Ah, The Rascals! What was a New York City summer without The Rascals? I just now came back from an outside mission in 95-degree heat and somehow my mind fell into a late-60s crevasse and there I was again, just a working class kid in a crummy Bronx high school, and there was no a/c at home, or at work (NYPL on Bainbridge, in the now tagged-up building just north of Fordham Road) and I’d stop off at Spinning Disc, or Music Makers, or Cousins, to buy 45s and, more often than not, they were tunes by The Rascals.

We are lost these days, with multiple once-in-a-generation issues: Pandemic, climate change, Russia/Ukraine war and resulting economic issues, a broken political system. We are split into tribes, paddling the ship of state in circles.

Well, guess what? The late sixties were no bargain either. Vietnam, the draft, political mendacity, the aftershock of JFK’s assassination, the assassinations of Bobby + MLK + Malcolm X, civil rights unrest, rioting/arson, hard-hats vs. college kids — it was all too much. And then came Kent State.

So there I was, dealing with these macro issues, while the “war-at-home” micro-shizzle raged. My chaotic family life burst like a ruptured appendix that spewed emotional sepsis into every corner of my life. Thank the goddess for top-40 radio and the radio stations such as WOR-FM, WBAI-FM, WPLJ-FM, WNEW-FM, and WWRL-AM (where I first heard Little Stevie Wonder’s “Fingertips Part I & II”).

I did what I had to, in order to save myself. I did a deep psychological dive, ever the Pisces, and swam far below the turbulence. I started hanging out with a new crew, years older than me, and as the draft calls rose, and the body bags piled high, The Rascals released “People Got to be Free”. A friend of mine at school, a senior, enlisted. “I’m going,” he said, “because they killed my buddy.”

After graduation, at my new place of work, as an office boy in a financial company’s bursting room, the 1A-classified guys were getting called at age 19 and two months. Those that returned and still could interact told horrific stories of their time in-country, long periods of intense boredom interspersed with bursts of gut-ripping madness, and they spackled their broken lives with expensive muscle cars and drugs, lots and lots of drugs.

Of my old guard, Tony C. was one of the smartest, earning all-honors classes at my aforementioned crappy high school. Tony grew up on Hoe Avenue, and suffice to say his neighborhood in the sixties was less than optimal. He was never without a bottle of Thunderbird or Carlo Rossi Paisano, When Tony’s dad died, in the east Bronx, I was asked to join the gang at the wake, but I was working doubles and exhausted. In the middle of wake-week, I got a call from one of the guys.

“You blew it man. You really blew it.”

“Why?”

“We were all in the funeral home, meeting T’s family. All of a sudden, a door opens and three BIG guys walk in, followed by a little guy, who spoke to T and his mom and family.”

“And?”

“It was fucking Crazy Joe Gallo man! You missed it!!!”

Well, I didn’t have the heart to say that, upon hearing this account, I was greatly relieved in not being there, for I knew it was only a matter of time before the mobster known as Crazy Joe Gallo met his fate (gunned down in Little Italy) just like it was a matter of time before Tony C. met his. The gang fractured after graduation but I saw T once, decades later, on a downtown #2 IRT, holding a hand rail during morning rush hour, weaving, eyes fluttering, the ever-present pint of Thunderbird in his back pocket. I mentioned it a few years later, my Tony sighting, to another old friend, who filled me in. T was a hardcore alky, periodically homeless, and now very much dead, having died of exposure. And I remembered how Tony and this friend were lost to us for an entire week during the blizzard of ’69 (“the Lindsay storm”) after dropping acid. This was pre-mobile phone, when our two buddies were gone to us. Lost in a snowbank? Mired in Mexico? Remanded to RIkers? We had no idea and neither did their families.

In a way, the lyrics of a Rascals hit from the Summer of Love (haha) was a life-preserver for me. The song was “How Can I Be Sure?” As I searched for the real me, a kid in a chrysalis during chaotic — no, downright frightening — times at home and in the wider world, I realized that that song’s love interest was, in actuality, myself. “How can I be sure? In a world, that’s constantly changing, how can I be sure, where I stand with you?” It took many years for me to learn to listen to myself, trust my instincts, care for myself, as the world turned to spin art, and up was down, and down was up.

I mean, like now.

These are the first five words to the Judy Collins song, “My Father”. Here’s the song, for you, a few days before Father’s Day:

Parenting is an art, not a science. In that context, I think my father’s approach was finger-painting “Guernica”. That is, his effort resulted in an unsophisticated tableau of violence.

