I don't know about your families, but this holiday lost a Christmas-like luster early on in my youth. Sure, there are major points off for the lack of gift exchanges. But, at some junction, my tribe stopped celebrating it together by the time I was in junior high. It was frequently tough enough for us to sit around a dining room table in December, let alone a few months later. There was always somebody not speaking to somebody else. And, usually, a bunch of them were mad at my grandmother for one thing or another.
Now, since the bulk of my relatives came from my father's side of the ledger, there was a deadly dynamic that played into these family skirmishes. And, with three sons still alive at the time, you could always expect that the trouble would arise from the forced relationships of their wives. My mother and my aunts who had simply married into this nonsense. And naturally they all had their own agendas to fight for. Translation: there was always one pissed off at another. And, for the most part, it was my mom as the referee-ing monkey in the middle.
As for me, I got along with both the wives of my dad's brothers. As long as there was cash in the birthday and Christmas cards, you were bound to win my favor. My mom tried to be Switzerland, too. And then frequently had to endure complaints like "did you hear what that goddamn so-and-so said to me?"
This is a tale of one of those aunts. Helen. Shown here dressed to kill with my mom (clad in red, natch). During those days where you dolled yourself up for a backyard summer barbecue in the Bronx. Hot dogs, hamburgers, and mink stoles. Doesn't that happen in every family?? Aunt Helen was married to my father's favorite brother, and he died very early on at the age of 45. That devastated my dad and I can only imagine what that untimely departure did to my aunt and her kids. My cousins were already teenagers in high school and always looked askance at yours truly, since I was much younger. I had virtually no relationship with them. And, frankly, I often steered clear of Aunt Helen. An early widow, she always seemed to be crying. I can remember many a New Year's Eve when my mom would urge me.
"Go over to Aunt Helen and give her a kiss for Happy New Year."
I'd look over to some sofa where Aunt Helen was sobbing her eyes out and I'd suddenly gravitate to some excuse that involved a contagious disease. I clearly has a "crying phobia."
My mom and Aunt Helen were friendly and I believe they even worked together for a while at the Union Pen Company on McQuesten Parkway in Mount Vernon, New York. I began to notice that she also had a variety of health issues. Arthritis. Eye surgery. There were few times when I can remember Aunt Helen not sporting a bandage somewhere. I would steer clear at those times as well. I clearly also had a "bandage phobia."
Aunt Helen and family lived only a few blocks away from us, so we could easily walk over for a visit. I was never comfortable there. But, for the longest time, they were the only branch of my family that had a color television set. For the glory of watching "Get Smart" with that NBC peacock, I easily dealt with the aforementioned phobias.
This is not to say that I didn't like Aunt Helen. It's just that we had little in common and I could barely relate to her or her children.
So that's what makes one Easter so utterly bizarre? I was either 14 0r 15. Those high school years always blur together. One night in the last week of Lent, my mother got a phone call from Aunt Helen, who was planning to drive down to see some of her own relatives in Maryland for Easter.
"I don't want to make the drive by myself. I thought that maybe Lenny would like to come along for the ride."
My mom treated this invitation as if I had won an all-expenses-paid trip to Hawaii. Aunt Helen, beyond a need for a car companion, reasoned that it would be great for me to see her nephew Arthur who just happened to be my age and we had made some sort of a connection in previous summers.
"Lenny could see Arthur and play with him."
Okay, I was a teenager and not looking to "play" with another guy. And I was also not looking to spend four hours in a car...make that...trapped in a car with Aunt Helen. But, when it came to these types of invitations, my mother did not have the word "no" in her vocabulary. Besides we had no set plans for Easter and my parents likely looked forward to a few days of peace and quiet. From me and from each other. Rifts were already slowly starting to form. I was stuck.
I packed for this trek as if I was headed to a date with electric furniture at Sing Sing. Dreading every moment until Aunt Helen pulled in our driveway behind the wheel of her "big ass" Buick. I felt like I was saying goodbye to Mount Vernon forever.
We weren't more than five miles away when I realized this trip was going to be a very different one.
Aunt Helen popped WABC-AM on the car radio. Hmmm, music I listened to. While my own mom had been an early devotee to pop radio, even she had migrated to the softer sounds of the Tijuana Brass and Mantovani. But not apparently Aunt Helen. She was a-movin' and a-groovin' to the hits of today.
And singing along.
"Yummy, yummy, yummy, I got love in my tummy."
A moment that was so wrong. But so amazingly real. And enjoyable. We sang as long as we could pick up WABC on the New Jersey Turnpike. As soon as we reached the Delaware Bridge, Aunt Helen already knew which dial position to turn to in the area.
