Not Just Any Old Port In Any Old Calm Before Any Old Storm

I had just finished typing the period at the end of that first sentence when we heard an explosion and the power disappeared. Thank you to El for her hospitality today so that we could all plug in and turn on.


 ***
It was Monday.  Figuring streets would be quiet and stores closed, we took a walk.

The Open Pantry was open.  Why wouldn't it be? was Themis's shrug of an answer.  The Pantry had weathered the East Village for the last four decades.  It was always open, come rain, come shine, come anything.  "Come back and take a picture when Pete is here," Themis said.

Themis and Jose

The Stage was packed, not a seat in the house, everyone storing up on pre-storm pierogi, cutlets and burgers. 

So an emergency smoked mozzarella from Russo's was the next best thing, catching up on medical procedures and gossip about customers who were always surprised they could swing by later and pay if they didn't have enough cash on them.  Any gluten-free pasta in the future? A sigh, and then "No. Just dried pasta".   I stared at the refrigerator case filled with the best ravioli, tortelli, and spaghetti in the world. 

 

The mozzarella lasted a day. 

**

The Open Pantry

Stage

Russo's Mozzarella and Pasta

Encore: Peace Be With You

Originally posted on November, 17, 2011, the Programme of Assistance now faces an uncertain future for lack of funding. Today, on the 67th birthday of the United Nations, this Programme offers hope for the promises of the Charter - a world filled with peace and justice.

The United Nations

And Peace Be With You.

**
The longer road begins with a word, a word that opens the possibility of everyone being welcomed to the table. And one hopes the word and words that follow build that welcome. Sometimes it is called the law. And sometimes that law welcomes justice to the table.

There is this programme available all around the world that teaches the teachers the word and the many that follow.

Programme of Assistance in the Teaching, Study, Dissemination and Wider Appreciation of International Law

Home Away From Home

The office kitchen, like one's bed, gets more time with us than the arms of our lovers.

GUEST ARTIST: Sunday Memories: Joni's Coney

A woman truly from Her New York, Joni is once again Guest Artist.

There's an old Argentinean joke. 

Q: Why do Argentinean men go up in airplanes?
A: To see what the world looks like without them.

But, here in Her New York, you go up in an airplane and all you want is to go back down and go  home.

***

These photos may not be used without permission from myprivateconey.com

Encore: When Does A House Becomes a Home?

Originally posted July 31, 2008

During long days away from home, what makes home "home" becomes, in between the pressing needs of chores written down on a list, a wonderment of longing.
 

***

From my bubby's home, via my childhood's home.


From a friend's house no longer wanted.


From the street - placed carefully so that everyone passing would know it was up for grabs.


From an abandoned yeshiva summer camp.


From a long-lost cousin and painter in Moscow, smuggled to me in the late 1970s before Gorbachev and glasnost.


From a roommate who moved west in 1979.


From a neighbor. (The pillows were $2.50 each at a Church basement sale on 37th Street.)


From Florence's ex-girlfriend.


1. From Florence's other ex-girlfriend - a recipe from Florence's mother-in-law given to said ex-girlfriend one evening in 1947 at my parents' apartment in Knickerbocker Village. 2. From a temp job in 1978 - Mapplethorpe portraits of Lisa Lyon's biceps. 3. From a former boss in 1997, an internet joke of a meditation on killing someone to reduce stress. 4. Magnets from my roommate who lived here at 17 and has, in her forties, since returned.

Morning Has Broken

Sunday Memories: God Is In The Dominoes

How to start
more than ten less than twenty years

the wry comments
the deadpan delivery
the funniest line ever written and said in a play
the occasional beers
that awful memorial funnier than any black comedy but with more wincing
knowing the long march the bloody boxing ring called writing
preserving memories about healthy resistance to awful people
the kindness of listening 
the determination to find love
the best short story ever written about aching
the fearless traveling
the leading by example
the words that unfolded those intimate moments of living until goodbyes were said
showing up to celebrate Florence's life after a redeye flight
the willingness to help with an email to his cousin
which led to an email for a position
which led to a six hour test and interview
which led to a freelance position that would never had been considered ever in a million years
which led to another one
and another one
and another one
which led to doors constantly flinging open into healing

which led to
a happiness
a gratitude
a peace
a love
a life
impossible to imagine more than ten less than twenty

**
Related Posts:

Part Five: Home Work

Sunday Memories: A Picture's Worth A Thousand Words (and one or two captions)

Sunday Memories and Encore with Addendum: Brief Peace in Late Night

Migratory Patterns

It's been almost more than a handful of autumns, that beautiful season unfurling like surprised love.  A long day of new challenges and old words ends, and the same walk happens, usually towards home along an avenue as familiar as the mottled history with an childhood friend.

