Italians and Mob Memories of Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

Italians and Mob Memories of Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

Text © Robert Barry Francos / FFanzeen, 2021
Images from the Internet

If one grew up in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, NY, in the 1960s and 1970s, it did not matter what nationality you were, you knew someone who was associated with the Italian mob directly or indirectly, and it was like a spinal form that hovered over the neighborhood, being the nerve center that permeated the very air.

The neighborhood joke was that the mob kept the locality safe, and they only killed each other, so that made the area pretty safe. Without glorifying it in any way, there was a certain level of truth to that. Crime such as burglaries or street robberies were exceedingly low at that period.

The part of Bensonhurst I grew up in was a pretty even mix of Italian and Jewish, and a smattering of Irish – although the further north you went, the higher the percentage of Italians – and an extremely limited number of Asian and African-American. Of the latter two, I only knew of two families of each. The two Asian families owned the competing Chinese restaurants (no take-out joints at that time, which would come in the 1980s) along 86 Street, between 20 Avenue and Bay Parkway. There were two pizza parlors (Neil’s, on 20 Avenue just north of 86 Street, and Lenny’s, on 86 Street just west of 20 Avenue, the latter of which was made famous in the opening credits for Saturday Night Fever) and two Kosher Delis (Hy Tulip, directly across the street from Lenny’s, and another one on 86 Street, just east of Bay Parkway, which we referred to as “The other side of Bay Parkway”; this is where the opening credits from “Welcome Back Kotter” was shot). The lone Italian restaurant was the Villa Borghese, on the corners of Bath Avenue and 20 Avenue.

Of course, there were other pizza parlors in the area, such as the Pizza Den on 18 Avenue, between 86 Street and New Utrecht Avenue, which was in the background in a scene from Steven Segal and Jerry Orbach’s Out for Justice (1991; my dad took some pix of the filming), and one on 18 Avenue and 86 Street.

The “American” style restaurants were essentially diners, as The Richelieu on 86 Street, east of 2 Avenue and The New Dyker, next to the Pizza Den. These were all within walking distance of my abode. One of them, however, the Vegas Diner on 86 Street and 16 Avenue (closed in 2017, and is now the Golden Palace Chinese Restaurant), was known to be “connected” to the mob and one of their hangouts, but we always felt safe eating there among the wiseguys.

Being non-Italian, I still had indirect connections. For example, there were two related families in my building whose dads worked regular jobs, but according to my parents, were connected to the mob. I never saw any indication of this other than these families wore some pretty fancy church-going clothes. I did not get along with them thanks to their obnoxious and rude daughters (who were a couple of years younger than me) on both sides.

It was all around. For example, the guy who had a limp and ran the local newspaper concession below the 20 Avenue B Line (changed to the D Line since 2001), had a side business of “taking numbers” for the local mob. What this entailed (or maybe still does) is basically illegal gambling. The bettor would pick a number, and if that number showed up in a specific place in the daily newspaper, you’d win; it’s sort of alike an early, bootleg version of the Lotto. On occasion (i.e., every few months), my dad would give it a try, but I don’t remember him ever winning anything.

My first employer, Alex, from where I delivered fruit by bicycle from his shop when I was between 13 through 16 years old, sold cigarettes for the mob, including to my mother. More amusing stories about Alex the Fruit Man are HERE.  On the way to work, there were usually a guy or two sitting outside an apartment building on 20 Avenue, across from Neil’s Pizza (now called La Bella’s Pizza). They kept an eye on the area, would be the people to talk to if you has issues (such as being robbed), and possibly also taking numbers.

 

While I was an usher at the Marboro Theater on 69 Street and Bay Parkway (since torn down and a CVS Pharmacy in its place), at least three of the ushers either were connected, or related to members. When I was transferred to the Alpine Theater on 69 Street and Fourth Avenue in Bay Ridge, again, some of the ushers were connected by family to the Family. As far as I know, there were no external crimes at either theater while I was employed there (I am pretty sure some of the ushers and cashiers did have a thing with ticket swapping, and I know one of the managers definitely did).

When I worked as the typesetter for a Third Avenue Bay Ridge weekly newspaper called The Weekly (affectionately known to the workers as “The Eekl,” as the “W” and “Y” were missing from the sign out front) during the late 1970s, there was someone there whom I will refer to as Mr. M (as I don’t remember his name) who proudly claimed to be part of the Omerta. I was wondering why someone with those connections would be working for a small, community newspaper. I also didn’t question it, but we got along congenially. When a co-worker got mad at me when I insisted that Brian from Monty Python’s Life of Brian (1979) was not Jesus as the character of Jesus appears in the film, he threatened to take me outside. Mr. M asked me if he wanted me to “take care of him.” I said no for a few reasons, such as I knew it would blow over and it did, and second, I did not want to be owing Mr. M a favor. One time, Mr. M invited me over for dinner to meet his wife and toddler child. I accepted the invite, but was unnerved by the loaded handgun on the nightstand. I thought to myself, “Really? With a small child running around?” I never mentioned it to him, never went back, and lost touch after I left the job shortly after that (but not because of that incident; I got a better job as a typesetter for First Boston, a major corporation located in the World Trade Center; now neither the occupation, the company, nor the WTC exists).