"And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson. Jesus loves more than you will know. Wo, wo, wo." Beyond the traveling Sonny and Cher routine we were developing on the road, there was another striking attribute to this ride. Aunt Helen was talking to me like an adult. Trust me, in my family, this didn't happen easily. But, here she was, talking about her health and her unfiltered opinions about other relatives and friends. "Don't tell your mother." Okay, I won't. And keep it coming, lady, because I'm loving every juicy minute of this. When we finally got to her relatives' home in Odenton, Maryland, Aunt Helen didn't necessarily stop her free wheeling chatter. As Arthur and I were older now, our "playtime" was not as much fun as it was when we were both eight years old. So, my attention never really diverted from my chatty aunt, who was hilariously candid with her thoughts. Especially when her own relatives were not within earshot. "I can't believe they still haven't fixed that kitchen stove." "I don't like that girlfriend of his. A real golddigger." "Arthur's got a weird smell. I don't think he's using any deodorant. Do you notice that?" Well, yeah, I did, but I wasn't going to say anything. I was petrified at the thought of this Easter weekend, but uncontrollably sad when it sped by at lightning speed. Before I knew it, we were back on the New Jersey Turnpike going in the opposite direction. With the car radio blasting. "Young girl, get out of my mind. My love for you is way out of line. Better run girl, you're much too young girl."
And, as quickly as this connection with Aunt Helen was made, it was almost as speedily lost. Our family became even more fractured. I don't think Aunt Helen and I ever had another time like this trip. As a matter of fact, I think she died maybe seven or eight years later.
But, as is obvious, I remember that one Easter. A one-time-only bond with a single relative. One that was not afraid to treat a kid like me as an adult.
Hey, it's a five-Saturday month. You know what that means? A classic musical comedy number. And what better to show today than this scene from "Easter Parade."
Dinner last night: It was Good Friday and I hear my parents' voice. No meat. A tuna melt from Clementine's.
I don't, you know. But, if I did, here's what I would have tweeted this past month. #LenSpeaks When you are working from home, you have no idea how often the phone rings during the day. #LenSpeaks I can have my air ducts cleaned. #LenSpeaks Gutters unclogged. #LenSpeaks Termites exterminated. The only thing I can't find is somebody to stop these damn calls. #LenSpeaks PS, I am on the "Do Not Call" list. Which is about as ridiculous as saying that your Social Security checks will be kicking in around 2025. #LenSpeaks Had a phone solicitation from the Alzheimer's Foundation on a Saturday morning at 830AM. I asked them if they had forgotten what time it was. #LenSpeaks Even on early Saturday mornings, I still got it. #LenSpeaks Who shot JR this time? #LenSpeaks I am hoping it was Joe Biden. A win win. #LenSpeaks Michelle Obama is on vacation again. From what? Unless it does a forty hour work week to put on and take off wigs. #LenSpeaks I actually got a letter from Nancy Pelosi asking me to donate money to the Democratic Party. I should send her back a link to this blog. #LenSpeaks Oh, wait! There is white smoke. We have a new Pope! #LenSpeaks Yesterday there was black smoke. I burned a tray of sugar cookies. #LenSpeaks I wonder what they are burning in the Vatican to get all this smoke. And how many children are in those photos? #LenSpeaks For a few days, the cardinals were deadlocked. I guess the guys from Ohio and Florida are forced to break the tie. #LenSpeaks Waiting for the new Pope to appear. Karl Rove is not ready to concede. He is stll crunching the numbers. #LenSpeaks Why the heck am I watching this TV coverage? I'm not Catholic. #LenSpeaks All TV channels have switched to Papal coverage. Even HGTV. Just in case the new guy wants renovations to the Pope's bathroom. #LenSpeaks If the new Pope is Black, we could have a scene re-enactment from Blazing Saddles. Gabby Johnson announcing that "the new Pope is a.....GONG!" #LenSpeaks The Vatican has a military band? Who are they fighting? Presbyterians?? #LenSpeaks A delay in announcing the new Pope. Probably going over papers with Vatican HR. #LenSpeaks "What do you mean there's no profitsharing plan?" #LenSpeaks "I gotta work Christmas Eve and Christmas Day??? Do I get two floating holidays instead?" #LenSpeaks And here he comes from behind the curtains like Johnny Carson. Francis...the talking Pope. #LenSpeaks These factoids about him are ridiculous. He's from Argentina and likes long walks on the beach. #LenSpeaks His favorite TV show is Two and a Half Men. He likes to cuddle with the Vatican-approved Snuggie. #LenSpeaks The new Pope is 76. Which means the Vatican is the only place that is hiring anybody over the age of 55. #LenSpeaks It's amazing how much time you can waste on the computer waiting for the new Pope. #LenSpeaks Heading to NY. My American Idle tour stops there for a week. #LenSpeaks I feel totally safe on American Airlines. No terrorists want to watch NBC prime time programming. #LenSpeaks Now I feel totally secure in this country. President Obama has selected his NCAA brackets. #LenSpeaks Same sex marriage. I know married friends who complain they have the same damn sex all the time. Dinner last night: Beef and pork lasagna from Gelson's.
It's the old adage. You get thrown lemons. You make lemonade.
But what happens if your juicer is broken? What the heck are you supposed to do then?
And, let's face it, folks. There are times in all of our lives when, unfortunately, our juicers break down. And you have to use somebody else's.
What the hell ya talkin' about Willis...I mean, Len?
This is going to be one from the depths of this writer. My life as an open blog. The curtains part. You see what's going on backstage.
