Quentin R. Bufogle's Blog, page 17
September 25, 2009
VEGAS DIARY
Dear Diary:
It's been almost three months now since my best friend Dwayne and I relocated to Las Vegas and life is good. It was tough getting used to the heat at first, but I think I've finally become climatized. Today it only reached a hundred and thirty-two degrees -- about the same temperature as the north pole of Venus. Not exactly like the winters back in Idaho, but at least it's cooling off. I'm told it gets so cool in the fall here that the tires on your car don't even melt (this will make driving to work much easier).
Dwayne and I have been staying at the Budget Suites and we really like it. There's a pool and a lot of very interesting people who live here and it all kind of reminds me of watching Melrose Place with my little sister Sissy. There's a really nice couple from The Ukraine whom I've met here, Boris and Svetlana. It took them fifteen years to save up enough money to visit Las Vegas, but now that they're here they're loving it. Last week they visited the Paris Hotel & Casino and had their picture taken in front of the Eiffel Tower. They were so excited! (I didn't have the heart to tell them that the real one is in France.) It hasn't been all fun and games for them though. Yesterday their goat drank the water from the swimming pool and had to be rushed to the veterinarian. It was touch and go for a while but he's expected to make a full recovery.
Speaking of interesting people, last night the police raided the suite of our neighbor. A guy who calls himself "Space Ghost." Turns out he had a methamphetamine lab in is living room. I suspected he was a tweaker when I found him mowing the lawn at 3am one morning (even stranger since we don't have a lawn).
I'm pleased to report that I've finally met a girl. Her name is Cheyenne. She works as a dancer at The Spearmint Rhino and is also taking courses on the computer to become a dental hygienist. She's a lot of fun but is addicted to gambling. She's also addicted to alcohol, nicotine, crack, caffeine, pcp, nitrous oxide, amyl nitrate, texting, genital piercing and Sweet 'N' Low. She recently developed an addiction to doing the laundry, and last week while we were out, broke into our suite and laundered and starched all my socks and underwear. It was very disconcerting and I think I'm going to have to end it.
Things aren't going so well for Dwayne. I'm afraid he's fallen in with a bad crowd. Dwayne was quarteback of our football team and the most popular guy in high school, but now he's changed his name to "Latoya" and has taken to wearing high heels and spandex and spends all his time hanging out by the convention center. Oh well. I guess he's just trying to fit in. I'm feeling a little tired so guess I'll sign off for now. Tomorrow is Saturday and a big day here at "The Suites." Management will be serving a free continental breakfast (donuts and coffee), and later in the afternoon we're scheduled to have the filter in our air conditioner changed. I wonder what they'll be doing back in Idaho?
It's been almost three months now since my best friend Dwayne and I relocated to Las Vegas and life is good. It was tough getting used to the heat at first, but I think I've finally become climatized. Today it only reached a hundred and thirty-two degrees -- about the same temperature as the north pole of Venus. Not exactly like the winters back in Idaho, but at least it's cooling off. I'm told it gets so cool in the fall here that the tires on your car don't even melt (this will make driving to work much easier).
Dwayne and I have been staying at the Budget Suites and we really like it. There's a pool and a lot of very interesting people who live here and it all kind of reminds me of watching Melrose Place with my little sister Sissy. There's a really nice couple from The Ukraine whom I've met here, Boris and Svetlana. It took them fifteen years to save up enough money to visit Las Vegas, but now that they're here they're loving it. Last week they visited the Paris Hotel & Casino and had their picture taken in front of the Eiffel Tower. They were so excited! (I didn't have the heart to tell them that the real one is in France.) It hasn't been all fun and games for them though. Yesterday their goat drank the water from the swimming pool and had to be rushed to the veterinarian. It was touch and go for a while but he's expected to make a full recovery.
Speaking of interesting people, last night the police raided the suite of our neighbor. A guy who calls himself "Space Ghost." Turns out he had a methamphetamine lab in is living room. I suspected he was a tweaker when I found him mowing the lawn at 3am one morning (even stranger since we don't have a lawn).
I'm pleased to report that I've finally met a girl. Her name is Cheyenne. She works as a dancer at The Spearmint Rhino and is also taking courses on the computer to become a dental hygienist. She's a lot of fun but is addicted to gambling. She's also addicted to alcohol, nicotine, crack, caffeine, pcp, nitrous oxide, amyl nitrate, texting, genital piercing and Sweet 'N' Low. She recently developed an addiction to doing the laundry, and last week while we were out, broke into our suite and laundered and starched all my socks and underwear. It was very disconcerting and I think I'm going to have to end it.
Things aren't going so well for Dwayne. I'm afraid he's fallen in with a bad crowd. Dwayne was quarteback of our football team and the most popular guy in high school, but now he's changed his name to "Latoya" and has taken to wearing high heels and spandex and spends all his time hanging out by the convention center. Oh well. I guess he's just trying to fit in. I'm feeling a little tired so guess I'll sign off for now. Tomorrow is Saturday and a big day here at "The Suites." Management will be serving a free continental breakfast (donuts and coffee), and later in the afternoon we're scheduled to have the filter in our air conditioner changed. I wonder what they'll be doing back in Idaho?
September 17, 2009
DEAR SCOTT DICKENSHEETS . . . FIVE RANDOM THOUGHTS FROM THE AUTHOR OF 'HORSE LATITUDES'
Dear Scott --
Just picked up the 9/17 issue of Las Vegas Weekly. Now that the blood has finally stopped shooting out of my ears, thought I'd share a few thoughts with you . . .
1) Did David Berke really refer to Jay Mcinerney as a "Titan of American lit" ??? WRONG! WRONG! WRONG! Comparing a rack of double Ds to a claymore? (Tell Dave to check out my blog post "Barf Bag Included.") Someone should take a soldering iron to Mcinerney's testicles.
2) Kudos for the Kanye West bit on your front cover. Kanye really broke the douchebag mold with his outburst at the MTV Video Music Awards -- stealing the spotlight from a 17 year old girl. He should have lunch with Andy Dick.
3) Your magazine rocks!!! Reminds me of a cross between National Lampoon and The Village Voice. You're a god Scott!!! (Enough ass-kissing.)
4) The Xanax isn't working.
5) Hey, issat a copy of 'Horse Latitudes' in that pile of books in the Rick Lax photo on page 18? (I think so!)
