A Memory of Childhood Bullies

Text © Robert Barry Francos/FFanzeen, 2010
Images from the Internet

Like any other small kid, and I was the shortest and thinnest boy in my class for a number of years, I’ve had my share of bullies in my life. While most of them were my teachers and the Boy Scout leader, there were also some closer to my age that have moved in and out of my life.

Ah, yes, the bagel-making (his occupation) Boy Scout leader. He was a brute of a man who should never have been let be in charge of anyone, let alone kids. He seemed happiest when he found a reason to literally kick a helpless youth in the ass while he wore army boots that made Doc Martens look plush. He would make us play dodge ball with basketballs, and tell the throwers to aim at a single kid (usually the non-jock kind), so there is no way the ball could actually be dodged. I was often bruised.

Still I managed to stick around for a while, until I was a Second Class Scout, and needed only one more merit badge to become First Class. I decided to go for a cooking one, as the Troop was going on an overnight camping trip up at the Alpine Campgrounds, in the Jersey Palisades. The last Scout meeting before we left, I asked him, “Do I need to cook with or without aluminum foil?” He firmly said without, so I didn’t bring any.

On the camping trip, he did not come along, so a different Troop’s Scout Master watched over us. When I went to show my work, he said, “Since you’re cooking over an open fire, you need to use some foil, otherwise I won’t give it to you.” As hard as I tried, I could not find anyone who would part with any foil. I didn’t get the badge.

At the next Troop meeting, I approached our “leader” and said, quite perturbed, “You said I didn’t need foil when I did, and I didn’t get the badge.” He actually smirked at me with an evil grin, and said, handing me the Scout Manual, “You shoulda read it in the manual. Serves you right” (in other words, “I knew, and I fed you wrong information, so tough nuggies”). After years of abuse by this jerk, I had enough. “You know what,” I said seething with all the contempt my little frame could muster, as he leaned forward in a “what are you gonna do about it” stance, half sitting and half standing, “go to hell,” and I flung the book at him, and with karmic certainty, the point of the thick book hit him right in the groin, and he doubled over in sharp pain. I walked out, and never went back again. The next day I threw out my uniform and the sash with all my merit badges.

My first non-adult bully was in first grade by a kid named Francis, who was actually shorter than me, but was – and I mean this literally – mentally deranged. He would fly into a complete Mel Gibson rage at the drop of a hat, including fist flailing, and I had the pleasure of having to stand next to him at recess. He would glare at me and tell me all the ways he was going to hurt me, though for some reason I was one of the few who were actually left physically unscathed in the class, perhaps because I would bribe him with sweets; still, it was terrifying to be hearing this day in and day out. One day he didn’t show up for class anymore. A few days later, my mom told me that he had been playing hooky, and when the truant office came to the door, Francis attacked him, biting a chunk out of his leg. After that, he was expelled from our school and was sent to a different one for troubled kids, and I never saw him again. If he’s alive now, which I sincerely question, he’s probably either in jail, a cop, or a priest.

In junior high, because of the amount of books we had to carry, I started using an attaché case, which made it a bit easier to carry the load. This was the days before backpacks, when everyone just carried their materials in their hands: boys at the ends of their hands held tight against their leg (usually to be able to quickly hide their groin if the hormones kicked in), and girls with arms folded across their chest. However, I found the load to be too much to carry “boy style” and I could get beaten up carrying it “girl style” (which was actually a more comfortable to carry books), so I started using the attaché case, and was the only one who did. But then came along Craig.

Craig was in a grade higher than me, and whenever our paths crossed, he would grab the attaché case out of my hands, usually from the back before I saw him, and he would a) throw it down the hall, b) fling it down the stairs, or c) toss it out into the street, depending on where we were at the time. Needless to say, I went through quite a few of the cases, because they kept breaking due to the constant rough treatment by this dolt. At one point, he even told me that he didn’t have anything against me personally; it was just fun for him.

After a couple of years of this, on a non-school day, I was riding my bike along Cropsey Avenue near 21 Avenue (Bensonhurst), across the street from the park, when Craig was walking in the opposite direction. He walked into the street, and put his arm straight out as if to clothesline me. This happened fast, but I was able to pull the bike around his hand without him touching me, but had to go into the line of traffic coming from behind me (as I was going in the same direction as the traffic, I could not see what was there). It was only with grace that no cars were behind me at that moment along that very busy street.

I totally lost my cool. Despite his intimidating presence, I leapt off my bike, leaving it between two parked cars, and walked right up to him and yelled, “Are you out of your fucking mind?!? It’s one thing to wreck my stuff, but you could have fucking killed me! I have had enough of you. If you come near me again, I will call the cops on your ass and tell them about this. Just keep the fuck away from me!” Now, anyone who knew me then would know that I did not normally talk like that, and was actually quite shy. That was just a barometer of how angry I was at that moment.

After that, the first time I saw him in the school hall and he tried to grab my attaché case, I glared at him and he actually backed off, and never tried it again. Shortly after, I went to an Army & Navy store and picked up a canvas khaki knapsack, which was my choice of carryall for the next few years, even through my college / CBGBs days, until lighter and sturdier backpacks were more readily available.

During the summer of 1969, while I was 14, I went up to a sleepaway camp called H.E.S., nestled on Lake Stahahe at the base of High Peak in Harriman State Park, which is part of the Catskills. I had attended the camp for the previous six years and mostly had fun. The year they landed on the moon, however, it rained for about 17 of the 21 days we were there. The kids in my bunk were bored, and so they decided to pick on the two smallest of the group, who just happened to have the single bunk bed in the room. I always tried to get the top of a bunk bed because I liked being able to look out at the view over the netting, which could only be seen from that height. In fact, for a number of years, my nickname at camp was “Squirrel,” because I climbed up and made my nest. More people in camp knew me by that name, than by my real one.

So these brilliant kids, with nothing else to do, decided to give us new nicknames: they called me “Ho” and Harvey, they titled “Mo.” Yeah, they kept that up by calling us every gay slur word imaginable, and would trash our stuff, put shaving cream in our faces as we slept, and anything that would not leave a bruise. They made every day as tortuous as they could for their own amusement. The counselor must have been aware of what was going on, but bullying back then was not considered anything more than “kids stuff.”

One day about two weeks in, we went down to the mess hall for lunch, and we all sat in our usual spots. There on my slice of Wonder white bread was the word “Ho” cut out in cheddar, in big block letters, and Harvey’s, natch, had “Mo.” Despite all the harassment we’d been through, I burst out laughing, because I thought it was so ridiculous, and that startled them. Harvey, however, was not amused, and went to the director of the camp to complain. The next morning, he was found tied to a tree in the area among the girls’ bunks, with a gag in his mouth, and his pants around his ankles. He smartened up and did not say who was responsible. The director did not want any trouble, so he gave Harvey some extra rations, and bought him off.

The next year, I went back, and was fortunate to share a bunk with Alan Abramowitz, who remains my good friend/cousin/brother to this day. I was 15 years old in 1970, and got along with everyone just fine, including this huge kid named Laurence Rand, who everyone called Hulk due to his girth, strength, and his love of comics. That is where we bonded (and I made a point of it), because the two of us were the only ones who brought comics along.