 

81 Street and 18 Avenue

I only know of two “hits” that occurred in the area around me, one being in front of a dry cleaner on Bath Avenue (technically, that’s the neighborhood of Bath Beach, but often it was combined with Bensonhurst), and the other some smart ass goombah shot by the front entrance of his apartment on 81 Street, just off 18 Avenue (across from Milestone Park, about two avenue blocks away from me) by his girlfriend’s father from Staten Island. I saw the blood stains on the street of the latter when I passed it the next day.

 

Through all these encounters, I never once felt personally threatened by the presence of the mob, though many of the bullies I have encountered in my life were the Tony Manero types who had connected family and had the cocky “do you know who my dad/uncle is?” attitude and ego.

All that being said, if you grew up in my neighborhood at the time I matured…well, aged into adulthood, there was a little bit of Italiano that crept into your life, your personality, and very being. I have been told that when I read Spanish aloud, I do it with an Italian accent.

 

True digression story: I was visiting my Aunt Elsie and Uncle Al in Lauderhill, FL, in the early 1980s. Elsie asked me to go to the strip mall across from her condo and order a large pie from a shop called “New York Pizza.” I went in and ordered it. The guy behind the counter took out the pie dough that’s 12 inches across. I said, “No, a large pizza,” as a large in Bensonhurst is 18 inches. He responded, “This is a large pizza,” in an accent familiar to me. So, I replied, “No, cougino, not molto poco, I want molto grosso, capisce? Then he said something to me in Italian, to which I responded, quite truthfully as I only know a few phrases, “Non capisce Italiano.” He squinted his eyes and said, “Where ya from?” I said, “20th and 81st.” No avenue, no street, just the numbers. He smiled and said, “I’m from 78th and 18th,” just a few blocks away. While we talked about the neighborhood, he took two 12-inch pies and melded them together so it took the shape of a race track, and made that into my pie. He broke two boxes so it would fit, and taped it up, charging me for one. That piasan was a mensch.

 

Once was Alex's Fruit Stand

Over time, the neighborhood changed. Many locals thought it was a bad thing, but I believe it was for the better. As my generation moved out to the suburbs or Staten Island, it created a void that was filled by especially Russians and Chinese, but there is also Mexicans, Polish, Kosovo Albanians, and so many others. Ethnic shops and restaurants now abound. As the storefront of American and International Foods, where Alex’s fruit shop once sat, states, “Foods from Israel, Turkey, Italia, Spain, Bulgaria, Egypt, Russia & Europe.” Diversity is good. Whether the mob still has influence on the area, I have no idea. Perhaps they either share the space or have been replaced by the Tong and Russian mobs, I could not tell you as I have not lived there for a while.

 

FFuture FFile reprinted from FFanzeen Magazine, Part 1 [1981-83]

Text © Robert Barry Francos / FFanzeen, 2021

Images from the Internet, unless indicated

One of the reasons I started my print fanzine in 1977, was to help publicize the unknown bands that I was going to see in the clubs that did not get enough notice. In the early 1980s, I started a column called “FFuture FFile,” which were short blurbs about new and up-and-comers, so the musicians could use it for publicity. They were written by different authors. Below, I have reprinted the musicians or bands in alphabetical order (rather than chronologically, and by first name if a single artist), who wrote it, and in which year/issue, the piece was published. Even though they had varying levels of success, they all deserved some notice. On occasion, I will add an update at the end of the particular pieces. Where I can, I will attach a photo and/or video.

Photo (c) RBF

Boy’s Life

By Robert Barry Francos

Issue 8; 1981

When they first started playing out in February 1980, Boy’s Life were too young to be patrons in most of the bars they played. They named themselves after the offical Boy Scout magazine, and used to appear on stage in Scout uniforms. Well, they’ve matured over the almost two yeas and no long wear uniforms, but their initial excitement is still present. This Boston-based (Malden, actually) band didn’t make much of a mark in New York until they opened for Stiff Little Fingers at the Peppermint Lounge. At first, the audience wasn’t impressed with these young guys and showed them such by (quite tackily) throwing cherries at them. But by the time Robert Weiner (drums), Joe McCormack (bass), Neal Sugarman (sax), and John Surette (lead singer and guitar) were ending their act, the audience gave them a rousing cheer – in fact, to bring them back for an encore. They surprised all. While up in Boston this last Memorial Day, I got a chance to see Boy’s Life at the Rat, in their natural habitat (i.e., Boston) and quite honestly, New York has no idea how exciting this band can be. We’ve never seen them at their best, even when they opened for Echo & the Bunnymen at the Ritz in October. Their influences are obvious: Clash, Jam and Pistols; and not obvious: Beatles, Who, and Kinks. With a few independent records to their name, they have been listed as one of the top unsigned bands in the country by a number of top music mags. Boy’s Life is constantly growing, and their popularity increases as well. Their latest single, “Two Doors Down” and “I Found Her” is now available.