P.S. -- Keep up the good work. I hope you get toe fungus -- Quinn
Just picked up the 9/17 issue of Las Vegas Weekly. Now that the blood has finally stopped shooting out of my ears, thought I'd share a few thoughts with you . . .
1) Did David Berke really refer to Jay Mcinerney as a "Titan of American lit" ??? WRONG! WRONG! WRONG! Comparing a rack of double Ds to a claymore? (Tell Dave to check out my blog post "Barf Bag Included.") Someone should take a soldering iron to Mcinerney's testicles.
2) Kudos for the Kanye West bit on your front cover. Kanye really broke the douchebag mold with his outburst at the MTV Video Music Awards -- stealing the spotlight from a 17 year old girl. He should have lunch with Andy Dick.
3) Your magazine rocks!!! Reminds me of a cross between National Lampoon and The Village Voice. You're a god Scott!!! (Enough ass-kissing.)
4) The Xanax isn't working.
5) Hey, issat a copy of 'Horse Latitudes' in that pile of books in the Rick Lax photo on page 18? (I think so!)
P.S. -- Keep up the good work. I hope you get toe fungus -- Quinn
August 29, 2009
A PIG-NAPPING AT SATRIALE'S: SOME THOUGHTS ON THE SOPRANOS AND MY (GLORIOUS) MISSPENT YOUTH
Unless you've spent the last decade living in a cave somewhere, chances are you're intimately acqainted with the HBO series "The Sopranos." The exploits of the crew from Satriale's Pork -- Tony; Paulie Walnuts; Big Pussy; Sil -- not only made for groundbreaking television, but resonated with the American TV viewer in a way that's never before -- and will likely never again -- be duplicated. For me it's a bit more personal. The Sopranos wasn't merely the greatest television drama of all time; it was a trip down memory lane.
I grew up in a section of Queens, New York, that was the Mecca for all mob-related activity in NYC. Traditionally it had been Manhattan's Little Italy which served as headquarters for the NY Mafia; but in 1985, our most famous resident, one John Gotti, "pushed a button" on one Paul Castellano. As Big Paulie's body lie lifeless and bullet-riddled outside a posh Manhattan steak house, "Johnny Boy" usurped his throne. John Gotti was now the "Capo di tutti capi" . . . the "Boss of Bosses" . . . or as Mario Puzzo had once put it: "The Godfather." Life in Queens was about to get very interesting.
Ozone Park, Queens, was home to the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club: a nondescript storefront on 101st Ave. just off Cross Bay Blvd. that served as Gotti's headquarters. A tough, blue collar neighborhood whose side streets ran like tributaries into the main drag of Liberty Ave. -- auto body shops, construction companies and warehouses thick with graffiti, all doing mob business in the shadow of the old elevated train tracks. Ozone Park was the stomping ground of "Goodfellas" Jimmy 'The Gent' Burke and Henry Hill -- and home to our very own "Satriale's Pork." I'm not gonna spill the beans and mention the establishment by its real name (last I heard it's still in business and I like my kneecaps where they are); let it suffice to say that it was a mob owned 24 hour dairy farm & deli famous for the Italian sausage ground and stuffed in its basement. It was also the place where local teenagers such as myself made late night beer runs.
The dairy farm sat on a triangle of asphalt -- the building itself tri-cornered. Atop its roof, perched in each of three corners, were the giant, fiberglass replicas of a cow, chicken and pig. While the cow and chicken were rather pedestrian representations of their respective species, the pig was in fact an enormous, cartoon "Porky Pig" sporting a chef's hat and apron. Were it not for this fact, my story would end here.
It was a hot, late summer Friday night. My best friend Doug and I had been club hopping out on Long Island. Unsuccessful in our attempt to score with any of the local talent, we'd decided to call it a night and head back to Queens. Buying a couple six packs, we took up residence on a bench in a little park just across from the dairy farm. As we drowned our frustration in Pabst Blue Ribbon, I had a clear view of Porky perched on the roof above. Illuminated by a spotlight, there he (it) stood: big as life (bigger actually), in his chef's hat and apron. I don't know why -- maybe it was the beer buzz, or my thwarted hormones, or just the fact that I was an ornery, young punk from Queens whose colyones were bigger than his brains -- I dunno -- but I just hadda have that pig.
"Hey Doug." I said, swilling some warm PBR, "I'm gonna climb up there and grab that pig."
"You know who owns that place?"
"Yeah."
Doug drained his beer; crushed the can like an accordion and flipped it into the public trash receptacle, "What the fuck. Let's do it."
Now, scaling the side of an all-night dairy farm and making off with an 8 foot fiberglass pig bolted to its roof without benefit of ladder or tools was no easy feat. Fortunately I was well-muscled from years of pumping iron and pounding heavy bags in various NYC gyms; Doug, on the other hand, was a big old bear of a kid tipping the scales at 240 plus. I'd once seen him knock a man clean through a wooden piss house door with a single shot to the solar plexus. We were more than up to the task. So we hopped into my blue, 4 door '74 Maverick: the tranny went about every other month leaving me with only reverse gear, and it leaked power steering fluid like a sieve, but man if cars could talk. Pulling around back of the dairy farm we parked next to a dumpster. Using the hood of my car as a starting point, we hauled ourselves up onto the top of the dumpster, then a low roof jutting from the first floor: an awning; a drain pipe and don't ask me how, but in minutes we were on top of the building itself -- and there was Porky.
We knew the sucker was big just eyeing him from the ground, but up close . . . Man he was HUGE! 8 feet was a conservative estimate . . . and girth? . . . how 'bout 4 feet around at the beltline? Not only was he bolted down to a wooden platfom, but secured by four wire cables as well. For the luva Christ how were we gonna pull this one off??? Peering over the edge of the roof we could see that the well-lit parking lot was filled with cars; a steady stream of late night shoppers coming and going. This was crazy . . . but so were we. Besides, we'd come too far to back out now.
The cables were first. We managed to rip them free without too much effort (though we had to wrap our t-shirts around them to keep from lacerating our hands). Then the bolts. There were four of them as well -- good sized suckers -- punched through a fiberglass lip molded around Porky's feet. Using brute force, Doug and I grabbed hold of Porky and snapped them off at the base. It made a horrendous cracking sound -- loud enough, I was certain, to be heard inside the dairy farm -- but Porky was free of his restraints . . . and he was ours. I shinnied back down onto the first floor roof. Using the remnants of the cables still attached to Porky's body, Doug lowered the prize down to me. We repeated the manuever til Porky was safely on the ground. More awkward than heavy, we hoisted him onto the roof of my Maverick. While I drove with one hand, an end of one the cables wrapped around the other, Doug did likewise in the passenger seat. Together we managed to anchor the giant, fiberglass pig to the roof of my car.