Later, I found out that the same kids who were giving me trouble the year before were working as waiters on the other side of the lake, and they were coming to visit, as they knew (from outside camp) one of our bunk members. This was near the end of the three weeks, and I had a hard choice: do I tell them about what happened and hope they don’t start as well; not tell them and hope for the best; or not tell them and hide while the jerks were around. I swallowed my pride, and gathered the bunkmates the night before to tell them the whole story in sordid detail. I don’t remember what they said about it, but I do recall being nervous about the whole thing. Sure enough, the next night, the lugs/thugs showed up, and as they made their way through the bunk, they came across me, and pointed and said, “Hey, look, it’s the fagg…” That’s as far as he got when Hulk grabbed the speaker and literally hurled him out the door. “He’s a friend of mine; any of you got a problem with that?” Everyone in the bunk agreed, including the guy who knew them from before. The bullies backed down, and stayed on the other side of the bunk from my bed, and the guy who was thrown out walked sorely back around the lake by himself.

My worst bully though, lived in my building and was named HB (I will not give him the pleasure of his being able to Google this). He was three or four years older, slovenly fat, and intimidating for someone as small as I was. He gained great pleasure in torturing anyone he could, including the son of a local merchant who had Cerebral Palsy and was mentally impeded. Not a nice person.

My first consciousness of him was when I was when I was about five, and playing out front of the apartment building we shared. He had received a new double-barreled air gun, which he cocked/loaded with the dirt from the front garden. “Hey, Robby,” he called me. When I looked up, he shot both barrels just inches from my face, with a payload of dirt hitting each of my eyes. I was blind for about three days, and I still remember the doctor removing the dirt for hours saying, “Oh, my God” over and over. My brother beat the crap out of him for it, right in front of his mother.

But that didn’t stop him. He would continually call me names, loom over me threateningly, and once he took my scooter out of my hands and rode it for about half a block before his weight crushed the middle of it. He just left it there and walked away, laughing.

Even as a teen, he had this fascination with the fire department, so he bought a radio that could pick up the calls, whose signals would interfere with the television of everyone in the building, but by this time more people were intimidated by his bulk and enjoyment of cruelty. After a couple of years, he got involved with ham radios, which made it almost impossible to enjoy an entire program on television or radio without having to listen to his staticy talking over the airwaves. Usually his comments (one could only hear what he was saying because of his close proximity) were crude, misogynistic, and profanity-laden. Listening to his babbling, it was pretty obvious he was dumb as a stump.

Around the time I was in high school, he moved out with his mom to another building a couple of blocks away; I think she was tired of having to listen to everyone complain to her. The static stopped, but his in-person name-calling intimidation went on for a few more years, though as he was old enough to start working, I saw him less and less. And just what job did he get? Well, he tried to become a fireman, but failed the psychological tests, and besides, the fire department was well aware of him and wanted nothing to do with him. Instead, he became a prison guard. This was the perfect job for someone who wants to use his power to intimidate and find a release for his sadistic tendencies. He was there for a few years until he could find a way to claim injury, and he’s been on permanent disability since.

He still lives in the apartment a couple of blocks away from where I grew up, keeping it after his mom passed on, and hangs out with the low-level wiseguys at a corner close by. After 9/11 he had his white, unnecessarily huge SUV (better for intimidation on the road) painted with images of the fire department, its logo, and of the Towers. But he never married and as far as I know, never had a real relationship. Hell, who would want him?

Looking back, all of these guys were successful in their bullying, but losers in their life. Well, I’m assuming about Francis and Craig, but the bagel-maker, who died in his early 50s, was unhappy with his low-paying, hard-working job (though he had a pleasant wife and two sons who were a couple of years older than me). HB still lumbers around the neighborhood he’s lived in his whole life, never having reached out to anything beyond his limited scope, and while people he’s known forever will say hi, but he’s really alone.

A Childhood Memory of Robert Dobies, and others

Text © Robert Barry Francos/FFanzeen, 2010
Photos from RBF archive

I was in second grade when Robert Dobies and his family moved into our apartment building in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. He was just a few years older than me.

[Robert Dobies]
Robert was part of a five-member household: his mother was Madeline, and her spouse was Joe, who became quick friends of my parents, so we saw them often. His sister, Julie Ann, was my age, and joined my class at PS 128 from second through sixth grade. Their father, the Dobies elder, was no longer around, and Robert’s youngest brother, Larry, was sired by Joe.

Joe had a bad limp. Shortly after moving in, as a pedestrian he was hit by a car at the intersection of Cropsey Avenue and Bay Parkway in Brooklyn, never an easy corner to maneuver. Unfortunately, he was taken to Coney Island Hospital, then known for not being a good place for emergencies, and they bungled up his leg, which led to the hobble. I have no memory if they sued or not. As recreational drugs were coming to the forefront of social consciousness about that time in the mid-‘60s, my mother used the occasion to scare me off mind-altering substances. She said that if Joe had been taking drugs, then whatever painkiller they gave him would not work because his body would be used to it. That definitely scared me, and perhaps it even worked on some subconscious level, because even my many years in the punk movement have been relatively drug free.

I remember the very first time I went up to the fourth (top) floor with my mom and met them all. Struck by Julie Ann, seven-year-old me said to my mom on the way back down to the second floor, “When I get older, I’m going to marry her.” My mom had a big, hearty and instant laugh, which echoed through the hallways. As I got to know Julie Ann in class, I quickly learned that we would never revolve around the same circles, and that she was way out of my league. While I was the small, nerdy, skinny kid, she was someone who would attract the jocks and the movers-and-shakers; my infatuation did not last very long at all.

[Madeline on the right, my mom on the left at RBF and Julie Ann's Junior High School Graduation]
Their apartment was where I first had home-made lasagna, scungili, and many other Italian dishes. While Robert and Julie Ann’s dad was not Italian, Madeline and Joe certainly were.

Larry was the one I would hang out with for a while, though my parents thought I was too old to do so, but we had a fun time, and even went sightseeing to the Statue of Liberty one day. As Larry got older, and years after we went our separate ways, he started getting interested in becoming a forest ranger, something I believe he actually accomplished, if I remember what my dad said correctly.

Robert was also a stunning youth, with a tussle of blond hair and a pair of dimples that made the girl’s hearts melt. Often he would be out in front of the building washing his car in his tee-shirt, and the reason I remember this is because that was how he always did it, even in the coldest weather. I’d be freezing in my under-heated apartment, and he would be outside in the wintry air with a bucket of water and a sponge. Just looking at him doing this activity was enough to make me feel even colder.

The apartment building we all shared was built around a courtyard – essentially a four-story well – in which sounds would echo and vibrate. For example, there was a family that lived directly above us, the Migliaccios, who had a daughter named Felicia that was younger than me. Living across the courtyard was the mother’s sister, who had a daughter the same age as Felicia named Loretta. It was common early on Sunday morning to hear the following conversation (or similar) screamed across the courtyard, in the thickest of Brooklynese accents:

Hey, Felicia, whatcha wearin’ t’church?!
I’m wearin’ my red dress!
Y’can’t wear y’red dress! I’m wearin’ my turquoise dress. We’h gonna clash!
I said I’m wearin’ my red dress! Too bad!!
You wear y’red dress an’ I’m gonna rip y’face off!
You jus’ try it, Loretta, an’ I’ll beat the crap outta ya!
Etc.

