Long Ago The Doo-Wop

$2nd Street was synonymous with sin in the 1970s.

Fucking Rudy Guiliani closed the porno shops and XXX theaters.

Disney moved into the vacated premises.

Now 42nd Street between 7th and 8th Avenues belongs to fat people eating fast food.

A hell of gross consumption.

The Minnesota Strip was no heaven, but I liked it fine.

1976.

Nothing like it in the modern age.

Hot pants.

Ho Ho Ho Hannukah

This evening my boss’ grandson came to visit her jewelry store with her husband. The holiday season had been brutal. We had yet to make a sale. While her husband parked their Ladnrover, Jeri taught the six-year-old how to open a safe and once the handsome lad opened the steel cube she asked, “Did you get a Hannukah gift for your mother?”

“I wanted to, but I don’t know if I have enough money.”

“How much you think you have?”

“$2.”

“That’s a lot of money. Let me see what we can find.”

“I like those.” Matthew pointed to a pair of sliced sapphire earring rimmed by gold.

“You have a good eye.” Jeri pulled out the earrings. They cost $100. “You said you had money.”

“$2.” Matthew proudly emptied his coins on the counter. The boy was a goy, but his father was ein bissen Juden on his paternal side and as an Irishman I have a strong respect for tradition.

“$2 and four cents for the tax.”

“Tax?”

“Yes, that’s what the government charges, so we have roads and TV and lights.”

Her husband and I exchanged a glance. We shared another opinion about taxes, but this was Hannukah, a night for good thoughts.

“Today, they sung a new song,” interjected his grandfather.

“Ho, Ho, Ho, Hannukah.”

“Do you know how to sing it?” I asked from my chair.

My youngest son in Thailand was the same age as Matthew.

Six.

I hadn’t seen Fenway in over two years nor Fluke, Noy, or Angie, but I knew they loved their mothers same as Matthew loved his. The six year-old looked to Jeri and his grandfather. A smile broke over his lips and he chanted, “Ho-Ho-Ho Hannukah.”

Jeri sniffed back a tear. She wanted grandchildren of her own. We are life. We are light. She kissed Matthew on the cheek.

“You’re a good boychek.” Jeri handed him the earrings in a pouch.

“Thank you. My mommy will be so happy.”

Matthew left with his grandfather. Jeri stared at me.

“What?”

“That was our first sale of the season.”

This afternoon a 68 year-old man had refused his wife a fancy-yellow diamond, because he said he didn’t have the money. I believed him, but Matthew gave his every penny to make his mom happy and I was happy too, because I would have done the same for my mother and so would Jeri.

Ho-Ho-Ho-Hannukah.

Kids On Bikes

I love riding with my kids.

I’ve only had one accident with Angie.

Nothing bad.

Only scrapped skin.

All accidents that don’t kill you build character.

Viva

Viva wore band-aids over her nipples.

Andy Warhol was never sexy.

She was a goddess.

She lives in Palm Springs and paints landscapes of what she sees.

Wickedness Runs In Vain

42nd Street was paradise for sin. Satan prowled the streets surrounding the Doo-Wop. It was wickedness at its best and worst. Mayor Guiliani shut it down like Dorothy chucking a bucket of water of the Wicked Witch of the West.

“Who would have thought that some little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness?”

A pig like Rudy.

“OHHHHHHH!!! NO!!! I’m going…ohhhhhhh..ohhhhhhhhhhhhh….”

But we will be back.

Both me and Clover.