There is one spot, though, that isn't meandered through.

A hidden corner where, that first fall, I sat by a fountain and billions of Christmas lights and remembered the brief moments when Florence would hold my hand, not as an old woman fighting mad her body was leaving her, but as a mother, ambivalent at caring, remembering her own broken heart, and hoping something, even a maternal gesture, might make it easier.

That first fall I would stop by that fountain and cried.  However few those moments were, I understood no one in the world would ever hold my hand like my mother.

**

Related Posts:

Stupid Hope In Stupid Cement

Same *&@*#$ Corner

Sunday Memories:  A "Chuck Close" Portrait Of Florence

As A New Fall Begin, Old Hopes Return To The Halls Of Peace (An Encore)

Originally posted November 11, 2011



The Halls Of Peace are often unadorned.

One just hopes they are well lit, not just with strong bulbs, but with good intentions to seek common ground and the heart and soul of the other.

Sunday Memories: Another Park Another Sunday

It was like finding the ring I found that day in another park.  I was just minding my own business when I looked down or up or right or, in this case, left.

This park, a block-long garden that had been loved into being by volunteers from all over the neighborhood, was filled with chickens and extra other birds and lots of dirt and plants and flowers and people digging things, and little wonderful corners to sit down in and listen to other things besides annoying cell phone conversations.

And in one of those sweet corners, I found this stone table, this old stone table with dark grey squares and light grey squares, just like the one I leaned against one hot summer in 1964 or 5 and announced my undying love for Allen to the old men playing chess, not knowing his people and my people didn't marry during those olden days.

Times have changed.  The stone table waits for new players.

**
Related Posts

Sunday Memories: The Men's Park

Sunday In The Park With Springtime

Sunday In The Park With Mom

Taking The Long Way Home

Marty and Goggla

Just because you weren't born here doesn't mean you don't belong here.

That's what I told Tripping With Marty when he announced he was going back to Peoria.

(I don't know where it is and I know I could google it, but I think I need to keep the mystery alive.)

So we all gathered at Odessa to say hello and then to say goodbye.

Nineteen years ago, Marty landed in a roach infested hotel room on the upper west side.  Roaches or no roaches, he didn't wasted a moment, doing more in this city than a dozen writers could have done in the same amount of time, daring to go where no imagination had gone before.   "A lot about being a New Yorker is going beyond the fear," he said in a voice that had walked into 365 noisy dive bars.

But over fried beige foods and brutally funny off-the-record-stories of a New York no longer on the streets, diaspora emerged. 

Rent, even his rare kind, was high, work was scarce, and, like all of us who belonged here, it was getting tougher and tougher to watch our home be erased bit by bit, street by street, artist by artist.  The diner counter, the bar stool, the affordable apartment where we had found one another was joining the fate of ice caps and the rain forest.  And that roach infested hotel was now a luxury something or other.  How, then, could a writer or painter or musician or dancer or for that matter anybody who belong here, stay here?

"Here isn't Here anymore," the Mariner said, splitting the last piece of a latke.

No.  Here was now virtual.  Here was in blogspheres and email, texts, and tweets.  Perhaps where we belonged was not a state, but a state of mind.  And perhaps that place could be anywhere.

Like Peoria.

**
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A Guy Walks Into 365 Bars

Tripping With Marty

Marty Wombacher

The Gog In NYC

Part One: Home Work - Goggla

Bloggers Gone Wild

Sunday Memories: Broadway of The East

The Exhaustion of Diaspora: Part Six- Home Where My Love Lies Waiting

The Last Meal

In Case Of Emergency

When No One Was Looking

Sunday Memories: The Sign Of Times That Were

In the middle of a miserable, rainy, packed rush-hour Lexington Line IRT, two people offered me a seat.  It took a couple of days to realize they were about 30 years younger than me.  It only took a few seconds to say thank you and sit down.

