was right about one thing; Greenberg was, in fact, a loser. But I was too confident in my swiftness. It was my turn to take the helm, and when they called her from afar, she took off like lightening. I kept up for a few steps, but only for a few steps. That beast dragged me for at least 5 ft. on the concrete sidewalk before I decided it was in my best interest to let go of her leesh.
I got all scraped up and also cried. Sandy walked me home. My dad didn't seem too sympathetic. He was never the overtly kind type, especially when it came to injuries. In fact, one time I fell off my bike in front of Justin Klein's house, coincidentally located next door to the Sabella's, and his Mrs. Klein called my house. My dad had to walk an entire half a block to escort me home. I was in the post-crying, sniffling phase when he told me, "Next time you fall off your bike without a helmet on, I'll kick you before helping you." I was perceptive enough, even then, to realize the emptiness of all my dad's threats, promises, insults, compliments, and/or anything else he has to say. But I would rather have gotten a hug than a bullshit threat to my safety from getting kicked before being helped. Plus helmets were for total losers.
Other kids my age in the neighborhood were these kids: Samantha Zaun, who showed her nipple to me, exclusively, in Mr. Valenti's gym class and claimed to have the key to Ponderosa Steak House; Michelle Gustus, who, nice as she was, had an extremely lazy eye and widely spaced teeth; and Kenny Kobbe, who had crooken thumbs and was the only boy in a family with five girls and had to sleep in the attic during summers.
Finally, you can find the video for "Glósóli" from the new Sigur Ros over here. I think it's magical.
The Sabellas, Rob and Mike, were fraternal twins that lived a few houses down from my house. They were the same age, of course, and I was also the same age, resulting in my being in one class or another with either one throughout elementary school at Fulton Ave. School #8. We also went to Hofstra Summer Camp at Hofstra University where I'm currently enrolled as the undergraduate. I would wait for the bus to camp in their house while they ate cereal and watched Scooby Doo. I was never the type to eat breakfast because of it made me sick and I hated Scooby Doo because each episode had the same resolve, save for the ones in which the villain wore two or more masks. Mike wore hearing aids in his ears because he was hard of hearing. Their parents were Bob and Sandy.
I think I was in Mrs. Gimble's third grade class with Rob when one day it seemed as if I was the only kid in the room who didn't get an invitation to their 10th birthday party which was to be held at Mickey's Fun Cottage. I loved that place. You'd pick out a ceramic wall hanging, most of which were the heads of popular cartoon character, to paint and then you'd paint it. Then you left it to dry and played free video games in the back and eat pizza and ice cream cake. When your wall hanging was all dry it was time to go. You'd get a loot bag and your mom would pick you up. I must have gone to at least 12 birthday parties at Mickey's Fun Cottage.
Thinking it was a clerical error, I asked Rob, "why didn't I get an invitation?" He looked straight ahead and said, "good point." He probably meant to say "good question," but was too stupid to get it right. We were lined up in the gym after lunch to return to class was when I started crying. Mickey's Fun Cottage ruled. And I didn't like it that I, one of the more popular kids, famous being the shortest kid ever and having impeccable comic timing with material ranging from boogers to boobies to a spot-on impression of Steve Urkel, was the only one who wouldn't be at this party.
The next day there was an invitation on my desk. It didn't change the fact that I never really considered myself to be friends with them, rather acquaintances who happened to live in the same vicinity. But come on. Birthday parties weren't about friends back then. They were about getting as many presents as possible. I got them a pair of socks to share between themselves. And I painted a ceramic Bart Simpson, played free video games, ate pizza and ice cream cake, got a loot bag, and my mom picked me up. It was great.
They had a huge dog named Brandy. We were having fun with her one day, the Sabellas, Evan Greenberg, and I, outside Rob and Mike's house. We tested Brandy's response mechanism by walking her about 50 ft. away and then calling her back from whence she came. Evan had Brandy by the leesh when she burst into a sprint upon be summoned from the distance. He held on to Brandy's leesh and was able to run at the same pace. I thought to myself, "I gotta try this. If Greenberg can do it, I can do it even better. He's such a loser. I'll have full command of this sport. Then they'll see." I was right about one thing; Greenberg was, in fact, a loser. But I was too confident in my swiftness. It was my turn to take the helm, and when they called her from afar, she took off like lightening. I kept up for a few steps, but only for a few steps. That beast dragged me for at least 5 ft. on the concrete sidewalk before I decided it was in my best interest to let go of her leesh.
I got all scraped up and also cried. Sandy walked me home. My dad didn't seem too sympathetic. He was never the overtly kind type, especially when it came to injuries. In fact, one time I fell off my bike in front of Justin Klein's house, coincidentally located next door to the Sabella's, and his Mrs. Klein called my house. My dad had to walk an entire half a block to escort me home. I was in the post-crying, sniffling phase when he told me, "Next time you fall off your bike without a helmet on, I'll kick you before helping you." I was perceptive enough, even then, to realize the emptiness of all my dad's threats, promises, insults, compliments, and/or anything else he has to say. But I would rather have gotten a hug than a bullshit threat to my safety from getting kicked before being helped. Plus helmets were for total losers.
Other kids my age in the neighborhood were these kids: Samantha Zaun, who showed her nipple to me, exclusively, in Mr. Valenti's gym class and claimed to have the key to Ponderosa Steak House; Michelle Gustus, who, nice as she was, had an extremely lazy eye and widely spaced teeth; and Kenny Kobbe, who had crooken thumbs and was the only boy in a family with five girls and had to sleep in the attic during summers.
Finally, you can find the video for "Glósóli" from the new Sigur Ros over here. I think it's magical.