Foregoing the safer side streets, we made our way up Rockaway Blvd. Screw the cops. We were like a couple of drunken barbarians who'd just pillaged an unsuspecting village displaying our booty. Actually we were just young and stupid. So what? We passed late night motorists slack-jawed with disbelief at the sight of two teenagers making off with a giant, fiberglass pig atop the roof of their car. One old biddy, her hat festooned with geraniums -- probably returning home from a late night bingo session -- made the sign of the cross. We hit a red light at Woodhaven Blvd. Some mustache in a Cadillac Eldorado rolled up next to us. He just sat there grinning in his liesure suit and pinky ring. Doug leaned out the window.
"Hey mister. We got a body in the trunk. Can ya help us get rid of it?"
The guy sped off.
With our prize secured, we headed for Sixty Park (a fenced-in playground adjoining P.S. 60 elementary school) -- our hangout. Driving onto the sidewalk, we pulled through the front gate of the park barely clearing Porky's potbelly. As expected, the boys were all there getting lit. The whole crew: Bubbles; Gleepy Globster; Claff; the Cleary brothers; Pingle . . . Murch. Whenever any shit went down in the neighborhood, Murch was the kid the cops always came looking for. A freckled, beanpole of a kid, by age twelve he was already over 6 feet tall and could suck down two six packs without blowin' chunks -- the rest of us had to be carried home after 2 or 3 cans. There was only two things Murch truly loved: getting wasted and basketball . . . and fucking with people -- well, three things (and not necessarily in that order).
"Well gents . . . looks like someone's brought home the bacon!" Murch said as we rolled up by the parkie house.
The boys gave us a hero's welcome. Amidst all the hand slapping and bear hugging as we recounted the tale of our "pig-napping," only Bubbles managed to interject a note of lucidity.
"Are you guys fuckin' stupid? Do you know who owns that place?"
Yes. We were fucking stupid. But what's the point of being young if you can't be stupid?
So, what do you do with an 8 foot fibergalss pig 'earli in the mornin'? -- If you're the collective mind of a group of drunken teenagers in Queens, NY, circa 1978, you do the most obvious thing: stick it in the public restrooms in back of the parkie house -- the ladies' room of course. One problem though: there was more pig than doorway; about 6 inches more. So we made a contest of it. We stood Porky in front of the ladies' room doorway and each took turns charging like a linebacker, attempting to shoulder-butt him (it) through. Honestly, I don't remember how many attempts it took, or who finally turned the trick, but we managed to wedge Porky through -- cracking off a piece of him in the process. We left him next to the toilet stall; all 8 feet of him. Our work was done.
After more hand slapping and bear hugging, Doug and I left the boys to their drinking. The sun was coming up and they were firing up the grill at the Forest View Diner on Jamaica Ave. Time for some grub. What we didn't know (but would discover later), was that while Doug and I were busy wolfing down our eggs and sausage; home fries, double toast and coffee, Phil the Parkie had arrived to start his work day. Phil was the grounds keeper at Sixty Park -- an overweight, middle-aged drunkard prone to psychotic episodes. When he found Porky next to the ladies' toilet, he immediately dialed 911 and began screaming that there was an 8 foot pig in the ladies' room. Now, what Phil neglected to mention, was that the pig in question was wearing a chef's hat and apron -- and made of fiberglass (an important bit of information as it turned out).
Finishing our breakfast, Doug and I decided to swing by the park one more time to admire our handywork. We weren't prepared for the scene that awaited us. Phil's frantic 911 call had created a shit-storm. Hearing that there was an "8 foot pig" in the Sixty Park ladies' room, the authorities naturally assumed that a giant, wild boar had somehow wandered onto the premises. Nearly every emergency vehicle in the county had converged on the site. There were fire trucks, ambulances and police cars everywhere. Poor Phil was strapped to a gurney, being given oxygen by a team of paramedics. It was bedlam. We got the hell out of there pronto.
Porky was eventually returned to the dairy farm and once again placed atop the roof next to his two fiberglass pals: the cow and chicken. And guess what? A month later Doug and I climbed up there and swiped him again. This time we spared poor Phil and left Porky on the front lawn of the captain of the local police precinct -- an s.o.b. we'd nicknamed "Barney Fife" -- who reveled in harassing the Sixty Park crew. A few days after the incident, two guys in pinstripe suits paid a visit to Phil at the park. Representatives of the dairy farm, they were curious as to which of the young punks who hung out there might be responsible for the pig-nappings. Phil gave them only one name: Murch. The very next day, Murch was snatched off the street by the same two guys and forced into the back of a black Lincoln Town Car. They took him down into the basement of the dairy farm, sat him next to the sausage grinder, and in no uncertain terms explained that the next time their pig disappeared, so would Murch. Murch was one of the boys. Though he may have ended up as sausage links cooking on someone's barbeque grill, he never gave us up. Murch was a stand up guy . . . and we never forgot it.
We never swiped Porky again. Though every now and again we'd threaten to just to see the look on Murch's face. Hey, we were young and stupid and living in Queens, NY, at the tail end of the '70s. Looking back on it all now, I wouldn't have had it any other way.
I grew up in a section of Queens, New York, that was the Mecca for all mob-related activity in NYC. Traditionally it had been Manhattan's Little Italy which served as headquarters for the NY Mafia; but in 1985, our most famous resident, one John Gotti, "pushed a button" on one Paul Castellano. As Big Paulie's body lie lifeless and bullet-riddled outside a posh Manhattan steak house, "Johnny Boy" usurped his throne. John Gotti was now the "Capo di tutti capi" . . . the "Boss of Bosses" . . . or as Mario Puzzo had once put it: "The Godfather." Life in Queens was about to get very interesting.
Ozone Park, Queens, was home to the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club: a nondescript storefront on 101st Ave. just off Cross Bay Blvd. that served as Gotti's headquarters. A tough, blue collar neighborhood whose side streets ran like tributaries into the main drag of Liberty Ave. -- auto body shops, construction companies and warehouses thick with graffiti, all doing mob business in the shadow of the old elevated train tracks. Ozone Park was the stomping ground of "Goodfellas" Jimmy 'The Gent' Burke and Henry Hill -- and home to our very own "Satriale's Pork." I'm not gonna spill the beans and mention the establishment by its real name (last I heard it's still in business and I like my kneecaps where they are); let it suffice to say that it was a mob owned 24 hour dairy farm & deli famous for the Italian sausage ground and stuffed in its basement. It was also the place where local teenagers such as myself made late night beer runs.