[John Surette has been in bands such as the Deniros and the Ex-Girlfriends, and appears in on-stage rock operas in the Boston area. – RBF, 2021]

Photo (c) RBF

The Corpsicles

By Julia Masi

Issue 9; 1982

Over the oversized graphic of a menacing-looking popsicle, the Corpsicles – Philip Freeze, vocals and guitar; Luke Warm, bass, and Mike Leary, drums – knock out a sound that they call “straight-drivin’-through-New York stuff.” They’re reminiscent of the Ramones and the Heartbreakers at their best, with the essence of hardcore and a strong aura of originality that lets their tongue-in-cheek style put them in a class all their own. Right now, Philip writes all the songs, like “Sex with You,” “Poison Blood,” “Confusion,” and “Don’t Judge Me,” and dedicates them to the depressed, the mentally ill, and vampires. “The whole Corpsicles idea,” Philip explains, “is that you have to be an individual. And people that are individuals are sort of repressed. I like people that are off the wall. It’s good to be a little mentally ill.” He describes the band as a sort of free arrangement. I like to get out there and give it all I have. It’s this expression; if everyone expresses themselves to the fullest, it’s just this energy. As long as I see progress, I’m happy. You really have to stick it out. I just want to have a good time playing. We try. We like a lot of different types of music. But this what we do.” And they do it well.

The Cosmopolitans

By Stacy Mantel and Alan Abramowitz

Issue 7; 1981

“A lot of music that people are dancing to is depressing. Today, people are in a horrible depression,” says Jamie Sims, vocalist and songwriter for the Cosmopolitans. And her prescription for rock’n’roll health is to “present an idea of a party rather than a serious thing.” They proved this with their single “How to Keep Your Husband Happy” b/w “Wild Moose Party,” on Shake Records. A hit with Vassar coeds among others, “Husband Happy” epitomizes this sentiment; that parody, fun, and rock’n’roll can co-exist. Jamie got the idea from an early ‘60s Debbie Drake record that Nel Moore (co-lead vocalist, who doubles on metal pot and baton) gave her, which lists ways to keep the hubby hooked. “I didn’t make them up, they’re real,” says Jamie. “It was so ridiculous. I had to do something.” The Cosmopolitans are Jamie and Nel, lead vocals; David Itch, guitar; Evan “Funk” Davies on drums (and host of WNYU’s New Afternoon show); and Fran Kowalski on keyboards. Jamie and Nel had a modest start in rock’n’roll as go-go girls for the dBs and the Fleshtones, and they plan to give dancing lessons at upcoming gigs. However, it may be difficult to dance instead of watching two girls in pink fringy min-skirts bopping about, but Jamie isn’t really bothered: “I just pretend it’s a party, and not everyone’s gonna dance.” So be prepared to learn the Frug, Jerk, Fly, et. al.

The Donny Fury Band

By Stacy Mantel

Issue 7; 1981

The Donny Fury Band is a lively mix of crazies who also happen to have fun with electronic guitars and such. If, perchance, you are able to catch the multi-colored, leather-clad quartet at the local haunt, you will be entertained in a fashion not unknown to us. The group tries its best to bring audience participation to a peak; Donny offers the mic to a frenetic-looking individual right near the stage or dives in and hunts for one of the congregation. “We do whatever strikes our fancy,” Donny states. DFB includes one Cee Cee on vocals (who also manages CBGBs); Donny Fury (who also has his own recording studio where they produced their single, “Plastic Man” b/w “Wild West”) is the guitarist; along with Pat Dime on drums and Jeff Hosang on bass. They create a sound which Cee Cee describes as “very pop and vocal-oriented with importance place on harmonies. “We’re not just a band to listen to, we’re a visual stage show, as well.” One of their songs features Donny on slide guitar, using a vibrator; and when that isn’t available, he’ll use a big, bright banana, instead. Did I hear someone whisper “phallic”?

