GOOFUS

 

A friend posted a parody of HIGHLIGHTS FOR CHILDREN's legendary GOOFUS AND GALLANT page on his Facebook, and it brought to mind the following tale from my childhood as I recounted it on my friend's post's comments thread:

Goofus and Gallant was my favorite part of Highlights, strictly for its heavyhandedness and for Goofus's assholism.

It struck home for me because my mom had a friend, Althea, who was a divorcee with a son a year or two younger than me who was named Eric, and he was without question the worst, nastiest, most ill-behaved child it has ever been my misfortune to have been forced to associate with, and when we were in the same space because of our mothers' friendship, I was the unintentional Gallant to his all-too-real Goofus.

Mom and Althea were two recent divorcees of color in the Westport/Weston climate of the mid-1970's, so they turned to each other for support. Whenever my mom would have that woman over, she would invariably bring her horrid spawn and we would all go out to somewhere like a mall, where he would always pick the perfect spot and moment in which to act like an unconscionable turd. Some examples:

When Eric demanded some money to buy a snack, his mother told him he would have to wait until dinner, which he did not like, so he snatched her purse, emptied it onto the floor, picked up her coin change, threw it in such a way as to scatter it, and loudly exclaimed (in order to call attention to himself and his mother) "Now, pick it up!!!" His mother, totally broken by her son's behavior after years of such shit, sheepishly complied, much to the indignation of my mom.

The classic example, however, was one time when we were all out at a lake with a fishing pier, and his mother said or did something to set him off, so he looked around for anything that he could cause trouble or embarrass her with, and his sights settled on an innocent fisherman's huge and clearly expensive and well-stocked tackle box. He walked over to the tackle box, gave his mother an evil grin, picked up the tackle box, and promptly chucked it into the lake. It was a deep lake, so retrieving it was not an option. Needless to say, the owner was PISSED, the police were called, and Eric's mother had to hand the guy every bit of cash she had on her at the time.

For me, that was the final straw, as I had endured too much of Eric's asshole behavior and his mother's refusal to give him a well-earned ass-kicking for about two years, so when my mom and I got home from that mortifying situation, 9-year-old me said to my mother "Mom, you know I am not a bad kid and that I would not do anything stupid if you were to leave me here alone in the house. I promise you that, but I'm telling you right now that I absolutely refuse to ever go anywhere with Althea and Eric ever again. He's horrible, she just takes it, and it's always embarrassing and stressful. I AM DONE." Surprisingly, my mother did not object to me laying down the law — believe me, she understood — and after that I maybe saw Eric once or twice more during the '70's, and then only briefly.

According to my mom, Eric was fucked up by his folks divorcing, and he took it out on his mother. Also, and I never noticed this, in recent years mom said that early on she noticed that Eric had hearing issues and that was definitely a major part of why he acted out, but his mother just blew it off rather than get him help when alerted to the problem.

Mom is still sometimes in touch with Althea (now in her early 80's), so she hears about Eric as a 50-something. He's reportedly still an asshole, and he has a string of failed marriages, abused wives, and neglected children.

AN OVERDUE EPIPHANY

 This was just published on the main blog, but though new, i's worthy of inclusion here.

 

Just after waking up and while still in a muzzy still semi-asleep state, I thought to myself, "I am middle-aged." l had never thought of myself as such, even when moving out of my thirties, or even when I received my AARP card (when I got it I just laughed). I am currently 55 and turning 56 at the end of next month. My ongoing illnesses aside, I feel little different that I did in my youth. Yes, my body is manifesting the expected frailties of aging, such as joint pain, night sweats, et cetera, but I either wrote them off or accepted them with a "that's life" nonchalance. But yeah, I am middle-aged. It's a kick in the head.

 

Middle-age is defined as being between 40 and 60, so I'm technically five years away from being a senior citizen. My mother's line is known for their longevity, as exemplified by her, who is currently 88 and shows no sign of shutting down. Mom's mother's line, the James family, has a weird thing where all of the female die at 78, like some sort of built-in shutdown age, Mom has the Injun Smith genes from her father, and the oldest woman on his side of the family died at 104. While visiting with Mom recently, she noted her family's longevity and said that even though battered and weakened from that near-fatal car crash five years ago, and cancer in both lungs, she would not be surprised if she hung on into her '90's, and she's pushing 90. I have no idea how long I will live, but despite the isolation from my friends and little or no socializing, all the bullshit in the world at large, and my endless cycle of illness, life could be a lot worse.

