Loneliness Is

Loneliness is saying, "Happy Thanksgiving," to the waitress at some greasy spoon diner, in which you have just had your Thanksgiving dinner, alone, and not hearing any reply.

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Loneliness is looking forward to the darkness.

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Loneliness is having forgotten the joy of friends, the rewards of camaraderie.

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Loneliness is the desire for more loneliness.

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PLACES TO HIDE

Prefatory Remarks:

This is not about "being alone."   People who have read this react by telling me, "Yes, S.E., everyone needs their 'alone time.'"   It causes a desire in me to strike them, hard.    Fortunately, I can control it.  But I do not control my sarcasm at their inability to be understand simple concepts or being able to see or understand beyond their own personal experience of life.

No, this essay is not about having, "alone time."   This is about hiding.   If your mind cannot grasp the difference and the significance therein, move on to an essay your mind can understand.  This one is clearly not for you.  

S.E.

***

Hiding in the city is remarkably easy.  Not, as one might think, because of the crowds of people we normally associate with life in a big city or with what invokes a  feeling of loneliness in big city dwellers, but because when one finds a hidden, abandoned location, it is usually that way because people intentionally avoid being there -- that the course of normal activities of life (a normal one) for a city dweller keeps them far away from such places.   And so, one may hide there completely unseen and in relative safety.  

Having lived my whole life in New York City I have the rare knowledge of city life of 40 even 50 years ago.  What one remembers most from such remote times is that it was a quite different place and functioned in a very different way:  it was the world's greatest port, nature having granted it the perfect topography for such.   And so, if one sought isolation what leaped into the mind immediately was its remarkable waterfront.   

Alas gone are the days of the seedy docks, the lonely tugboats, and piers, the sullen and filthy saloons that one associates with a city port.   Here, particularly at night, one could find a spot of such total isolation that, with any sort of imagination, one could easily think one is in Shanghai, Cadiz, or any large port city in the world.   The smell of the ocean is virtually the same everywhere.  But the distinct advantage to the city port at night is the sounds of the harbor that can evoke extraordinary sense of distance and isolation.   All those years ago, the city still had a diverse and busy shipping industry, before the city was taken over by real estate interests (another story for another essay).  So there were always ships coming in and out of the harbor, the greatest natural harbor in the world, at all times of the day and night.  Horns, buoys, bells, etc, what you would find on any good sound effects recording called, "Sounds of the Harbor at Night," were all very real at one time.   No longer.  

The chief problem however, with hiding on the waterfront was one of personal safety.  It was, after all, the waterfront.   There was a price to be paid for venturing where you did not belong, where men from around the world entered the city, reluctant travelers, who worked hard and long on at ships often in great physical peril.   There world was not yours.   Especially at night. 

If one dared, the waterfront offered all this.

But those days, as I said, are gone and you will forgive me starting off with a piece of nostalgia, not practical at all for the business at hand.  But for me, the waterfront represented the glorious reality of what made New York, "New York."    The world of the waterfront, its atmosphere, was such an fascinating and rich one: the meeting place of commerce, industry, mercantilism, with the vulgar, brutal and frightening reality this meeting created.   It meant everything to the city to be a port and function like one, it was its raison d'etre and New York knew that it owed its existence to the fact that it was a port and so grew and lived out its life according to the will of nature, indeed, New York's harbor is a masterpiece of the workings of the earth itself. 

Sad that now it is a haven for number crunching, paper pushers -- Silas Marners, a new, genetically altered and disfigured breed of robber barons, far more barbaric and uncultured than their Victorian ancestors.   They, along with youthful "hipsters," vapid and empty-headed, who can only see the city as a playground for them to engage in all kinds of debaucheries (mostly drinking).   They could never recognize the city for what is truly is: the graveyard of a once great metropolis.  Or, at least, its symbol, for the city is truly "dead," and something ghoulish and ephemeral and without substance, has taken its  place.    These youthful bunch fail to see the great towers of chrome and steel as grave markers, the crumbling tenements and old mansions -- phantoms of a world they do not know nor could possibly understand, even if they had the spirit of interest, or intelligence to care.

Let us move on, then, from the long gone and forgotten piers of the city that no longer exists, and out, into the bright and oppressive sunshine of a midsummer's day, as there is nothing as isolating as oppressive heat and bright sunlight in a cement environment.   

At the right time and in the right conditions and in the right neighborhood the conditions of high summer this will present ample opportunity to grab some isolation quickly. An ordinary children's playground may suffice -- especially on a holiday, such as the Fourth of July.  On this day are many fewer people in the city, and those that are, seek the company of others, of friends or (more rarely) relatives stuck in the city.   They will not be sitting on hot, steaming, bench in a cement playground.  And since most families, that is, a husband, wife with children, can no longer afford Manhattan living, so there are many such open spaces that are left deserted on such a day.  One need only to bring along a book to read (or pretend to)  so as not to draw to much curiosity from a rare passerby.   There are usually benches far from the traffic of people anyway, where, in the unrelenting oppressiveness of the summer heat and humidity, one can feel a million miles from any possibility human contact.   You would be surprised.    

Industrial parks, or rather, the neighborhoods that surround them offer another sanctuary, during the day on a weekend, but especially at night.  Often a rather unattractive setting, these deserted streets and therein lay blank, dead, a lifeless world of endless cement sidewalks, where one could easily hear one's on footsteps and their echoes.    Here lie true isolation.  Busy and filled with noise during the day, these streets are dead at night.  And, if one so desires, a Sunday afternoon in the summer, offers a particular and unique desolation.   Heat beating on the sidewalks, the asphalt streets, both stretching out into the distance with no relief in site, and with no tree to afford respite from the heat by it's shade or to the eye by its green;  neither is there a diner just to step into for a moment.  No green, no people-- here is a true sense of utter lifelessness, and a quiet that is frighteningly  indescribable.   There is no traffic of any kind, no birds, bugs or scrub grass; certainly, no people, nothing.  A desert?   Yes, a kind of desert, but worse, because a desert offers the beauty of nature, or at least, of geology and earth's natural forces.   But these sidewalks were built for one thing and one thing only, to enable the operation of heavy industry.   Nothing else.  And aside from that you have no business being here, and it reminds you of that fact in every way at every second you find yourself there.   If you go there seeking a place to hide, you will be satisfied.  

And you cannot imagine the sense of absolute desolation such a place provides late at night in the dead of winter, with the freezing wind howling and perhaps, if you're lucky, a moderate snowfall.   No man in his right mind would be found there then, no man would have business there.    Except, to escape.  

Now should you be inclined to experiment in this setting you must be sure to dress properly.   One of these wintry, middle-of-the-night jaunts can be painfully cold.  Again, I speak from experience of years ago, before the horrors of gentrification, I would have gone out in the freezing cold, deep into the night, to empty and vacant streets of Red Hook, or Long Island City, or even the Bowery and adjacent streets.  If these excursions taught me one lesson it taught me this: always wear more than you think you'll need: gloves are a unconditional necessity as is a very warm hat, a scarf, and many layers of warm clothing.   Long underwear is a must, as are warm shoes.   You may find yourself, as I have, walking quite a distance from whence you started, as there is a tendency, under the right conditions, to become lost in time and space, to forget where and who you are.   (After all, this is one of the principle purposes of hiding, isn't it?)    On such walks, you may find yourself much further from your car or subway than you anticipated and believe me, the cold will try to get through you, into you, to kill you -- particularly if you begin to tire. 