Over time, I’ve learned that everyone screws up their parenting in some way and there are plenty of things that I did where I’d gladly accept a “do-over”. Having said that, I don’t want to let my father off the hook. He was emotionally absent, except when he wasn’t, and those were the times I feared most.

Table-banging. Screaming. Blazing anger, seemingly from nowhere. What were his demons? I can only imagine. Was it rooted in the upbringing by strict immigrant parents, an emotionally absent father? Was it the horror of WWII combat? Was it a chemical imbalance?

Maybe. Probably “all of the above” but the net result was that my sister and I would very literally run for cover, and dive under the bed for safety, when he went on the warpath. And we were never truly sure what would set him off. A loud noise? A long-forgotten memory? A bad day at the office?

I remember as a small boy having to zero-out my emotions and “run silent, run deep” when he came home from a night out. I’d dread hearing the fumbling of his key in the front door lock. Who knew what shape he’d be in at three in the morning? We feared the worst and we were rarely disappointed.

The father in Judy Collin’s song was a miner, who shared big dreams with his family, dreams that took root a generation down the road. My father worked the mines of the concrete canyons, as an accountant in Manhattan. In my recollection, he did not dream. My father shared his nightmares, however. He downloaded tales of war to me when I was a child, yet did not share these with his family, with his own wife. I was the lucky tape recorder into which he unspooled his demons. But there were no expressed dreams, not of “living in France”, that’s for sure.

Nor did he give advice. He said that, in so many words. He rarely spoke, in fact. He stared out the window of our dingy apartment holding a can of Schafer and look at the rain pelt down on our Bronx street. That’s what I remember most: the absent stare.

There was no “there” there. Was it depression? PTSD? Funny, but decades later, I spoke to my cousin about his dad. My uncle’s behavior mirrored my dad’s. There was some corrupt file in that household, to be sure, since my uncle did not go to war.

I made parenting mistakes with my own son. This I admit. I tried hard to undo the pain of my own childhood, and I over-compensated in some ways. And my anger did flare, an anger I’ve come to tame over the decades. Yes, I know: “hurt people hurt people”.

I give my dad a D- in parenting. I give myself a B/B-. (My son would no doubt disagree.) My son is an amazing guy. Super smart, funny, handsome, mentally and physically strong. From time to time, over the years, I was asked how I learned to be a dad. My stock answer was: “Easy. I thought about what my father would do, and just did the complete opposite.” Ha ha. Very facile.

But. I was emotionally available to guide and hopefully inspire. My kid can give and receive love and is now engaged to a wonderful young woman. They are each other’s best friend and soulmate. It’s beautiful to watch.

So at the end of the day, maybe that was my father’s gift to me. I experienced a childhood with a woefully deficient dad and, from these bitter ashes, learned how to be a parent. Not a “best friend” — a parent. A dad who set moral and ethical boundaries, gave unconditional love, supported and suggested big dreams, and always had his kid’s back.

Parenting is an ongoing effort and the relationship is always a work in progress. I adore every minute of it. Happy Father’s Day, all you dads out there!

There is a reason why I changed my landing page image from the shot I took years ago on Broadway and 207th Street in Inwood, to this one.

This shot is one I took in the Left Bank of Paris. Two vacations to Paris have been cancelled in the last few years. Thanks, Covid.

So this Real New Yorker pines for my second favorite city, Paris. If you’ve never been there, I hope you can get to Paris eventually. If you love NYC, you’ll adore Paris. I mean, c’mon! Look at this!

Oh, and incidentally, I just finished a story about someone about to emerge from his post-Covid battle with death, depression and agoraphobia. It’s called, not coincidentally, “When Paris Beckons” — it’s just been distributed to lit pubs. Hopefully it will see the light of day.

Sometimes — especially times such as these — daily life can be more challenging than it needs to be.

Sometimes the solution is to change one’s perspective. Look through the telescope the other way.

Long ago, children were told the basics of conversation. Listen more, talk less. Be respectful of others. Include everyone in the discussion; don’t hog the mike, so to speak.

And never, ever, discuss politics or religion!

Yet here we are, surrounded by social media platforms that give powerful, international, electronic megaphones to pipsqueaks with no knowledge. Facebook ranters stand on their electronic front porches, metaphorically screaming at people to get off their lawn.

We curate our social groups to eliminate alternate points of view. Tribalism above all else. Within our tribes, we discuss the (admittedly serious) issues of the day, and these are too often related to politics and religion.