The last year or so, I've been thrown some lemons. Not constantly, but I have endured more than my share of Sunkists laying on the coconut, if we want to keep with the tropical fruit theme. Nothing terribly earth shattering but enough to make you think....hmmm. Trust me. I'm not reaching for the booze or the pills or humming anything from a 1968 Janis Joplin album. But I'm looking at the yellow fruit strewn around me and saying....how come I can't now direct all this into one of those Kool Aid pitchers with the happy and empty smile on it.
Yep, I made a discovery. My juicer was broken.
When I had my annual physical with my internist in December, we go all over my body. Outside the head and in it. I totally I had some things on my mind and that this might be the single moment in my life where I needed to talk to somebody other than a friend. I know lots of folks who have done this already. Sometimes, I'm the one making the suggestion myself.
Now I needed somebody to make that suggestion to me. And my internist did. A bonafide reference and everything.
I twirled the piece of paper and phone number in my hand for weeks. Here I was, actually entering into my own very special episode of "The Bob Newhart Show."
"So, whatcha got, Hartley?"
Or something like that.
I finally made the appointment and then entered into the sterile waiting room. It was all eerily quiet. Open minds apparently don't make a lot of noise. Finally ushered into the mental chamber of horrors, it was standard staging from the prop department. Lots of fancy books on shelves. A tall reclining chair. A smaller reclining chair. A couch that was so low to the floor it might have been featured in "Flower Drum Song." And, on the coffee table, the box of tissues. I noted it was not Kleenex. A Costco brand. One point off for the psychologist.
I moved to sit in the tall reclining chair. That looked most comfortable.
"Oh, no, that's where I sit."
Okay, Doc, if you want to be territorial.....
I sat in the smaller chair. Its swivel was slightly unhinged. But I'm guessing there have been a lot of broken hinges in this room.
"So what brings you here?"
I wanted to say "a Toyota Highlander," but refrained. N'yuk, n'yuk. We had already gotten off on the wrong foot with my inappropriate seating choice.
I went with the straight answer.
Feeling compromised by my knees last year.
Being a bit more conscious of my age.
The constant dueling of parental DNA in my body.
Predictably, he dove in on the latter as it was likely Chapter 1 in his Psych textbook.
I started to talk and babble, even though he was clearly becoming not my ideal choice for a doctor of his ilk. A little older than I wanted. His eyebrows kept going up and down like the Tower of Terror ride at California Adventure.
And he blinked a lot. I wanted to know the story about this nervous tic of his. But, who was I to ask?
As I prattled on, I suddenly realized what I was relating to him. Stories about my parents and my grandparents and my childhood.
For Pete's sake, I'm going over past entries in my Sunday Memory Drawer. The only difference was I could actually see the reaction of the person on the other side.
We made a follow-up visit for the next week and, this time, I didn't choose the wrong chair. Again, he asked one question....and out come the stories posted on the Sunday Memory Drawer about two years ago. Except this blog is free and this guy wasn't.
"Two sessions, that will be four hundred dollars total."
Gasp. Now who's crazy??
I guess you really have to be nuts to go to a psychologist.
I told him that, at these prices, I needed to look at my health coverage. Of course, he was out-of-network. Apparently, Aetna doesn't cover doctors with arching eyebrows. Meanwhile, my deductible for him would be quite high.
I'm already paying $150 a week for two sessions with my physical trainer. That's wellness for the body. The mind would be breaking my piggy bank.
I will look for a younger psychologist with better facial features and one that is in my health network. In the meantime, I realized that my processing of life has been ongoing anyway. Every Sunday and other days of the week. On this blog.
I will keep writing. And perhaps feel better that way.
It's a slow birth date in history, which is why I'm stuck saluting idiot Quentin Tarantino. But, wait till you see who all died on March 27, 2002!