(Now, you must keep an open mind while reading the remainder of this essay -- it contains material you will find no where else.   I already know that some of you cannot "hear" this or take it in, make it your own, or learn from it.   I understand if you cannot, although I lament for you if you truly seek the escape that brought you here.)

It is such a night --  a frozen, mid-winter night, with sweeping, icy winds blowing bits of loose garbage in all directions and high into the air, with haunting, mysterious sounds all around you that seem to have no earthly origin -- that no living human being would violate.   No living human being.   For it is under these precise conditions by which you are most likely to achieve the highest desired effect, to truly lose yourself, as I have said, escape the world, break from from our temporal stream or our reality.   If you are especially practiced at this, and I say this with no fear of ridicule, (for who can ridicule me?   I am beyond such things)  you may find yourself, seeing, or if even luckier, interacting, with, I kid you not, those who dwell in (words truly fail) the beyond, or what on might call the spirit world.   Yes.  I have done it.   I have seen them, spoken to them.   They are real.   But in order to achieve this, one must truly "lose" (for want of a better word) oneself to present moment;  you must separate and distance yourself from your current, "reality" (which is just one of many) and by so doing, open the door that will allow you enter the realm of the spirits.  Or allow them to enter yours, I'm not sure which it is.

Not easily done.  But once achieved it is a vastly rewarding and fascinating experience.   Perhaps and I think, largely, because it seems to be with deceased relatives with which one will have the the most frequent encounters.  I suppose their familiarity, hence "nearness," in some sense of the word, allows that to happen.   And it is almost always delightful to interact with them.   Under ideal conditions, friends and loved ones out of the past -- like a dream -- appear and disappear, sometimes without a word.   It is quite comforting.   

Warning: do not make the mistake I have made on more than one occasion of acting thus:  I was not thrilled with seeing a certain distant cousin of mine who passed on years before, but who was always a source of great annoyance and irritation to me, irritation beyond words.  Initially, I made up my mind not to interact with him, but, just as in life, the pain in the ass persisted until I burst out with anger, calling him awful names and telling him to go to hell.  (whether he did or not literally, I don't know, but he did leave).   The bastard knew what he was doing for there were two policeman sitting in the parked, unmarked car, just next to where I was standing.  They heard every word.    You can imagine their take on things.   It was only by quick thinking and fast, calm, intelligent thinking that I was able to convince them that I was in no danger, nor a danger to anyone else.   Again, not easy under the circumstances because, as I knew and as I could tell by their reactions, they could not perceive my pain in the ass cousin. 

So, there is the principle problem: you can easily draw unwanted attention to yourself by anyone within earshot (which, I admit, is unlikely)  and by so doing, close the door to the spirit realm and be forced to return to your regular time and place, return to this reality.  It is not a pleasant feeling.  So, be smart and learn from me.   Do not get too emotional, either with happiness (you will be tempted to hug and cry at the sight of some) or anger, as these extremes can break the spell.   Try to stay even, keep walking, keep walking, and speak only in a low voice.   Before you know it, you will have concluded your journey and be ready to return home to obtain much needed rest.  

My fellow wanderer, seeker of concealed and secret places, I hope you can achieve what you have set yourself upon.  It is worth it for those who really want it, I should say, for those who really need it.   And the need can be great.   Very great.  We forget, as adults, the comfort and security of hiding, of being unseen.  We forget so many things, as smart as we are, we forget.  Some we must re-learn, some we never do.   The lucky ones, the truly lucky ones go through life never having to look back, however, and know how to live fully in the present moment.  To those I plead that you fall to your knees and thank God for your great and good fortune, for you have been given a gift whose value cannot be measured.

As for the rest of us, well, we do the best we can with what we have, and try to remember that which out of the past, may help us survive the present. 

I have given you some valuable and powerful information here that is only known to the very few.   Very, few.    Use it wisely. 

***

The Marigold

I did not smell a marigold this summer.
When I was a boy, marigolds filled my summers.
They were my friends, they were everywhere.
Their scent made my head spin.

I did not smell the lavender this summer.
Lavender was my favorite smell,
when I was a boy.
The scent made me feel safe and full.

I did not hear a robin this year.
None at all.
The robin's call was sweet,
and reminded me of the sweetness of life.

Time is a bully, a rascally demon.
He will play you for the fool,
that you are,  thinking that,
The world is right and you right, in it.

I know better, now, though.
The churning years have taught me.
And the great message of Time,
Rings in my ears.

My world has disappeared,
And I am no longer right with it.
The lost marigolds and lavender
proves that much.

Moolie

The Lower East Side, 1960

I took a soft, woolen glove and put it on my hand to pet the neighborhood cat with.   It would surely feel so nice to him, as it seemed to do, because the cat rubbed up against my hand with great vigor.   His head, then his back, then head and face again.   He was really enjoying it.

"You know," said Moolie, "because of the cat's thick fur, he can't really feel the glove you're wearing. To him, it's just like your hand, or sandpaper, even,  It doesn't matter what you stroke him with.   It all feels the same to him."

I was stunned.   But the logic of what he was saying was undeniable.  This cat felt everything through his fur.  I could have been petting it with Brillo soap pads, and it wouldn't have mattered.

"That's good!" I said, not knowing really why.

***

Mr. Max Edelmann was my upstairs neighbor back in the tenement where I grew up on the Lower East Side.   The Edelmann family,  Mr. Edelmann, his wife, Esther, and their two children, Rachel and Miriam (yes, very Biblical, like everyone always says when I tell them)  escaped Nazi Germany in the late 1930's and came to Fifth Street after living for a short time on Hester Street.   Mr. Edelmann was a baker and the whole family worked in the bakery they had on Grand Street.   He would often bring fresh bagels and bialys that were so delicious, better than anything I've had since, that's for sure.  You can't compare those bagels to anything around today.

Anyway, Moolie, the son of Mr. Edelmann's brother, arrived in New York, alone, many years later, around 1946.   He came to America alone.   He never spoke about the rest of his family or what happened to his father and mother.

* * * 

Moolie was a good friend to the children of the neighborhood on Lower East Side where I grew up. He lived just across the street from me, next to Alex Fiegler, the tailor, and above the bar, which didn't seem to have a name, where all the cops hung out, which was in turn, next to the precinct. Moolie's real name was Morris.  Or Moses. Or was it Moe?  Or were those names all the same?   Anyway, "Moolie" is the name given to him soon after his arrival in New York City by the kids of the neighborhood, as was the custom on the Lower East Side of the first half of the 20th century.   For example, my nickname, was, "Fingers", after because I played the piano,   Mitchell Cohen's nickname was "Flash," for his blinding running speed.  Kids could be named in so many ways after so many things.   Jack Pesalano was nicknamed, "Bo" because he saw "Beau Geste," about twenty times.  Dick "The Schmuck," was called that because he was a Dodger fan while everyone in the Universe was a Yankees fan.    I have no idea what the origin of the name, "Moolie," is.   But it seem to fit and it stuck.   No one called him Moe or Morris, just as no one called Jack, "Jack" or Mitchell, "Mitchell."    They were Bo and Flash.  Even later in life, their nieces and nephews called them, "Uncle Bo," and, "Uncle Flash."   ."   But those days, the days of innocent nicknames, of thousands of children playing on the streets of the Lower East Side, of candied apples sold on pushcarts, all the things that made city life bearable, are long gone.    As are so many of us, and the people we loved.    

So, Moolie eased into life as an American, more specifically, as a New Yorker from the Lower East Side, which was, let's face it, distinctly different from being simply, an "American."   And the nick-name seemed to help.  But Moolie was never really totally comfortable in this world.   I wonder now, if he would have been comfortable in any world after what he had been through.   It took years before I was able to put the pieces together and figure out what happened him, those numbers on his arm, etc, and realize what he had actually seen and survived.  I'm sorry I didn't know it sooner.