 

Middle-age can give one new perspectives to consider, and I have found that with age there can come wisdom. Being stuck in hospitals or in the dialysis chair, I had a LOT of time for introspection, and I had time to think hard about how I lived my life and the many mistakes that I made. Now that I am older and having matured quite a lot due to how my life journey has gone over the past eight years, l am facing the world with a new attitude and will be going forward with intent to strive to live the life of serene urban warrior scribe. My wild years are now behind me and, to be honest, while they were fun, during that time I did some very stupid shit, and how I never got arrested remains a mystery. 

 

No more all-night tequila and weed binges and no more drunken dancing atop bars. No more hooking up with crazy women. No more self-destructive behavior in general. Without conscious intent, for around 23 years I was miserable deep inside, so I sought death by misadventure. Thankfully, my job anchoring the kitchen at the barbecue joint for two years allowed me to see clearly exactly what my behavior was and what it looked like, thanks to the antics of many of our bar's regulars. Witnessing their drunken, drugged-out shenanigans and dead end lifestyle was a wakeup call that I heeded, and the realization I had been like some of them set me straight. 

 

I still imbibe on occasion, and the same goes for getting high, but of late I have been content to sip my Earl Grey and contemplate what a chaotic journey my life has been. My only deep regret is that in my more immature days I did wrong by two of the best women I have ever been involved with and who would have been ideal steady companions and maybe even spouses. I used to fear real commitment, thanks to my formative years and witnessing the shit show that was my parents marriage, but now I'm over that but am alone thanks to my earlier self's immature and scared actions. I would give a lot for a female companion these days. I may be centered, but this urban warrior scribe is deeply lonely. 

 

But enough of my blathering. Get on with your own journey, and may it be an enlightened one.

MUSINGS ON BONDAGE — 007: FROM WORST TO BEST

  

My Facebook page often ventures into discussion of the James Bond franchise with like-minded buffs, and the discussion often get heated. I prefer the more grounded entries, with a minimum of gadgets and groan-inducing puns and gags, while others eat that stuff up and favor stories where there more outlandish, the better. As NO TIME TO DIE, the pandemic-delayed 25th entry in the series, looms,  I was recently asked about my thoughts on the overall series, so after much pondering and shuffling of placement, here's my ranking of all 24 official James Bond films from Eon Productions, from least-favorite to the cream of the crop. Please write in with comments and your take.

24. DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER (1971) 

 

James Bond: dockside rent boy.
 

 After the excellence of ON HER MAJESTY'S SECRET SERVICE, George Lazenby vacated the role of 007, so the studio lured Sean Connery back by paying him an obscene amount of money, plus other assorted perks. Irredeemably idiotic trash that ignores the tragic events of the previous film's conclusion, this mess moves Bond into the 1970's, and it's a transition that just does not work.  A complete waste of Connery in his last film for the official series, this one includes a pointless moon buggy chase, a pair of acrobat females for Bond to battle, a pair of homosexual hitmen, and Charles Gray as a laughable iteration of Blofeld. For completists only. Otherwise, you can skip this and miss nothing.

 

23. A VIEW TO A KILL (1985) 

 

 Musical accompaniment: the Beach Boys' "California Girls." I shit you not.

 

Cringe-worthy garbage featuring a 130-year-old Roger Moore who hot dogs while snowboarding. Not even Christopher Walken and Grace Jones as the baddies can save this disaster. Exceptional theme song, though.

 

22. SPECTRE (2015) 

 

Bond endures the unspeakable torment of sitting through this film.
 

Terrible across the board, with the exception of a stunning opening on the Day of the Dead in Mexico. Wimpiest theme song of the entire run, and the idiotic development regarding Blofeld is worthy of earning the screenwriter a severe caning.

 

21. QUANTUM OF SOLACE (2008) 

 

Bond valiantly attempts to flee from this film, but no such luck.
 

Marred by massive production difficulties, this is more like "Quantum of So What?" Incomprehensible, with headache-inducing editing. That said, I only saw this one once, so I would be willing to give it a second chance, but I fucking hated it upon seeing it on opening weekend.

 

20. THE WORLD IS NOT ENOUGH (1999) 

 

Bond opts for death by torture, rather than be bored to death like the audience.
 

Mediocrity defined, all involved just phoned it in for this lifeless time-waster. Denise Richards, the human bobblehead, fails to be believable as a scientist, though I have to give it up for Elektra King (Sophie Marceau), the series first female Big Bad.

 

19. DIE ANOTHER DAY (2002)  

 

James, please... Invisible car or not, we see you trying to sneak out of this idiotic turd.
 

A festival of bad tropes with an awful theme song, an invisible car, a Chinese villain who turns into a white man, the unwelcome presence of Madonna as a fencing instructor (!!!), and Bond parasailing while surfing atop a tidal wave. Redeeming factor: Halle Berry as Jinx, rocking a nod to the Ursula Andress DR. NO bikini.