196 BC: PTOLEMY V ASCENDS TO THE THRONE OF EGYPT.
Did he invent ptomaine poisoning? Seems logical. 1309: POPE CLEMENT IMPOSES EXCOMMUNICATION, INTERDICTION, AND A GENERAL PROHIBITION OF ALL COMMERCIAL INTERCOURSE AGAINST VENICE. So, no intercourse in Venice? Well, there goes that bloodline. 1329: POPE JOHN XXII ISSUES HIS "IN AGRO DOMINICO" CONDEMNING SOME WRITINGS OF MEISTER ECKHART AS HERETICAL. Meister Eckhart? Didn't he become commissioner of baseball later on? 1625: CHARLES I BECOMES KING OF ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, AND IRELAND AS WELL AS CLAIMING THE TITLE KING OF FRANCE. Talk about being pushy. 1794: THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT ESTABLISHES A PERMANENT NAVY AND AUTHORIZES THE BUILDING OF SIX FRIGATES. Oh, what the frigate. 1814: DURING THE WAR OF 1812, US FORCES UNDER GENERAL ANDREW JACKSON DEFEAT THE CREEK AT THE BATTLE OF HORSESHOE BEND. I must have missed this battle in eleventh-grade American History with Miss Castriota. 1851: FIRST REPORTED SIGHTING OF THE YOSEMITE VALLEY BY EUROPEANS. Is this before Sarah Palin saw Russia from her backyard? 1879: YANKEE MANAGER MILLER HUGGINS IS BORN. No, his middle name wasn't "Light." 1881: RIOTING TAKES PLACE IN BASINGSTOKE IN PROTEST AGAINST THE DAILY VOCIFEROUS PROMOTION OF RIGID TEMPERANCE BY THE SALVATION ARMY. Now I'm sorry I put all those dimes in the bucket. 1884: A MOB IN CINCINNATI, OHIO, ATTACKS MEMBERS OF A JURY WHO HAD RETURNED A VERDICT OF MANSLAUGHTER IN A CLEAR CASE OF MURDER. THEY WOULD LATER RIOT AND DESTROY THE COURTHOUSE. Paging Fred Goldman. 1886: APACHE WARRIOR GERONIMO SURRENDERS TO THE US ARMY. You can stop jumping now. 1899: ACTRESS GLORIA SWANSON IS BORN. "I wasn't a big baby. It's just the womb that was smaller." 1915: TYPHOID MARY, THE FIRST HEALTHY CARRIER OF DISEASE EVER IDENTIFIED IN THE UNITED STATES, IS PUT IN QUARANTINE FOR THE REST OF HER LIFE. So no Match.com for her. 1931: ACTOR DAVID JANSSEN IS BORN. Let the manhunt begin. 1945: DURING WORLD WAR II, OPERATION STARVATION, THE AERIAL MINING OF JAPAN'S PORTS AND WATERWAYS, BEGINS. Effectively shutting down the import of ramen noodles. 1948: THE SECOND CONGRESS OF THE WORKERS PARTY OF NORTH KOREA IS CONVENED. Workers Party, ha! They're Communists. 1958: NIKITA KHRUSHCHEV BECOMES PREMIER OF THE SOVIET UNION. Shoebanging will commence shortly. 1963: DIRECTOR QUENTIN TARANTINO IS BORN. Asshole Unchained. 1968: RUSSIAN ASTRONAUT YURI GAGARIN DIES. He, at least, outlived a couple of those chimps. 1976: THE FIRST 4.6 MILES OF THE WASHINGTON METRO SUBWAY SYSTEM OPENS. As if any members of Congress would be caught dead on it. 1977: ACTRESS DIANA HYLAND DIES. Apparently, Forty-One is Enough. 1981: THE SOLIDARITY MOVEMENT IN POLAND STAGES A STRIKE, IN WHICH AT LEAST 12 MILLION POLES WALK OFF THEIR JOBS FOR FOUR HOURS. The workers on top of a skyscraper walked off as well, which, of course, is your typical Polish joke. 1993: ITALIAN FORMER MINISTER AND DEMOCRACY LEADER GIULI ANDREOTTI IS ACCUSED OF MAFIA ALLEGIANCE. Surprised?? Anybody??? 1998: THE FOOD AND DRUG ADMINISTRATION APPROVES VIAGRA FOR AS A TREATMENT FOR MALE IMPOTENCE. Up, up, and away. 2002: COMIC MILTON BERLE DIES. Glad Uncle Milty got to use that Viagra. Meanwhile, here comes an amazing fatal hat trick. 2002: ACTOR DUDLEY MOORE DIES. Coming up short. 2002: DIRECTOR BILLY WILDER DIES. He lived across the street from me at the time and I do remember the hearse showing up. Meanwhile, no jokes from me on Billy. A genius. 2006: TV PRODUCER DAN CURTIS DIES. Now how dark are those shadows? 2011: ACTOR FARLEY GRANGER DIES. Last stop for that train, stranger. Dinner last night: Upgraded to Business class so a filet mignon on AA Flight 133.
While I've seen it in movies all the time, I don't think I've ever been in an audience that repeatedly yelled "bravo." Until I was at Los Angeles' Ahmanson Theater recently to see "End of the Rainbow." But there I was. In the middle of the orchestra seats watching people scream wildly for the performance of Tracie Bennett.
And deservedly so. This is a bravura turn for this British actress who completely transforms herself into the legendary Judy Garland. But this is not an imitation. Heck, you can find a drag queen on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood to do that. Indeed, when she talks and sings, Bennett doesn't sound completely like Garland. She's probably too smart an actress to do that. But, by adopting many of Judy's mannerisms, Tracie Bennett does become her. A performance that never once falls into parody or satire. In less surer hands, that easily could have happened. "End of the Rainbow" is part play/part musical developed originally in London several years ago. It was moved to Broadway last year and I was headed to see it with my usual NY theater buddy Lorraine. But arthroscopic knee surgery took care of that and I had to cancel the trip. So, when producers moved it lock, stock, and prescription pills to Los Angeles, I had to finally catch up to it. After all, my mother would not have wanted it otherwise. I was always a fan of Judy Garland, thanks to Mom. At a very early age, she sat me down to watch all those MGM musicals. My mother was a fan. So much so that she later confessed to me that, had I been born a girl, I would have been named Judy. I'm not sure what exactly drew my mom to Judy Garland. Beyond the outstanding voice, there had to be something else. I will never know, of course. So, whenever I get the chance, I absorb books, plays, and tributes about Judy Garland looking for the connection she made with my mom. Certainly, I don't think that could be found in "End of the Rainbow." Because this is Judy Garland at perhaps one of the darker times of her life. Indeed, she was gone just a short six months later.