My point is, sound would bounce off the walls and become louder than it started, which in those shrill days, was blasting enough.

[Joe and another neighor at one of our parties]
One day, while his family was on vacation and Robert was left alone, he decided to go out for the weekend with his friends, girlfriend, or whatever. As he got ready, he played some 45, which everyone who had a window to the courtyard – including my bedroom – had to hear as well.

Leaving the spindle up, which meant the record would play again, he thoughtlessly walked out the door while Gilbert O’Sullivan’s whiney and nasal “Alone Again, Naturally” was on repeat cycle… for 48 hours. Yep, he left on Friday night and we all listened to the song blaring and echoing throughout the yard continuously until he returned Sunday late afternoon, before the family arrived. I still hate this song.

About a year later, in a similar situation, he once again walked out the door for the weekend, but this time with Michael Jackson’s insipid “Got to Be There” on rotation. While never a Jackson fan, next to “Ben,” this was his worst song, as he screeched “To be theeeeeere in the moooOOOooorrrrning…” It was like a needle in my ear.

This time, though, the situation would be different. There is no way I was going to listen to that howling for two days straight. Here is what I did:

Just after midnight, I grabbed a flashlight and went down to the basement (hey daddy-o, I don’t wanna go down to the basement!). It was before powerboxes, when everyone still used fuses, so when one blew, you had to replace it. The fuse boxes for the apartment building were in this dark, nasty room, with a number of boxes, and each one containing a few apartments’ worth of fuses, each one marked with the door number painted next to it.

[Julie Ann and RBF flinch at the sun before their Junior High graduation]
I found Robert’s fuse and in the space between songs as the needle lifted, I twisted it out, leaving glorious silence. Now, I had some choices on what to do with it. I figured, if I just loosened it, he’d probably think that it was naturally wobbly, and the noise could return on another occasion. If I actually took the fuse, the first thought would probably be that someone took it because theirs blew and did not have a replacement, again leading to future episodes of continuous bad music.

Instead, I took out the fuse and put it on the bottom of the box, so it would be obvious that someone had pulled it out and then left it there for him (as his family was away, he would be the one to find it). Upon returning two days later, his apartment had no electricity for nearly two days, and all the food in their fridge, enough to feed five people – over $100 worth in those day’s prices – had gone bad. From what I learned later, he got in a lot of trouble for it from Madeline and Joe, and the apartment had an unpleasant odor for a while.

He never tried to do that again.

After the three kids eventually moved out as they became of age. Eventually, Madeline left Joe and moved out, which he also did shortly after, leaving the apartment vacant for the next tenants. Except for running into Joe (and his new girlfriend) one day at a diner with my dad in the early ‘80s, I never heard from or saw any of them again.

There was never any resentment held by me against Robert Dobies, though I do think that act was at the very least heartless, and the very most cruel. Robert, if you Google yourself and find this, just know that I wish you and your whole family well. It would be great to hear from you.

Passing of the Pizza

\Text © Robert Barry Francos
Images from the Internet

When I left Brooklyn, New York, for the prairies of Canada, I knew there were foods I would miss. There is no Manhattan Special Espresso Soda or White Castles here, even though A&W is trying with its “Baby Burgers,” to no avail taste-wise. These were a given. Collateral damage, as it were.

I also knew that Chinese food would change. Give me the kind of chow mien I grew up with, rather than one with ramen noodles and that different sauce they use here; or the sweet tang of boneless spareribs. They have rip tips (basically the gristle and bone at the top of the rib) and dry ribs, but again, not even close. If anyone wants to ship some of these my way, I would be grateful. Every day I appreciate that particular episode of M.A.S.H. where the gang orders ribs from some Chicago joint to ship over to Korea.

But who knew how hard it was going to be to get some decent pizza? Open the phone book and there is an entire section dedicated to the food, with 20 full pages of display ads and a “where to dine pizza map,” with a list for 53 locations in a town of 250,000, just for the Italian delight.

Sure, some are the usual chains are here, like Papa John’s, Pizza Hut, East Side Mario’s (a Canadian-wide franchise who’s logo is the Statue of Liberty holding up a tomato rather than a torch), and the omnipresent Dominos (which a past-life friend once described as tasting like soap-on-a-rope – but more on them later), but there are lots of places that are just restaurants, as well as pizza-specific shops.

[Still frame from Saturday Night Fever with Lenny’s in the background]
Back in Brooklyn, I would usually eat at Lenny’s Pizza, on 86th Street, just off 20th Avenue. If you’ve ever seen the opening of Saturday Night Fever, it’s the joint Travolta stops into and orders two slices, and them folds them together. Mind you, I have never seen anyone do that in real life, but I respect that he folded the slice(s), rather than eating them flat. Folding is the Brooklyn way, so the oil drains off as you eat (either into the napkin you hold at the base of the slice, or into your sleeve if you’re not thinking). My pal Dennis swears by DiFara, on Avenue J, which often is listed as the best pizza in New York City. My partner prefers Grimaldi’s, under the Brooklyn Bridge. Still, I’m a Lenny’s man.

Shortly after we landed here, I commented to a few people about pizza, and there is one place they all said was the best. As I have to live here, I won’t say the name, but it’s relatively close to where I am living. We ordered a couple of pies from there for the workmen who were delivering our stored belongings (they also recommended the place), and I had a chance to try a slice. After two or three bites, I literally felt ill, it was so bad. The last time I had that reaction to a piece of pizza was when I tried the Hawaiian style in New York. ‘Scuze me, but pineapple does not belong on pizza. The only fruit that should rightfully there is olives and tomatoes, and only if the latter is in sauce form.

One summer we had a tween come stay with us for a few weeks, and since she is not from the US, we figured the first night we would get Lenny’s pizza, as a pleasant surprise. When she found out we were ordering pizza, she threw a snit that it wasn’t from Dominos. We were aghast. That’s like going to Rome, and eating at the Olive Garden. Like going to Japan and eating at Benihana’s. When we ordered the pizza, she was all, “It’s okay, I guess.” Years later, when she was old enough to appreciate some of the finer things, we had it again, and she was duly impressed.

As I arrived here, I figured I would try all the pizza places until I found one I liked, but there was a problem. It’s rare to find anyplace that sells pizza by the slice, only by the pie. Now get this: Lenny’s cheese pie, all 18” of it, is $12.00. I have the new flyer to one local shop, and a plain cheese is $17.95 for 8”, $22.95 for 10”, $25.95 for 12” and $30.95 for 15”. You getting that? Over $30 for a pie that’s smaller than the $12 pizza from Brooklyn, with half the taste. It may be cheaper having Lenny’s mail one than to get one here.

[A Sicilian]
Looking further into the flyer, here are the names of some of the kinds of pizza styles they make: Beef Taco Pizza; BBQ Bacon Double Cheese Burger; Teriyaki Chicken; Mediterranean Popeye (includes spinach and olive oil, of course); Philly Cheese Steak. The toppings that can be added include – are you ready for this – bananas. One type they don’t have, and I have not seen it anywhere here, is Sicilian style, or as we called them in Bensonhurst, “squares.” These are thicker, and baked in a rectangular pan, so each slice has 90-degree corners, rather than being triangular.