Moolie never married, had no children and was barely able to hold a job despite being, by far, the most intelligent and likable person I've ever known.    He received checks from the government and helped out at his cousin's bakery now and then.    He got by.   He survived.   He survived and to us was always a pleasant and courteous, even "giving," man.    He always helped people out, and never asked for anything in exchange.   If he could have gotten paid for all the good he did in the neighborhood he would have been rich man.  

* * *

One day I got into a fist fight with. .. wait.   Which one of my friends was it?     I can't remember. Anyway, he clipped me good on the forehead, and I lay there, on the hot sidewalk, bleeding profusely.

Moolie wrapped my wound with his handkerchief (he always had one) and told me to hurry home and have it washed with peroxide.  I  did.   The scar is still there.   I'm glad.  It reminds me of that day, happier times, of playing on the hot cement sidewalks, running, yelling, playing all manner of childish games.   And it reminds me of Moolie, of course.

***

"Boredom has been and continues to be the most potent destructive force in the Universe.  I don't care what you say about chemical additives, genetically modified organisms, or radiated fish.   Boredom kills, quickly, and with certainty.   Boredom is from hell.  It is what true hell consists of, not burning souls, tortured or suffering in some way.  No.  When one goes to hell, one is subjected to unending boredom.  It is pain like no other; it will destroy your brain chemistry, your ability to think, your overall health.   Everything."   So said Moolie.

"If you find yourself bored, get out, right away, change it, fix it!" Moolie said, to our young and attentive ears. "To be bored is a sin against God.  You must fight it, and overcome it, he said, more than once, and rather sternly.    To be sure, Moolie never seemed to be bored, even when he did "nothing," sitting on the park bench in the playground.   He read a newspaper, talked to people, children, sang, whistled, or short of those things, just looked as if he were in deep thought.  He always smiled.   He always smiled except when asked about the numbers on his arm.   Then he just made an excuse to leave.   But pleasantly, he was never rude or angry.   I think I became a lot of Moolie as I aged.  I like to be pleasant and calm and serene to others. I think  Moolie would have liked that.

* * *

A conversation between me (Me) and Moolie (M), circa 1961.

M: "What are you doing?"
Me:  "I'm trying to give this ant a piece of bread crumb."
M:  "I see.  Is he taking it?"
Me: "He doesn't seem interested.  I put it right in front of him and he walks around it.   Over and over.  I don't get it."
M:  "Maybe he's not hungry."
Me:  "Hungry?  Do ants get hungry?   I thought they just carry stuff into their nest."
M:  "Well, why would they do that, if they weren't going to eat it?"
Me:  "It's for the Queen.  They have to feed the Queen Ant."
M:  "So then, what do they themselves eat?"
Me:  "I don't think they eat."
M: "Ants don't eat?   Is this what you're saying?"
Me:  "Yes.  I think so.  They don't eat.  I've never seen an ant eat.  Never."
M:  "How many animals have you seen eat?  I mean, have you seen a whale eat?"
Me:  "No."
M:  "A rhinoceros?"
Me:  "He looks like he wants to take it, but then he leaves it.  It's like he's not sure.  See?"
M:  "So, you've never seen a rhinoceros eat?  Does that mean it never eats?"
Me:  "Actually, it might not."
M:  "What?"
Me:  "Well, who knows?  I don't know."
M:  "I see.  Okay.   How's the ant doing?"
Me:   "There he goes again.  He picks it up, carries it and leaves it.   What's going on?"
M: "Maybe he's confused."
Me:  "A confused ant?"
M:   "Why not?  You've never seen a rhinoceros eat.   Maybe this is a confused ant."
Me:  "But an ant can't get confused.   He's an ant.   He does everything on instinct."
M:  "So his instinct is telling him to pick up the bread crumb then put it back down and walk in a circle over and over?"
Me:  "Oh, he's gone."
M:  "Did he take the bread crumb?"
Me:  "No."
M:  "I'm telling you, that was a confused ant."
Me:  "I guess so, Moolie."    And we both laughed.

***

Another conversation between me and Moolie.

Moolie was dressed in his black suit.   It wasn't a holiday, but he was wearing it anyway.

"Where are you going, Moolie?"
"To Mrs. Biaggi's Uncle's funeral."
"Oh. How old was he?"
"Oh, very old.  Ninety-seven."
"Wow.  That means he was born in. . . in. . .when was he born?"
"Well, this is 1962 so. . . subtract ninety-seven, you get. . . what?"
"1962 minus ninety-seven. . . seven minus two. . .no. . ."  I was drawing in the air.  Twelve minus seven is five. . .then. . .uh. . .1865!  The year Lincoln was shot.  Wow.   That's something, eh?"
"Yes, that's something."
"Think he was there?"
"No, no, no. . .he was in Italy.  He was born in Italy.  Didn't come over here till 1908."
"Wow.  1908.  Wow."   To me, 1908 was a million years ago.

"What year will it be when you are ninety-seven, Joey?"
"Oh, wow. . .1954 plus 97. . ." I started writing in the air again.  "It will be the year 2051!  Think they'll have flying cars by then, Moolie?"
"May be, Joey.   May be!"
"Flying cars," I thought, as Moolie turned and walked away.


* * *

One day Moolie decided to take the whole gang to the movies.   Uptown!   Wow.   We went to the old Loew's Capitol in the heart of Times Square.   What an amazing theater.   Huge?   Please.   But also ornately decorated, out of what they called the "Golden Age" of movie palaces.   And it was like a palace.   The entire lower section was surrounded by a rock garden.   Real rocks, real plants, real garden.   Extraordinary.   And the interior of the theater. . . wow, like a Cathedral.   And the film we saw?    Nothing less than the greatest "movie" ever made, "Gone With The Wind."   It was being re-released for some anniversary.   None of us boys cared about the anniversary only about seeing this film that we had heard so much about for so many years.   And Clark Gable.   And the film, and Gable didn't disappoint.  I can so clearly remember Gable telling Scarlet, "If I want to come in, no locks will keep me out," and kicked down the door to her  bedroom and the whole theater went nuts, screaming and cheering and clapping.   What a moment.   Only Gable to could make that happen like that.    Never the same on TV.   Which is why I make sure to take my grandchildren to see it in revival houses.  No comparison.

* * *

"Hey!  Moolie!  What are you carrying?"
"Come here, boys," he shouted at the group of us.   He opened his package to reveal a picture of a man throwing seeds on a field, with a bright, yellow sun in the distance.  It was beautiful.
"Like it?"
"Wow.  It's bee-oo-ti-ful," said, Terry La Duca, usually not so eloquent.
"Is it real?" I asked.
"Yes, well, no it's not the original painting, it's a reprint.  A copy.  I'm going to hang it up in my apartment over the sofa.
"What's it called?"
"The Sower.   Come by anytime to look at it.   It takes time to appreciate great art, boys."
"Okay, Moolie.  We will."
And we did.

***

I was playing the piano when Moolie dropped by.
"Hello, Moolie."
"Keep playing."
I continued to play but was distracted by a conversation Moolie was having with my mother.  It was pretty serious.  So I stopped.
"What happened?" Moolie asked. "I like to hear you play.  Keep playing."
It was obvious now that he wanted to keep my out of the conversation.   I played again, but my focus was on what was being said in the other room.   I heard little snippets of what was said.
Suddenly my mom called out to me, "Joey, you have to go to Aunt Mary's for a little while.   Take your homework."
"Okay." is dutifully said.