I hate standing.

But Florence,  easily 20 to 30 years older than I am today, would refuse the multiple offers a cute white haired old lady always got, stamping her feet indignantly "No!".  As if the offer challenged her ferocious lunge at another day to recapture the lost time and the old dreams.

The Poetry Of Peace In Motion

Many called for unified action, others called for compromise and one or two called for different forms of destruction, though only between the lines.

But this leader of a small island, beleaguered by crisis and challenges, sang words of peace and dreams and sent blessings to the City of New York for welcoming in, once again, the gathering of hope for a better world. 

**

Related Posts

Peace Be With You

Brief Peace

Brief Peace In Late Night

Sunday Memories: Giving Peace A Chance

"When Fire and Water Are At War..."

Back To Work

Encore: L'Shona Tova

Originally posted Tuesday, October 7, 2008


I go to Little Gdynia to meet Doc for a meal.

Faye is there with her grandson. Her husband, Leslie is now gone a year at least. That means she'll be able to say kaddish at the services next week for him. All I see is that day he boasted how she was the smartest math teacher in the world as she gently put his arm into his jacket. They both survived the war and the camps but met each other here in New York when they came to start a new life, a new year.

Faye is now drained, her eyes watery. She may be facing 90 but she can't quite see it. Her grandson talks animatedly to her, like he is trying to live six lives for her so she isn't so damn lonely dieing without the man she loves.

I go over to say Good Yontiv. The grandson tells me he now is in Los Angeles. No, not the TV business. His girlfriend got into rabbinical school. Thank G-d, I say. Faye beams.

Five men yell and laugh in the back. The Right this, the Left that, Stalinism and....

Doc skips in. Pierogis and kielbasi and little cups of soup. Sour cream, sauteed onions, I have a chocolate egg cream. Talk pours out faster than delicious rain from another season, mothers and lovers and hopes and grief and hunger and peace and dreams. Desire.

For a new year for a new year for a new year.

The men all laugh and voices rise into chords from a Schoenberg symphony. Suddenly a glass breaks on the tile floor.

"Mazel Tov!" we shout to them.

"What!? Now you're married!?" one shouts back.

"No! You're married." we retort.

Faye's grandson is waving to me from the door. I jump up, a kiss on Faye's cheek. She says, pointing to him, kvelling like crazy, "This is my grandson." I don't say I know you told me. I just grin a billion smiles for her so maybe the joy evaporates her permanent tears. I feel my own eyes soften with age each second.

Doc makes me laugh just when I'm swallowing mushroom barley. We talk about all the meals we ate on Yom Kippur. I win. Two years ago from the 35th Street Chinese bakery a pork bun for breakfast before I realized I was eating tref on the holiest of the holies. She's runner up because she made dinner reservations this year for right after the fasting begins.

Since it's between Rosh Hoshanna and Yom Kippur, we don't count the kielbasi.

The men, windbreakser, comfy shoes, relaxed pants, those faces we know in our fathers our uncles our neighbors our lives.

One says, "you sure we're not married?"

"You are," we say. "But to him..." pointing to his old friend.

"Oy! him!?"

"What? You thought you were going to be happy?"

"Wasn't the first two times...."

"Good night, girls," they call to us, leaving with little bags of dessert or dinner.

"Good night, Good Yontiv, shona tova, a happy new year..."

A new year a new year a new year...

Sunday Memories: Our Facebook

If we weren't at the Door, we were at Nedicks.  And if we weren't at Nedicks, we were in the park.

And if it was raining, we were all under the Arch. 

***

Sunday Memories: The Door

Sunday Memories: Fast Food In Fast Times

Sunday Memories: Autumn In New York

Sunday Memories: ... A Little Rain Must Fall

The Door

The Best Of All Possible Worlds....