Fats Deacon and the Dumbwaiters

By Stacy Mantel

Issue 7; 1981

“Rock’n’roll got so far away, it was hard to communicate with it,” says Fats Deacon, front man and keyboardist for Fats Deacon and the Dumbwaiters, one of the more thrilling rock’n’roll bands to hit the scene in years. “Everything’s been done (in music) so now everyone just wants to enjoy it.” There’s something real and human about the gimmickless Dumbwaiters. Their songs are about kids in the streets and real-life melodrama/mediocrity. Their single, “Two by Four” b/w “American Boy,” on Songshop Records, is a prime example of Deacon’s desire to “touch the audience and relate to them.” Fats, who describes his music as “American,” says “We’re a mixture between Meat Loaf and Little Richard; very powered rock’n’roll, but not shallow.” He claims that rock’n’roll got away from the audiences, and that synthesizers took the human feel out of it. As well as “cleaning up” rock’n’roll by singing songs about reality vs. fantasy, the group features Addle Murray on tenor sax. Her horn blows everyone away. Ex-MC5 and Gang War member Wayne Kramer returns on guitar, with Denny Reynolds on bass and Joey Bones on drums. Fats, whose influences include Jerry Lee Lewis, Sly and the Family Stone, and Springsteen, could comment for hours on the history of rock’n’roll’s racial segregation, and will fascinate anyone who inquires with this talented musician. If you wander into a club one night and hear them, you will probably be hooked.

Fred’s Band

By Lisle McKenty

Issue 7; 1981

After many tries, Columbia University has finally produced a band with more than just pretensions to rock’n’roll. It’s Fred’s Band, the “rockingest, boppingest hep cats,” claims one of their fans. Unlike various predecessors, this band has, and is, fun. Fred’s Band is led by Maximilian Dietshe on lead guitar, in fierce competition with rhythm guitarist Danny Ferrira. The vocals are handled with care and cunning by Steve Szilagyi, who double-threats on bass. This trio is backed-up by drummer Bob Wolf. Or maybe it’s them who back him up. Their tunes run half original and half covers. Their covers – from “Blue Suede Shoes” to some risky Beatles, all come off, well, sincerely. No matter how many times you heard them before, they’ll move your feet. But they are hardly a cover band. Their original tunes are well-crafted and show their idiom inside-out. In particular, “Lanky Frankie” and “Rockabilly Girlfriend” stand out. Fred’s Band is a rockabilly dance band, something you – and they – can never forget.

[At some point after this, Lisle was married for a while to Danny. – RBF, 2021]

Photo (c) RBF

Jo Marshall

By Robert Barry Francos

Issue 8; 1981

“Whaddya say we go down to CBGBs and catch the act tonight?”

“Whoz playin’?”

“Jo Marshall.”

“Never heard of ‘im. Who is he?”

“Not ‘he,” schmuck, she.”

“She!? I don’t know…she’s got a guy’s name.”

“A guy she sure ain’t. Trust me on that.”

“Cute, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. Nice bod and weird eyes. Nice-weird.”

“Yeah, and I bet she can’t sing worth a shit and no one notices ‘cause of her looks.”

“Bullshit. And I can prove it: look-it, first time she went into a studio, a fan of hers did backup. You know who that was? Joey Ramone. Yeah, and Elvis wrote a song called ‘Mighty Man’ for her.”

“Didn’t he die?”

“No, asshole. I mean Costello.”

“So did I.”

“Anyways, she went over to England and did some recording at Nick Lowe’s studio. Hey, and are you ready for this; she uses a steel-petal guitar in her band. Only it don’t sound nothing like some shit-kicker band. They really do some great kickass rock’n’roll. There’s Ed Bierley on petal-steel, Jerry Mitnick on bass, Carl Nelchloss on lead guitar and David Rosenberg on drums, and they’re great. Songs are great, too. My fave’s ‘Stop Looking at Her.’”

“Whadda we waitin’ for?”

[I had heard that Jo passed away, but have not found any information on it online. – RBF, 2021]

You Are What You Eat: Questionable Cultural Cuisine

Text © Robert Barry Francos / FFanzeen, 2021
Images from the Internet
Recipes included in the hyperlinks

You Are What You Eat: Questionable Cultural Cuisine

When I was a whippet of a man, I worked in a theater as an usher. One of the films to play during my tenure was Lucille Ball’s oddly musical film version of the play, Mame (1974). There is a scene in it where Mame invites her nephew’s fiancée and parents to dinner to kinda get revenge for an uncomfortable meal with her racist family. During the dinner, one of the foods that is brought out is, if I remember correctly as I have not seen the movie since, monkey brains (shades of 1980’s Cannibal Holocaust). The nephew eats it with no problem as he grew up with it, while the fiancée is disgusted. This planted a thought in my head, which is as follows:

Every culture has at least one food that just about every other culture will find to be gross.