 

18. THE LIVING DAYLIGHTS (1987) 

 

Though surrounded by a bevy of beauties, 007 fights to stay awake.

 

Great opening sequence that returns Bond to gritty basics, let down by every other aspect being boring and painfully overlong. Wholly unmemorable theme song by a-ha...SERIOUSLY???

 

17. LIVE AND LET DIE (1973) 

 

Surprisingly, not a scene from MANDINGO.

 

Bond and blaxploitation do not mix. Embarrassingly racially offensive, even when it came out, it also features possibly the most overrated theme song out of the lot — Yeah, I said it! Come at me! — and the noxious presence of "comic relief" redneck stereotype Sheriff J.W. Pepper (Clifton James). For a long time, before I rewatched the majority of the series, this ranked at the bottom of my list. Redeeming features: Jayne Seymour as the toothsome Solitaire, and the hilarious/ridiculous demise of Mr. Big.

 

16. MOONRAKER (1979) 

 

When 007 joined the Rebel Alliance in the struggle against the Empire.

 

Like LIVE AND LET DIE, this is the tragic result of the Bond series attempting to cash in on trends instead of setting them. Having nothing to do with the source novel aside from some character names, this is 007 in the wake of the ultra-blockbuster box office success of STAR WARS (1977) and by this point the series was too jokey and outlandish for its own good. Balls-out awful, but hilarious if approached as a piss-take.

 

15. OCTOPUSSY (1983) 

 

The tears of a clown in the employ of MI-6.

 

Barely passable, ridiculous plot, forgettable theme song, and Bond un-ironically disguised as a circus clown. (see above) Acceptable if you have nothing better to do on a rainy afternoon.

 

14. GOLDENEYE (1995) 

 

007 meets Xenia Onatopp and her homicidal vagina.
 

 Decent but overlong and occasionally dull, but somewhat redeemed by the homicidal hilarity of Xenia Onatopp (Famke Janssen).

 

13. THE SPY WHO LOVED ME (1977) 

 

Having banged every female on the planet, Bond explores new horizons.
 

 I'm gonna get shit for this, but this one is simply far too '70's/disco era for my tastes, plus its an almost beat-for-beat remake of YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE, which struck me as the height of creative laziness. I also was not fond of Jaws (Richard Kiel), a hulking assassin who's pretty much a cartoonish "upgrade" of GOLDFINGER's Oddjob.

 

12. THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN GUN (1974) 

 

It was 1974 and everybody was kung fu fightin', even in a James Bond movie.

 

Admittedly mediocre/bad, but mindless fun, this was released the year after ENTER THE DRAGON and Bruce Lee captivated the common zeitgeist, so, much like it had done with blaxploitation in LIVE AND LET DIE, the franchise again mined a popular trend, this time the then-still-exotic East and chopsocky ass-whuppin'. Bond travels to (among other locales) Hong Kong, where he almost gets his ass handed to him by an entire martial arts school, until his bacon is saved by the most badassed pair of schoolgirls you have ever seen (see above). The rest of the story is mostly an excuse for another travelogue, but come on. It's all about Bond versus Christopher Lee. It's one of the few times when I genuinely rooted for the bad guy to win. Extra points for introducing the world to Herve Villechaise as the diminutive henchman Nick Nack. However, points majorly detracted for the unwelcome return of Sheriff J.W. Pepper, and the unforgivable inclusion of a slide whistle sound effect over and otherwise spectacular car stunt.

 

11. THUNDERBALL (1965) 

 

She's a man, baby!

 

One of the definitive entries, sometimes for all the wrong reasons, (which I have discussed at length here) this  is the first of the extravagant 007 travelogue spectacles, as well as being the first overlong installment, which is in no way helped by the turgid pacing. Features two of the all-time hottest Bond girls — Fiona Volpe (Luciana Paluzzi) and Dominque "Domino" Derval (Claudine Auger) — a terrific opening sequence, a villain who's as cool as 007 (Emilio Largo, played by Adolfo Celi), and my pick for the best of the theme songs. Tom Jones reportedly fainted after hitting that incredible sustained final note, and I totally believe it.

 

10. DR. NO (1962) 

 

Meet James Bond (Sean Connery).

 

It all had to start somewhere, and while it has its moments, it's primitive, basic, and has aged/dated rather badly, but we do get the introduction of the Sean Connery Bond, and he is nothing less than mesmerizing. The classic James Bond theme instrumental is introduced, and the film is pretty much stolen by Ursula Andress in what can only be described as an era-defining bikini. An unexpected hit that spawned a franchise which continues just shy of sixty years later.

 

9. YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE (1967) 

 

What the...?!!!? Where's 007? And who the hell is this Japanese guy???
 