This production is a snapshot of Miss Garland in January, 1969. In tremendous debt and still unable to get off booze and pills, Judy heads to London where her new manager/fiance Mickey Deans has booked her to play nightly performances at "Talk of the Town." She's really in no shape to perform but she needs to do so because she can't even afford the hotel room she's staying in. And you watch as Judy careens around the hotel room, vacillating wildly between lucid moments and others where she is completely off the wall. Sometimes, a kitten. Other times, a panther looking for her next prey.
Deans tries to keep her off the liquor and prescription pills, but eventually relents because that's the only way to keep his gravy train on the express track. He comes off as a jerk and probably was one in real life. The real guy died a few years back, so the show producers are obviously not worried about defamation lawsuits.
Meanwhile, Garland's only ally is her pianist Anthony, who is really a composite of every gay show business colleague she had throughout life. Anthony wants only the best for Judy and struggles frequently with both her and Deans to effectively try and save his heroine's life. "End of the Rainbow" is one of those hybrid stage productions. Mostly a play set in the hotel room, it occasionally breaks into a musical as you watch Garland do her nightly performances at the theater. All of the usual Garland standards are trucked out for our enjoyment. Again, Bennett never attempts to duplicate what we have all heard on records and in movies over the years. But, in her own unique way, she still manages to evoke every memory of Garland that we all have. Indeed, there is one number, "Come Rain or Come Shine" which is performed after a scene where Judy swallows some Ritalin to get herself moving. As a result, the song is sung manically. Not for show, but for dramatic purposes as a plot point. Bennett's moments here are virtually magnificent. You are watching Judy Garland at her most bi-polar. Unfortunately, all is not a pot of gold at "End of the Rainbow." When my buddy Lorraine saw it in NY last year, her main sticking point was that the actor playing Mickey Deans was awful. I noticed that that particular guy did not make it to the Los Angeles edition. But his NY understudy did. And was equally as bad, in my humble opinion. Hmmm. What are the Vegas odds that two completely different actors would appear to be as inept in the same role? Pretty high. This points to a problem not with the acting, but the writing and the direction. Obviously, the part of Mickey Deans is written and directed so badly that nobody can survive it. The culprits there would be playwright Peter Quiller and director Terry Johnson, whose apparent love for Garland likely upended the rest of the cast.
The script itself does have its moments where it seems to be nothing more than an episode of "Two and a Half Men." For instance, there's one scene where Deans and Garland are screaming profanity at each other. Anthony asks why their language must be so offensive. Mickey and Judy turn to him and say in unison, "fuck off." How cheap and obvious can you get? But, still, you simply wait for the next golden moment that Tracie Bennett will have. As she brings you back to that Judy Garland concert or performance that you could previously only imagine in your mind. Or perhaps it was one that your mother told you all about. Dinner last night: Pepperoni and olive pizza at Polpettina.
There's a Facebook board called "I Grew Up in Mount Vernon, New York" that provides members with lots of photos. Right now, there's some guy who is wasting a lot of pixels posting snapshots of stores and establishments currently in what was once my hometown. Low class restaurants and cheap clothing stores all befitting the clientele now living in this once great town. While I salute this person's desire to capture Mount Vernon today, most of this photographic effort is a large waste of time. I couldn't give a Vaccarella (former crooked mayor, one of many) rat's ass what the place looks like now. I did that photo essay several years and that's a Sunday Memory Drawer not worth re-opening.
But the historical picture above? Pure gold. It is Mount Vernon circa 1948. I wasn't around for this, of course. But, in my youth, the place didn't look that much different. It was during my high school and college years that the town began to turn into a backed-up sewer.
This part of the downtown sector is called Gramatan Avenue. Now, if you go south past the bottom of the photo, this thoroughfare becomes Fourth Avenue, which is where all the fun stores were.
Bromley's Dress Shop and Genung's for Mom.
Ankerson's Drug Store for Grandma's White Cloverine Salve.
Shipman's Toys and Brodbeck's Records for me.
Plus the traditional "five and dimes." H.L. Green's, where my childhood bestie Leo's mom worked. H.W. Woolworth. A Horn and Hardhart store that featured the most delicious take-home meals. Beef stew and rice pudding. Once again for me. And, of course, the pre-Friday-afternoon-movie dining spot for me and my mother. The glorious Bee Hive. I never understood why the same street had two different names depending upon what side of the railroad tracks you were on. You can see the New Haven Railroad tracks at the bottom left. This crevice cut right through the city and effectively created two distinctly different parts of town. The north side, which was predominantly white and borderline affluent. The south side, which was much more diverse in both nationalities and race. It was also unofficially poorer, probably because of its proximity to the Bronx.
Guess which side I lived on? A little poorer, but always seemingly a bit happier.
As I examine this wonderful photo, my mind races back to one memory after another. Because, even though there was less shopping venues on Gramatan Avenue, it still offered some spots I will cherish forever. As I point them out, you might have to keep scrolling up and down to see what I'm talking about.
Working from the bottom up, you see what looks like a guard booth. That was a police post. Why? I have no clue. Back then, there was little crime in Mount Vernon. And, as a kid, I don't remember ever seeing a cop in there.