For example, I grew up in a middle-class Jewish household, where a regular staple was a cold cut that was made from cows’ tongue – also known as beef tongue – though we just called it tongue. It was delicious, and I was shocked to find out that the Italian kids at school were completely taken aback by it. I did not understand, as it was yummy on a sandwich with some mustard spread upon it.

Over the years, there were other foods that I would eat regularly that made people cringe, such as schmaltz, or rendered (clarified, or melted) chicken fat that was refrigerated and then used as a spread in the same way as salted butter. This is what was originally meant by a schmear, before it was appropriated as a description of spreading cream cheese. Mel Brooks once proclaimed, I believe it was on the “Tonight Show,” the number one killer of Jews is the food they eat.” This is an example why. In the old shtetl days, Jews ate chickens every Friday night for the Sabbath, and it was natural to use whatever they could, so schmaltz was used on bread. A friend of mine in college was repulsed by the idea of it, so I brought it in on a slice of bread, which she hesitantly ate, and her eyes grew big and she said, “Wow, this is amazing!”

My mother was well aware of the lack of healthiness of the product, which she would make herself, and we almost exclusively had it the week of Passover. My favorite way to eat schmaltz was if you quickly wet a matzo sheet, give it a schmear, and then spread some course salt (also known as koshering salt) over it. Man, as a kid I could eat that all day. As I grew older, I probably have not eaten it since the early ‘70s, but still remember the taste.

 

What surprised me was how reviled gefilte fish was outside of the Jewish household. All it contains is ground deboned carp, whitefish, and/or pike. We would eat it with horseradish, starting with the red kind, moving up to the stronger white as we got older and our tastebuds matured a bit.

 

Going in the other direction, speaking of fish, I never understood the appeal of the Norwegian (mostly) dish called Lutefisk. As Wikipedia  accurately describes it, “Lutefisk is dried whitefish. It is made from aged stockfish, or dried and salted cod, pickled in lye. It is gelatinous in texture after being rehydrated for days prior to eating.” It is then either boiled or baked and is usually served around Christmastime. I had it a couple of times, and could not get past the gelatinous texture. I had to have some bread to force it down. Not because of the taste, but the consistency. To be fair, I also revile the gelatin that forms in the jars of refrigerated gefilte fish, which my parents loved. Yet I like gelatin pudding. Go figure.

 

There are a couple of easy ones, the foremost being that Scottish mainstay Haggis.  And what exactly is Haggis? It is sheep’s lungs, liver, and heart, mixed with beef, and encased in a sheep’s stomach, and then cooked. It is one of the rare foods that is actually illegal to import to the United States, though it’s fine to make it on your own. From what I understand, it is a bit hard and time consuming to make (have you ever tried cutting up a heart? They are tough, man). I have had haggis a couple of times – I believe it was a North American abbreviated version – and it wasn’t too bad; I actually liked it, but it was a tough chew if I remember correctly. I have eaten beef heart before (not fond of it because, again, of its tough texture), and I love liver; lungs are something for which I am not familiar.

No recipe for this one: in parts of Asia, it is common to eat household pets like dogs and cats. Cats are more for “medicinal” reasons, but dogs are regularly served. In fact, just in August of 2020, Kim Jong-un of Korea ordered citizens to hand over their pet dogs to be used for food. Obviously, there is no PETA in that country. When I was a teen, there was a local Asian take-out restaurant (86 Street and 21 Avenue, in Brooklyn) that was shut down for selling “pet meat.” They used strays for beef substitutes to unknowing patrons, in order to save money, a theme right out of Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (“What I call enterprise / Popping pussies in pies / Wouldn’t do in my shop / Just the thought of it’s enough to make you sick / And I’m telling you them pussy cats is quick”). To be honest, I never ate from there.

 

Southwestern North America has its own variety of food that makes people from elsewhere wince, namely prairie oysters (also known as Rocky Mountain oysters). For those who do not know, these are the castrated testicles of bulls. They were ordinary around a cow pie fire in the old West while moving herds, but it’s less common now, but still considered a delicacy in certain parts of the country. In fact there is even a recipe collection by Ljubomir Erovic called The Testicle Cookbook. Apparently there are lots of different ways to cook them if you have the – er – balls. Never had them but I may if they are the deep-fried versions.

There are plenty of other what some may consider strange foods from around the world, including mealy worms, chocolate covered ants and grasshoppers, deep fried butterfly wings and shark fin soup. I have never tried any of these, but my uncle once brought my brother and I a can of the chocolate covered bugs (both kinds) when we were tykes. We opened the cans, but we couldn’t bring ourselves to eat them.

 

What cultural foods that others are turned off by that you love? Perhaps the dreaded Canadian-invented pineapple pizza? For me, for example, I love pizza Napoli (with anchovy). Feel free to add your own in the blog comments.