 Bond fakes his death (for no good reason), goes to Japan to investigate SPECTRE stealing space capsules in a bid to ignite WWIII, flies the awesome Little Nellie (an autogyro with more ordnance than your average battleship), gets married, and receives plastic surgery that turns him into the least-convincing Japanese man this side of Mickey Rooney in BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S. Sporting a great theme song from Nancy Sinatra and some incredible sets by Ken Adam, this is one of the definitive entries whose tropes are frequently parodied. (The first Austin Powers movie cribs heavily from this.) It's a lot of fun, if occasionally sluggish at points, despite it coming off like a lavish episode of THUNDERBIRDS and Sean Connery very obviously fed up with being in these films.

 

8. TOMORROW NEVER DIES (1997)  

 

HK action legend Michelle Yeoh as secret agent Wai Lin: as badassed as 007.

 

My pick as Pierce Brosnan's most fun effort as Bond, this features memorable set pieces, a terrific theme song from Cheryl Crow, and, Michelle Yeoh as the coolest and toughest Bond girl of the lot.

 

7. LICENCE TO KILL (1989) 

 

Worst wedding day ever.
 

Bond is at his most savage and Flemingesque as he goes off the reservation to avenge the mutilation-by-shark of friend and colleague Felix Leiter (David Hedison), whose wife was also gang-raped and murdered (on their wedding day no less). This one polarizes Bond fans thanks to its hard edge and shockingly vicious violence, but I'm a reader of the Fleming novels, so I found most of the films up to this point to be lacking the sadistic nastiness of Bond's creator, therefore I dug this. It has a great SCARFACE-influenced villain played by Robert Davi and bears a sense of tension throughout as 007 pursues his vendetta without the approval of MI-6. Very good until the weak final third and the questionable inclusion of Wayne Newton as a superfluous minor villain.

 

6. FOR YOUR EYES ONLY (1981) 

 

Bond, ridding himself of a pesky assassin.
 

After the cartoonish excesses of MOONRAKER, it was back to basics, resulting in what is hands down Moore's best Bond effort. Minimal gadgets and quips, plus a nastier edge that evokes Fleming. A bit '80's-dated but still very good.

 

5. GOLDFINGER (1964)  

 

BOND: Do you expect me to talk?

GOLDFINGER (jovially): No, Mister Bond...I expect you to DIE."

 

Arguably the most iconic film in the series, Its every aspect carved the basic Bond template in stone, which was a bad thing because they more or less repeatedly remade it for the next two decades. It's also something of an oddity because Bond spends the majority of the running time a prisoner of the superb title villain, but that's offset by classic characters like Pussy Galore, Oddjob, the rolling arsenal that is the legendary Q Division Aston Martin DB5, John Barry's stellar score, and Shirley Bassey's indelible title song. This is the goods, kids, and if your mom saw it when it came out, Sean Connery in this made her wetter than a swamp.

 

4. SKYFALL (2012) 

 

London calling.
 

The second-best of Daniel Craig's run and a high point for the franchise. After the disappointment of QUANTUM OF SOLACE, I went to this with the lowest of expectations, but what I got was a superb modern entry and one of the very finest of the series. Solid plot, tough-as-nails 007, a great villain whose revenge plot against Judi Densch's M is understandable, and the full-force return of the Aston Martin DB5.

 

3. ON HER MAJESTY'S SECRET SERVICE (1969) 

 

Sean Connery is out. Enter George Lazenby.
 

The first Bond without Sean Connery, this has one of the strongest plots in the run, and newcomer George Lazenby does an adequate job as 007 in what would be his sole turn in the role. Too bad he didn't stick around, because he likely would have improved had he done more entries. The plot hews close to the source novel and this would have taken the #1 slot on my list if Connery had starred, but that minor quibble is made up for by brisk direction and incredible cinematography, a quick pace that belies its long running time, Telly Savalas as arguably the most formidable iteration of Blofeld, and Diana Rigg as the most tragic of the Bond women. The instrumental title theme is one of John Barry's best, and he kind of ripped himself off when more or less remaking it as the theme for the posthumous Bruce Lee film, GAME OF DEATH (1978).

 

2. CASINO ROYALE (2006) 

 

Enter the blonde Bond.

 

A superb, shattering modernization of the first Bond novel, as well as a soft reboot for the series, with not a missed note in the whole endeavor. Basically Bond's origin story, this one's so good, you won't care that Bond has a face like a bulldog and is a blonde. All of the elements fire on all cylinders, resulting in a top-notch 007 thriller.

 

1. FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE (1963)  

 

The rarest of the rare: an immediate sequel that far exceeds its predecessor. 

