A New York Life

My great aunt Helen ‘Chocha’ Kolassa was born in Manhattan in 1915. She grew up on the Lower East Side, on 2nd Street and Avenue A.

The family of six lived in a one-bedroom flat in a building filled with families new to the new world. I visited the Tenement Museum a few years ago and found the tour guide’s stories redundant. Chocha told them to me first.

She turned off the lights for the Orthodox Jewish families on the Sabbath; on sweaty summer nights they slept on the fire escape, for the breezes and the extra space it afforded.

In those days in downtown Manhattan, you made it if you made it out. When Chocha was 11 her family moved to Jamaica, Queens, where my mother was born and raised.

My grandmother and grandfather’s family lived in the upstairs half of a two family home, and my aunt and uncle lived downstairs. My Aunt Chocha and Uncle Eddie are siblings; I didn’t realize they weren’t married until my teens.

They lived in Jamaica for over 50 years. For 40 of those years, Chocha commuted to her job at Standard and Poors in lower Manhattan.

Jamaica was once a predominately Polish neighborhood. The only vestige of the old neighborhood as they knew it is the church, St. Joseph's, where Polish mass is still said every Sunday.

Crime in New York peaked in the 1980’s; Jamaica was no exception. When a bullet fired into the house lodged in the dining room wall, my grandfather played CSI with a yard stick, measuring the trajectory of the gun shot. Their trajectory was south Queens.

The family moved to a second two-family house in South Ozone Park near Kennedy Airport.

There was noise, but no crime. For all the glamour given to the mafia, there is one accepted truth: mob presence deters street crime, and brings fireworks. I remember watching John Gotti’s annual Fourth of July display through the upstairs window with my grandmother.

A few years after my family moved to South Ozone Park, a Puerto Rican family with Sandra Cepeda as the matriarch, moved next door.

As the first Latin family on the street they were met with trepidation by an overwhelmingly white neighborhood.

Chocha though, ushered them in. She was a neighborhood mentor who made them feel at home, at home. I never knew how much Chocha meant to Sandra and her family, but I knew how much she meant to my own.

I rarely saw Sandra, but I heard about her every time I saw my aunt. In later years, as a child of the Westchester suburbs, I moved to Brooklyn and would take the A train to visit Chocha, on a ride that took our family full circle back to the City.

Chocha died last week. She was 93. Four generations of my family paid our respects.

Sandra came with three generations of her family that had extended into the suburbs like my own. They did double duty at the wake, appearing for both the day and evening viewings; her family almost outnumbering ours at times.

Chocha, means aunt in Polish. Chocha didn’t have any children of her own, but she was an aunt to everyone.

She will be missed. God Bless.

Christmas, 2006.

The Street of Silver Lining

I hear that in New York, where many people don’t drive, your coat is like your car. I figure I must have a good one, so mine is Italian.

I have the coat for a couple of seasons, and I receive enough compliments to keep wearing it when it’s cold out.

But, wear and tear is inevitable, especially with me driving. Last year I have the lining repaired. I try to do this again this year, but I cannot find the proper material to match and the tear in the lining is too severe.

I decide to change the lining.

I once read that the comedian Robin Williams checks his coat at the sort of New York establishment that has a coat check. To the coat check girl, the jacket appears ordinary; however the lining is bright orange.

She notes that this hidden flamboyance is very suitable to his character. I say he looks off his trolley just by looking at him.

I do not presume to have hidden flamboyance, nor am I a comedian. I want a color that looks both plush and presentable. I go for blue.

It is my favorite color since I am a kid, mostly on account the Mets. Blue balances the coat’s grey herringbone pattern, and a feng shui master might say it is good for wealth cultivation.

I am told by the tailor I should fetch the fabric myself. This being New York, there is a street for this sort of mission: West 39th Street.

It is just blocks from the Ruby Tuesday’s in Times Square, but you are more likely to walk into a stray hubcap than a tourist on this block.

The needle points me in the right direction.