Now, I’m not saying that we do not have serious issues, locally, nationally, globally. Not the least of these is Year III of a frightening, shape-shifting pandemic that has ended lives, ruined others, and stressed our economies — hell, our daily lives — to the max. Think how leaders here and abroad have used this primal fear to tear us apart, and distract us as they enrich themselves.

We have to take matters into our own hands. Step one is at the voting booth. And step two is to realize that there are as least as many human characteristics that unify us as those that divide us. Despite what we are told in our daily 360-degree needle shower of stories from news gathering organizations (and faux news outlets), bot farms, and social media “friends”.

If we listen more, and talk less. If we include others in the conversation, not exclude them. If we maintain respect for others, whether older or younger than us. Then maybe we’ll have a sliver of sanity during our time on the planet.

Easier said than done? Oh, for sure. And humans are tribal.

So maybe, let’s start with a limit of our time on social media platforms. Maybe spend more time listening, not postulating. More time on artistic pursuits, hobbies, family life.

It’s easy to grab slices of society and pull them close. All it takes is a look through the telescopic lens of electronic media.

What is harder, and to me more rewarding, is to summon the courage to look through the telescope the other way.

Hey, it’s a start.

I remember the surprise of a black Dunelt English racer at the foot of my bed one snowy year. I was shocked that my Jewish parents actually took the effort to make my dream come true, for once, and on another religion’s major holiday. That new-bike/rubber scent was an intoxicant. Two wheel luxury meant independence.

I remember Christmas mornings with my friend Larry. His parents always got the biggest tree and bought the three kids every damn expensive toy they lusted after. Toys that were the envy of the entire Bronx neighborhood. Toys that the kids got bored with within a week.

I remember piles of toy boxes and wrapping strewn about the street on top of garbage cans, awaiting pick-up. The gaily colored paper danced down the yellow- and brown-stained snow of our West Bronx street.

I remember one of our neighbors kept his tree until just before Easter. It was a neighborhood joke. The adults in my neighborhood, all Irish-Catholic, explained it this way: Charlie was Italian. To them, that was all they needed to know.

I remember a week or two after Christmas, huge mounds of discarded trees were dragged across the street, thrown over the fence to the Veterans Hospital, and lit afire. It was a glorious sight to us pre-teens. The fire blistered the fence’s black paint. It was a thrill.

I remember new Beatles albums being played on Larry’s hi-fi — Rubber Soul, Revolver. Larry’s dad preferred Eddie Arnold and Nat King Cole and Johnny Mathis. Larry’s cousin Agnes would come over for the party, which was a thrill; she wore tight short skirts and smelled of cigarettes. She was two years older than us; an experienced woman.

I remember as a teenager, being invited to my friend’s house on 217th Street off White Plains Road. A true Italian feast. Laughter and gaiety. The lights out front. Generous consumption of beer in their basement bar. The party continued when they finally moved to Spring Valley. He and his twin brother Phil survived a tour in ‘Nam. They were grateful to be alive, and one Christmas, they bought themselves Plymouth Duster 440s.

Charlie’s was bright yellow, with black stripes. I thought, if I survived ‘Nam like he did, I’d get a car like that too.

I remember living on 21st Street in Chelsea with The Skipper, when I was a young guy. I peered into the parlor windows of brownstones and saw huge trees and ornate decorations; such warmth and conviviality.

Sometimes, snow would fall softly, and carolers would sing outside our apartment on the second floor.

The years passed, and I grew into myself, gained wisdom, enjoyed a successful career and raised a son. Those memories of youth faded like old Kodacolor snapshots, until now, that is.

For you see, what I remember most of my childhood on Christmas Day, was being an outsider to the joy, hospitality, and generosity of others, even if it took years to understand how short-lived that kindness was; every effort was made to pile good cheer into that one seasonal effort.

It seemed, to the little kid that was me, that the whole world was in on this effort, and I was doomed to forever remain an outsider, peering in to another kind of life.

First off, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year — it’s been rough, we’ve all been run over with a truck, so let’s take Five and chillax with family and friends and be thankful for still being around.

This year closed with my last two stories being published: “A Thin Place” in Stand Magazine, hosted by the U.K.’s University of Leeds, and “What We Need To Know” in Rumble Fish Quarterly.

Here’s the latter, which kicks off the Fall/Winter 2021 issue. I’m in great company, so check out the other writers as well.

Stay safe and see you all soon.

https://rumblefishblog.wordpress.com/

Here’s my John Lennon story, from my newest collection, “A Shoebox Full of Money.” This and other stories like it are available via https://www.martykleinman.com. This one’s for you:

MARK LIPSHUTZ , DOMINANT HANDBALL STAR, DIES

By the time he was on his deathbed, Mark Lipshutz was a real pain in the ass.