That is how I found out that my other Aunt Carlotta,  was beaten up by her husband, my Uncle Pete.  My mother was going to visit her in the hospital.   Everyone had a job to do.   My Uncle John was sent to get my mother to stay with my grandmother to keep her busy, so she wouldn't find out.   But it was my grandfather that everyone feared.   If he found out, he would surely have killed Pete as easily as turning a light switch.   He already hated the man's guts for so much less.  This was my father's task.   Moolie's task was to bring me home if it got too late and stay with me.

Which is what happened.

We sat in the kitchen and talked till after my usual bedtime of nine o'clock.  Moolie told me what happened. And why not? I was old enough, I was ten.

"Moolie, are they going to put him in jail?"

"I don't know.  Depends on your Aunt.   So far, she doesn't want them to press charges. We'll see."

"Why doesn't she want to?  She must hate him now.   Why wouldn't she want him to go to jail."

"Well, Joey, it's very complicated what happens between people.   People get all mixed up in their heads when they fall in love, get married, sometimes, it makes them a little crazy.   I don't know."

I was glad he said, "I don't know," because I didn't understand anything he said.   But Moolie was smart and I expected him to know.   That he didn't know, made me realize something.   Something important.

* * *

Moolie began to grow old.  That's a funny thing to say because we all did, but because he was older than all my friends it was much more noticeable.  Plus, he was always sick, or so it seemed, and began to leave the house less often..  I'm not sure why.   At first we missed him, and went to see him in his little apartment.   Then, I don't know what happened.   I think we just got older and distracted by life -- some of went to college, we started to have girlfriends, then our own families.   Many of our gang just moved away and were never heard from again.   I left the neighborhood but tried to keep in touch with as many people as could, I mean, how hard is it to send a card at Christmas?

***

Death became more and more familiar to me.  So many people from the neighborhood began to die off.   And relatives, too.   It was hard to keep track of who was alive and who wasn't!  Sometimes, I'd hear that someone had died and I could not place the name with a face.   That was kind of unsettling.

* * *

When Moolie died it was like someone out of my distant past, someone from a different life and world.  I know now that I didn't want to acknowledge the pain of it.  It was stupid of me.   None of us "boys" from the old neighborhood even went to the service for him.  I didn't even learn of his passing till over a month after his passing.   So it was easy to deny that he really wasn't there, sitting on the park bench, reading his newspaper, or talking to some kid who was trying to give a bread crumb to an ant.    In my mind Moolie is still there.    And always will be.  

***

At Christmas, the world is transformed.  In the summer, too.  But as drastic as those changes are, one to the other, Winter, Christmas, Spring, Summer, none of it compares to the changes brought by the awesome passage of time.   Same place, same buildings, same weather, but no, not the same.   In fact, everything is different.  Everything.

Of course, now, so many years later, visiting the old 'hood is like visiting a different planet.  And I don't like it.

And so, I and my old friends live in a strange and indifferent world, one without Moolie in it,  And I although I know he's long passed on, I still cannot imagine it.


***

More On Chopin

In a course description that I once offered at the New School I wrote that Chopin is popularly known for his lovely melodies.   And they are and he is.

But then I go on to say that he offers much much more than that.   I say that he offers the finest in  the craftsmanship of his music.   He is occasionally as profound and challenging as any of the composers of the first rand in his ability to create and develop themes, variations, creating forms that are sublimely beautiful.  His style of writing for the piano is perfect, and no one has exploited the potential of the instrument like he did. 

But what about those melodies.  My God, they are really beautiful.   I am listening to the Nocturnes right now, one after the other, all of them.    And I am intoxicated.   There is nothing like a beautiful melody by Chopin.  It connects the human ability to sing with the mechanism of the piano, the most extraordinary instrument ever created, let's face it.  Such melodies render a kind of out-of-body experience if you let it.  If you listen intently to such a passage as contains one of Chopin's finest melodies, you become the melody; it lives inside you;  it is as if you are singing it, creating it, along with Chopin, along with the pianist, along with the piano.   You become one with all of them, you transcend time and space, and are in the presence of Chopin himself, in reality, he is there, and God, however you think of a Deity, is there too.   It is the language of the Universe embodied in sound, mystical sound, perfected sound, sound that comes from. . . where?   

There is no experience like this.

On, "The Jolson Story."

I just watched, The Jolson Story, for the fortieth time and once again, was thoroughly entertained from beginning to end.     The question I have is:   "Is it a good motion picture?"   If so, why?  If not, why not? Sounds like a question on a High School final exam.    That's what it feels like.    It's almost a stupid question. But no, I mean it.  

No one, I mean no one in the history of the Broadway stage had a career like Al Jolson.   This should have been a key point of the film.   It was not.   In fact, there was much about Jolson's stage career that was so crucial to understanding his success and legendary status that was omitted.    Primarily, Jolson was first and foremost perceived to be a comic figure.  Advertisements for his show referred to him as the "Winter Garden Comedian,"  not the singer.  The character he portrayed in so many shows, Gus Jackson, was a type of harlequin, and his charm and attraction lay in his ability to make you laugh.  And it wasn't only Gus Jackson's foibles, it was Jolson coming out of character, having discussions with the audience, making topical jokes, etc, that so beguiled audiences.     One never knew what one was going to get from an evening of Jolson at the Winter Garden.  

Of course, there was his voice, which was said to make the walls vibrate.  An oddly powerful voice, it seems, but nevertheless expressive to the extreme.   Jolson could make you laugh and he could make you cry, and usually did both within a short span of time.   What was it about his voice, his "persona," that made him such a magnetic and electrical stage performer?   Gilbert Seldes called his presence, "demonic."   Did he tap into some unseen force that only a few artist-shaman could tap into?   Judging from the reviews and audience accounts, that's exactly what he did.   His presence was often said to be "magical."  

None of this was made clear in The Jolson Story.   Probably the most important and salient point about Jolson was not addressed.    But then again, how could it?  Could it?  It  would have taken some very good and pointed script writing to make that clear.   But it should have been made clear.   No doubt.

But the film succeeds.   In fact, it succeeds on a grand scale.   Why?

First, there is Jolson himself.   Unlike any other biographical depiction of any star, we hear Jolson himself singing.    We don't have Cohan dancing in Yankee Doodle Dandy, or, Fanny Brice joking around at the New Amsterdam theater in, Funny Girl.   Again, no Cohan in, George M, and no Chauncey Olcott in, My Wild Irish Rose.    Jolson's voice is unique and indefinable in it's beauty and expressiveness.   It is the star of this movie.    But Larry Parks portraying Jolson, I must admit, does an outstanding job of creating a Jolson style of bodily movement that is highly successful on film, and very attractive.   He exudes emotion and a love of entertaining.   No doubt.   As an actor Parks was. . . meh, middle of the road.   But what he did as Jolson deserves great accolades.   It is said he listened and experiment with his motions by standing in front of two huge speakers with Jolson's voice blaring out of them.   He wanted his movements to reflect his inner experience of the songs, and he did so fabulously.  

Secondly, there is a kind of "sweep" to the film.   It begins at the turn of the last century, which is depicted rather well in costume and scenery, then jumps to what could best be described as the "present," (1940's) in style.    One has the feeling that a great deal of time has passed.   This is certainly reflected in the music and in the choices of songs.

Lastly, there is the ending.   A very, very unusual ending for a Hollywood movie.  The boy loses the girl.  One is left with a feeling of. . . not sadness but of poignancy, of the feeling that one has just seen a film that expressed reality and has jarred our expectations.    It is beautifully done, and the perfect  choice.

