Category Archives: moldies but moodies

221 Hillman Drive

I slept so well Thursday night into Friday morning that I woke up thinking it was Saturday. A very good night’s sleep, I would have preferred another hour or two, but that’s not how it goes these days, and I guess I’m fine with that. Bill is on the road, Mike is at his crib in Jersey City, and things are back to relative normalcy.

I sit at my desk in Manhattan on 5th Avenue listening to the story of Jamaican music. I recall buying this for Julio back in the day when it came out. He was buying one for me, and I was going to buy one for him, but Richard Gere beat us to it. He was buying a copy for Cindy Crawford, to whom he was married at the time. This was all in the basement of Tower Records on West 4th Street and Broadway in the 90s.

It was a nice morning, and then at noon, when I got my lunch hour, and turned out to be raining, so my wandering around the area was somewhat curtailed. I walked down West 19th Street past where the Magickal Childe store used to be. It is now a store specializing in vinyl records. I went with Laszlo Papp in the early ’80s.

Laszlo was into things that created a shock value. Laszlo and I worked together at Harcourt Brace Jovanovich back then. My mother remembered working with him before I started working with him, telling me that he was such a good boy and left work on a Friday looking like such a good boy and coming back on Monday morning looking like he was a member of The Sex Pistols.

Laszlo and I were born on September 12th, so we had that in common as well as liking a lot of the new music that was happening at the time, punk and New Wave, or what is now known as postpunk. He was somewhat of an influence on me, so much so that I quit a job because he sort of mocked me for still having that job.

In hindsight, was it a mistake? I don’t know. It wasn’t a good move at the time, but it set me on a path that I am still on to this day, 41 years later, hahaha. I used to give lots of money to Lazlo to buy 45s for me when he went into the city to buy records for himself.

He got tired of doing that and suggested that I go along with him, so I did, which opened up a whole new world for me, a child and product of 1970s suburbia. I did have some adventures with Laszlo, some good, some bad. He still tolerated my naivete or innocence, which, to his credit, did me good.

The last time I saw Laszlo, he was smoking an El Rey de Mundo cigar on Astor Place. I walked up to him and said hello, complimented him on the cigar, and he gave me another cigar of his own, which is good manners for cigar smokers. I have searched for him online, and he doesn’t have much of an online presence or anything with regard to social media.

Laszlo really enjoyed hardcore punk, which is where we diverged musically. I’ve often wondered how he’s doing, he was a few years older than me, so he probably still is. It was awfully nice of him to let me tag along on his New York City adventures.
I am currently taking an online course in sexual harassment…apparently, I’ve been doing it wrong.

Scratchy Collapsy

Well here we are again, May 12. Not my favorite day, even though it’s a beautiful day, I would rather the date itself be different. But it’s Mother’s Day today just like it was 22 years ago. There’s been a twist added the past couple of years. The cigar shack of course plays a part. In 2011 the manager of the store announced he was leaving which threw me for a loop. I did congratulate him as he was leaving and also his reluctant successor also got some praise. I explained sometime later to the departing manager why May 12 loomed large in my legend.

Last year around the date and on Mother’s Day he sent me a tweet saying he was thinking of me knowing that this time of year ain’t so good for me. I thought that was nice. On my Twitter account was a link to this here blog (it’s still there) and I guess my former manager had the time to follow the link. He read what I had written and in turn contacted my then current manager, the reluctant one- and told him about this here blog.

The reluctant manager was out in NJ at some Giants football cigar to do and more than likely had a few in him, so when he sent an email thinking it was going to his underling, it was actually sent to me. So I knew the score, the reluctant manager’s cover was blown and less than a week later I was released, shown the door and told that my services were no longer required. I haven’t been back since and I do miss chatting with my former co-workers, but then again we do touch base via Facebook.

It was not as devastating as 1991 I can tell you. So today has been nice, mellow. A phone call with Annemarie, with posting and seeing posts on Facebook from family and friends, emails from Irene Grant from where I grew up, wishing the best and filling me in on her mother’s condition (frail). But I’m not gloomy, nor am I resentful.

The past two nights at Maxwell’s have been slow. Friday night was busier than Saturday night and that’s not saying much. At least on Friday I worked the whole shift, last night I went home at 11:00. Bad scheduling I would say. Friday had five bands, the first one had the largest audience, mainly family members and their friends. Saturday, two bands, first one on at 8:00, headliner on at 9:00 and it was basically all over by 10:00.

And unnervingly the first band (or one guy) Johnny Nicholson sounded a bit like Port St. Willow, whom I’ve been championing on this here blog. At least Johnny Nicholson did when I checked out some of his opening slot. I went to far as to email Nick Principe aka Port St. Willow asking if he had heard of Johnny Nicholson. I was tempted to ask Johnny Nicholson if he heard Port St. Willow but I let the moment pass instead. The headliner Trixie Whitley was a little too twee for me to see more than I did.
Bill is off visiting his mother at the home she is currently residing in, up in Washington Heights/Inwood. I’m watching Ian Dury and the Blockheads videos since today is also Ian Dury’s birthday. That’s about all this is going on, on this end of this here blog.

And we hope Mr. Peabody is on the mend.
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My Mom and me.

My Mom and me.