This is making me hungry. When I get back to New York for a visit, you know where I am going. I’m gonna get me a wedge of “‘za,” as Stewie Griffen calls it, and chow down. The next day will be the White Castle, then some take-out, and so on.

On the good side, one can get some amazing salmon here, and deliciously fresh escargot. And then there is poutine…

Song Dedicated to RBF!

Text other than song (c) Robert Barry Francos

Googling myself today, I found this "Open Letter to Robert Barry Francos" from singer-songwriter Joseph Baginski. He's a Brooklyn performer who I saw play at a show at Has Beans, in Brooklyn, earlier this year. I must admit I felt I was honest, though hardly kind. You can find the review here: ffanzeen.blogspot.com/2009/05/music-peformers-at-has-beans-brooklyn.html.

Here is the song or poem he wrote:

Monday, August 10, 2009

An open letter to Robert Barry Francos

Robert Barry Francos

Is a miserable old man
Who is as narrow as the streets he walks upon
He is as outdated as the trolley tracks
That line our decrepit mad streets
The only baby boom he experiences
Comes from an August rainfall
He was born again
Then he died again
Once more/ Once too many
He walks around completely dead
Utterly unaware
A hippie as close minded
As the man he fought back in 68
He has no love inside
He can only give hate
Brought into this world
With the company of others
He will die alone/ No soul insight
Unless,
He gets hit by a bus first

Sincerely,
Joseph Baginski

You can find it here: blogs.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendId=307139797&blogId=504955378

And this was my response that I wrote on his blog:

That was great, thanks! Just so you know, I was bar mitvah'd in '68, so I was not marching against "the man." And as I wish you no harm, truly, sad thing is you can't say the same. I can see you used my photo on your blog, so can we all say "hunh"? Never was a hippie, though I like some of their music (except those damn guitar solos). I was born a son of the Ramones in June '75 when I saw them at CBGB's. I spent a large chunk of the punk movement with people dissing me and my opinions, so you think you're gonna hurt my feelings? Ha! I once had a review from a punk 'zine of my own 'zeen (FFanzeen, 1977-88) that said, "Boring newsprint tabloid." Still my favorite review so far. Come to think of it, I'm a-gonna reprint this on MY blog. Thanks, again for the mention, and good luck with your career (which I say wholly with no malice or sarcasm). Take care, RBF

Remembering The Bay

Text (c) Robert Barry Francos
Photo by Helen Rosen, from Robert Francos's personal collection

In Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, there is a thoroughfare called Bay Parkway. It cuts through southern Brooklyn from North to South for a 3 mile stretch, and ends in what we one time called, surprise, The Bay.

When I was growing up in the early 1960s, one would drive or walk down Bay Parkway and after a mile, travel below an overpass for the Belt Expressway. There we would scream at the top of our lungs to hear the echo reverberate against the concrete walls.

Once past, there was a long and narrow amusement park designed for children, named after journalist and traveler Nellie Bly (1864-1922), in honor of her feat of traveling around the world in less than 80 days. It may seem like an odd choice, but as children, we were more focused on the rides than the name. I still have photos of myself having a joyous time there. On the other side of Nellie Bly was the Bay. That point in Brooklyn is the opening of what is known as the Verrazano Narrows, or Lower New York Bay, where the waters from the Hudson and East Rivers funnel into the Atlantic Ocean. In fact, from the Bay, we could see the Verrazano Narrows Bridge being built three miles away, rising and growing until its completion in 1964.

The Bay was essentially a quarter moon shaped inlet. The concrete of the road gave way to large rocks leading down a sharp incline from the street to the shore. Being small children, we were never allowed on the rocks, and for good reason. You could easily see the green algae that covered the boulders, making them slippery and treacherous. A person, especially one as uncoordinated as a child, might easily slip and either hurt themselves on the stones, or fall into the brine.

The ocean water meets the mighty freshwater rivers just to the north, which caused both dangerous tides and occasionally some wonderful spray on those hot summer days, especially delicious after being whipped around on some of the Nellie Bly rides. We were fascinated by the white foam rising up higher than our heads even as we were standing on the cement, many meters above the sea.

While we were not permitted below the unfenced street level, there was still plenty of activity to observe among the rocks. Fishermen were a common sight, each with their pole (sometimes more than one) jammed and secure between the stones, waiting for a bite, which apparently came fairly often, thanks to the way the water jetted in and out between the rocks.

Along with these hearty souls who were willing to hunt for fish despite dubious health risks inherent to the waters in which they were found, there were also those with traps who were looking for crabs, and mollusks, such as mussels. You could hear the exclamations of joy or cursing, depending on the results of the hunt, well above the roar of the waves slapping the rocks.

Then there were the teens, who would sit on the rocks with friends or partners, holding hands and necking in the coolness on a humid summer’s day.

It was always a pleasure to walk there, to feel the wind as it came off the water, to hear the sounds of the waves lapping and crashing, and be jealous of those climbing on the stones, as they seemed like crabs themselves, carefully approaching the water’s edge. The salt water spray would fill the nostrils to the point of being able to taste its sharpness at the back of the throat.

The Bay as a whole always seemed alive to me, with constant movement and sounds, drowning out the carousel calliope and motors just a few meters away.

While I was in fifth grade, in 1965, they started to fill in the Bay. First they removed the rocks and put them further along the shoreline towards the recently opened Verrazano bridge, turning the beaches my mother used to visit with her friends into unforgiving boulder piles that essentially ended local bathing.

I remember the year well for other reasons. Having my first male teacher in grade school was a sign for me to prove myself. That is, until he suddenly disappeared a couple of months later. Apparently he vanished into the blue without notice. Later that year, I learned that he had been, well, inappropriate with one of my peers, the daughter of someone involved in organized crime. We other students quickly surmised that he was somewhere in the Bay, as it was being filled up by a construction company with which this shady dad had connections. Taking care of a pedophile was personal back then, as the law didn’t acknowledge the crime as seriously as it deserved.

Day by day, the Bay disappeared under concrete, steel and eventually asphalt. The final stage of the death of the Bay at Bay Parkway was marked by fixing it with a new name, Ceasar’s Bay. Heck, they even spelled it wrong.

In the place of the motion of nature watched by the people who moved above and among the rocks and spray, was a brand new shopping plaza: a department store called E.J. Korvette (opened by, as we erroneously believed, Eight Jewish Korean-War Veterans), a series of smaller stores, and a huge supermarket called Food Fair.

For us kids, the saddest part was the closing of Nellie Bly, which was replaced by a Wetson’s fast food restaurant (evolving over time into a Nathan’s, A&W, Burger King, and eventually Wendy’s). By the time a new Nellie Bly was opened up down the road about half a mile away, I was too old to go on those rides.

Over the years, there have been many more changes. The department store was split, with one half becoming a Toys ‘R Us and the other a collection of smaller stores known as Ceasar’s Bay Bazaar. The supermarket transformed into an automobile parts chain store called Strauss. Nowadays, the Toys ‘R Us remains, the Bazaar has become a discount clothing store called Kohl’s, and Strauss is a Best Buy electronics store.