Book Review: Saving Grace, by DM Barr

Text © Robert Barry Francos / FFanzeen, 2019
Images from the Internet

 

Saving Grace
Written by DM Barr
Black Rose Writing (Texas)
243 pages, 2020
www.blackrosewriting.com/books

Murder mysteries are a genre that has always been popular, but one needs to dig deeper, as they also can be broken down into subgenres: there’s the Noir/hard-bitten detective who at some point will mention the dirty city; there’s more of a police procedural, like those written by Sue Grafton; and then there is the category that Saving Grace could be included.

This falls more in line with the Agatha Christie / Murder She Wrote / Monk kind of almost artistic straightforwardness that makes it a bit more palpable for the average reader. That does not mean there won’t be blood and murder, it is just a stylistic choice that I personally enjoy. It’s certainly not a comedy, but it is a lighter shade of dark. Just from the name/word pun of the title, you know this is going to be a fun ride.

For those who don’t know, DM Barr is a celebrated writer with a few books under her belt now, and quite a number of awards. In the full disclosure department, I have known Barr in my life a while back, though I haven’t seen her since around 1990, when she was a magazine writer, but well before she was a published book author.

Most reviewers have referred to Saving Grace as a psychological thriller, and rightfully so. The central and titular character is a woman with a history of paranoia, and so now in her middle age, living with her husband and two teenaged sons, she has spent a large amount of her time under the thumb of numerous medications that keep her less than clear-headed. But she is going to change that by cold turkey-ing the drugs and go on with her life.

This leads to a nice line of “what is real and what is imagined?” Is Grace’s middle management husband, Eliot, a lothario who is only sticking around until Grace’s estranged rich father passes on and leaves her, his only living relative, his loot? And is Eliot’s plan to do away with Grace once that happens? She’s becoming more convinced by things that may or may not be true; she is living in a world of delusional circumstantial evidence fed by mental strain and a lack of medicines, and the prospect of being gaslit. But as a woman of a certain age, Grace indicates in the novel, “Life without meds overflowed with possibility” (p. 7).

It doesn’t help that between Grace’s passive-aggressive husband’s condescending and her two young teen sons’ lack of respect, she is living in a world of toxic masculinity, seeing her for what she can give them, rather than helping in a substantial way. This is just part of the reason she is a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Everyone around Grace can see it, but her. The question is, what is real?

Grace is well read, as her only outlet for cathartic emotion, and Barr nicely uses characters of other novels to have her express how she is feeling, such as “She felt as trapped as Henri Charrière in Papillon, doomed forever to imprisonment on Devil’s Island. Except unlike him, she had no ally to help her escape” (p. 17). Barr never talks down to the audience, using language that is lush and languid, occasionally scattered with words like prophylactic homicide and uxoricidal (look it up; I did).

There are also quite an engaging ancillary cast of characters, such as her daddy, Barrington (I can so see Ray Wise in the role), who is a mean, nasty and elderly Trump-type who likes to belittle and name-call, and his mistress Caprice, who is more than a decade less Grace’s age. A third wheel in the relationships between Grace and Eliot, and also Grace and Barrington, is Grace’s psychologist, Dr. Emma Leighmann, who has been treating her since she was a child. It’s debateable whose best interest she has in mind, since Barrington’s long fingers have a financial hold on her. Another is Sheryl, Eliot’s over-ambitious secretary, willing to do what it takes to make her boss rise in the ranks, planning that he will take her with him, be it in the office or, as Grace fears, to replace her. Then there’s the toxicologist Grace befriends, Tom Druthers (as opposed to Smothers). You know something is up when Grace thinks, “Neither hand bore a wedding ring. It made sense—no self-respecting wife would let her husband leave the house in such a state.” Sure that’s a heteronormative comment, but in context it is dripping with possibilities. Speaking of which, of course the more the secondary characters, the better both the possible body count and, arguably even more importantly, the red herrings.

Two other individuals are the sister and brother team of Andrea and Hack. She’s a mystery writer who takes Grace under her wing, and he’s a late-teen gonif due to his gambling habit. The two of them are central to the story, though they are not in it, generally, until a third of the novel. Their presence is due to be profound.

The book is thankfully not formulaic, beginning with the murder, and then most of the rest are the events leading up to the moment of execution, as it were. There are also lots of surprises along the way, including the presence of a possible Undzer Shtik (Jewish Mafia), which made me laugh. There is also some serious side commentary on the issues of LGBTQI, conversion therapy, and homeless teens that are noteworthy being important lynchpins in the story without anywhere near being preachy.