 

The second in the series and the most no-bullshit Bond of the entire run, as well as one of the best spy films ever made .This Hitchcock-influenced effort hews close to the source novel, largely eschews over-the-top gadgets and quips, and gives us a solid Cold War-era straight espionage thriller with excellent villains and arguably the best/most realistic fight scene in the entire series. Though it may come off kind of slow by modern standards, the strength here is the plot and the performances, all of which are top shelf. Especially memorable are Bond's Turkish ally, Ali Kerim Bey (Pedro Armendariz), Istanbul's more fun answer to MI-6's M; terrifying ultra-butch Russian SPECTRE agent Rosa Klebb (Lotte Lenya), whose overtly predatory dykiness must have been quite shocking some sixty years ago; psycho hitman Red Grant (Robert Shaw), and the lovely honey pot Soviet agent Tatiana Romanova (Daniella Bianchi), who is unwittingly played by SPECTRE and ends up in it way over her head. Simply put, this is everything a Cold War-era populist spy thriller should be, and it is in every an improvement on its predecessor.

And here's hoping that NO TIME TO DIE ends the Daniel Craig era with a bang, rather than a whimper!

From "8 James Bomb Bomb Movies" (MAD MAGAZINE #165, March 1974)

THE HORROR... THE HORROR...

 From 2005.

Here's another story from the barbecue joint trenches, and it sure as fuck ain't pretty.

On Friday night, "Cotton Ear," one of the joint's rotating cast of worthless douchebags, came back in and asked to use the bathroom. The woman in question is the wife of "The Troll," some idiot who tried during the early days of the joint to become our live entertainment as a guitarist while trying to pass his wife off as a singer (who purportedly had a brief career crooning at various rest stops along the New Jersey Turnpike; no, seriously). My boss gave the guy the nay-no but he persistently tried to weasel his way in, ultimately to no avail.

This couple is hard to get across to the casual reader because they are a true horror that must be personally witnessed in order to be understood. They are obviously junkies, never sober, are redolent of who-knows-what, and worst of all they have a beautiful infant daughter whom I am convinced was kidnapped. The vaginally-equipped portion of the pair even came in one night and asked me if we threw out food each day and if we'd give it to her and her verminous mate.

Anyway, on Friday night Bride of Troll came in and asked our bartender if she could once again use our bathroom. After her lavatorial visit, she promptly left and vanished into the night. Then our waitress attempted to use the facilities and recoiled as if avoiding the strike of King Cobra. "FUCK!" she cried, "It smells like the homeless!!!" Being the only staffer on duty at that time who was able to deal with the situation since the kitchen was closed and the bartender was otherwise engaged, your humble narrator girded his loins and opened the Ladies' Room door.

There are those who say that people who witness Cthulhu and other Lovecraftian horrors that man was not meant to experience go mad at the first exposure to such sheer, otherworldly evil, and I am here to say that I nearly gave up the last vestiges of my sanity upon crossing that threshold. I reeled as though physically assaulted by the horrific stench and, staggered though I was, I somehow managed to wobble into the kitchen and dig out the appropriate tools for handling such an olfactory Chernobyl, namely several rough bar rags and a surfeit of bleach in a spray bottle. With the theme from GHOSTBUSTERS playing in my head, I disconnected all emotion and got down to business. After pulling my shirt up over my nose and mouth to form a makeshift air filter, I entered the now-violated privy and sprayed bleach willy-nilly into the air, all while casting a critical eye over the entire room. The fetid miasma that cursed the atmosphere was without question the most powerful yeast infection waft in the history of pussy, and compounding that was the horror of that vile woman having somehow left her steaming, drippy feces on both sides of the toilet seat.

I had to clean that, folks.

After handling that douche-chill-inducing spectacle, I hit every surface in the restroom with bleach and called in a friend of the bar who happens to be a seriously experienced nurse to verify that it was safe for women to use. Once I was given the all-clear I retired to the bar and sucked down shot after shot of tequila in an attempt to soothe my shattered nerves. The next day I explained all of this to my boss — minus the screaming and cursing that occurred once I was out of that vortex of pestilence — and stated flatly that the musical goon and his plague-disseminating spouse be permanently banned from ever setting foot in the joint ever again, a decision made by all of the staff in attendance that night, especially since they only ever come in to drop their toxic waste and never spend a fucking cent on anything.

My boss — who is already rather pallid, being the spawn of Russian-American coal miners from Pennsylvania — visibly turned chalk white upon hearing of my ordeal and flatly approved the 86ing of the two offenders. I can't wait to tell them that they are no longer welcome...

REQUIEM

 From 2005.

 Last week another of the barbecue joint's cast of characters joined the Choir Invisible, and here is his story. 