So successful was the film after its release that a sequel was made, Jolson Sings Again.   It marks the only time in history that a single performer has had two bio-pics made during their life-time.   High praise for the "World's Greatest Entertainer."  

Entertainer.   That is the key word.  

Anyone been entertained much lately?

SAINTS OF THE BOWERY

The Bowery of 1890 or so, was a dangerous, filthy place, as was much of the city below 14th street.   Criminals of every kind took root there, and every imaginable evil thrived.   (See Luc Sante's, "Low Life," for an excellent exploration of the seamier side of life in New York during that period).    But there was also several nationalities of immigrants attempting to work, live, and indeed, prosper, inhabiting the area as well.   Life was difficult and many were tempted into lives of crime or of debauchery and dissolution through drugs and/or alcohol.   There were no shortages of drug dens, bars and saloons where one took one's very life into one's hands by entering.   Death lurked everywhere, from either murder, or foul drink, or disease. 

Amid the ugliness, filth, and danger were places of hope: churches of various faiths and other benevolent institutions.   One in particular fought the devil in the very midst of it's own depravity and ugliness.   It was established by the Methodist Church to serve the men and women of the Lower East Side, and anyone who needed or wanted help on the Bowery itself.  It was called, "The Church of All Nations."   

The Church of All Nations.    It's a name worthy of repeating.  No one was turned away.   In it's early history attendance to its various functions, services and events was low.  It's effectiveness and existence was called into question.  

Then, a dynamic Reverend and his indomitable wife arrived upon the scene.   There names were Rev.  William M. Stonehill and Mrs.  Emilie Daisy Stonehill.   They arrived from England where they had engaged in a life of service and sacrifice, first as officers in "The Salvation Army," and then, upon the Reverend's pastor-ship.   They had a reputation of being extremely devoted to the cause of their fellow man, and for their indomitable spirit.   Both would be called upon in the unsavory and dangerous world of New York's Lower East Side of the newly arrived 20th century.

The Reverend Stonehill was a large, athletic man, whose powerful presence and genuine love of man and Christ caused him to bring many to salvation, if not spiritual then certainly temporal.    Church attendance soared.  Hundreds began to attend regular service, receive meals and direction away from sin and vice.  The Church of All Nations became a haven for the lost and orphaned who might otherwise have degenerated into a life of crime, drugs, or worse.

The Reverend became lovingly referred to as, "The Bishop of the Bowery."  His dynamic speaking style, his devotion to God and the message of Christ and his sincere love of all he encountered, without judgement, made the Church overwhelmingly successful.  Mrs. Stonehill, too, was an active social worker, working particularly with women and for women's rights.  She authored two books, "The Broken Pinion," focusing on the plight of the unwed mother,  and, "Rushlight Poems" a collection of poems.   Her tireless efforts saved hundreds of women from terrible fates.   

Tragedy struck when in 1908 the Reverend Stonehill died suddenly from what was guessed as some form of food poisoning.   Hundreds attended his funeral.  This is from his obituary in the Epworth Herald, a publication of the Methodist Church:

"For he had taken the world--the lost world--into his bosom.  By day he visited and taught and helped.   By night he walked the Bowery searching for the broken-hearted.   Everyone knew him.   All loved him."

Emilie continued on, bravely, fighting for the rights of the poor and for unwed mothers, a cause close to her heart.    

And so, keeping up the good work while intermittently traveling back and forth from her native England, Emilie fought the good fight.   She even raised a nephew, Ranald, during those difficult years.  He went on to become a professor of Engineering at Drexel University and authored a still used (!) textbook on fluid dynamics, whatever that is. 

Eventually, by the late 1910's it was clear that the Church needed a new building.   One was finally built in 1923.   It incorporated part of the area bounded by the Bowery but went through the block all the way to Second Avenue.   It was a huge, impressive, and highly functional building.   It contained two gyms, a swimming pool, and many rooms for arts and crafts, dance, and all manner of events.  There was also a chapel where worship according to any faith could be, and was, respected and practiced.    It was the center of healthy activity at a time when only the wealthy could afford such luxuries.   

During the decade of the 1930's a young man named Joseph Giglia became director of the Church under the auspices of Miss Thelma Burdick of the Methodist church.  (Joseph Giglia was my beloved uncle).  Together,  along with a group of dedicated and gifted workers and councilors, they continued the extraordinary work established by the Stonehills.  My own parents and all of their friends and relatives joined the Church and spoke of it as if it were a holy place, which in some ways, I think it was.  They spoke of dances, of playing sports, and meeting celebrities there, but what I took from their recollections was the joy of being with others in a wonderful and safe atmosphere where one could be at one's best, even soar.  

How many children were welcomed into the Church of All Nations, it is impossible to say.   How many lives were saved, or turned around by this extraordinary organization is also impossible to say.  Probably, they number into the hundreds of thousands.    Think of how many grew into healthy adulthood and then contributed to the over health and wealth of this country.

Emilie eventually retired to a small house in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn, on Franklin Avenue near Monroe Street.  She kept a small garden in the back yard and visitors were always welcome.   Her living room was a virtual museum of her life, filled with photos and memorabilia of her past.   Emilie died in 1943.   She had written a song called, "Picture In My Heart."   I do not know the lyrics.  I like to imagine it was a picture of her with the Reverend.  

The Church of All Nations closed it's doors for the last time sometime in the mid-1970's.   The neighborhood was changing rapidly and the building was starting to decay.    Attempts to save it had for years after, failed.  It was demolished only a few years ago.  

During the demolition many who attended the Church as children had come to watch and mourn, and shed a tear.  Actually, many tears were shed.   I saw this with my own eyes because I was there, too.  I watched at the cruel wrecking ball did its inevitable work.   I watched as brick by brick, once venerated building came crashing to the ground.   I could swear I heard the happy laughter of children, the music of a dance band, and the solemn singing of a hymn, emanating from the ruins.   Others said that they heard it, too.  

I asked the foreman of the job if he had found anything he thought might be of sentimental value in the rubble.   He paused, and said, "Wait here."   He walked away and returned in only a moment carrying a small, brass plaque.   "Would this be of any interest?" 

I wiped the plaque clean.    It read, simply, and beautifully: 

"THE STONEHILL MEMORIAL ROOM

In Memory of the Years

Of Service of the

REV.  WILLIAM STONEHILL 

and 

MRS.  EMILIE STONEHILL"

I had, at the time, no idea who these people were.   But I was curious and I began to do research.   I discovered quite a lot, have presented some of it here.   

And now, you know the names of these saints of the Bowery.  And I'm glad.

OSWALD ACTED ALONE

On September 11th, 2001 at 11:07 a.m., about 15 minutes after WTC 2 had collapsed, a CNN reporter claimed that another building, 50 stories tall, had collapsed.   He was not any more specific than that.  This was almost six hours before WTC 7 (47 stories) collapsed.  

The BBC announced, about 20 minutes before it happened, that WTC 7 had collapsed.    It later apologized for the "mistake."

Hundreds of New York City firefighters and police were told that WTC 7 was "being brought down," or, "was about to come down," or, "was going to explode," or some variation on those words, as long as 4 hours before it happened.  

No steel framed building had ever fallen or collapsed due to fire.   Until 9/11/01 when it happened three times.

Hundreds of witness, reporters, firefighters, police and civilians  reported hearing and seeing explosions and secondary explosions in all three buildings before they collapsed.     The official explanation of the collapse of the buildings state that there were no explosions.

And Oswald acted alone.  