A few interjections are also dispersed throughout about the political climate, not really taking a left/right side, but noting the cultural angst, such as one character, an aspiring writer, stating, “I write … Ultra-Cozies… They’re short mysteries with only two or three characters, take place in one location, and have very little action. … They’re for readers so traumatized by the current political climate, they can’t tolerate too much drama” (p. 70). As dire as the basic storyline is, there is levity here and there, such as one aspiring writer character describing her genre: “It’s Yoga romance. My latest, Chakra Full of Nuts, hit number one in the category last week. It’s about two Yogis who fall in love at a cashew farm” (p. 70). Or when Barr, as narrator, states about a tense moment: “The room grew as silent as the second ‘n’ in ‘condemn’” (p. 72). There are also a slew of (translated) Yiddish axioms that are bound to make the reader giggle.

The reason for the mention of writers, Grace decides to write a mystery novel, Salvaging Hope, using her life as the paradigm, hereby pre-emptively securing her safety as her fears are publicly circulated. A pretty brazen yet cool idea for a Marshall McLuhan-esque hot medium; or a one character describes it, “Publishing rather than perishing” (p. 92).

While the body count is not huge, its more realistic number is still relatively lively (pun intended), and the story builds and then explodes in the final third of the book when time catches up to the prologue, and then there are enough people introduced in Team Grace’s to try to figure out the answer. I’m willing to admit that despite the red herrings, I figured out (guessed) who was the central villain about a third in, but even so, was not totally sure until near the end (comes from years of watching shows like Monk and Midsomer Murders).

Chapters are relatively short at a few pages each, making them easier to digest, but considering the storyline, it is harder to put the damn thing down. I’m a relatively slow reader, but it only took me three days to go through it (normally, this would be a week, at least). That speaks to the quality of the story.

DM Barr

While I have not yet read Barr’s other books, Expired Listings (2016) and Slashing Mona Lisa (2018), there is a lot of meta text in here. For example, Barr and Grace are around the same age, both writers of lighter stuff until the novels came, and Barr’s also quite wealthy dad (I have been to his beachfront house in the Hamptons in the 1980s for a Barr pool party, but never met him, so cannot attest to the comparison to Barrington). As the story unfolds, we are also met with a secondary meta-formation, as we learn of Grace’s writing development (such as adding in said secondary characters), and that her first novel was about real estate agents, a field in which Barr has also embraced, showing she’s not beyond using the “write what you know” maxim. All for the better of her readers, I must add.

How did this book make me feel, overall? As Druthers put it, “…happier than a mosquito on the first day of summer” (p. 189).

Shuck Up – It’s THE PET CLAMS [1981]

Text by Julia Masi / FFanzeen fanzine, 1981

Introduction © Robert Barry Francos / FFanzeen, 2020

Images from the Internet, unless indicated

This interview was originally printed in FFanzeen, issue #7, dated 1981. It was written by our Managing Editor and current philanthropic goddess, Julia Masi.

Yeah, so I saw the Pet Clams, who were previously known as The Big Fat Pet Clams From Outer Space, in both incarnations; at CBGB. It’s not surprising they played there since they were managed by its owner, Hilly Kristal; in fact I once saw them open for the Colors, also managed by Hilly. Honestly, they were an okay fun band, but not one that would stick out in my mind. But then again, they were quirky and played a weird white reggae, so here ya go. The Pet Calms from Outer Space, a name they went back to at some point after this was published, have some CDs available at their website, bigfatpetclamsfromouterspace.com – RBF, 2020.

 

Pic (c) Robert Barry Francos

When the Pet Clams landed in CBGBs on a rainy October Saturday for a soundcheck, they were still known as the Big Fat Pet Clams From Outer Space. They said they were experiencing their first interview, but after talking to these guys for about five seconds, it was obvious that they’d say anything to a girl in a tight sweater. For what it’s worth, FFanzeen spent this wet weekend afternoon in 1980 with Richard Glebstein, keyboardist / “lead singer and person who gets yelled at”; Gary Applebaum, guitarist; Dave Anderson, bassist; Al Spero, drummer; and their manager and CBGBs owner Hilly Kristal, in an attempt to find out – who are the Pet Clams?

* * *

Gary Applebaum: We were the Pets. We’d been mentioned in Rolling Stone. But there were a couple of other bands around called the Pets, and we found out that, because of trademark and copyright, we couldn’t use the name Pets. So I said, “Why we call ourselves Clams From Space? I was writing the script for a horror movie, Clams From Space. It was this whole Roger Corman-type thing. So we fooled around with it. We used a different name every night for about two weeks. So one night, we called ourselves the Pet Clams From Outer Space. And when Hilly, our manager, put it in The (Village) Voice, he left a word out by accident. And that’s how we became the Big Fat Pet Clams From Outer Space.

FFanzeen: How long have you been together?