One of the things that anyone who works in a bar/restaurant can tell you is that sooner or later you will encounter certain regulars/repeat customers who simply drive you right up the tree, and at the top of the list for me was Louis. The guy was a fifty-something Puerto Rican local who loudly expressed his disdain for Mexicans and was stinking rich thanks to real estate investments made by himself and his wife, but prior to my first encounter with him he had been a long-time intravenous drug abuser and due to that aspect of his lifestyle he developed a virulent case of HIV. Now I don’t know about you, but if I found out that I had the HIV and there was no cure in sight I would probably drink like a motherfucker from the moment I woke up until the second that my body finally could take no more and just shut itself down for a few hours, and that’s exactly what Louis did, every single day for years. 

During the nearly eight months that Louis frequented the barbecue joint I never — and I do mean NEVER — saw the guy sober. He’d show up totally blasted and ramble incoherently, the only understandable words issuing from his mouth being, “STEVIE! I NEED A SAN’WICH!!!” or “HEY, BOO-BOO! I NEED A SAN’WICH!!!” and it got to the point that if I or anyone else in the place saw him coming we’d have his sandwich and side of homemade sauce ready and in the bag within moments just so we could get him out of our hair. He was so plowed that he even once walked in, right past me, the dude who served him his brisket sandwiches every single day, found the only other black guy in the room (who looks NOTHING like me) and said to him, "STEVIE! I NEED A SAN'WICH!!!" Hell, it got to the point where we’d even bump his order to the top of the list on our busiest nights. I know that sounds unnecessarily mean, but due to his rampaging drunkenness the guy was a danger to himself and others, occasionally coming in clothed in his pajamas and covered from head to toe in his own blood after taking an inebriated spill, even going so far as to try to enter the kitchen in that state of disarray. Let’s get one thing perfectly clear right now: NO FUCKING WAY will I ever let such a major sanguinary biohazard into any kitchen I’m working in, and that’s that. 

Louis was allegedly kept on a short leash by his wife and given a limited allowance with which to buy various small items, including setting up a sandwich account with us, and he was eventually accompanied by a caretaker who guided him around the neighborhood and made sure that he didn’t spend his meager cash on some of the dirt-cheap horse to be found in some of the less savory establishments in the Greenwood Heights area. In recent months, provided his caretaker was elsewhere, he’d run up his tab and when he could no longer afford booze on his own he would attempt to borrow money from my boss, myself or any other staff member available and we’d all turn him down flat. After I finally put my foot down and told him in no uncertain terms that he would never get even one red cent from anyone in the barbecue joint, Louis staggered out of the establishment, deeply hurt by my stern standpoint, and stood outside attempting to shake down locals and random passersby for beer money. Since that strategy was met with success on the same level as that of CAN'T STOP THE MUSIC (the Village People movie that unofficially marked the end of the disco era), Louis moved on to other things. 

Periodically, Louis would be hospitalized for a week or two and forced to dry out under supervised conditions, but the minute he got out he’d hit the bottle hard once again, thereby rendering whatever prophylaxis he’d undergone thoroughly moot. Simply put, the guy was just too far gone to give a fuck. During the past month and a half Louis would come in and attempt to reminisce with my boss about various events that he was convinced that both of them had been involved in, events that my boss would flat out tell him he’d had no involvement in. The poor bastard was now totally delusional and we got to witness his swift descent into barely-functional madness. 

Which brings this narrative to just over a week ago and a few details supplied by an unimpeachable source.

I was in the kitchen on the Sunday in question and I heard Louis enter the joint and approach the bartender. He pulled out a $20 bill and informed the staffer that he was settling up his tab and that we should let our boss know that his account was now squared. He then left to wander down the block (at which point my source’s info kicks in) to the home of a local with whom he’d had a longstanding animosity. Upon arriving at the man’s apartment, Louis made peace with his enemy of old and staggered to the bodega to purchase several forty-ouncers of either Budweiser of Colt 45. Upon obtaining his beers, Louis went home and promptly began to vomit blood, so much so that he literally bled to death on his living room floor, in front of, some accounts say, his poor wife. 

The guy may have been a fucking nuisance and a biohazard, but nobody should go by puking up blood all over the goddamned place. 

The next couple of days following Louis‘s demise witnessed many locals coming in and sharing their memories of his sad life, and his nearly-toothless brother coming in for a few before shipping Louis‘s body back to Puerto Rico the next day. Handling his sibling’s passing with a sense of prepared inevitability, the brother was rather amiable throughout his time on the bar stool and candidly answered the one question I had during all of it: if Louis knew that by kicking booze and smack he could prolong his life for a few more years, then why not get help, especially if he was wealthy enough to afford it without even noticing a depletion in his bank account? His brother kicked down his Schaeffer tall-boy and simply said, “Hey, he liked to party a little too much, know what I mean?” Then some more relatives arrived and led the brother away, and with that Louis was relegated to the annals of the lore of the barbecue joint. 