Voltaire published his book secretively.  A satire, it was sure to piss off the mediocre assholes who thought their new clothes made them look smart.  Or rich.  Or thin.  Sure enough, Candide was a hit and the assholes banned it.  But does anyone remember their names or even care?

As diners close and an old man running a neighborhood newspaper-stand  fights $800-an-hour lawyers working to evict him, a real city still stands.  Or in this case, sits.  Being reminded that no matter what century or country it might be, mediocrity can and will continue to be challenged.

The Last Meal

Once there were tons of diners. 

In those early days of learning to raise myself, these diners were breakfast, lunch and dinner.

• They were the kitchen I didn't know how to cook in.  

• They were dining room I knew how to sit in.

• They were the counters where I drank coffee all night and made friends over cigarettes.

• They were the quiet corners I wrote awful poetry and promising books.

• They were the theater of neighbors' doings and the place of street-life commerce.

• They were conference rooms when art needed to be discussed and plans needed to be made.

And more important than not, they were often where I began journeys toward love, wooing and being wooed over soup and easy eggs, sometimes in deep night, sometimes in mornings after.

The University Diner was one such place.  

They close Wednesday.

So I thank you, University Diner for the many meetings taken in the window booths, the breakfast specials when the blues descended and home fries were necessary, the 2:00 am tea at the counter where I learned how I mistook lies for love, and a Thanksgiving dinner, resplendent with canned cranberry sauce and pearl necklaces, a dinner so warm and welcoming, it felt more like home than any holiday/family dinner I had ever had before.

Sunday Memories Of L'Shona Tova

In Lieu of Flowers... was originally posted on October 1, 2008 as an obituary for Florence who had died the previous morning. Since Rosh Hoshanah appears in the English calendar differently each year, she in death has become as unpredictable as she was in life. Wouldn't have it any other way.

In Lieu of Flowers...



Tell the truth.

Tell yourself the truth.

Don't let your bullshit compromise either of the above.

Don't lie. Unless you're drunk. Then really don't lie.

Don't steal.

Accept hand-me-downs.

Look fabulous in your own clothes. They may have started out as hand-me-downs but they're yours now. Proudly recount their lineage. Never feel ashamed about that.

Never take a taxi.

Walk everywhere.

Don't wear a coat in winter.

Carry your own weight to the point of pathology. Better to err on independence than not.

Refuse to lose at the hands of cowardliness, mediocrity, stupidity, and the need to blend in.

Suffer aloneness at the risk of fitting in with any of the above.

Refuse to feel fear. If you do, ignore it and keep going. Just like Florence did that night during a World War II blackout under the Manhattan Bridge by the movie theater (now a Chinese market).

Always put your work first.
Always do your work.
Always put your work first.
Always do your work.

Rage against the Machine. Even when it looks like it's related to you.

Risk being laughed at by morons when you do something no one else is doing. Just like when Florence put on those roller skates in 1972 and skated up and down Grand Street and all those people laughed at her and then a couple of years every one had disco skates.

Start your entire life over at 60 like you were a 14 year old. Because on some level, you still are.

Fight back just like Florence did all the times someone mugged her or tried to mug her during the 1970's.

Don't EVER quit.

Know that that beer, that sandwich, those shoes, that jacket, those pants, that avenue, that movie house, that proper grammar, that street, that bar, that woman, that dance, that etude, that sonata, that scale, that subway, that bus, that hotdog, that boardwalk, that beach, that ocean is Your New York.

It Was Hers.

In Honor Of Love That Blooms In Autumn

Perhaps spring is the correct time to grow, but who said you had to follow the rules.

It's sometimes Autumn streets, filling with long shadows shimmering like perfume into evening walks, that invites kisses and care and delight.
**

Related Posts:

Sunday Memories:  Autumn In New York...

The Sign Of Things To Come

That brief moment on the way home tonight, the air changed.  Crisp, not like an air conditioner, but like a different desire. 

On the first night like this, I miss the passion Florence walked with, a sweater and scarf readied for new times.

**

Related Posts:

Autumn In New York

The Lights Of Autumn

Another Walk To Hope: Part II

Sunday Memories: When A Picture Is Like A Song

Sunday Memories: "Not Coney. Coney Island."