Gary: We’ve been together two years. We started playing together at the Stone Pony in Asbury Park, New Jersey, about August of 1978. We played there for about a month, around the Jersey Shore. We mostly played covers. We taped ourselves at a five-hour gig one time, and we played 10 or 15 original songs and 30 to 40 covers. When you play all night, you gotta play about 50 or 60 songs. We listened to the tape the next day and the only things that sounded any good were the original songs. We played the covers as through we just went wild on them. No discipline at all. And Richard has a sort of distinctive voice. You’d never know he’s from California.

FFanzeen: You’re from California?

Richard Glebstein: No. Lakewood, New Jersey.

Hilly Kristal: He has a very exciting voice. It sounds like a moose.

FFanzeen: Describe your music.

Richard: Rock’n’roll, reggae, New Wave. We do it all. People say we have a style.

Gary: We have a lot of different styles.

FFanzeen: Is it true that your single is a political song?

Richard: It depends on which side you listen to.

Gary: We have a couple of political songs, but the one (Hilly) put out as a single is “Gonna Get Fooled Again.” It was written about a year and a half ago. We opened for Squeeze and had about 15-16 shots of Jack Daniels. And I was out in Greenwich Village, driving home with the car doors open, trying to hit parked cars. The next day when I went to work – I was building houses at the time – I fell asleep on a concrete slab in a puddle of water. Everyone was standing around laughing at me and I wrote the lyrics with my carpenter’s pencil on the cement. It’s more or less a statement of tie idiocy of the two-party system. For instance, the two-party system might have some basis in England because the main parties are the Conservatives and the Liberals. They supposedly have different views. In America where they have the two-party system and both parties are essentially the same, it’s really silly to bother having an election. Both parties are the same party. [I whole-heartedly disagree, and believe that is a stance based in ignorance. – RBF, 2020.] We complain that Russia doesn’t have a democracy because they only run one candidate. We run two candidates that say the same thing. What’s the difference?

[Enter bassist Dave Anderson]

Richard: Dave wrote the music to that song. That’s why it’s not that good. We’re actually a brilliant rock’n’roll group.

Gary: He’s paid to say that.

Richard: No, I’m serious. I sat and gave it a lot of thought. We’re really brilliant.

FFanzeen: On Monday, you’re going to record your first album [released on Friday the 13th, in March 1981, titled The Pet Clams]. What will it be like?

Richard: Three reggae songs: “Don’t Get So Upset,” “Things Keep on Changing,” and “Jerusalem,” a very strong song.

FFanzeen: What is it about?

Richard: He was in a suicidal mood, so he said he was walking down the road to Jerusalem.

Gary: It’s more or less the juxtaposition of the end of a relationship and a time of turbulence in the world. Sort of like Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca, sitting there talking while the whole world is at war around them.

FFanzeen: Besides politics, what else influences you?

Richard: He’s influenced by other carpenters. I’m influenced by students. I’m a Special Education teacher at Lakewood Middle School.

FFanzeen: Do your students like your music?

Richard: My students are all deaf. No, they’re not.

Gary: Pitiful songs on the album.

Richard: “Gonna get Fooled Again” is going to be on the album.

Gary: Is it really?

Richard: Well, it might be. [It is – Ed., 1981]

Gary: One song’s about turning up in CBGBs. It’s called “That’s Showbiz.” And not making any money. They tell you to wait; just wait.

Richard: That’s what everybody does in rock’n’roll, whether they have an album out or not. Everybody waits.

FFanzeen: Back to your histories.

Richard: I used to play alone for a very long time. I was the cult hero of the polyester crowd.

FFanzeen: So what makes this band different from all other bands?

Richard: This band eats unleavened bread.

Gary: We’re the same as everybody, except I’m smarter.

Richard: We used to play at punk weddings and rock bar mitzvahs.

Gary: We’d done original stuff before and failed.

Richard: I didn’t. I was a tremendous success.

Gary: Have you caught his albums as a solo? He made about 10 solo albums in the ‘late ‘60s. He was very famous. His name was Randy Newman then.

Richard: I thought Newman was too Jewish. I like Glebstein.

FFanzeen: Have you ever had to open for a band that incongruous to yours?

Richard: We liked playing with Squeeze and David Johansen.

FFanzeen: How did the audience react to you?

Richard: They hate our guts. We can’t understand why.

FFanzeen: Does this band have a slogan?

Richard: Do bands have slogans?

FFanzeen: Yeah; the Stimulators have “Loud Fast Rules.”

Richard: Let’s get a slogan right now.

Gary: The band is so good it doesn’t need a slogan.

Richard: We don’t have a slogan. We love what we do. It’s hard work and we do it because it’s fun. This is a hobby. Gary’s a carpenter; Al’s a carpenter. You know all the maniac drivers in New Jersey? John taught them all to drive. We’re all very nice people.

Gary: And sexy as hell.

FFanzeen: Don’t lay it on too thick: I’m planning to take pictures.