The once vibrant Bay is not only flat, black tar, and nearly impossible to get into around the holidays, with cars jammed onto what was once a beautiful natural spot (well, for a city anyway). It became boring and pedestrian.
Indeed, they paved paradise, put up a parking lot.

Alex: Fruit, the Mafia and Cigarettes

Text © Robert Barry Francos
Images from the Internet

When I was 13 years old, there was a storefront diagonally across the street from our apartment which was shared by fruit stand run by Alex, and a butcher shop controlled by a man named Ruby. In the narrow space which was essentially cut down the center, each had a freezer, counter, and space for their wares.

My mom had me pick up some produce one day, and as I was walking out of the store, as a second thought I turned back and asked Alex for a job. I thought he said to come back in two weeks through a thick Italian drawl further complicated by the constant cigarette dangling from his lips.

I spent the next two weeks wondering if I had heard correctly, and pondering if I was going to make a fool of myself by showing up. I suppose I could have just ignored it all and continued on in my life, but I found the courage to be there. He said, that I could somewhat figure out, Saturdays, 10 to 3 PM, five dollars, start the next week. And I did, for the next three years. In all that time, I never saw Ruby, because he was Orthodox and did not open his store on Saturdays.

At the time I was short and rail thin, probably no more than 90-100 pounds. My main job was to hang around until Alex received a request from a customer (some were standing weekly orders), and then deliver it by bicycle. This bike was made of some sturdy metal, had only one gear, and was unwieldy thanks to its enormous weight. Also, it had a huge metal frame basket on the front. Alex rented it on a monthly basis from an Orthodox man a few blocks away who Alex certainly did not trust, nor like. Then again, Alex was generally suspicious of everyone, though we got along pretty well.

As well as the bike being solid, the fruit orders were put in boxes and sometimes weighed in at 50 pounds, or about half my weight, especially around Passover. For weeks, my legs ached from the hard peddling, and my arms were sore from carrying the boxes up to the customers, but I built up my first muscles over time, limited as “the guns” were.

It took me a while to start to understand what Alex was saying; at first, I didn’t need to comprehend much as he would write down the address with a thick grease pencil whose point was wrapped in paper and opened with a pull string to expose the point as needed, give me change for $20, and send me on my lumbering way. One Saturday, about 2 or 3 weeks after I started and was still a bit unsure, I came back from an order from a customer of whom Alex distrusted, which I could tell right off. He asked me, in a conspiratorial tone, “Hey, a-Robby, how much a-tip?” This was something he had never questioned before, but it was more about the customer. I responded, truthfully, “Fifteen cents.” Disgusted, he replied, “Fifateen a-cent? Fuckin-a-SON-a-ma-bitch!” Soon I found out that this was his expression, and he used it often. It still brings a smile to my face when I think of it. My pal Bernie Kugel has been imitating it since I first told him about it in the mid 1970s, well after I left the job. Over time, I started to catch on to the dialect.

Alex was an older man at that time, probably in his mid-70s, hunched over and standing around 5’5” (though I get the impression that he was once handsome and taller in his youth), cigarettes a constant (he smoked 3 or 4 packs a day) along with a smoker’s cough, and a solid body of muscle hidden under his white jacket. Once after a shipment from a produce supplier, Alex said, “a-Robby, check d’potatiz”; the Idaho potatoes came in bags of 50 pounds. In the center of his half of the store was a big hanging scale, such as one sees in supermarkets. The basket part lifted off and what was left was a metal hook. Again, not trusting the produce company and afraid of getting short-weighted, Alex wanted me to lift the bag of potatoes up to the hook, which was level with my head. As hard as I tried, I could pick up the bag, but not lift it high enough to get it on the hook. Red faced – from exercise and embarrassment – I had to tell him I could not do as he asked. Alex, mid-70s cigarette huffing hobbled over that he was, picked up the bag with one hand and put it on the hook, while looking at me and saying in a worried voice, “Atsa madda witcha Robby, yoo sick?”

In all the years I worked for Alex, I never cheated him, and he always gave me fruit to eat while I was there; usually he would cut off a piece with a knife he constantly carried to give a customer to show the freshness (he would never give the whole fruit), and then give me the rest when the customer left. Mostly, he trusted me, though the only times I recall his suspicion was if I called in sick (which was not often, even in the coldest of days). On those days, he would come up to my apartment to check up on me, to make sure I was not just being lazy. He would not leave until he clasped his eyes on me, to confirm my illness himself.

My mother and some of her friends would buy cigarettes from Alex for $5 a carton, which was relatively cheaper than from the store. Alex also took “numbers.” He enjoyed doing this because he didn’t like the price stores charged for butts. Alex loved three things, two of them being cigarettes and the mafia.

During World War I, when Alex was young and strapping, he worked in the shipyards in Sicily. Things like gasoline and cigarettes were hard commodities to come by in those days. One morning while hauling a load on the docks, a stranger asked Alex for a smoke, and in a moment of compassion, he gave the guy the whole pack and the matches. As it turns out, this stranger was a high ranking don, and he was so impressed by Alex’s generosity, he paid for Alex to take the boat to the United States, and arranged for him to start his store. Alex happily paid back the kindness through black market butts and numbers.

Alex’s third love was women. According to my mother, Alex was quite the lothario in Bensonhurst, and fathered many a child to the wives or girlfriends of GIs abroad during World War II. I don’t recall him mentioning any wives or children, but he was always looking and admiring others’ partners.

A few years after I moved on, Alex retired on the money he had saved through the black market material. This was after the meat half of the store closed when Ruby died, and Alex did not like having to pay full rent for the space. It is now a Russian deli and chocolate store.

Alex died in his early 90s, despite all his smoking, which he did until the end. Before that, occasionally I would see him playing cards with other retired gents in the local park on Cropsey Avenue and Bay Parkway. Sometimes I heard him before seeing his presence, especially when he lost a hand and would cry out, “Fuckin-a-SON-a-ma-bitch!”

Two Dreams About Musicians

Text (c) Robert Barry Francos

Both of these dreams happened in the same night, between July 21 and 22. Also, both memories of them are fragments recalled 12 hours later...

In the first, I am the older brother of Jaqueline Blownaparte, the lead singer of the New York proto-horror-punk band Chesty Morgan and the Slice 'Em Ups. In real life, I've seen her perform thrice, the first two times in her previous band, Lady Unluck, and one in the SEUs, as reported on this blog in early November 2008 (look it up! It's about a Halloween show at Hank's.). The latter was the only time I actually spoke to her. In the dream, however, for whatever reason, we are siblings. It seems, unbeknown to me, she is angry with me, and I'm not sure why. Her partner in both real life and in the dream, Anthony Allen Van Hoek, pulls me aside to fill me in with what is happening: I had a couple of tickets to go see a show at a the convention center that is sort of like the car or boat show, but the subject of this one is wood, and she wanted to go as she likes wood for some reason. Yes, wood. And yes, I understand the inevitable connection it brings up, but she's my sister in the dream, remember?! Anyway, my conversation with him continues and I'm feeling contrite, when I awoke.