“I hate Navy guys,” he wheezed that mild, shirtsleeves December night. I remember it like yesterday, the sixty-four-degree high, freaky for New York in early winter, the year I turned twenty-nine. I came to Mr. L’s room with his dinner. It was late, and I was about to finish my shift. A black BIC lighter was next to a pack of Winstons, right there on his tray. I just shook my head.

“Man, I give up with you,” I said. He smiled, and then coughed until he was red in the face. It sounded loose, phlegmy, like pieces of lung got loose and rattled around his chest. He squinted his eyes in pain, but you couldn’t get him to stop for no money in the world. The smoking, or the bitching. And about the Navy? He knew damn well I was on the McKinley. Right after New Year’s? In sixty-nine? We made way for the Philippines. Now, the McKinley being a flagship meant we carried a rear admiral. But it was slow. Took us eight days to get to Pearl. And a lifetime to get to Da Nang, where right away we saw, off to starboard, the bloated body of one of our guys, a pilot, just floating there. I was just eighteen and this shit was real.

But back to Mr. L. That night, I moved his cigarettes and put his dinner down on the tray, and right away he gave me the stink eye. “Get that shit outta here,” he grumbled.

“Mr. L,” I said, “that’s a perfectly good veggie burrito. You need to keep your strength up if you want to get back onto the courts come this spring.” Word around the hospital? Mr. L had been the greatest handball player in history. Bear in mind, now, that back in high school, up in the Bronx back in the day, me and my friends didn’t play handball. I was all about hoops and baseball, first base. I didn’t know nothing about the handball. What I do know though is that to win in this life, you got to have an edge. Me? I could run and I could jump. Made our third baseman look good, leaping high for his throws. And hoops? I played solid D and just smacked those shots away.

Now, with Mr. L? I am told that back in the day, he was a quick little guy, maybe five-six, hundred and forty or so, and I believe it. Hairy, though. Even at the end. Chest, back, legs, everywhere you looked. Thick, curly hair. His ears looked like those crazy tufts of leaves and whatnot you see popping out of the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. But he was built. I give him that. Good muscle tone, even for an older guy. Had those old-school, black high-top Keds he’d wear to rehab, along with these baggy grey sweatpants and a blue sweatshirt, turned inside-out, sleeves cut off. However, the main thing? His edge? He was ambidextrous, see, as good with his left hand as his right. And he was sneaky with it, too. He told me once, while we were drinking Hennessy in plastic water cups, how he’d play with his opponent’s head during a match.

First, he made it look like a lucky shot with his left hand, let the guy get some easy points, get on a roll. Then he’d drop the hammer. Killers from the left, killers from the right, cutters, spinners, jumpers, whips. “I let ‘em get a few points,” he said. “Then I just get rid of ‘em.”

■■■

That last month was rough. Mr. L was in a lot of pain. It spread all over. His doctors tried to do right by him, keep him comfortable, but it was everywhere. Finally, they upped the dosage on his pain meds to the point where he was in and out. One time, just before— you know what I’m saying—I came by to check on him. It was late, I remember that much. Right away, I saw that he was out. But as soon as I tiptoed in, his droopy old eyes creaked open. I never saw him look that way. I mean, the dude looked twenty years older. His whole face just sagged and his eyes … it was like the light behind his eyes went from a hundred to forty watts.

“Gimme that lighter,” he said.

“Why don’t you stop?” I asked. Nothing. No response. And then, he looked at me, with a sadness in his face I’d never seen before, but I’ve seen it in a dog, like when they’re done, and they kinda know it? And one day they just skulk off into the woods to die alone, in peace. At the time, I’d been there at Roosevelt Hospital a couple of years, and you hear the doctors talk. The pulmonary guys, the orthopedists, the cardiologists. You get a sense of things, medical-wise, you know? And I would hear the psychiatrists too. And what the shrinks would say is, Look at the patient—not where the patient is pointing. And here was a guy, man, who came up from nothing, I mean nothing, on the Brooklyn streets of Williamsburg during the Depression.

He turned to handball like I took to hoops because it was the cheapest sport to play. All you needed was a ball. Mr. L, he took his dad’s old winter gloves out of the closet and turned them inside out. Those were his handball gloves, early on. He went to Eastern District High, with guys like Red Auerbach. He practiced hard and eventually won a national championship, went into the service (Marines), survived World War II, barnstormed the country giving handball exhibitions, and really made the sport popular during the fifties. In his world, he was a rock star.