The dairy farm sat on a triangle of asphalt -- the building itself tri-cornered. Atop its roof, perched in each of three corners, were the giant, fiberglass replicas of a cow, chicken and pig. While the cow and chicken were rather pedestrian representations of their respective species, the pig was in fact an enormous, cartoon "Porky Pig" sporting a chef's hat and apron. Were it not for this fact, my story would end here.
It was a hot, late summer Friday night. My best friend Doug and I had been club hopping out on Long Island. Unsuccessful in our attempt to score with any of the local talent, we'd decided to call it a night and head back to Queens. Buying a couple six packs, we took up residence on a bench in a little park just across from the dairy farm. As we drowned our frustration in Pabst Blue Ribbon, I had a clear view of Porky perched on the roof above. Illuminated by a spotlight, there he (it) stood: big as life (bigger actually), in his chef's hat and apron. I don't know why -- maybe it was the beer buzz, or my thwarted hormones, or just the fact that I was an ornery, young punk from Queens whose colyones were bigger than his brains -- I dunno -- but I just hadda have that pig.
"Hey Doug." I said, swilling some warm PBR, "I'm gonna climb up there and grab that pig."
"You know who owns that place?"
"Yeah."
Doug drained his beer; crushed the can like an accordion and flipped it into the public trash receptacle, "What the fuck. Let's do it."
Now, scaling the side of an all-night dairy farm and making off with an 8 foot fiberglass pig bolted to its roof without benefit of ladder or tools was no easy feat. Fortunately I was well-muscled from years of pumping iron and pounding heavy bags in various NYC gyms; Doug, on the other hand, was a big old bear of a kid tipping the scales at 240 plus. I'd once seen him knock a man clean through a wooden piss house door with a single shot to the solar plexus. We were more than up to the task. So we hopped into my blue, 4 door '74 Maverick: the tranny went about every other month leaving me with only reverse gear, and it leaked power steering fluid like a sieve, but man if cars could talk. Pulling around back of the dairy farm we parked next to a dumpster. Using the hood of my car as a starting point, we hauled ourselves up onto the top of the dumpster, then a low roof jutting from the first floor: an awning; a drain pipe and don't ask me how, but in minutes we were on top of the building itself -- and there was Porky.
We knew the sucker was big just eyeing him from the ground, but up close . . . Man he was HUGE! 8 feet was a conservative estimate . . . and girth? . . . how 'bout 4 feet around at the beltline? Not only was he bolted down to a wooden platfom, but secured by four wire cables as well. For the luva Christ how were we gonna pull this one off??? Peering over the edge of the roof we could see that the well-lit parking lot was filled with cars; a steady stream of late night shoppers coming and going. This was crazy . . . but so were we. Besides, we'd come too far to back out now.
The cables were first. We managed to rip them free without too much effort (though we had to wrap our t-shirts around them to keep from lacerating our hands). Then the bolts. There were four of them as well -- good sized suckers -- punched through a fiberglass lip molded around Porky's feet. Using brute force, Doug and I grabbed hold of Porky and snapped them off at the base. It made a horrendous cracking sound -- loud enough, I was certain, to be heard inside the dairy farm -- but Porky was free of his restraints . . . and he was ours. I shinnied back down onto the first floor roof. Using the remnants of the cables still attached to Porky's body, Doug lowered the prize down to me. We repeated the manuever til Porky was safely on the ground. More awkward than heavy, we hoisted him onto the roof of my Maverick. While I drove with one hand, an end of one the cables wrapped around the other, Doug did likewise in the passenger seat. Together we managed to anchor the giant, fiberglass pig to the roof of my car.
Foregoing the safer side streets, we made our way up Rockaway Blvd. Screw the cops. We were like a couple of drunken barbarians who'd just pillaged an unsuspecting village displaying our booty. Actually we were just young and stupid. So what? We passed late night motorists slack-jawed with disbelief at the sight of two teenagers making off with a giant, fiberglass pig atop the roof of their car. One old biddy, her hat festooned with geraniums -- probably returning home from a late night bingo session -- made the sign of the cross. We hit a red light at Woodhaven Blvd. Some mustache in a Cadillac Eldorado rolled up next to us. He just sat there grinning in his liesure suit and pinky ring. Doug leaned out the window.
"Hey mister. We got a body in the trunk. Can ya help us get rid of it?"
The guy sped off.
With our prize secured, we headed for Sixty Park (a fenced-in playground adjoining P.S. 60 elementary school) -- our hangout. Driving onto the sidewalk, we pulled through the front gate of the park barely clearing Porky's potbelly. As expected, the boys were all there getting lit. The whole crew: Bubbles; Gleepy Globster; Claff; the Cleary brothers; Pingle . . . Murch. Whenever any shit went down in the neighborhood, Murch was the kid the cops always came looking for. A freckled, beanpole of a kid, by age twelve he was already over 6 feet tall and could suck down two six packs without blowin' chunks -- the rest of us had to be carried home after 2 or 3 cans. There was only two things Murch truly loved: getting wasted and basketball . . . and fucking with people -- well, three things (and not necessarily in that order).
"Well gents . . . looks like someone's brought home the bacon!" Murch said as we rolled up by the parkie house.
The boys gave us a hero's welcome. Amidst all the hand slapping and bear hugging as we recounted the tale of our "pig-napping," only Bubbles managed to interject a note of lucidity.
"Are you guys fuckin' stupid? Do you know who owns that place?"
Yes. We were fucking stupid. But what's the point of being young if you can't be stupid?
So, what do you do with an 8 foot fibergalss pig 'earli in the mornin'? -- If you're the collective mind of a group of drunken teenagers in Queens, NY, circa 1978, you do the most obvious thing: stick it in the public restrooms in back of the parkie house -- the ladies' room of course. One problem though: there was more pig than doorway; about 6 inches more. So we made a contest of it. We stood Porky in front of the ladies' room doorway and each took turns charging like a linebacker, attempting to shoulder-butt him (it) through. Honestly, I don't remember how many attempts it took, or who finally turned the trick, but we managed to wedge Porky through -- cracking off a piece of him in the process. We left him next to the toilet stall; all 8 feet of him. Our work was done.