The second dream was much longer, but I remember less details. Essentially, I start traveling around with Paul Simon. For a large part of the '60s and '70s, I was a huge Simon & Garfunkel fan (even during my early punk years), including Simon's early solo efforts like Paul Simon and Still Crazy After All These Years. He started to peter out for me around "Late in the Evening," and even though I liked some material from Graceland; his work started to feel derivative and, well, "borrowed." In my dream, Paul and I were about to same age, I'm guessing around 40, and he had a jovial personality similar to Bernie Kugel (of course, that doesn't help if you don't know Bernie...). But in the dream, as we traveled about around the countryside, it was not a luxurious-limo-rock-star meandering, but rather hobo-bumming style; as I'm thinking about it, like Hank Morgan and King Arthur in Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. At one point, we snuck into a closed elementary school cafeteria and ate some dry breakfast cereal. In another part of our adventure, we slept on a golf cart at some course we found our way into. Paul lay on the bench in the front, and I was on the one in the back. Just before I awoke, as we were ironically falling asleep in the dream, Paul mentioned that I was a good friend. We had done a lot of things in the dream that I would not have dreamt - pun intended - of doing in real life.

I don't have a clue what these dreams mean, but they were fun to have, and I just accept them on that level.

The True, Tragic Tale of David Bershad

Text © Robert Barry Francos
Image from the Internet

As I remember it…

[PS 128, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn]
In the Brooklyn elementary school system while I attended PS 128 in the early ‘60s, kindergarten was one big class led by two teachers. At the beginning of first grade, the class was split into two groups, presumably the “academics” and the “trade” focused, until 7th Grade (aka, Junior High School). It was rare for a member of one group to be moved from one to the other, but thanks to an insane and inane first grade teacher, I was moved to the “trade” group at the start of second grade, where I was stuck, despite some outside forces trying to get me back to the academic side. For that one year of first grade, I was in the same class as David Bershad.

David lived in my building, on the ground floor. As an only child born late in life, his parents doted on him, especially his mom.

Mr. Bershad was quite a jovial man, who had an amusing cadence to his voice. Upon seeing me, he’d smile and say, “Wwwhaddya say there, Rrrrrrrobert?!” Bernie Kugel once heard him say this, and has been using it occasionally since. Mrs. Bershad was a chubby woman with only David on her mind at all times, and was, perhaps, a bit obsessed, if not mad.

Naturally, as we were in the same building, we started hanging out together in the first grade. The only problem was that Mrs. B. did not want to let David out of her sight; she was always afraid something might happen to him if she loosened her guard. Her love kept him physically very close. When Ill the kids were outside playing tag or skelly, he was inside, being protected and coddled.

Around this time, I went to his home to play at least a couple of times (unescorted); I remember twice, though it may have been more. What I recall most however, is just how creepy it all was. We would play, with his mom often poking her head in the room to check in on David, as if to make sure I hadn’t hurt him.

Both times, when it was nearing the hour for me to leave (again, unescorted), she would make me clean up whatever mess we had made, while she took David to the kitchen for some milk and cookies. Seems she felt her David couldn’t possibly have made any of the mess, so it must have been me; thereby, clean-up was my responsibility. Needless to say, I didn’t think it was fair, but I was a kid, and we were taught to obey our parents and our friend’s parents as well.

The next time I went down there to play, I was a bit more careful to be neater. David, however, did not have this need to be so watchful, and he made much more of a mess. It wasn’t intentional, just a kid playing. And yet, the same thing happened. When Mrs. B. told me to clean up and started to take David to the kitchen for the milk and cookies, I very nicely asked if I could please have some, too. Her response to me by surprise: she said, in a very sharp voice, “It’s not polite to ask for cookies, you should wait until it’s offered!”

Even as a young child in first or second grade, I was aware enough to know she was never, ever going to offer. After I left that time, I never went back. She would never let him up to my apartment, so that was the last time we played together.

Because of this obsession with her son, he had little or no friends that I knew of, and he became a loner caught in the web of his mom’s love.

In first grade, it was mandatory that someone drop us off and then meet the students and walk them home. By second grade, we walked to school and then home by ourselves (can you imagine that today?). However, Mrs. B. would meet her son every day after school all through elementary school. Then through Cavallaro Junior High (JHS 281), riding on the city bus with him. Finally she even did it while he attended High School (I believe he went to a special one for advanced students). I heard tales of him asking, telling, demanding, begging her to stop, but she would not do so, even if it meant riding in a different part of the bus. Every day, she was there at the end of classes.

Finally, after High School, David went to college, far, far away, at the University of Texas at Brownsville. He was free of his mother. Or, so he thought.

She rented an apartment close to the college and would stay there for weeks at a time, leaving her husband at home, alone (though at this point, I’m not sure if he was happier with her there or not). David lived in the dorms, but his mother often knocked on his door, bringing him food, while interrupting his studies and generally annoying her roommates. He was once again becoming a loner.

One rare day, when Mrs. B. was back in Brooklyn, David went for a one-way swim out in the Gulf of Mexico. Mrs. and Mr. B. had his body flown back to New York for burial so she could be close.

On the first anniversary of David’s death, Mrs. B. went to his gravesite, as she did many times a week, and she took a bottle of pills, lying on his grave. I am assuming they are buried next to each other.

Mr. B. did his best to be cheerful, but his “Wwwwhaddya say there, Rrrrrobert?” did not have the same snap to it. After a couple of years or so, he moved out of the building, and I haven’t seen him since.

I’ve had at least three friends with wacked-out moms, two of whom were also single children to late-aged parents, but they were never to the same dance as David and Mrs. Bershad.

Some Last Look Views of Brooklyn: 2009

Text and photos (c) Robert Barry Francos

Here are some memories of Brooklyn, New York

2009:
What used to be the Walker Theatre, on 18th Avenue and 68th Street. All the great Italian superstars, like Pat Cooper and Mario Lanza would play here. When the theater shuttered in the '80s, the beautiful interior was gutted the night before it was going to be declared a landmark.
Westward view towards the meeting of the BQE and the Prospect Expressway
A snowy evening

Music at Has Beans, Brooklyn, May 2, 2009

Text and photos © Robert Barry Francos
Flyer from Internet

I was told the Saturday, May 2nd show was to start at 5 PM. Even says so in big letters on the flyer. Anthony K, who is in three or four groups these days (most with his cousin Ricky Wells, including Kung Fu Grip, as he was listed on the flyer), invited me through Facebook. Didn’t know anyone else on the bill other than Object, but it has certainly been a while since I’ve seen Anthony, and for Object it is even longer, so I decided to go for it.

For once the train was efficient (even though they’ve been working on the wooden staircase in my station for over four months…how long does it take to lay a plank? But I digress), and I ended up getting to the Has Bean coffee shop at 620 Fifth Avenue (basically behind where the Prospect Expressway meets the Gowanus/Brooklyn-Queens Expressway) at 4:30. No one was there yet, other than customers with laptops, and the very nice woman behind the counter who said she didn’t know much about it, but it was probably going to start 6 or 7 PM. So I did what came naturally: I had a coffee and read the Arts section of the Sunday New York Times on Saturday. Found out that England had just picked its first Poet Laurete after over 300 years.