AT THE CHATHAM THEATER

AT THE CHATHAM THEATER

 Chatham Theater, New York City (c. 1850) 

A benefit for Dick Pehlam, featuring, "The Virginia Minstrels."

Four musicians formed a band.   Frank Brower played the "bones," (sticks) Dan Emmett, the violin, Billy Whitlock, the banjo, and R. W. Pelham, the tambourine.   They opened the show with, "De Boatman Dance."    They played a lively, newly style of music, loosely based on what was perceived to be the music of the Southern black slave.  They danced, told jokes, interacted with the audience, sang songs of great wit and pathos.   It was exotic and intoxicating, thrilling and moving, and in the end, caused a sensation that would last fifty or so years in one form or another, and the musical styles that descended from their music are still with us to this day.  They called themselves, The Virginia Minstrels.  Oh, and they wore burnt cork to darken their skin so as to appear to be black.  

That was the evening of January 31, 1843, at the Chatham Theater on Chatham Street in New York City and a completely new form of entertainment, and of style and ethos of music, known collectively as, "Blackface Minstrelsy," was born.   The result was that American popular music would take a turn that would determine and effect its very nature through to the present day.  For without the creative genius of these "minstrels," Scott Joplin does not write "The Maple Leaf Rag," or any other "ragtime" piece, as ragtime would not exist.  Nor, then, would there be any Dixieland Jazz out of New Orleans and Kansas City,  mainstream jazz  would never have evolved, no Rhythm n' Blues, no Country or Country Western as we know it, or even, later on, Rock and Roll.   It was the inventive genius of the early 19th century minstrel band that set all this in motion, that allowed these musical styles to exist.  

That night, on Chatham Street in what is now Chinatown in New York City, a new course for American popular music, what it would become, and how it would sound, was established, and music would be forever changed.

* * *

It is difficult, if not impossible, for us to fully understand the overwhelming success and popularity of what had been established that night on Chatham Street.   If we can put aside for a moment the revulsion we feel today toward the words,  "Negro Minstrelsy,"  we might begin to grasp that it was, for the audience of the time, a nation-wide (with the exception of the deep South) sensation, and it was the music that was the primary cause of that sensation. No one had heard such exciting and infectious music before. For an idea of just how much of sensation The Virginia Minstrels made that night, consider that in six months they were performing on the London stage and touring England.

Completely reviled today, minstrelsy as a whole, is completely misunderstood.   I will not attempt to set the record straight here.   Suffice it to say, there is something to be reviled.  But there is much, much more to be admired.  At its best a blackface minstrel show offered an evening featuring the nation's finest and most talented performers of both the white and black races.   On display was comedic genius (at times), high tragedy and low comedy, and best of all, wonderful and thrilling musical performers.   These were the staples of the original Minstrel "tradition," all forgotten today, as is so much of the past, particularly when it comes to popular culture, its musicians, singers and its various stylistic manifestations. 

*  *  *

As successful as minstrelsy was in the latter half of the 19th century it did not last with any success into the 20th.   Vaudeville had, by the 1890's, established itself as the "new" most popular form of entertainment.  And why not? It had a distinct advantage over the minstrel show:  it had girls!    (And I use the word, "girls,"  instead of, "women," not out of disrespect for the female gender, but because many of these ladies were, indeed, below legal age.   They just lied about their ages in order to work, a practice that continued well into the 20th century).  

The minstrel show was a exclusively a male-only endeavor.   Plus, minstrelsy had begun to grow bigger than its own audiences could relate to: by the 1880's many complained that it had lost it's charm and unique attractiveness, that it became bloated and overblown with huge casts, and sumptuous sets.   (But isn't that the fate of so many things that are successful in America?)    Lost were the "charm," of the "Negro melody," the many characters, portrayed therein, and the humor associated with those characters.  Characters of Irish, Italian, or German origins began to show up on the Minstrel stage in blackface!   This, of course, made no sense to traditionalists, but to newer audiences, the "burnt cork," was merely a mask, a convention of theatricality and entertainment, not a depiction of any race.    Please recall that the African-American was rarely seen by Northerners, and was considered something of an "exotic," not to mocked and derided but to be used as a vehicle for both comedy and melodramatic pathos.  Minstrelsy was a "northern," phenomenon which may explain why there was equally as much material devoted to the awful plight of the Southern black, as to "Jim Crow" characterizations.   Consider that most of those lovely and poignant songs by Stephen Foster about the cruelty of life for the Southern black, ("My Old Kentucky Home," for example) were written specifically for the Minstrel stage.   

By the turn of the 20th century minstrelsy so fallen out of popular tastes that when George M. Cohan himself attempted a revival of the minstrel show in 1908 with lavish sets, great and talented performers such as George "Honeyboy" Evans and Eddie Leonard, well-established, top vaudeville stars of the time, the show failed miserably.

And so, blackface minstrelsy passed, albeit slowly, into oblivion.  

But the music it established and help evolve continued on with it's snappy, syncopations, its unpredictable rhythms, and the melodic contours that contained the wailing of the south, (in the form of "blue" notes) carried on and flourished.   And there is not a single performer of any style of popular music today that does not directly come from out of these traditions.  

* * *

Today the Chatham Theater is a distant memory, if remembered at all; built in 1839 on Chatham Street between Roosevelt and James Streets the theater survived several fires and several name changes, but it was for a while one of New York City's most popular venues for live entertainment.   In 1862 it was finally demolished, though parts remained for a time to be used as storefronts by various shopkeepers.

* * *

Americans, by nature, do not like, "looking backward."  Everything, especially popular culture is aimed at youth and the present moment, as if nothing important happened before they were born.  We have become a myopic and deeply narcissistic society.  And history is something to be studied by "other people," specialists, not something that can speak to each of us, something to be held sacred,  as it holds within it the seeds of who were are today.  No, there is nothing to be learned by looking backward.

Chatham Street has been renamed, "Park Row," Roosevelt and James Street no longer exist at all.  No one, or very few at least, even know that there was once a hugely popular theater there.   Names such as Joel Sweeney,  Dan Emmett, Jack Diamond, even Lew Dockstader, truly household names, names that evoked feelings of joy and the excitement of live entertainment, are now known only to the rare scholar.  And even their numbers are dwindling.

The memory of that night in 1843 has long faded;  those in attendance, both on stage and in the audience, were probably long dead by the turn of the last century.  But what those four men in blackface accomplished that night lives on, through the years, (now over one-hundred and seventy) through wars and drought and depressions, and changing ethnic populations. Who could have predicted all this on that cold January night when four gifted entertainers donned burnt cork at the Chatham?   Who could have known that these four stage professionals experimenting with a new sound, who sang, danced and told jokes, would create a new form of musical expression and expressiveness  that would resonate around the world, in us all, forever?  

No one cares, or can even appreciate the import of that night.

And so, there is nothing, not a sign, or a plaque, or anything, to mark the spot upon which that event, without question the single most important night in the history of American popular music, occurred. 

On the Polonaise-Fantasie of Chopin

The Polonaise-Fantasie is a piece of music for piano written by Frederic Chopin who is generally regarded to be the greatest composer of piano music who ever lived.   And rightly so.  His music is universally loved and performed throughout the world more than a century and a half after his death.   As a composer he is second to none (okay, Bach).    His melodic inventiveness, the unique quality of his ideas, his craftsmanship, his overall compositional genius are all on conspicuous display upon serious listening.   Among his greatest large-scale works are the Ballades in A-flat and F-minor, the Barcarolle, the Fantasie in F-minor and the already mentioned Polonaise-Fantasie.