After more hand slapping and bear hugging, Doug and I left the boys to their drinking. The sun was coming up and they were firing up the grill at the Forest View Diner on Jamaica Ave. Time for some grub. What we didn't know (but would discover later), was that while Doug and I were busy wolfing down our eggs and sausage; home fries, double toast and coffee, Phil the Parkie had arrived to start his work day. Phil was the grounds keeper at Sixty Park -- an overweight, middle-aged drunkard prone to psychotic episodes. When he found Porky next to the ladies' toilet, he immediately dialed 911 and began screaming that there was an 8 foot pig in the ladies' room. Now, what Phil neglected to mention, was that the pig in question was wearing a chef's hat and apron -- and made of fiberglass (an important bit of information as it turned out).
Finishing our breakfast, Doug and I decided to swing by the park one more time to admire our handywork. We weren't prepared for the scene that awaited us. Phil's frantic 911 call had created a shit-storm. Hearing that there was an "8 foot pig" in the Sixty Park ladies' room, the authorities naturally assumed that a giant, wild boar had somehow wandered onto the premises. Nearly every emergency vehicle in the county had converged on the site. There were fire trucks, ambulances and police cars everywhere. Poor Phil was strapped to a gurney, being given oxygen by a team of paramedics. It was bedlam. We got the hell out of there pronto.
Porky was eventually returned to the dairy farm and once again placed atop the roof next to his two fiberglass pals: the cow and chicken. And guess what? A month later Doug and I climbed up there and swiped him again. This time we spared poor Phil and left Porky on the front lawn of the captain of the local police precinct -- an s.o.b. we'd nicknamed "Barney Fife" -- who reveled in harassing the Sixty Park crew. A few days after the incident, two guys in pinstripe suits paid a visit to Phil at the park. Representatives of the dairy farm, they were curious as to which of the young punks who hung out there might be responsible for the pig-nappings. Phil gave them only one name: Murch. The very next day, Murch was snatched off the street by the same two guys and forced into the back of a black Lincoln Town Car. They took him down into the basement of the dairy farm, sat him next to the sausage grinder, and in no uncertain terms explained that the next time their pig disappeared, so would Murch. Murch was one of the boys. Though he may have ended up as sausage links cooking on someone's barbeque grill, he never gave us up. Murch was a stand up guy . . . and we never forgot it.
We never swiped Porky again. Though every now and again we'd threaten to just to see the look on Murch's face. Hey, we were young and stupid and living in Queens, NY, at the tail end of the '70s. Looking back on it all now, I wouldn't have had it any other way.
July 20, 2009
ONE SMALL STEP
On July 21, 1969 Neil Armstrong stepped off the LEM of Apollo 11 and onto the surface of the moon; barely 66 years after Orville Wright's first solo flight at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. Using technology and materials that hadn't existed a decade earlier, and navigating by means of a computer system less powerful than a $12 digital watch, two astronauts landed on the surface of the moon and were returned safely to earth.
A month later, in August of that same year, almost half a million people gathered on Max Yasgur's farm in upstate New York for 3 days of peace, love and music. The two events marked a crossroads in our history. The age of Aquarius and the age of the silicon chip had intersected. The moon landing, occurring a month earlier, was a harbinger of what was to follow, and serves as a metaphor for the eclipsing of the spiritual by the technological; the poet by the scientist.
All those hippies left Yasgur's farm abandoning their notions of free love and getting back to nature -- ditched the bell bottoms and lava lamps and went to work in Silicon Valley -- invented the microchip and the internet; bought Volvos and Mercedes and took up golf. In his book, "Of a Fire on the Moon," Norman Mailer wondered if the moon landing had inflicted some terrible wound upon our collective psyche. Something had changed. I touched on it in the last 2 paragraphs of the chapter in my novel, "Horse Latitudes," titled "Who Shot Kennedy?" . . .
"Bongo helped himself to another marshmallow. It was a warm July night and the moon had risen fully now. Chester watched it shining clearly above the picnic grounds. Soon an astronaut would step down off the LEM of Apollo 11 and plant his foot on what had once been hallowed ground. Science would intrude on what for all known time had been the sole domain of poets and dreamers alone: the moon. After that, well -- one thing was for certain: no matter what they found up there, it would never again be as easy for a father to tell his young son that the mysterious ball of light that appeared in the heavens each night was really just a hunk of old cheese floating in the sky. Nothing would ever be that simple again.
The four boys huddled around the remains of the fire each thinking their own private thoughts. The sound of a cricket could be heard somewhere off in the distance. Then it was quiet."
Happy Anniversary -- Quinn
A month later, in August of that same year, almost half a million people gathered on Max Yasgur's farm in upstate New York for 3 days of peace, love and music. The two events marked a crossroads in our history. The age of Aquarius and the age of the silicon chip had intersected. The moon landing, occurring a month earlier, was a harbinger of what was to follow, and serves as a metaphor for the eclipsing of the spiritual by the technological; the poet by the scientist.
All those hippies left Yasgur's farm abandoning their notions of free love and getting back to nature -- ditched the bell bottoms and lava lamps and went to work in Silicon Valley -- invented the microchip and the internet; bought Volvos and Mercedes and took up golf. In his book, "Of a Fire on the Moon," Norman Mailer wondered if the moon landing had inflicted some terrible wound upon our collective psyche. Something had changed. I touched on it in the last 2 paragraphs of the chapter in my novel, "Horse Latitudes," titled "Who Shot Kennedy?" . . .
"Bongo helped himself to another marshmallow. It was a warm July night and the moon had risen fully now. Chester watched it shining clearly above the picnic grounds. Soon an astronaut would step down off the LEM of Apollo 11 and plant his foot on what had once been hallowed ground. Science would intrude on what for all known time had been the sole domain of poets and dreamers alone: the moon. After that, well -- one thing was for certain: no matter what they found up there, it would never again be as easy for a father to tell his young son that the mysterious ball of light that appeared in the heavens each night was really just a hunk of old cheese floating in the sky. Nothing would ever be that simple again.
The four boys huddled around the remains of the fire each thinking their own private thoughts. The sound of a cricket could be heard somewhere off in the distance. Then it was quiet."