The big building just past the guard booth on the left? That was the County Trust Bank. Noteworthy only because my dad had an account there for a while and, before he started to work nights, I would go with him every Thursday night (everything was open on Thursday nights in Mount Vernon) so he could cash the pay check he just got.
Across the street on the corner is a camera store and that was still there when I was growing up. During the five or so years when my father was dabbling in amateur photography with his Argus Technicolor camera, we would go there and let them turn the pictures into slides for the projector he dragged out at every family gathering.
Right next door was pure nirvana for me. You can plainly see the RKO Proctor's Theater. Four levels of seating. They changed the double feature every Wednesday. Depending upon what was playing on a Friday afternoon, my mother and I went either here or the Loews which was right around the corner. After the required BLT sandwich and a milk shake at the aforementioned Bee Hive.
RKO Proctor's played the films of several studios. They got all the pictures from 20th Century Fox, Warner Brothers, Disney, and Universal. We always sat in the second level which was the smoking section. If the second feature was a boring one, I loved to run up and down the ramps that connected the levels. Until, of course, the old matron with the flashlight told me to stop. I remember one wonderful afternoon there when Bob Hope and Lucille Ball made a promotional appearance on the theater stage. Lucy! In my hometown, no less.
See the building right across the street? Woo, memories for me there as well. You'll notice on the corner a cigar store. Well, it was really a luncheonette. And one that carried the latest comic books. Always a stop for me after my regular visits to the building that was attached above with the address "10 Fiske Place." That's where my dentist, Dr. Paul Cipes, was based. I had my very first cavity filling there. And my first root canal when I was in college. During the latter procedure, he set my shirt on fire. Don't ask.
Of course, for several years in grade school, 10 Fiske Place was also a frequent stop for me when I was wearing braces on my teeth. My orthodontist was there. Dr. Arthur Ash Not the Tennis Player. Seriously, that's how he introduced himself. In a bizarre latter day coincidence, I now go to a dentist in the Pacific Palisades of Los Angeles. The street that crosscuts the avenue my dentist is on? Fiske Place. Moving on.
In the same building, you have to zoom in to see a sign on the front that says 'Personal Loans." Yep, I remember that place. Mom was a frequent customer there when she over-extended her allowance at Bromley's Dress Shop. One of my regular errands would be to make the drop of her latest monthly loan payment. Always with the warning...."Don't tell your father."
Next to the cigar store on the way up Gramatan was Barish's Book and Card Store. The only book store in Mount Vernon. A popular spot for me during high school because they stocked up on all the Cliff Notes on those books you never wanted to read for English class. I went to high school with one of the Barish kids. I wonder if he got the Cliff Notes for free.
Next to the book store was a fruit and vegetable stand. We never went there. Grandma always said the stuff in the Bronx was fresher. Another blanket statement of hers that never came with any concrete evidence.
Further up Gramatan was County Appliance, where Grandma bought her new "black and white" TV. The color on other relatives' sets never looked right to her. Meanwhile, there was a small TV dealer where my dad purchased our first color television. It was a huge Zenith console, because my father never would consider another brand. We bought it from a guy who delivered it and then proceeded to sit in the kitchen with Dad and guzzled down a few cans of beer as Mom and I parked ourselves in the living room to marvel how Merv Griffin looked in color.
There was also another "five and dime" on Gramatan that I cannot remember the name of. But they stocked Colorforms so that would be a normal destination for me.
At the farthest end of the photo on Gramatan, you can see some trees. There was a traffic circle there and a lot of the greenery also was provided by Hartley Park, which was essentially Mount Vernon's town square. There was a bocce ball set-up there where every old Italian guy in the city met on a daily basis. When I was really young, Mom would take me there to wait out the start of a movie at Proctor's. Those were the days when the opening of a movie screen curtain scared me. There are countless films that, to this day, I have missed the first ten minutes of.
Across the street from Hartley Park was Chicken Delight.
"Don't cook tonight. Call Chicken Delight."
When both my parents were working, there were many a night when we did just that. At the top of the photo past the trees, you can see a big building. That was A.B. Davis High School, which had outgrown its usefulness by the time I would be in those grades. The city had built a spanking new high school on the outskirts of town...translation: a two bus trip. But, for one year, they had ninth grade classes at Davis, which was then called the Annex. It was high on a hill and I might have bad knees today because of that daily climb up a treacherous staircase. One photo can prompt a thousand words. And the one above did just that. Meanwhile, since I am in New York at the moment, these memories prompted me to drive through Gramatan Avenue and Fourth Avenue Friday night with my best friend from high school in the car. I was astounded all over again at the changes to this fair city. Mount Vernon today looks like Berlin after the Allies bombed it. A testament to years of mismanagement by a city government that housed one political felon after another. I hear the current asshole in charge, Mayor Ernest Davis, is under investigation for fraud. As I drove over the bridge in this old snapshot, I noted that the police booth from that span is totally gone. Understandable. Since there is nothing left to protect in Mount Vernon. Dinner last night: Steak au poivre at Isabella's Restaurant.