POSTSCRIPT:

Furthering my theory that by working at the barbecue joint I am living as part of the revolving cast of a soap opera/sitcom, shortly after the death of Louis, an old man who looked like one of the rummies who hang out at the local V.F.W. sat down at the bar and ordered a beer. The old duffer launched into the well-worn spiel that the staff endured from many of the older, alky locals, namely about living in the area since the Cretaceous era, hating the way the neighborhood is changing (translation: young, educated people who have actually been somewhere else are ruining their provincial tribalism), blah blah blah, all while clearly settling in for hours of drinking and boring us with his droning/slurring nonsense. 

 

Our beleaguered barkeep, Jeff, walked into the kitchen in an attempt to get a moment’s peace — it was early on Sunday and there was no one in the bar except two of the cool locals and the old guy — and I headed out behind the bar for a glass of milk (hey, it was early!). The old coot reached across the bar and grabbed my wrist, offering “Hey! My name’s Donnie and I was in here on da night youse guys opened! I forgot ta leave a tip fer da red-haired guy behind da bahr, so could youse give it ta him fer me? I wanna be a regular, so I wanna start widda fresh tab…” 

 

I hurried back to sanctuary in the kitchen and watched as Jeff suffered through more of the coffin-dodger’s inane ramblings until the old man eventually staggered away, apparently displeased at Jeff not having heard his softly-slurred request for another beer. The old turd didn’t even leave a tip, a fairly common custom with some of the older locals. Hopefully he won’t return, but the whole scene felt like an audition for the role of our new irritating barfly. 

 

Life goes on…

 

WELCOME TO MY WORLD

From 2006.

One of the fun things about maintaining this blog is having some of the regulars at the barbecue joint as fervent readers of my ramblings, presumably entertained by the true-life narrative revolving around the place where many of them eat their fill and get soused on an almost daily basis. However, with a few exceptions, most of the regulars do not ever get to witness the parade of lunatics and losers that I often chronicle, and some began to wonder if my tales of drunkenness and mental illness were merely figments of my febrile imagination. Allow me to provide a case in point.

Two of my regular attendees and readers are Chez and Jayne, a charming and genteel couple with whom I hit it off immediately. I'd say that I see either or both of them on about four out of my five days/nights on duty and they had yet to behold the spectacle of the random loonies who periodically cross over into our little barbecue world. 

Until the other evening. 

 Chez pulled up a seat at the bar shortly after 5PM and proceeded to get his drink on while waiting for Jayne to join him after getting off from work. About a half hour later a rotund, middle-aged man appeared at the door and stared at it quizzically for a few moments. I could almost see the mice running on the treadmill in his cranium in an attempt to fire up his synapses enough to process exactly how to gain entry into the joint. His ham hand unsteadily grasped at the space opposite the door handle, and after about a minute of my boss and I gazing in wonder at his futile efforts to open the door from the wrong angle he sussed out the problem and stumbled in.

In one of those rip-the-needle-off-the-record moments the fellow blearily scanned his surroundings and presently locked his gaze on my boss, who was behind the bar and therefore the man to talk to in order to obtain volatile libations. My boss and I exchanged a knowing glance in agreement over the guy's fucked up state, a condition that he instantly verified by mumbling something rather unintelligible that was apparently "I want some more shots!!!" Now let me tell you in no uncertain terms that this guy was majorly shitfaced — and I should know from such things — at a mere 5:30PM, so there was no way in hell that my boss was going to serve the dude. For those who do not know, it's against New York State law to serve liquor to someone who is visibly intoxicated, and this guy was in no way coherent. 

My boss politely refused the guy any more liquor but made it clear that we would be happy to serve him soft drinks or food. Our ever-on-the-ball waitress/goddess, Tracey, breezed over to the table where the walking amalgam of gin sugars had situated himself and sweetly walked him through the menu with the patience of a saint, a task made all the more difficult by English being the guy's second language, and none of the staff are even remotely conversant in Polish. 

After Tracey successfully skirted the language barrier, the guy finally agreed upon a pulled pork sandwich with a side of macaroni and cheese. While waiting for his sandwich the walking wasted gestured wildly, apparently irked because he thought our ceiling was dirty, and he suggested that he'd be willing to repaint it for us. That bit of grasping for work led to him asking if he could do general chores for us for cash (or so I could gather from his slurred speech), a notion politely rebuffed by my boss. 

Presently his sandwich arrived, and when Tracey set it down in front of him he stared at it like it was a serpent, coiled and ready to strike at him. This standoff went on for the next ten minutes or so, and when he finally scarfed into the sweltering swine flesh I fervently placed a silent prayer to whatever barbecue gods there may be that the dude wouldn't blow Thunderbird-marinated chow all over the table. During all of this Chez — remember him? One of the subjects of this entry? — sat wondering how the staff put up with such nonsense on a daily basis, all while girding his sensibilities with steady doses of Budweiser. 