Happy Anniversary -- Quinn
July 11, 2009
H2O
I was working the late shift at a well-known spring water company. We provided water coolers and dispensers and 5 gallon bottles of pure, sparkling spring water to health-conscious office workers and home owners who were fearful that their tap water was being poisoned by chlorine and insecticides or seepage from the local sewage plant.
We had a wonderful Christmas card-like logo of a beautiful, pristine aquifer with a moose grazing peacefully, hidden deep within the virgin woods of Maine -- so deep, as we told our customers, that it had never been fouled by man (unless of course he worked for us). People loved our spring water and business was booming. At 5pm, when the rest of my coworkers headed for home and hearth, I remained for the next 3 hours handling the toughest calls of the day. It was at 5pm that our 'route men' ended their day and customers who'd not received their deliveries, realizing that the H2O just wasn't comin', reached for their phones. It was 3 hours of pure, unmitigated hell, and I owned it.
A couple months prior, I'd been promoted to the position of 'Senior Teleservice Representative' -- my green, plastic name plate velcroed to the fabric wall of my cubicle, changed to blue -- signifying I was now the resident badass. My colleagues looked upon me with awe and admiration. I was the guy from that mythical place they'd all heard and read about -- New York City. I carried myself with a swagger and confidence that men feared and women loved -- and I handled all the hot ones. Oh, not just your run-of-the-mill irate customers, but 'escalated situations': customers threatening violence or suicide, or worse yet, demanding to speak with a supervisor. I was 'the cooler.' Everyone simply referred to me as 'Q.'
I'd come here to the wilds of Massachusetts to write my novel. To the land of Thoreau and Kerouac and Hawthorne and Cheever -- a land rife with the ghosts of great writers. Even Melville, a fellow New Yorker, had written "Moby Dick" here (on a farm in Pittsfield, where he eventually passed away). From the red brick factories of Lowell, to the long shadows of Walden Woods. It was my belief that if I couldn't write a novel here, then I couldn't write one anywhere. It was all on the line now.
I'd taken the teleservice gig -- a nice, easy job (or so I thought) -- to keep me afloat while I worked on my book. The job turned out to be more than I'd bargained for. The company was undergoing a major upheaval: changing routes, delivery days and frequency (often without notifying cutomers); revamping its billing and invoice system; eliminating some old brands while acquiring others (we were actually several companies withtin one). It was a cluster fuck. Customers weren't getting their deliveries . . . and they were pissed off.
So, with a cup of bad generic office brew (made worse by bad generic nondairy creamer and a hint of styrofoam), I adjusted my headset and settled in for the carnage that was about to ensue. The calls came rapid-fire; as soon as one customer hung up (I was not permitted under any circumstance to disconnect or end a call), there was a single "beep," and the next caller was already on the line. The first few calls were just standard fare; customers who hadn't gotten their deliveries. I apologized; explaining that the company was currently in the process of consolidating certain routes in order to increase efficiency and improve service (the usual bullshit), then I'd reschedule the delivery for the following day, assuring the customer it would be there bright and early (more bullshit).
There was the familiar "beep" and a voice on the other end of the line. At first I couldn't distinguish if it was male or female. I asked the customer for his (her?) account number and pulled up the information on my computer. The account was listed in the name of a 'Dominick' with an Italian surname -- a paesan -- the address listed in NYC; my hometown. I requested the caller verify that he/she was in fact the owner of the account by verifying name, address and phone number, then asked how I could be of assistance.
"It's your route man," The caller said, in a voice still sounding non-gender specific, "He hasn't been here in over a month."
I was perplexed. Since NYC was so densely populated, deliveries were made on a weekly basis, unlike some other areas of the country where deliveries were made every 2 or 3 weeks. For a route man not to show for a month was highly unusual. I checked the account to see if there were any billing issues. None. Why the no-show? I offered my apologies, promising I'd have some water there tomorrow -- A.M. -- and would follow up on the skipped deliveries with the branch manager.
"Thank you so much." The caller said, surprisingly unruffled by the situation, "The water here is just awful . . . It's an old building and the pipes are rusted. I won't even let my cat drink it or use it to water the plants."
"Gotcha." I said, "I'm from New York myself. Queens."
"Oh, well then you know . . ." There was a somewhat awkward pause, then the caller said: "I think I know why I haven't seen your route man. I think I might've scared him off."
"Scared him off?"
"Yes. I'm a female impersonator. The last time he made a delivery I answered the door while I was getting dressed. I had my wig and makeup on but . . . well . . . let's just say I wasn't wearing a 'holster.' I think I may have traumatized him."
"Ah-hah. Well, I'm sure it wasn't anything he hasn't seen before."
"I would hope not."
"So, what's it like being in show business?"
"Just fabulous. It's been my life's dream and things are finally starting to break for me. I just landed a part in a new John Waters film."
"Excellent. I'm a writer myself. I'm working on my first novel. I hope things'll break for me someday too."
"They will, they will. Just keep at it hon'. Your day will come."
And so hearing these words from a young Italian man who made his living by dressing in women's clothing oddly lifted my spirits. I believed him. Somehow I knew my day would come. You take the life preserver from the hand that offers it.
That night I drove the 62 miles from Norton back to my rented condo in Worcester. There Nakita, my aged Japanese Akita dog, was waiting for me to take him for his nightly walk. His hind legs were bad and at times the snowdrifts were so high I had to carry him. After he did his business, we'd retire to my writing room -- the master bedroom located in back of the condo that looked out on an ancient railroad yard. While Niki snored by my feet, I listened to the old freight trains rumbling off in the distance, and thought of Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady and dreamed of the day my novel would be finished and I could quit my lousy teleservice job . . . and I wrote.
As I write these words, four 5 gallon bottles of spring water sit out on my patio -- delivered by the very same company I once worked for. My novel has been published, and Niki has long since gone to that great Japanese doghouse in the sky. Many miles and years later here I sit: writing. The journey continues, and, I realize, I'm living the dream.
I'd like to give a shout-out to some old friends who made an intolerable situation almost tolerable: Mark McCarthy, Bobby Girard, Greg Messcher, Melissa Bower & Terry Madden --Thanks,'Q'
We had a wonderful Christmas card-like logo of a beautiful, pristine aquifer with a moose grazing peacefully, hidden deep within the virgin woods of Maine -- so deep, as we told our customers, that it had never been fouled by man (unless of course he worked for us). People loved our spring water and business was booming. At 5pm, when the rest of my coworkers headed for home and hearth, I remained for the next 3 hours handling the toughest calls of the day. It was at 5pm that our 'route men' ended their day and customers who'd not received their deliveries, realizing that the H2O just wasn't comin', reached for their phones. It was 3 hours of pure, unmitigated hell, and I owned it.