No, the March 2013 Morons are not the cast of NBC's "Smash." I have not against them and, given a good agent, they all will probably work again. The idiots this month are the folks at NBC who made all the changes to this show for its second season and have effectively created a bomb of Enola Gay proportions. But, then again, it is NBC. With the least watched prime time schedule. With the worst news division in television. And, oh, yeah, with folks like Matt Lauer and Al Roker on the company payroll. You will note that the latter two are former monthly Morons on this site. Of course, to say a show is dying on NBC is akin to saying that Japan was stupid for bombing Pearl Harbor in 1941. Note the continual references here to explosions and mass devastation. Because NBC, in about ten years, has turned into the ultimate bottom feeder of primetime entertainment. They play their shows on American Airline flights. I have not seen as many people napping at 35,00o feet in my two decades of cross country flying. The Nielsen ratings for their shows need to viewed with a magnifying glass and there are more people going to Mets games in April than watching NBC. P.S., there's really nobody going to Mets games in April. As a result over the past several years, I have watched virtually nothing on NBC. From morning to night, I don't even know where Channel 4 is on my television program guide. But, last season, they scheduled a show that had some interest and buzz for me. "Smash" had a lot of money behind it, was going to be all about the Broadway musical world, and would be shot completely in New York. I was an early buyer. Finally, I thought, a television program with a unique setting. At last, nothing with either "Law and Order" or "CSI" attached to the title. And, while it was slow to start, "Smash" did draw me with its first season plotline that revolved around the early stages of "Bombshell," a fictional Broadway musical about the life of Marilyn Monroe. Some of the original production numbers you saw in development were great. The cast was congenial enough. You did get wrapped up with the creative road blocks for the musical's creative crew played by Jack Davenport, Debra Messing, and Christian Borle. Plus there was the big battle to see who was going to be finally cast as Marilyn with Katharine McPhee and Megan Hilty as the combatants. And, of course, any TV series that has the smarts to cast Angelica Huston is a winner in my book. Yes, "Smash" had its issues, but it held my interest. Something a show on NBC hadn't done since "Frasier." I was obviously not alone as the network did, almost reluctantly, renew it for a second season. And, as the boneheads who run the place almost always do, they opted not to premiere it until February 2013. Almost nine months after its first season finale. In our society of non-memory retention, most people forgot about "Smash." As if NBC had anything better to put on in the ensuing months. Meanwhile, the suits in charge couldn't leave mediocre enough alone. They wanted changes in the show. A bunch of extraneous supporting characters were sent to the boneyard. No problem there. The show's creator, Teresa Rebeck, was shuttled back to regional theater. Okay, never a good thing in television. And they wanted more plotlines, not less. The focus on just one potential Broadway musical was not enough. They wanted more. And "Smash" became "Smush." A line many of you could have predicted at the outset of this blog entry. Along with the creatively challenged "Bombshell," we're now asked to follow three other Broadway shows in the making. A musical version of "Dangerous Liaisons" with Sean Hayes cast as a tempermental gay actor who is grossly overrated and generally disliked. Can somebody say Nathan Lane? Meanwhile, there is a one-woman show anchored by a young diva loosely based on Jennifer Hudson and, wait for it, she is played by Jennifer Hudson. This gives producers the opportunity to bring her in periodically to blow out the sound board and our eardrums. And to wake up the other viewers. But, hold on, there's more. Katharine McPhee stumbles onto two restaurant busboys who, wait for it, just happen to be developing a Broadway musical. Aren't they all? Sadly, the answer is yes. Their show is supposed to be the next "Rent." Or pay their next rent. I'm not sure. Meanwhile, one of the guys is played by Jeremy Jordan, who wowed everybody but yours truly in the criminally well-reviewed "Newsies." We know his character has an edge because he scowls a lot and takes a little cocaine. A graduate of the "Sal Mineo School of Acting." We know he and McPhee are destined to work together and, by season's end, sleep together. A series of "meet cute" moments that have most of us reaching for the Pepcid AC. Back at "Bombshell," Marilyn Monroe is still dead and so are the changes of this reaching Broadway. But they keep on trying even though the show's creative crew and the "Smash" audience have long since stopped caring. If Marilyn had lived to see this, she would have been dead anyway. Except for the characters played by Huston and Messing, everyone else has been sabotaged or altered in some way that makes them unrecognizable to what they were in the first season. The plotline meanders from one Broadway rehearsal studio to another without even letting us stop in Times Square for a Starbucks. And whenever the script involves us with the "Rent"-like musical, the original songs we hear are so bad that we want to turn the channel and see if that couple on "House Hunters" has decided which Akron, Ohio home they want to buy. Understandably, the "Smash" viewers have dwindled to single digits. The second season audience level is less than the invite list to your cousin Jake's bar mitzvah. And the lunkheads at NBC now commence the death march by shuttling the show in April to a Saturday night time slot. Does anybody even watch prime time television on a Saturday night? In the meanwhile, another promising TV show has been ripped apart and mercilessly destroyed because too many cooks got into the kitchen. And when that culinary school is taught by NBC, you know the entree just has to be bad. After all, this is a television network that thinks Rachel Maddow is a journalist. Sorry, "Smash," you probably would have had a better shot if you had aired on the Tennis Channel. Dinner last night: Roast beef and Thai noodles.