Sunday Memories: Another Small Small Small World After All

Frites

I got into the cab all heartbroken, because that was my constant state of being in those halcyon low-tech days before loneliness gotten hidden by the smokescreen of the internet. 

On my way to a small shoot, a vintage dress and heels and tons of make-up piled on my lap, I was in no mood to pretend to be romantically torn by forbidden love for the artistic screen. 

But I had been asked by the filmmaker I liked (versus the one who didn't even bother to learn my name) and I'd be dancing with a favorite friend of mine to a slow 1950's love song. 

So, after scribbling a secret message on the door of the cab for who I thought was the love of my life, I stared out the window.  And that's when I noticed it. 

The sky.

Oh there were a billion versions of New York cloudy gray skies, but this wasn't one of them.  I had only seen a gray sky so filled with such light in Nijmegen, a city in the Netherlands no one outside of it ever heard of.

I loved that city.  It was the Philadelphia of Holland.  A good friend lived there and it was where I'd go to escape what seemed like unending unhappiness. And although I may not have known how to pronounce any of the street names in Nijmegen, I knew how to find my favorite little corners.

I was so happy, staring out that window, to be some place else, if only for a brief second, that wasn't filled with self incrimination.

...when out of nowhere, the cab driver said, "The sky looks like Europe." 

"I was just thinking that.  I was thinking it reminded me of a city in Holland where a friend lives."

"My brother lives in Holland!"

"Where!?"

"Oh, you wouldn't know it."

"No, tell me."

"Nijmegen."

The frites shop his brother owned and ran was one of my favorite little corners, one I visited every day for lunch.

***

Related Posts

It's a Small Small Small World After All

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Burning Down The House

Upstairs heard the fire alarm go off and called their next door who called all the phone numbers they had and when we didn't answer any of them, they called downstairs who had the keys...

Afterwards, everyone said oh don't worry, they had done that too and one even carried around a little kitchen timer because these days remembering anything was a thing of the past.

I was just grateful that someone pulled the cat from underneath the chair and carried him out to the hallway where all the neighbors kept him company until the smoke cleared and it was safe to go back in.

It takes a village to raise a child, and sometimes it takes a village to accompany someone to their end.  But in between birth and death, the village takes care that everyone, including the cat, is OK.

***

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Home Is Where The Heart Is

Sunday Memories: In The Cacophony Of A Visit...

Last Of The Native New Yorkers

Too Late To Stop Now

Sunday Memories: The Ghosts Of Christmas Past, Present and Future

Sunday Memories: The Days Of Frostbite


Sunday Memories: Nina

The Long March

Rodriguez at the Highline Ballroom in New York City

It may have taken many years for his road to lead him back to what he was born to do, but the failures along the way never defined him.  A spirit unassailable, he was who he was, whether he was singing to thousands or doing back-breaking manual labor.  

It is a lesson fiercely clutched while living through unseen years and warring with words that ebbed and flowed like killing tornadoes and brutal drought.


***

Searching for Sugar Man

The Official Rodriguez Site

The Long March

Summer Reruns of Sunday Memories: The Men's Park

Originally posted Sunday, August 31, 2008


This is The Men's Park. Men used to play here.



They played chess and sometimes checkers but mostly chess on these stone boards.



We were always told NEVER to go into The Men's Park.

So, of course we did. Not a lot, but enough to feel like we were breaking rules and tempting fate.

Once there, The Men utterly ignored us as we hung around the chess table, bored out of our minds with a stupid game that didn't include punching and running really fast.

The Men weren't too thrilled either with sweaty, snotty, fidgeting dirty kids interrupting their concentration.

I could see the canopy of trees in that park from my bedroom window.

Bigger than the rest of the trees in the playground, they were the clock of the seasons. Glimpses of green would let me know when summer was coming. And then all too soon, hints of wind and leaves getting darker with other colors would let me know when summer was preparing to leave.

Summer Reruns During Brutal Writing Blocks: A Labor Of Love

Originally posted September 8, 2009


Florence said you had to train to stay home and work at your art all day.

El said she felt passionate about mixing her CD.

Dana said the writing comes when it comes. Like a rash.

O'Keefe said he knew his paintings were good but it was too painful to discuss.

