BIG LOO: MY FRIEND FROM THE MOON
He arrived one Christmas Eve; in a box so big it didn't fit under the tree. My mother ordered him from the Spiegel Catalog for me. Big Loo: A 4 foot tall, toy robot. ("Your friend from the moon" -- if you believed the folks at the Marx Toy Company.)
Words fail me in trying to convey just how truly magnificent Big Loo was. No. For that I need to revert to my then 8-year-old vernacular: "Cool" -- "Outta sight" -- "Boss" -- "Ass kickin'" . . . Big Loo was all these things -- and more.
He launched plastic rockets from his wheeled feet. Shot rubber, suction cup darts from his bullet shaped head. His left arm was a bazooka from which he fired red, Nerf balls. And if that wasn't enough to ward off an alien invasion, he also squirted water from his robotic navel. Together we terrorized the neighborhood; frightening babies, small animals and old ladies suffering from nervous anxiety disorder. One old girl had to be rushed to the E.R. and revived by doctors, after Big Loo and I sprang from behind a tree, jolting her out of her orthopedic shoes. Ahhh! The memories!
Years passed. I grew up. Hit puberty. I no longer needed my robot friend from the moon. Girls and flesh and blood friends from the neighborhood were on the agenda. Big Loo was relegated to the attic. Eventually donated to The Salvation Army. Presumably to become some other, less fortunate kid's cherished companion. I never said goodbye. Never thanked him for all the childhood hijinx -- all the summer afternoons spent scaring the livin' bejesus out of old ladies.
Last I heard, Big Loo no longer lives on the moon. He now resides on eBay, as a rare collector's item -- and hey, if in these challenging economic times you've got a G-note to drop on nostalgia, more power to ya. For the rest of us, Big Loo will always live in the hearts of those children, now grown, whose Christmas he made just a bit brighter -- and in the tortured psyches of those we victimized.
Words fail me in trying to convey just how truly magnificent Big Loo was. No. For that I need to revert to my then 8-year-old vernacular: "Cool" -- "Outta sight" -- "Boss" -- "Ass kickin'" . . . Big Loo was all these things -- and more.
He launched plastic rockets from his wheeled feet. Shot rubber, suction cup darts from his bullet shaped head. His left arm was a bazooka from which he fired red, Nerf balls. And if that wasn't enough to ward off an alien invasion, he also squirted water from his robotic navel. Together we terrorized the neighborhood; frightening babies, small animals and old ladies suffering from nervous anxiety disorder. One old girl had to be rushed to the E.R. and revived by doctors, after Big Loo and I sprang from behind a tree, jolting her out of her orthopedic shoes. Ahhh! The memories!
Years passed. I grew up. Hit puberty. I no longer needed my robot friend from the moon. Girls and flesh and blood friends from the neighborhood were on the agenda. Big Loo was relegated to the attic. Eventually donated to The Salvation Army. Presumably to become some other, less fortunate kid's cherished companion. I never said goodbye. Never thanked him for all the childhood hijinx -- all the summer afternoons spent scaring the livin' bejesus out of old ladies.
Last I heard, Big Loo no longer lives on the moon. He now resides on eBay, as a rare collector's item -- and hey, if in these challenging economic times you've got a G-note to drop on nostalgia, more power to ya. For the rest of us, Big Loo will always live in the hearts of those children, now grown, whose Christmas he made just a bit brighter -- and in the tortured psyches of those we victimized.
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