I walk into about 10 stores before I am exhausted and settle on a shade at Super Star Fabrics.

Each store I visit without exception is owned by Bangladeshis with African stock boys. They all seem quite happy to help me with my possible $12 purchase.

I think they day dream through the work-day on a constant sugar high of eye candy. Many of their customers are young women who work in the fashion industry or who attend school to make it there.

Raz at Super Star confirms he likes his job serving streams of attractive women.

They should do a commercial for color printers in his store.

I select a roll of fabric, Raz pulls out his scissors and shears off four yards, what the tailor tells me is needed for the lining.

Fashion and football do have one thing in common: yards.

I bring my jacket to the tailor on a Saturday afternoon and retrieve it later that day. I request an extra pocket. I am one for symmetry, therefore I will need two pockets.

The new coat fits perfect. I am happy, though my wallet goes on a diet.

The only problem, I’m like a guy who gets a new tattoo. I have to find a way to show it off. Any suggestions?

Carnegie Hall Underground

Everyone in New York knows you get to Carnegie Hall by practicing. At the 57th street subway station on Saturday afternoon, four men are doing just that.

There’s another way to get to Carnegie Hall: climb the steps.

At this subway stop, just below Carnegie Hall, there’s an alcove waiting area. It is sandwiched between the men’s and women’s bathrooms which are open at the whim of the attendant. These whims are generally not favorable.

The acoustics, however, are. It’s where the Doo-Wop groups from all over New York City convene to practice and perform, singing tunes of the 50’s and 60’s, from groups like the Platters, Coasters, and Drifters, some Sam Cooke, and a few gospel standards.

Purists call this music group harmony and it best describes what you hear.

The long-running WFUV radio program Group Harmony Review is hosted every Saturday night by Dan Romanello since the days when this music regularly tops the charts. It is where I first discover the music.

It is the sound of old school New York. And it reminds me of my Uncle Vinnie.

Doo-Wop is born and raised, and flourishes in post-war New York City. Its pop-chart prominence fades away about the time the Beatles play Shea Stadium in 1964.

It is one of the first music styles to break the color barrier. Salt and pepper groups form well before the Civil Rights movement takes off.

This group though consists of middle-aged black men from the 718 boroughs.

I run into Tomorraw on Saturday afternoon. They are singing in the waiting area, honing in on the harmonies, under the direction of Scout, the lead for the day.

I often see the groups after work on weekdays,

with no instruments necessary, acappella invites

spontaneity; the closest you’ll come to an instrument is a hand clap.

And a strong voice can trumpet louder than the instrument itself.

Acappella also allows for some unusual arrangements. Subway entry requires a precious metro card swipe, those who can't afford one, croon through the gates, harmonizing with the rest of the group that stands on the other side of the iron bars.

Last week I’m taking the N downtown from 57th Street. The train arrives, I sit down, and four of The Five Boroughs enter behind me.

One of group members interrupts the subway silence with an announcement aimed at his associate: "My man is having a very bad day," he says. "His girlfriend just dumps him."

And off they launch into a song about the wrongs of a relationship gone bad.

I’m not sure if it cheers up the besotted boyfriend, but it does plant smiles on our subway poker faces, and later the quartet I’m sure when they count their loot.

Almost Famous

On Saturday I visit a casting agency in Times Square. The offices are on Broadway, right above the Bubba Gump Shrimp Co.

I am answering an ad on Craigslist for paid extras.

The agency is called Actor’s Rep. It’s one of these charm schools that charges 10% commission only after you get work.

It sounds straightforward and unfortunately legit.

I’m in for the interview. I sign my name and telephone number into the register and sit to watch a video about the agency.

The boss appears on screen, then a few folks gush about the gigs they land. The whole production has the whiff of an infomercial. (They provide bodies for that too.)

The assistant, Deanna, cuts the show short and invites me into her office overlooking Times Square.

I talk more than she does. This is always the case.