I said living with what was inside me - the images, the thoughts, the stories - while trying to stay human was like a vampire trying to keep his best friend from becoming a meal.

And De La Vega left reminders on a cardboard box toss to the trash man that art comes where it comes and comes when it comes and like birthing it can't be returned to hidden recesses.

On The Ferry Monday Morning

The sunshine was still there but the coils of wearing responsible socks and shoes had already begun their tightening.  That didn't stop tourists or languid commuters from staring into horizons hoping extra days of freedom appear.

Summer Reruns: Sunday Memories: a) Inheritance b) Neighborhood c) Heritage d) All Of The Above: Part 3

Originally posted August 15, 2010

When the old people die in the old neighborhood, usually it's their kids who clean out the apartment.

But sometimes their kids send their kids who don't know what's what.   Or sometimes there are no kids so it's the niece or the nephew or their kids.  And sometimes it's even the kids of the neighbors next door  - complete strangers - who clean out the life of a person who has no kin and no connection except to the people in the photos they leave behind.

Which is how Laurel found all these old photos tossed in the garbage. She brought them home so that a discarded life and history could always have a home.
This is Delancey Street. The Delancey Street Florence roamed. The Loews Delancey in the backbround still looked like that when we went there on Saturday afternoons.


Laurel thinks this was taken on Orchard Street. The boy, the mother, and even if she was the sister, the young woman relegated to the back.  We all hoped the picture was taken when he was back for good. 


On the back of this, in beautiful fountain pen cursor, someone wrote "Herman. He played for the Czar." Since the only Russians who came to America in the early 1900 were Jews, all we could think was this was a Jew who played for the Czar. That was a big, big deal.

Did Herman ever make it here or did he die there, probably in a pogram or in the camps?

Me, Laurel and Joyce looked at this guy and we all said "He looks familiar. That place looks is familiar."

This picture, every inch of it, is a picture of one of those rare delicious moments I had as a kid - the evening dark, the clock early, the smells recognizable, the accent my own.

Summer Reruns: a) Inheritance b) Neighborhood c) Heritage d) All Of The Above: Part 2

Originally posted August 12, 2010





Laurel and Joyce’s Uncle Joe and my Uncle George were friends.  They both played trombone. This was taken at the picture studio on Rivington Street.  Wittmyers. 157 Rivington. 

But after the war, both of them left New York and that was that. The only thing Uncle Joe wanted from New York was his trombone.  His mother mailed it to him.

Summer Reruns: a) Inheritance b) Neighborhood c) Heritage d) All Of The Above: Part 1

Originally posted August 10, 2010

Another on-going series of New York stories




Joyce and Laurel’s father and his family grew up next door to my father and his family in the tenements on Henry Street. Not the hip, over-priced, badly renovated, tons of cache, faux-street-cred tenements of today but the rat-filled, roach-saturated, filthy, over-crowded tenements of yesterday.

Their great-grandfather and grandfather had the stables down the street. They were the blacksmiths.  Laurel and Joyce say it like it is, no bullshit.  Maybe that came from the horses because you know you can’t bullshit a horse.

My grandfather taught himself English, showed up to whatever work he could get, despite suspected depression and was pro-union (although there's speculation it was just an excuse to be self-righteous and punch other people besides his wife and kids).  I think workers should be fairly paid for their work and I’ve shown up to every job I could get despite suspected depression.  Yeah, I got a temper but unlike my grandfather I keep it in check.

After the co-ops were built and the tenements disappeared, our families all got new fancy apartments near one another.  In our world fancy meant elevators, hot water, toilets inside the apartment, no rats and less roaches. Trees too.

(Dana's husband, George was one of the couple of men who got those co-ops built.)

Every once in a while, Dolly their mother would say "Let's go visit Florence" and they would come over and sit at the kitchen table, watching the trains going back and forth. Both of them knew the plaid "lumberjack" jacket from LL Bean and the Kedd sneakers Florence always wore.  No one in the neighborhood looked like her.  So it made sense they would remember.

They also knew we all walked everywhere.  Spending carfare was a very serious decision and if it wasn’t necessary then we didn’t.  And by necessary, I mean if the destination was less than an hour away by foot, the answer was no.  Even if it wasn’t, like Gramma’s, we had to walk back. 