A couple months prior, I'd been promoted to the position of 'Senior Teleservice Representative' -- my green, plastic name plate velcroed to the fabric wall of my cubicle, changed to blue -- signifying I was now the resident badass. My colleagues looked upon me with awe and admiration. I was the guy from that mythical place they'd all heard and read about -- New York City. I carried myself with a swagger and confidence that men feared and women loved -- and I handled all the hot ones. Oh, not just your run-of-the-mill irate customers, but 'escalated situations': customers threatening violence or suicide, or worse yet, demanding to speak with a supervisor. I was 'the cooler.' Everyone simply referred to me as 'Q.'
I'd come here to the wilds of Massachusetts to write my novel. To the land of Thoreau and Kerouac and Hawthorne and Cheever -- a land rife with the ghosts of great writers. Even Melville, a fellow New Yorker, had written "Moby Dick" here (on a farm in Pittsfield, where he eventually passed away). From the red brick factories of Lowell, to the long shadows of Walden Woods. It was my belief that if I couldn't write a novel here, then I couldn't write one anywhere. It was all on the line now.
I'd taken the teleservice gig -- a nice, easy job (or so I thought) -- to keep me afloat while I worked on my book. The job turned out to be more than I'd bargained for. The company was undergoing a major upheaval: changing routes, delivery days and frequency (often without notifying cutomers); revamping its billing and invoice system; eliminating some old brands while acquiring others (we were actually several companies withtin one). It was a cluster fuck. Customers weren't getting their deliveries . . . and they were pissed off.
So, with a cup of bad generic office brew (made worse by bad generic nondairy creamer and a hint of styrofoam), I adjusted my headset and settled in for the carnage that was about to ensue. The calls came rapid-fire; as soon as one customer hung up (I was not permitted under any circumstance to disconnect or end a call), there was a single "beep," and the next caller was already on the line. The first few calls were just standard fare; customers who hadn't gotten their deliveries. I apologized; explaining that the company was currently in the process of consolidating certain routes in order to increase efficiency and improve service (the usual bullshit), then I'd reschedule the delivery for the following day, assuring the customer it would be there bright and early (more bullshit).
There was the familiar "beep" and a voice on the other end of the line. At first I couldn't distinguish if it was male or female. I asked the customer for his (her?) account number and pulled up the information on my computer. The account was listed in the name of a 'Dominick' with an Italian surname -- a paesan -- the address listed in NYC; my hometown. I requested the caller verify that he/she was in fact the owner of the account by verifying name, address and phone number, then asked how I could be of assistance.
"It's your route man," The caller said, in a voice still sounding non-gender specific, "He hasn't been here in over a month."
I was perplexed. Since NYC was so densely populated, deliveries were made on a weekly basis, unlike some other areas of the country where deliveries were made every 2 or 3 weeks. For a route man not to show for a month was highly unusual. I checked the account to see if there were any billing issues. None. Why the no-show? I offered my apologies, promising I'd have some water there tomorrow -- A.M. -- and would follow up on the skipped deliveries with the branch manager.
"Thank you so much." The caller said, surprisingly unruffled by the situation, "The water here is just awful . . . It's an old building and the pipes are rusted. I won't even let my cat drink it or use it to water the plants."
"Gotcha." I said, "I'm from New York myself. Queens."
"Oh, well then you know . . ." There was a somewhat awkward pause, then the caller said: "I think I know why I haven't seen your route man. I think I might've scared him off."
"Scared him off?"
"Yes. I'm a female impersonator. The last time he made a delivery I answered the door while I was getting dressed. I had my wig and makeup on but . . . well . . . let's just say I wasn't wearing a 'holster.' I think I may have traumatized him."
"Ah-hah. Well, I'm sure it wasn't anything he hasn't seen before."
"I would hope not."
"So, what's it like being in show business?"
"Just fabulous. It's been my life's dream and things are finally starting to break for me. I just landed a part in a new John Waters film."
"Excellent. I'm a writer myself. I'm working on my first novel. I hope things'll break for me someday too."
"They will, they will. Just keep at it hon'. Your day will come."
And so hearing these words from a young Italian man who made his living by dressing in women's clothing oddly lifted my spirits. I believed him. Somehow I knew my day would come. You take the life preserver from the hand that offers it.
That night I drove the 62 miles from Norton back to my rented condo in Worcester. There Nakita, my aged Japanese Akita dog, was waiting for me to take him for his nightly walk. His hind legs were bad and at times the snowdrifts were so high I had to carry him. After he did his business, we'd retire to my writing room -- the master bedroom located in back of the condo that looked out on an ancient railroad yard. While Niki snored by my feet, I listened to the old freight trains rumbling off in the distance, and thought of Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady and dreamed of the day my novel would be finished and I could quit my lousy teleservice job . . . and I wrote.
As I write these words, four 5 gallon bottles of spring water sit out on my patio -- delivered by the very same company I once worked for. My novel has been published, and Niki has long since gone to that great Japanese doghouse in the sky. Many miles and years later here I sit: writing. The journey continues, and, I realize, I'm living the dream.
I'd like to give a shout-out to some old friends who made an intolerable situation almost tolerable: Mark McCarthy, Bobby Girard, Greg Messcher, Melissa Bower & Terry Madden --Thanks,'Q'
July 4, 2009
WILL THE REAL BOSTON STRANGLER PLEASE STAND UP
Almost 50 years ago a petty thief named Albert De Salvo confessed to the crime of the century -- strangling a series of women around Boston, MA.
Although his sensational killing spree has been eclipsed by the likes of Son of Sam, The Zodiac and Unabomber, let's take a moment to remember the man who first put serial killers on the map (and nearly earned Tony Curtis an Oscar nomination). But was De Salvo really the Boston Strangler? According to most experts who've studied the case -- no.
Seems that poor Al was duped into confessing to the crime by his sleazebag attorney, F. Lee Bailey, who promised him a book and movie deal (which he got by the way; note to all you aspiring authors out there; forget those pathetic query letters -- apparently embarking on a killing spree is the fastest way to land an agent), and after a few years making potholders in the local booby hatch, a gig as spokesman for Hertz rent a car. Well, things didn't quite pan out. De Salvo was sentenced to life in prison where he was murdered by a fellow inmate, and O.J. got the gig with Hertz (talk about irony).