Happy birthday, Carl Reiner. Let me know what time you want me to pick you up. 235: MAXIMINUS THRAX IS PROCLAIMED EMPEROR. HE IS THE FIRST FOREIGNER TO HOLD THE ROMAN THRONE. So, would Maximinus' father's sister be his Aunt Thrax? On a slow historical news day, that may be the best joke I got today. 1208: MICHAEL IV AUTOREIANOS IS APPOINTED ECUMENICAL PATRIARCH OF CONSTANTINOPLE. Told you it was a slow day. You're going to be digging that "Aunt Thrax" gag any minute now. 1600: THE LINKOPING BLOODBATH TAKES PLACE ON MAUNDY THURSDAY IN LINKOPING, SWEDEN. Maundy Thursday? Wasn't that a Mamas and Papas song? 1602: THE DUTCH EAST INDIA COMPANY IS ESTABLISHED. A news day as slow as Ed Kranepool. 1616: SIR WALTER RALEIGH IS FREED FROM THE TOWER OF LONDON AFTER 13 YEARS OF IMPRISONMENT. That gave him a lot of time to collect those coupons that used to come on the backs of those cigarette packs. 1726: PHYSICIST DR. ISSAC NEWTON DIES. Don't sit under the apple tree with anybody else but me. 1760: THE GREAT FIRE OF BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, DESTROYS 349 BUILDINGS. And they thought Bobby Valentine was devastating to this city. 1815: AFTER ESCAPING FROM ELBA, NAPOLEON ENTERS PARIS WITH A REGULAR ARMY OF 140,000 AND A VOLUNTEER FORCE OF AROUND 200,000. Now that's what I call a "community organizer." 1852: HARRIET BEECHER STOWE'S "UNCLE TOM'S CABIN" IS PUBLISHED. Topsy turvy. 1861: AN EARTHQUAKE COMPLETELY DESTROYS MENDOZA, ARGENTINA. Talk about your "Mendoza Line." 1903: ACTOR EDGAR BUCHANAN IS BORN. And that's Uncle Joe...he's a-moving kind of slow at the Junction. 1906: NY MAYOR ABE BEAME IS BORN. Coming up short again. 1906: ACTOR OZZIE NELSON IS BORN. Good. Now Harriet will have somebody to sleep with. 1913: SUNG CHIAO-JEN, A FOUNDER OF THE CHINESE NATIONALIST PARTY, IS WOUNDED IN AN ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT AND DIES TWO DAYS LATER. I will bookmark this factoid when March 25 rolls around for its "Date in History." 1914: IN NEW HAVEN, CONNNECTICUT, THE FIRST INTERNATIONAL FIGURE SKATING CHAMPIONSHIP TAKES PLACE. And today's historical news slows to a tortoise-like crawl. 1916: ALBERT EINSTEIN PUBLISHES HIS GENERAL THEORY OF RELATIVITY. Which states....that your aunt's son is your cousin. 1918: TV GAME SHOW PRODUCER JACK BARRY IS BORN. Joker, joker, joker... 1922: RADIO PERSONALITY RAY GOULDING IS BORN. Because Bob needed somebody to play off. 1922: ACTOR/PRODUCER CARL REINER IS BORN. I had a whole conversation with him once about people who throw paper towels on the floor in a public bathroom. Hollywood can be so glamourous. 1928: TV HOST FRED ROGERS IS BORN. A beautiful day in his neighborhood. 1933: GIUSEPPE ZANGARA IS EXECUTED IN FLORIDA'S ELECTRIC CHAIR FOR FATALLY SHOOTING ANTON CERMAK IN AN ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT AGAINST PRESIDENT-ELECT FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT. So if you shoot a President-elect, does that still count? 1935: ACTOR TED BESSELL IS BORN. Happy birthday to....That Guy! 1936: COMEDIAN VAUGHN MEADER IS BORN. Had a show business career for 1,000 days...or however long JFK was President. 1942: GENERAL DOUGLAS MACARTHUR MAKES HIS FAMOUS SPEECH REGARDING THE FALL OF THE PHILIPPINES, IN WHICH HE SAYS: "I CAME OUT OF BATAAN AND I SHALL RETURN." I read this too fast and I thought he said "I came out IN Bataan." Completely different angle on the story. 1952: THE UNITED STATES SENATE RATIFIES A PEACE TREATY WITH JAPAN. After completely rebuilding the country for them. 1972: ACTRESS MARILYN MAXWELL DIES. Bob Hope will need to find somebody else to warm his feet. 1974: JOURNALIST CHET HUNTLEY DIES. Smoking does kill. 1985: LIBBY RIDDLES BECOMES THE FIRST WOMAN TO WIN THE 1,135 MILE IDITAROD TRAIL SLED DOG RACE. And the slow historical news day hits rock bottom. 1990: IMELDA MARCOS GOES ON TRIAL FOR BRIBERY, EMBEZZLEMENT, AND RACKETEERING. Bad shoes should have been added to the list of offenses. 1999: LEGOLAND CALIFORNIA, THE ONLY LEGOLAND OUTSIDE OF EUROPE, OPENS. Well, it didn't really open. It was snapped together. 2010: POLITICIAN STEWART UDALL DIES. A hearse U-Haul for Udall. Dinner last night: Turkey burger at the NY domicile.