She tells me I will be good for Law & Order. I tell her my brother once has a speaking role on that very show. She tells me she is from Kansas. I resist the urge to quote a line from The Wizard of Oz. I am done making amusements so I proceed to read the monologue in front of me.

Beau:

Hadda take a break, my back, it’s startin’ to go. You too, huh? Yeah, it’s somethin’ all right. Really is. Hard to believe, huh? I mean who’d ever imagine. Couple a weeks ago, everything…so normal, right? Unbelievable! Couple a Sundays ago we had a barbeque. Kids playing Frisbee, dogs barkin’, franks on the fire. Some friends came over, couple of beers, nice. Just a couple of Sundays ago. Now………who knows?

I read the script with character, pausing for affect in all the right places I guess, because she tells me I make the cut. She is the filter for Richard, the owner. I am given his business card and told to call back at 11 a.m. the next day.

I am going to be famous.

I call back Monday morning and get Richard on the phone. He is waiting for my call. He tells me he’s going to send me on auditions. But, first I need headshots. He gives me a number of a photo agency and his direct line.

I ask another question and realize the line dies two sentences ago.

I call the photographer, get quoted $270 for a round of headshots, and call Richard back.

He says he’ll take off $50 from my first job for the photos.

I say let’s make a deal Richard. I’m in a bad place right now and you’re my ticket out. I’ll cash in my 401k and give you a cut of the pre-tax proceeds for your retainer.

I’ll sell my cd collection on ebay and use that to get acting and voice lessons.

That’s how serious I am Richard. But you gotta be with me here. We gotta make this happen together. We’re going all the way baby. You in?

He doesn’t hear any of this because he hangs up two minutes ago.

The man perfects the art of the swift and silent hang up.

Too bad, I coulda been a star.

The place is like show business; there’s no business, for me.

The Apple In Winter

The Apple In Winter: Irish Music in New York.

One of the great lost albums of New York's musical heritage, is recorded 25 years ago on Green Linnet Records.

The man in the middle is Tony DeMarco in 1981.

11th Street Bar, January 2008.

Tony Demarco looks like he could be an associate of the Gambino family, though his line of work is legitimately more lucrative; he is a commodities trader on the New York Board of Trade.

Tony DeMarco is New York Irish though his last name belies his heritage. He grows up in Brooklyn with an Italian father and Irish mother.

Italians and Irish intermarry for generations. Their shared Catholic religion lubricates the relations.

And the Italian women are eager to sign-off their multi-syllable surnames for names like Flynn, as my cousin Diane exchanges for Vigliotti.

I run into Tony a few times around town, always below 14th Street. Last I see him is at NYU’s Glucksman Ireland House for a Brendan Mulvihill concert.

Brendan Mulvihill's father teaches Irish fiddle in the Bronx for many years, one of his students is Brian Conway, the man on the right on The Apple in Winter album cover.

Brian Conway is now an assistant D.A. in White Plains. He plays a concert at The Mount Kisco Public Library a few years ago which I attend.

I buy the album from him and eventually find the weekly sessions at the 11th Street Bar. It takes a conversation with Tony to trace all this back.

I am a loyal reader of Peter Applebome who writes the Our Town column that appears weekly in The New York Times.

The articles often assume an elegiac tone, the closing of this, the departing of that, another end of an era in some hamlet, village, or burg. I guess that makes it newsworthy. Something is opening, something is closing.

In this recent article an Irish Jam session at a bar up the River has its last hoorah.

Let us all remember things past.

I live in New York City where the lights still shine bright.

The story I'm telling does not qualify as hard news. I write like the features section of a rural paper that every four years recycles local stories, like that of the farm that perennially produces prize-winning pumpkins.

Here’s the nugget of news for the newsies:

One of the best Irish fiddlers in America plays every Sunday night at the 11th Street Bar in the East Village for free.

Here’s what isn’t news: he's been playing there over a decade and has no plans of leaving.

The 11th Street bar is a classic pub. It has a long bar, big round tables in the back, and seats in the window, where the precious might compose a poem.