Of course, while I was waiting, I also checked the place out. Has Beans definitely has its charm. There was no stage area, but the tables in the front were moved to make room by the window (which always made the most sense to me rather than having the performances in the back, because you want to attract people). The width of the room was approximately the height of my apartment’s ceiling, about 10 or 11 feet, and it was probably three times that to the counter, with about 10 square 2-person tables (and free wifi). It was a nice space for a show, and I want to thank them for taking the chance.

The promoters came first, being artist-type Lyssa Lovelyss (who runs Rusted Conceptons bookings, fanzine, and CD compilations) and laid-back Vin, who also make up the group Generic Kitty. I love it when musicians set up showcases for others and themselves, like the Nerve! did at Peggy O’Neil’s (KeySpan Park, Coney Island), Monty Love at Dock Street (Staten Island), or Anthony and Ricky – when they were a duo known as Good Grief – did at Limestone (Boro Park). Usually the groups are more eclectic and it feels more personal. Between smokes, Vin set up the small PA system (basically an amp, a stand, and a microphone), and ‘Lyss looked bored and indifferent, while two kids in her charge (including her 10 year old sister) ran around the place.

The first band to show up was Vanderveer St, (is it St. or Street?) from Queens Village. While two members were playing acoustically, the whole band (and parents) was there in support. They looked so familiar, and I wonder if they were in previous bands I’ve seen before. Guys? Then Object arrived, and I sat and talked with them for a while, catching up with Maria Schettino and Eric Kramer. Shortly following it was Ricky Wells, who was momentarily preceded Anthony K and his significant other, Desiree Taranto, along with a jolly crowd of followers. The conversation continued with them, as I’ve known many of them since they were teens. Joseph Baginski arrived just as the show was starting, and Dead Leaf Echo, a Brooklyn band, did not show up until much later, having gotten lost.

[Vanderveer St.]
The first band to play was Vanderveer St. Starting around 6:15, two members of the group, vox/guitarist Billy Kupillas and bassist Thomas O’Brien, came up first, both with guitars. It seemed that their intentions were that they were just going to have fun, and they did. And in doing that, so did the rest of the audience. There was banter and joyful insults back and forth between Billy and the rest of the band who sat in the back, and everyone had a good time. They obviously were winging it, because they’d be in a song and realize that there was a drum solo, but no drums, so they shouted out, “Drum solo!” in the appropriate places, and paused. And Thomas’s bass solo sounded all the stranger on the acoustic guitar, but in a good way. VS were a good start. I also admire that they stuck around for almost the whole show.

Between the bands, Vin smoked and Lyss looked appropriately bored. I gave her my card, and she basically showed no interest whatsoever. Not sure if she was being “cool” or being cold. Kinda distracting. She watched and videoed the bands, but really did not seem to be present. Maybe it’s me…

[Anthony K, of Kung Fu Grip]
Anthony K came on next. He kept saying, in a self-deprecating way, “I’m not in the mood to do this!” to anyone who would listen, but he still did fine. I’ve seen him perform some acoustic stuff before, with Ricky, but he sounded alright by himself. While not as flashing a guitarist as his cousin, Anthony is more meat and ‘taters (though he’s a madman drummer when he plays). Funny thing is that when electrified, Anthony sounds like he could be in some Northwest post-grunge outfit, but when he plays the same songs acoustically, they translate amazingly well into singer-songwriter. He finished his set with one of my favorite songs of his, about his girlfriend (which reminds me, in spots, of Lennon’s “Julia”).

Through the first three sets, there was a table of older regulars in their 60s sitting behind me, who conversationally talked loudly over the music, and I wanted to turn to them and say, “How about a little respect for the music,” but they did not look like they would be receptive, and they obviously didn’t care. So, I took the high ground and respected my elders. If they were younger, I may have said something.

[Dead Leaf Echo]
Here’s where things began to get a bit weird. Two members of Dead Leaf Echo came on next, though I believe they were supposed to come on earlier, but were late, as I mentioned earlier. Up until them, everything had been acoustic, but they brought in four amps, an electric guitar with an elaborate foot pedal setup, and a huge synth keyboard. The music was ambient, in an electronica way, and while it was played well, I found it incredibly somnambulistic, and yet amazingly loud, especially when Mike D. pushed the petals. Liza B. didn’t really have much to do other than press a chord on the synth every bar or so, and sing a single note for a bar in a Linda McCartney quality. They seemed like nice people, but I was glad when they were over.

[Joseph Baginski]
The amp that Vin brought burned out, and Joseph Baginski’s guitar was buzzing, so it took a hell of a long time to sort it out. Finally, after about 45 minutes and it was dark outside, Joseph started to sing, and I winced. Yeah, he plays guitar right handed and upside down, but the man couldn’t sing on key to save his life, and the out of tune guitar didn’t help much. Also he mumbled all the lyrics like Dylan or Kobain (though I would assume Baginski would say the latter, since he had his hair dyed and cut very Kurt-like). The songs may have had deep lyrics, but I couldn’t tell through the tuneless vocals. Everyone I caught eye contact with gave me a wincing look, as if to say, “Ow.” I hope I don’t have to review any of his CDs going forward, and I didn’t introduce myself to him, as I did with Vanderveer St. or lifeless Lovelyss.

[Object]
Happily, next up was the highlight of the night, Object. Damn, they’re a great duo. Eric Kramer is on guitar and vox, and Maria Schettino handles all the percussion, which was wide and varied this night. The songs are both melodic and complex; Eric has a way with words and can sing. This night was extremely special, as it was the debut of Maria on guitar as they both played acoustic for one number. She did great. When they play, even when the songs are about distressing subjects, they look like they are having fun up there, and it translates to the audience. They’re both very open as artists, and someone needs to record them more. By this time in the evening, the table behind me was minus the talkers, so it was even better.

[Generic Kitty]
Last up were Generic Kitty, made up of the couple than ran the show, Lovelyss and Vin. For the first couple of songs, Vin strummed guitar and ‘Lyss sat cross-legged in a chair and sang (while her two young charges sat in front and talked through most of the set). After a couple of songs, she picked up her guitar and they both strummed as she sang. The songs were a bit simplistic, but okay, in a soft, Kyma Dawson, post-grunge way. They were actually all right, though the vocals were a bit emotionless, even the song about someone the protagonist does not like (written by ‘Lyss with her 10-year-old sis). When GK started, the place had been pretty empty, but everyone who stepped out came back as they started, which in the small place pretty much filled it up, I’m happy to say.

After the set, I had a nice, short talk with Vin, and gave him my card, to which he sounded receptive. Despite my teasing about the hot and cold from the couple, I hope they produce more shows like this. Vin is from western New Jersey and ‘Lyss is from Brooklyn, so he will be coming here somewhat regularly, I would think. Given that, the opportunity for them to do more shows is a possibility. I hope they jump on it, which is good for them, and for the local scene. Everyone should check Rusted Conceptions out at www.myspace.com/rustedconcept.

After some goodbyes to Anthony K and his crowd, it was off to the subway for a much longer ride home. But it was worth it because it was a good night.