The Polonaise-Fantasie is an especially interesting, indeed curious work.   The "polonaise," is a specific form of music based on a courtly Polish dance.  In Chopin's hands the polonaise is a powerful, almost militaristic piece, with sharp rhythmic delineation and a frequent march-like quality; the "fantasy" is a genre of music whose prominent features are surprise, unpredictability and the suggestion of improvisation.   To combine the two forms seems impossible, if not, unappealing.  Yet, Chopin does, because he is, after all, a genius of the first rank.   How it came to him to create such a piece is not known.  

But in spite of the obvious disparate nature of the two musical forms what Chopin accomplishes in work is no less than brilliant.  It is music of such power and beauty that one must stand back in awe.

Now, I could, as could any musicologist with my gifted insight into music, give you examples of how Chopin manages to combine the two forms and it would be dry, meaningless, and quite boring.   I could point to the typical polonaise rhythms, the flights of fancy, the extraordinary passages of tonal ambiguity and transition so critical to the fantasy style.  I could describe in detail, extraordinary passages that portray the astonishing development and exploitation of the musical material.  I could do that and put you to sleep.   Because the real genius of this music lay elsewhere.   Certainly, these simple analytical elements are important, no doubt.   But they do not speak to genius, they do not explain the sublime.  They may, indeed, aid the journey there, to be sure, but they are not the goal in themselves.  As I said, that sublime, perfected vision of beauty lay elsewhere in the music.   Where?   I do not know.   It is a mystery, thank God.  

And so,  I stand, yet again, in awe of this short-lived Polish genius.  

I'm sorry if I've disappointed you.   But go!  Listen to the music.

About Ugly Sam

~ UGLY SAM ~

THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

A short profile of Ugly Sam

Written for posterity

 

By Ollie Dee

, Ollie Dee of Toyland, have been charged by our leader, Muggsy Mee, to write, for posterity, a series of short profiles of our members, more specifically, the members of the Mystic Knights of the Sea.  I gladly do this with respect to future generations and according to my belief that no one can say what the future will bring—whether any knowledge of the Knights, our work, who we were or what we stood for, or of our existence will last through the ages.  One must wonder, even, if Toyland itself should disappear not only from the map, but also from memory as other civilizations have.  

This, then, may survive to tell our story at least in part.

Ugly Sam is the youngest of 15 children.  Truth be told he was the product of an illicit affair between his mother and Stannie Dumm.  Sam does not know this.  He probably wouldn’t understand it if you were to tell him anyway.  Poor Sam is a bit, well, challenged.

Now Sam is really not ugly.  He is just a tad unkempt—well, very unkempt.  And he has this “thing” about wearing the same striped clothes all the time, but we’ll get into that later.  If we didn’t insist he bathe weekly we would be forced to kill him for the stench.   But he does, and is happy doing it. 

You must understand that he wasn’t always that way, that is, a slob in the extreme.  He wasn’t always that much of a lunatic either.  He was almost what you might call “normal” during his childhood and young adult years during which time he was considered quite handsome.  Then, things started to change, through chance, poor choices and bad luck.  But do not pity Ugly Sam.  He’s happy living in his world of half-comprehension and fantasy.  He is capable of some remarkable insights, like the idiot savant who can add hundreds of numbers in an instant or tell you what day of the week October 3, 1258 fell on.  But most of the time he’s a blithering fool.  And that’s what we love about him.  He keeps us, in a way, “real,” as they like to say; he gives us perspective on ourselves.  For, you see, I believe that there is a little bit of Ugly Sam in all of us.  Maybe even a lot.

We all have certain traits or attributes that, at times, work to our detriment.  These very same traits may also work in one’s favor as happened one day, when Ugly Sam, about twelve years old, was running an errand for the Butcher, the Baker and the Candlestick Maker.  They wanted to play some numbers or this week’s gross poundage at the cattle market.  But the regular runner, Clyde the Glide, was sick with a case of gonorrhea he contacted visiting a lady in Brocktenshire.  So, Ugly Sam was “Johnny on the Spot,” to take up his mantle.

“Now, Sam,” said the Baker, “just bring this piece of paper over to the barber shop, and tell Sal that it’s from us.  You got that, Sam?  Tell him it’s from us. Okay?”

“You got it!”  Sam was all business.  “Sal the barber; ‘it’s from us.’ No problem. Sal the barber; it’s from us.”

“That’s right, little Sam.  And here’s a little something for you.” The butcher handed Sam a half a crown.

“Wow!  Thanks, Mr. Baker.”

So off Sam went with 50 crowns in gold to be wagered at the barbershop, which necessitated he pass through a rather dense section of woodland.  Sure enough, out of the forest came a black hooded horseman who approached the young Sam.

“And where are you running to in such a hurry, young man?”

“Oh, I’ve got to bring this to Sal the barber.  It’s very important.”

“Sal the barber, eh?  Well, I’m on my way there now.  Why not give it to me, and I’ll deliver it for you?”

“Oh, no.  No can do.  Sorry.  I’ve got a message to tell Sal, too. It’s from us.”

“A message?  Pray what might that message be?”

“It’s from us.”

“Indeed it is, but what is the message?”

“It’s from us.”

“Yes, I understand that. But tell me specifically, good sir, not who is it from but what the message itself is.”

“The message?”

“Yes.”

“It’s from us.”

The masked gentlemen turned on his horse and rode off, not having the patience to pursue this any further.

That’s the way it goes for Sam.

His mother, Beatrice the Seamstress, once told me that Sam could have been a great lawyer, or doctor, or even a scientist.  Of course, she said this while hanging upside down from a tree and conducting a non-existent bug orchestra.  His mom is not “all there,” if you know what I mean, and I guess Sam inherited some of it.  His dad, Orson the Tall, is a fine carpenter who speaks, and sometimes argues, with his wooden creations.  For six months he refused to speak to the night table until it apologized.  It did, and he was very happy.  He once made a credenza with which he did not get along at all, selling it eventually to Mr. Barnaby.  Every time he walked past Barnaby’s house, Orson and the credenza would start to argue vehemently.  Of course, one could only hear the part of the argument spoken by Sam’s dad.  One day, he had to be dragged away by three of the King’s Men, as he shouted threats and expletives to the damn thing.

They all live in a tree house that they call, Samtopia, after Sam’s maternal Grandfather, Samuel, who was a great and famous philosopher-shoemaker.  He believed that an ideal society could be achieved if people wore shoes on their feet and on their heads, with himself as the philosopher-king-shoemaker.  He called this society, alternatively, Samtopia, or Shoetopia.  You will occasionally see a Toylander with shoes on their heads.  They are celebrating Samuel’s birthday and keeping the dream alive.

So you can see that there is a rich heritage of eccentricity in Ugly Sam’s background to which he then added greatly.  But his parents loved him and raised him to have a kind heart and a love of all creatures. 

Sam once shared this little tidbit with me: one day when he was quite young, coming home from school, he decided to take off his pants. “Why should I have to wear pants all the time?” he told a schoolmate.  Already a revolutionary at age five! Being so young he did not fully grasp the concept of modesty.  So there he went, marching proudly in the town square, his tiny tool and hiney exposed for all to see.  He received odd looks, some smiles, and lots of “oh, isn’t he cute.”  He went home and there was no real problem.  The problem would come 18 years later when, at 23 years of age, he decided to re-enact his display of individualism.  There he was walking through the square his privates displayed in all their hairy glory.  You can imagine the reactions of the townspeople.  He served two months in the King’s prison.