On Friday nights the tables in back are packed with gaggles of girls.

On this Sunday night though, at 9 p.m. the bar is dead.

The long standing surly bartender makes drinks for two middle aged men whose conversation consists of variations on the word fuck.

Rock and Roll never starts on time; neither do Irish fiddlers. But by 10 p.m. the bar is hopping.

A young lady arrives alone, sits down next to me and buys me a drink before I realize she is either crazy or drunk, and possibly both.

She's not stupid, she says. She is a graduate of Southern Methodist (the alma mater of Laura Bush). "One of the best Ivy League schools in the country."

But you don't need an Ivy League degree to appreciate the music.

I wear a look of -I'm not with her- as she repeatedly shouts bravissimo! bravissimo! into the silence a minute after the first song concludes.

I escape to the bathroom, return to the music and take my pint to the window seat. By now it is 11 p.m. with a capacity crowd.

I ask Tony to play my favorite Irish fiddle tune. He obliges.

Tell Her I Am (track #10)

Just another Sunday night in New York. No news is good news.

Whack Pack at the Wing Shack

I go to Hooters for the first time last week. I’ve worked in the building next door for two years, but never visit.

The Hooters founder, Robert Brooks dies last year from natural causes. His obituary tells how he invites the ministers of his church to visit his wholesome restaurants.

Sure enough, there are a bunch of kids running around and their mothers chasing them crawling up the steps.

Is there anything more motherly than mammaries?

I can’t fault Hooters. In fact I like it. The chain is born 25 years ago in Clearwater, Florida, and on Broadway the bright airy restaurant has a sun-kissed Florida feel that doesn’t scream corporate. It's one of the few places in the City where you don't notice you're in New York.

Might as well be Macon, Georgia.

The waitresses wear bright orange briefs; they look like roller derby rejects. I vote for mini-skirts. They might look better with the Miami tan colored leggings that cover their goose bumps. The problem is old as fire itself. From caveman to cubicle, the workaday lumps have far more natural insulation than the Hooters girls.

The three guys next to me are wearing jackets and sweatshirts.

Turns out they are regulars guests on the Howard Stern show. Imagine that I tell Irish John: Howard Stern guys at Hooters.

So I meet the rest of Irish John’s crew, High Pitch Eric and Double A. Collectively they are known as Howard Stern's Whack Pack.

Irish John drinks a lot. That’s how he gets his name, though I don’t know how this translates to radio. He works in the Bronx for a construction equipment rental company; he finds his fame on Sirius Satellite radio.

High pitch Eric has a pencil mustache and a Santa belly. He wears white Champion sneakers and black sweat pants over his 300 pounds.

His voice sounds like he is kicked in the cajones while inhaling a helium balloon.

His talent is obvious. Though as a kid, I’m sure it isn’t exactly an attribute. Though on his web page, he thanks God (Howard?) for giving him his voice.

Double A, I have to look this up, stands for Awesome Anthony. I can’t figure out what his talents are either, but he does have a big tattoo of Howard Stern on his forearm.

If his is so awesome, he should have a tattoo of himself on his forearm.

I’m only in for one drink, but I stay for three rounds. $2.50 Bud drafts during happy hour. Though I don’t find this out until I’m done drinking my overpriced imports. I’ll just have to come back.

Anecdotal Interlude #2 — Skunk on the Subway

I am up north in Mount Kisco last weekend. Shortly before I leave, the skunks under the deck start fighting, possibly with the raccoons that also have an encampment under the deck.

I hear the scuffle, and a minute later comes the smell, which is not so bad in small doses. This burst is big enough to enter into the living room, and later I discover, my stuff.

An hour later, I take a Metro North train to Grand Central and catch the subway downtown. I get off the train at Union Square to transfer to the Q.

On my way up the steps, a young black guy points to the computer case in my left hand and asks: “You got weed in there?”

I tell him it’s the bottle of whiskey I just buy, and walk on.

I guess people really do like the smell of skunk.