Soon, Jayne showed up and joined her husband at the bar, and was swiftly brought up to speed on the unfolding dramedy. At that point Tracey gave our bombed guest his check, and the guy then managed to convey to us that he was homeless and had no cash. He wandered into the men's room, and upon coming out he spotted Jayne, whom he walked up to and said "I'll see you later," apparently confusing her for Saint Tracey of Greenwood. He then packed up his belongings and departed. 

What the fuck could we do but let him leave? My boss concluded that by letting the guy off he was scoring points for his own personal karma, so what the hell? 

Once the deadbeat cleared out, Chez and Jayne went off for about a half hour about finally experiencing what I write about and extending kudos to the staff for our seemingly endless patience with this sort of shit. 

Welcome to my world, motherfuckers.

THE THINGS YOU MISS WHILE YOU'RE AWAY

From 2006.

I expected to have missed some small bits of drama during my time away from the barbecue joint, but I never expected anything like the story I’m about to relate. 

When I walked in yesterday my boss asked me, “Hey! Did you hear about the brick attack?” I had no idea what the fuck he was talking about, so he told me, and along with the eyewitness accounts of those on shift and a few of thee locals I was able to piece together the details. 

Last Tuesday night at 11:19 PM, one of our neighbors, a woman named Magnolia, was awakened by a repeating heavy “THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!” near her rear window. When she got up to see what was happening she was shocked to see a guy atop the roof of a building on 20th Street — right around the corner from the barbecue joint — hurling bricks for no apparent reason. Magnolia then called the police who showed up en masse and the brick hurler quickly directed his attention to them, lobbing bricks with an arm that would have made New York Yankee Randy Johnson green with envy. The guy was atop a roof several houses away from the intersection, yet he managed to nail one cop in the foot, bounced bricks off of the other cops’ riot shields, and crack a couple of police car windshields. 

The barbecue joint’s waitress/goddess, Tracey, had just finished hosting the first of her Tuesday night Battle Hill poetry readings in the restaurant — drop in on the first Tuesday of each month and get some fucking culture, ya douchebag!!! — when she looked outside and saw a gathering of policemen looking up toward a rooftop. Fearless to a fault, Tracey went outside to see what was up, thinking it was the kids who live upstairs chucking wads of wet paper towels onto the sidewalk like they did last summer, and noticed a police car with an enormous hole in its windshield. “Fucking great,” she thought, “those kids have graduated to throwing bricks at cop cars and they’re gonna be in a world of fucking MAJOR trouble!” Ever the chronicler of local goings-on, Tracey whipped out her digital camera and began to snap away, having her husband, Brendan, pose next to the shattered window as though he had punched through it with his fist, at which point they saw a brick go flying toward the gendarmes. 

The thrower was now clearly visible and heaping invective upon his victims. “Nobody protected my girlfriend!” he yelled as he retreated to the roof of the under-construction condo to replenish his supply of ammunition. Meanwhile, Tracey, Brendan, and a few of the regulars gathered across the street in front of the convenience store for a ringside seat, utterly unworried about being pegged with a projectile because the thrower was specifically targeting the cops. By this time it was obvious that the guy was either out of his mind or on drugs or maybe even both, so the confrontation escalated to include a searchlight-equipped helicopter and a fully geared-up SWAT team, complete with snipers. 

As he continued to chuck cement blocks from the rooftop battlements, the SWAT professionals drew a laser-targeted bead on his chest, only to be interrupted by the thrower’s mother who positioned herself between her son and the automatic weapons. “Don’t shoot! He is confused!” screamed his mother in a heavy Brooklyn/Latino accent, a diversion that allowed the masonry-flinger to withdraw the ladder he had used to access the roof. He fled to another building, all under the fascinated scrutiny of Tracey and Brendan, who had themselves climbed onto another rooftop for an unobstructed view. The fleeing masonry pitcher then used a shovel to break into another building in a bid to escape, but the cops had figured out where he would exit so they apprehended him and tasered the shit out of him. 

The next day my boss came in and was surprised to see the remnants of the yellow “crime scene” tape across the barbecue joint’s front door. Upon getting all the details he went outside and retrieved one of the thrown bricks as a restaurant keepsake, an item that now sits on our shelf of oddball tchochkes — a bottle of Laotian snake whiskey with an actual King Cobra in it, a “barbecue Barbie” who looks like a twelve-inch trailer park chippie, a ceramic blackface Minnie mouse, and other hideous excellence — complete with the following day’s news story on the incident from the New York Post.