Laurel and Joyce still live in the old neighborhood that was built on top of the old-old neighborhood.  I come downtown for tea and talk.  As I walked in the door, Laurel said, "Betcha walked here."  Of course I did. And although I’m not wearing plaid, it’s clear to see from my sneakers to my jacket, I got Florence’s fashion sense.

Both of them point out the window to a new, ugly, blue high-rise rising on the other side of Delancey.  “Blue Smurf dick,” they both chortle.  Like I said, no bullshit.

Joyce reminds me they played with my hair during those visits.  I don’t remember.  But something inside me remembers more than what they did with my braids.  I will probably get details wrong and forget about dates and lose track of which family did what, but I don't get wrong the neighborhood.   Because, sitting at Laurel’s kitchen table, my lower east side accent returns full force and I talk like I was six and home again.

Inheritance. Neighborhood. Heritage.  All of the above.

Sunday Memories: My First Date With Bond. James Bond.

Baby Jupiter watches a James Bond car chase

Although he went to public school, he was a good Jewish boy, which is why we had to wait until after Shabbos to go to the movies.

It was my first date ever and I suspect his too.  

There was a double feature of James Bond movies playing at the Grand Street Loews (pronounced LO-EASES).   Having been schooled in Gene Kelly musicals, the height of my relationship to action flicks stopped at In Like Flint and the Pink Panther movies.

I don't remember which Bond ones we saw.  I do remember B. and Cindy following me and the good Jewish boy down Grand Street, shouting-singing "the closer you get, the better you look!"  That was from a Clairol Hair Dye TV commercial and the sexiest song they knew.  After "we must, we must, we must increase our bust, the bigger the better, the tighter the...".

I also remember the good Jewish boy feeding me Certs during intermission and me accepting as many as he offered because Certs was considered candy and candy was hard to come by until I figured out how to steal dollar bills from my dad.

Our post date reunion happened at the doorway of 7th grade homeroom where he presented me his baby teeth.  We went our separate ways after that.

But it didn't matter.  Bond movies weren't in my immediate future in those days.  Florence had other plans and sent me off to the Elgin Theater on Eighth Avenue when Eighth was the refuge for hookers not good enough for Times Square.  The Elgin was on its way to becoming a porn palace before transforming into the Joyce, but in the brief moment of still being an art house, I became one with Fellini and Truffaut.  Their movies unfolded a picture of the constant world inside my brain - a world I did not know how to say out loud in English, let alone Italian or French, but a world I so desperately wanted to live in.

James Bond's adventures movies were watched in between the Naked Gun movies - something to marvel at and get lost in wild stunts and other locales.  It wasn't until today that I found out those old Bond movies meant as much to little boys as Guido in 8 1/2 meant to me.  The Mariner, sitting me through Goldfinger, glowed and delighted with every gadget and "technological" advancement Bond used to thwart the bad guys and girls.  It was the unfolding of the world inside his brain, one any boy would so desperately want to live in and certainly one that would inspire a gift of baby teeth.

**
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Cindy: That Day We Met

Sunday Memories: The Truth And Nothing But...

The Delight Of Being The Shoe On The Other Foot

There was once a contest series in New York Magazine or the Daily News or maybe it was the Village Voice when it still had a voice.

Because the internet wouldn't be invented for another twenty or thirty years, each week you mailed your answers in on an index card.

One week the question was:  What could New York use more of?

I wrote in:  Less tourists.

Little did I know what the future would bring.  I also did not win.

In the rare travels away from home - home now defined as a few blocks' radius and an apartment as rare as the dodo bird - activities have been kept to family care and visits.  And the amazing Goodwill store near my father's garden apartment.

But love is impossible to say no to and after a plane ride to a city, often considered in the same breath as New York and one of the only two places Florence ever flew to, we joined the crowds of tourists tromping from one pretty attraction to another.

And as rickety old cable cars threw themselves down hills that were straight out of ancient video games or some prehistoric comic book we all screamed and cheered and interrupted the peace and quiet of neighborhoods sick of people like us.