Probably the most damaging of the many damaging events that occurred to Sam’s overall sanity occurred during a delivery of rubbing oils to Mr. Barnaby.  Upon completing the delivery, Sam took a wrong turn, spun himself around, and fell ass backwards into Barnaby’s well.  When Sam regained consciousness he was no longer in Toyland.  He had no idea where he was but he was in front of a huge edifice, which read

Honeywell & Todd

No matter, though—Sam couldn’t read.

“Say you all right, young man?” asked a police officer.

“I…I think so.  But… But…where am I? Is this Toyland?”

“Okay, okay, take it easy.  Looks like you’ve taken quite a blow to the head.”

Suddenly, Sam spotted Mr. Barnaby exiting the large structure.  He was wearing a magnificent Brooks Brothers three-piece gray-flannel striped suit, and a red carnation.  His shoes sparkled with shine and a cadre of assistants and hangers accompanied him.

“Mr. Barnaby, Mr. Barnaby!  Help me!” he shouted. “Please help me!”

Barnaby, of course, wanted no part in this at all.

“Uh, officer, I believe this man to be mad.”  

“I take it you are not Mr. Barnaby.”

The men surrounding Barnaby started laughing.

“No, no, indeed.” He turned toward Sam, “I’m sure I must resemble this ‘Barnaby’ you speak of, young man, but I am not he.”   Barnaby then scooted into a large limousine and was driven away.

“Wow!” said Sam, “It could have been his brother.”

“Now, now, son, take it easy, I think a trip to the hospital would do you good.”

“Really? Okay. The hospital.  Yeah, the hospital.  They’ll help me.” Of course Sam had no idea what a hospital actually was but the cop spoke so confidently, with such calm assurance, that he could not help but agree.

“I suspect a neurological trauma, as a result of the sustaining of a blow, possibly with a blunt instrument on the cranium, likely near the cerebellum, but as there are so many lumps it’s difficult to isolate the actual one,” said Dr. Abruzzi who was the staff’s expert on head trauma.  

”I will prescribe that the patient be brought to the institute on Long Island where he can be cared for, treated und studied.”

Once safely ensconced on Long Island, Dr. Abruzzi brought his new patient before an audience of psychiatrists.

“Now, tell me again, young man, where do you live?”

“Toyland, on the Saint Elmo’s River.”

“Ah.  And who is the leader there?”

“King Cole.”

“I see.  And in what kind of structure do you live?”

“I live in a lovely house in large maple tree with my folks, just a simple tree house, nothing spectacular but it has nice views.  And it’s just across the field from Mother Goose’s place.”

“Oh, yah, yah!  Trauma; dis is severe trauma.    Dr. Abruzzi stood. “Don’t worry, young man, we’ll take good care of you.”

One day, during a particularly difficult session, Sam made an astute observation:

“Doctor, you seem stressed.”

“Oh…I’m stressed,” the doctor replied. “Trauma!  You have severe trauma!”  

“Doctor, perhaps, I think you should lie down,” Sam advised, remembering that his mother advised the same thing when Sam was stressed.

“Me?  Lie down?  Impossible!  Too busy!  Too many gay men in denial!  Too much craziness!  Ach!”

“But doctor!  Think of your own health!” Sam was adamant.

“Perhaps you’re right.  Maybe I’ll just lie here for a moment…” he dropped onto a nearby cot and began to breathe deeply.

“That’s better.  Now, I want you to think of the pixie’s on the lake, and rainbows, and those beautiful yellow flowers that sing when the sun shines…” Sam was merely remembering things his mom had said to him under similar circumstances.  “Now doctor, close your eyes…take a deep breath and think of stars…”

The doctor fell into a deep sleep.

Now the practice of psychology at this time was still rather strange in this flexure place as far as I could deduce from Sam’s recollections.  In some parts of that country, they would actually cut out parts of the brain!  Ohh.  Thank goodness that didn’t happen to Sam.  But he was put on a series of experimental drugs designed to restore brain function and psychological balance, and tranquilize him, which caused him to go completely insane, running out into a nearby field shouting all manner of gibberish.  Once off the drugs he improved greatly but was never quite the same.  It was at this point that he refused to wear anything other than the damned striped uniform given him at the sanatorium.

Sam liked the sanatorium quite a lot.  People were friendly and the food was great.  But he missed Toyland. 

“I miss Toyland, Dr. Abruzzi.  I want to go back.”

“And just how do you propose to do this, young man?”

“I’ll just go back the way I came, near that tall building where you found me.”

“I see.  You know, Sam, as your doctor I must say that I don’t think it wise to leave just yet.  Can I ask you to be patient and let us try to help you find your way?”

“Okay, doctor. Okay,” Sam said, having, however, already made up his mind to leave that night.

And so, Ugly Sam made his escape from the Eckstein-Wide Institute for Mental Health.  He walked back to the large city, crossing the Great Queensbuckle Bridge by 8:00 pm.  The sun was going down behind the tall towers of the city creating a magnificent sunset, which made a compelling sight from the bridge. 

“Wow, what a place!” said Sam.  “It’s like a magical Kingdom by the sea!”

He stood enjoying sunset from the middle of the bridge, wept at its beauty, then made his way into Manhattan. 

On 48^th street a tall, shapely, dark woman addressed him.

“Hi.  Going out tonight, honey?”

“Uh, going home, actually.”

“Tired honey?”

“A little. I’ve just had a long walk.”

“Well, I know how to make you feel better.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Well, first, you have to come with me, up to my place,” she stood close to him, stroking his arm with her fingertips, “and then I can make you feel so good.”

Sam followed the oddly dressed young black girl to her crowded apartment up the street. 

A man sat at a desk in the living room.

“That’ll be $40 bucks for the massage, any arrangements you make with the girl in the room is strictly between the two of you.  Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Uh, forty bucks please.”

“Sorry?”

“Forty bucks.”

“Forty bucks.”

“Yes, it’s forty dollars for a massage.  What are you a foreigner?”

“Well, yes.”

“Do you have any money?”

“Ah!” said Sam. “ I have this.”  It was the four silver pieces Sam was given to make the delivery to Mr. Barnaby back in Toyland.

“Wow.  Uh, well, uh, I guess one of those silver coins should do.”  They sure should, as they were worth about one hundred dollars each.

“Oh, great.  Now can Chantella make me feel better?”

“Pal, she’ll make you feel great.  Okay, Chantella.”

This was Sam’s first sexual experience.  On the way out, he told the man at the desk that he was absolutely right.

Well, it took Sam a couple of days but he finally stumbled upon the Honeywell and Todd building.  He then lay down on the floor in the position he gained consciousness.  And waited.  And waited.  A crowd gathered. 

“You all right, son?”

“Is he all right?”

“What wrong with him, should we call an ambulance?”

“He’s okay.  He’s just a magician!”

“He’s works with the city. He’s examining the sidewalks!”

Eventually it became dark and quiet.  Sam, getting depressed thought he heard voices.  He did.  But no people.  He followed the voices…soon, mist, strange visions and eventually, Barnaby’s well.  He climbed up, and went home to the happy welcome of his parents.  And the night table.

Addendum

Sam had breakfast the following morning at the Fairy Land Tavern and Inn meeting his good friend, Jack Horner there.

“Good morning, Sam,” Jack offered, sitting at the counter with Sam, adding, “What’s new?”

“Ah, nothing much, nothing much, Jack.  Nothing much.  Say, Jack. Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, Sam.”

“Okay.  What does, ‘Martin and Lewis at the Copa’ mean?”

“Jeez, Sam, I’m not sure. Why?”

“Well, I got lost visiting this village and that’s all everyone was talking about.”