Review: Detour, NYC’s Premiere Film Noir & Arts Festival, April 16, 2009

Text and photos © Robert Barry Francos
Flyer © LOOKpresents

Truly, I tried to get to Detour: NYC’s Premiere Film Noir & Arts Festival on time, but the MTA…well, you know.

Despite getting there 20 minutes past its scheduled 7:30 start, I still had enough time to check out the ambience of the joint, in this case the Galapagos Art Space (16 Main St.), under the DUMBO side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

On the ground floor, there is a generous stage, fronted by a series of four circles of five tables, surrounded by water that has walkways linking all of the circles. Creative, but after all, that is what one would hope from an art space. Looking from the stage, there is a bar in the back on the right. Horseshoeing around the room is the mezzanine (from which I watched the show), lined with small tables with two chairs apiece and an occasional couch, and a bar at the back. Seems wine was flowing more than beer; it was that kind of crowd.

As I entered, the music was great ‘30s-‘50s style jazz (more Cab Calloway’s “Minnie the Moocher” than, say, Coltrane); like one would hear in a Betty Boop cartoon. On the screen was a short film by Kate Raney called, Love (Hate) You: Mitchum, which had images of Robert Mitchum during his Noir days, and some of his leading ladies (including Jane Russell, and Gloria Graham at her finest), floating in front of a psychedelic haze, repeatedly. Very Pas de Deux (dir. Norman McLauren). This played over and over until 8:30, when the lush red curtain was lowered and the show truly began in earnest.

[The Well Rounded Hoodlum]
Under the scream of sirens and helicopter blade chopping sounds blaring over the PA, the host arrived. Matthew Hendershut, in his dapper guise of the Well Rounded Hoodlum (WRH), was dressed in the Noir fashion of dark suit and tie, and fedora. It was hard to see his face from the balcony because he read the show information from a paper, but he ably fulfilled his duties as master of ceremonies: humorous, short, and to the point.

[Melinda Smart, v1]
First up was Melinda Smart, who did a slow and sultry version of the classic Van Morrison tune, “Moondance.” It was intense, like liquid silk that made the air heavy with anticipation… uh-oh… Splaneisms are catchy, it seems. Anyway, Melinda has a beautiful voice that set the mood for the rest of the evening. Unfortunately, nearly all acts were one song, sung live over pre-recorded music.

[The “cool kids” table]
After leaving the stage, a series of short modern films (i.e., from the last 5 years) created in Noir style or temperament were presented, both Black & White and color, and occasionally animated. This would be a theme of the evening: films bookcased by live acts (or vice versa, depending on how one looks at it). One of the highlights of this block of showings included Night Visitor (dir. Kenneth J. Hall), if merely for the rare (unfortunately) presence of Lynn Lowry, who had a limited career in the ‘70s as a s/exploitation goddess, including the leads in They Came From Within/Shivers, The Crazies, and I Drink Your Blood; she is starting to revive her career, I’m happy to say…but I digress. Another film shown in that segment worthy of attention was Rest Stop For the Rare Individual (dir. Robert Bentivegna), which was successfully creepy with a twist ending that took me by surprise.

[Brooklyn Strip a Go Go]
The next live performance was by Brooklyn Strip a Go Go, featuring two dressed-alike burlesque dancers trussed up in tight ‘50s fashion style, who slowly ripped each other’s clothes off piece by piece while moving to the music, down to garters, underwear and pasties. I’ve never been to a strip club though I have seen scenes on film and television and get the idea, but I have also seen some Bettie Page (RIP) era films, like Hollywood Revels, and burlesque seems a lot more fun that modern stripping, even if less revealing. Following that thought, yes, I enjoyed the Brooklyn Strip a Go Go for what it was more than what it revealed.

More films followed, including the humorous animated Cole Petticoat, PI (dir. Hamilton Craig), though the sound was a bit muddled, and The Look (dirs. Ryan Demler and Matt Fantaci), a film I’d actually wanted to see as it co-stars Ashlie Atkinson, who I had recently seen during a reading of the play Psychomachia (see this blog, dated February 20, 2009).

[Justina Flash, “hula hoop fire goddess”]
After an intermission that gave us a chance to stretch, Justina Flash came to the stage. Continuing in the burlesque edge, Justina does not strip, but exotically twirls a hula-hoop while contorting her body. She is known as the “fire goddess,” but this night (probably for fire safety regulations) she relied on multicolored lights in the hula rather than actual flame. Either way, it was a pleasure to watch her smooth motion while dancing and wiggling her way around and through the hoop while dressed in a corset. Oh, and huge, honkin’ eyelashes.

The last round of films included two that were similar in name, yet diametrically opposed in style and ‘tude, and yet still remained within the Noir genre. Diary of a Hitman (dir. Ary Hernandez) is played for laughs with cartoon violence in the broadest sense of the word. Corny and silly all at the same time, the staging and acting is, well, bad (purposefully, I am assuming), but that makes it all the more fun. The other, which is just barely in the genus, is a rough and gritty piece called Chronicles of a Hitman (Dir. Yuri Alves), in which a Latino hitman hides out from mysterious assassins while on his own “project.” Edge of the seat time.

[Melinda Smart, v2]
The curtain went up on a woman dressed in a corset, tutu and top hat, who was holding a large open umbrella. While swirling around, slowly losing the tutu and hat, the PA played a song I did not recognize, with a beautiful voice. Eventually I realized that it was the second appearance of Melinda Smart, and while she sounded like a recording, it was soon clear that it was actually her singing live. Yes, she’s that clear.

[Katy Gunn]
As another intermission started, I decided that perhaps it would be time to leave, as I had to be at the airport extremely early. I said goodbye to an Asian NYU student I was talking to at the next table, and headed downstairs. As I was passing the main room, the WRH announced the next act. Oh, what the hell, sez I, as I moved to one of the front tables on the main floor. The curtain went up on an actual live group on stage. Surrounded by two men, one on stand-up bass and the other with a small synthesizer, Katy Gunn stood behind a huge electric keyboard. By the number of people taking photos of her, I assume she has a large fan base, though honestly, I am not familiar with her work, yet.

Unlike the wild jazz that had been playing over the PA through the night, Katy plays a much smoother, quieter, more intense jazz of a later day. It was sort of a more ‘60s Noir, perhaps. Sultry vocals, cool looks and a tight group showed why people stayed to listen. It was the first live music of the night, and the first performance that consisted of a “set” rather than a single song. Understandable why this would be true in Katy’s case, and it was a happy choice to have it so.

After about the fourth or fifth song, as much as it was enjoyable, this soft-boiled non-detective decided it was time to beat it to the streets, where men scuttle around in the dark, walking under bridges, looking for…well, the subway. And waiting for the next LOOKpresents production…

Additional info:
LOOKpresents.com
GalapagosArtSpace.com
wellroundedhoodlum.com
Melinda Smart.com
myspace.com/brooklynstripagogo
myspace.com/justinaflash
Katy Gunn.com

LOOKpresents mission statement, in part: Dedicated to organizing thematic based events where creative minds can promote their creative endeavors and foster collaborative relationships. Contact them at the Website listed directly above.