And then, life happened. The bottle, two divorces, run-ins with the law, a gambling dispute with the wrong kind of guy. Eventually, he moved to Brighton Beach where he paid the rent hustling handball by the ocean, on the cracked courts of Asser Levy Park. And now, on that particular night, way back in 1980, there was that look in his eyes.

Like I said, it was late when I came in with his dinner tray, and he started in on the Navy again. “C’mon, Mr. L. The game’s almost over,” I said, fluffing up his pillows. Monday Night Football was his thing. He snorted. “Dolphins, Patriots? They both stink on ice. Take the Patriots with the points.”

Down the hall, the nurses had the oldies station on because I could hear that twangy Beatles song, “All My Loving.” “God, I hate the fuckin Beatles,” he said. He reached for the clicker, turned on the game, and upped the volume. Howard Cosell’s nasal drone drowned the song out. Mr. L was right. The game was a stinker. This was way before, you know, the Patriots got on their roll. He turned to me. “Did I ever tell you I played Russian Roulette?” he asked, eyes on the game. It was late in the fourth quarter. “Uh, no?” I raised my eyebrows. This was a new one. “Well, I did,” he said. “Twice. In the service. I retired, undefeated.”

“Anything else you want to tell me?” I said, as Russ Francis caught a thirty-eight-yard pass from Cavanaugh. Touchdown. The Patriots were up, thirteen to six. The score seemed to pick Mr. L up because, out of nowhere, he started to tell me another story about his life back in the day.

“I tell you about the time I got arrested up in Monticello?” I shook my head. “It was the year I drove a Dugan’s Bakery truck upstate. Same year that song came out.” He scratched his head. “I remember seein’ those mopes play it on Ed Sullivan.” There was a commotion down the hall just then, a lot of screaming, crying. Doctors were being paged to come to the ER. There was a gunshot victim. Strange, I remember, because Monday nights were usually quiet.

“They found me parked behind Davco, the sporting goods store there on Main Street,” Mr. L said. “I was asleep, dead drunk, behind the wheel of the truck.” The Dolphins tied it up. But the Patriots charged right back and got into field goal range, as time wound down in regulation. “But I think what pissed them off most was that I peeled the tops offa all the chocolate cupcakes.”

“What did you do with them?”

He smiled a crooked smile. “I fuckin ate them. Whaddaya think I did with them?” The seconds ticked off the game clock. The Patriots’ John Smith took his practice kicks and trotted onto the field along with the rest of the field goal unit. “Close the fuckin door already,” Mr. L said. “All that shrieking and crying out in the hallway is driving me nuts.” As I closed the door, Cosell’s voice suddenly got very low.

“Remember, this is just a football game,” Cosell said.

“Oh what the fuck?” Mr. L shouted at the television. “Just call the fuckin game, will ya?” But Cosell continued. “An unspeakable tragedy confirmed to us by ABC News in New York City: John Lennon, outside his apartment building on the West Side of New York City … the most famous perhaps of all the Beatles … shot twice in the back, rushed to Roosevelt Hospital. Dead on arrival …” I looked at Mr. L, and he looked back at me, like he wanted me to explain.

“Hard to go back to the game after that newsflash,” Cosell said. Mr. L, one-time handball champion, got uncommonly quiet. “Some fuckin world we live in,” he said, as a single tear rolled down his cheek. “Some fuckin world.” Mr. L’s eyes closed. Smith’s kick was blocked. Then the clock ran out and it was overtime at the Orange Bowl.

It was the day I learned that the so-called “grownups” didn’t have jackshit under control.

I mean, I had suspected it, based on anecdotal evidence. But now, I knew: we had to make our own way, our own choices.

It was Friday afternoon, 58 years ago. I was in junior high. Saturday, we were all going to the custom car show in the Coliseum on Columbus Circle. Henry the Good Humor Guy worked security at the Coliseum on weekends; he’d let us scoot in the side door, so we never had to pay.

The news spread fast that Friday, and the teachers were crying. I couldn’t fg believe it. All the beer joints had Daily News photos of JFK taped to the mirrors behind the bar. Now, that guy, the guy on our campaign buttons, the guy who got us little-kid Bronx morons interested in politics, was dead. WTAF?

“Now what?” I thought. “What could possibly go wrong next?” That weekend, on live TV, I/we found out. Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald. My mom and dad both exhaled “OHHH!!!” at the same time. I was like, “yep, we’re on our own now, for sure.” And I was right, too.