But did De Salvo take an ominous secret with him to the grave? Who was the real Boston Strangler? Here's my list of candidates (feel free to comment with your own top picks) . . .
1) Richard M. Nixon -- Let's face it, Dick Nixon was a dark character. (Did you see that Frost/Nixon flick?) After losing the Presidential race to JFK, what better way to vent your frustration than by strangling a few innocent women in the new Commander-in-Chief's home state? Seems plausible to me.
2) O.J. Simpson -- I would've made O.J. my #1 choice but don't wanna be accused of being prejudice. I think O.J. framed De Salvo to get the rent a car gig; planted evidence and BLAH-BLAH-BLAH . . . I don't care. O.J. Did it. Not only is he the real Boston Strangler, I also believe he's responsible for the Lindbergh kidnapping and impregnating the Octo-Mom. (I'd also like to know his whereabouts during the rape of the Sabine women.)
3) A Disgruntled Postal Worker -- Hey, you can't swing a dead cat without hitting some mail sorter who's about to start shooting -- or strangling. Always a possibility.
4) Stephenie Meyer -- Okay. So she wasn't even born yet. I can dream can't I?
5) Dick Cheney -- Hell, why not blame him for this too?
Have a wonderful 4th of July! -- Quinn
Although his sensational killing spree has been eclipsed by the likes of Son of Sam, The Zodiac and Unabomber, let's take a moment to remember the man who first put serial killers on the map (and nearly earned Tony Curtis an Oscar nomination). But was De Salvo really the Boston Strangler? According to most experts who've studied the case -- no.
Seems that poor Al was duped into confessing to the crime by his sleazebag attorney, F. Lee Bailey, who promised him a book and movie deal (which he got by the way; note to all you aspiring authors out there; forget those pathetic query letters -- apparently embarking on a killing spree is the fastest way to land an agent), and after a few years making potholders in the local booby hatch, a gig as spokesman for Hertz rent a car. Well, things didn't quite pan out. De Salvo was sentenced to life in prison where he was murdered by a fellow inmate, and O.J. got the gig with Hertz (talk about irony).
But did De Salvo take an ominous secret with him to the grave? Who was the real Boston Strangler? Here's my list of candidates (feel free to comment with your own top picks) . . .
1) Richard M. Nixon -- Let's face it, Dick Nixon was a dark character. (Did you see that Frost/Nixon flick?) After losing the Presidential race to JFK, what better way to vent your frustration than by strangling a few innocent women in the new Commander-in-Chief's home state? Seems plausible to me.
2) O.J. Simpson -- I would've made O.J. my #1 choice but don't wanna be accused of being prejudice. I think O.J. framed De Salvo to get the rent a car gig; planted evidence and BLAH-BLAH-BLAH . . . I don't care. O.J. Did it. Not only is he the real Boston Strangler, I also believe he's responsible for the Lindbergh kidnapping and impregnating the Octo-Mom. (I'd also like to know his whereabouts during the rape of the Sabine women.)
3) A Disgruntled Postal Worker -- Hey, you can't swing a dead cat without hitting some mail sorter who's about to start shooting -- or strangling. Always a possibility.
4) Stephenie Meyer -- Okay. So she wasn't even born yet. I can dream can't I?
5) Dick Cheney -- Hell, why not blame him for this too?
Have a wonderful 4th of July! -- Quinn
June 19, 2009
LADY IN THE DESERT (The True Story of the Flamingo as Told by Benjamin "Bugsy" Siegel)
First off, don't call me Bugsy. Don't ever call me Bugsy. Not so I can hear anyway. It's Ben. Benny if you like. Thank you. As for the Flamingo, I'll tell you straight away that almost everything you've heard, seen in the movies and the like -- how it was first concieved; built; named; etcetera -- is strictly a fabrication. I'd use a stronger word but I'm a gentleman.
The Hollywood types would have you believe that it was I, Benjamin Siegel, who first hatched the idea to build an "oasis" in the desert; a palace rising outa the Mojave like a mirage; a vision imagined by some drunken goatherd whose brains had been fried by the sun -- and that it was me who named it the "Flamingo" in honor of my lady friend, Virginia Hill. While this makes for a great yarn it simply ain't so. Let it never be said that Benny Siegel didn't give credit where credit was due. The Flamingo was really the idea of a guy named Billy Wilkerson. Billy owned Ciro's, a joint in L.A.; a nightclub that all the Hollywood hotshots frequented: John Wayne; Marlene Dietrich. Even my old pal Georgie Raft. Anybody who was anybody hung out at Ciro's. I'd known Billy for years. We'd bend an elbow every now and again at The Stork Club in New York. Billy loved The Stork Club. It was his favorite joint in the entire world. He often told me how he wished his own place, Ciro's, could exude that kinda class -- that elegance you normally only got to see in Europe or on the French Riviera. Fuck John Wayne and Marlene Dietrich.
Like I say, Billy was an okay guy. Very personable. Always with a joke or story to tell. And very successful. Ciro's might not have been The Stork Club, but lemme tell ya it was a friggin' goldmine just the same. Excuse my French. Like most high fliers Billy had a fatal flaw. It's either booze, broads or gambling. For Billy it was gambling. If you pissed your pants Billy would bet on which leg it would run down. Billy would bet on everything from the ponies to prizefights. I even took some of his action. The thing Billy really loved though was all them sawdust joints along Fremont Street. He'd charter a plane and fly in from L.A.; spend the afternoon, sometimes the weekend. There were days Billy would fly outa Vegas 50 Gs lighter than when he arrived. Billy had the fever. And he had it bad.
One day a friend of Billy's said: "Billy, if you like gambling so much, why not own the house?"
This was how Billy got the idea for the Flamingo. Billy was a dreamer though. A guy who imagined things on a grand scale. Like yours truly. He wasn't just gonna build another cowboy joint like the dives on Fremont. He was gonna build The Stork Club right there in the middle of the Mojave desert. A place that would be every bit as elegant and glamorous as those joints on the French Riviera; where all them high rollers he catered to back home could come to drop a bundle. He even decided to call it the "Flamingo" so people would be reminded of The Stork Club. Flamingo. Stork. Both exotic birds. Capice? As Charlie Lucky would say. So much for the bit about me naming the place for Virginia Hill.
Let me set the record straight about me and Virginia. It wasn't exactly the great love affair Hollywood's made it out to be. Don't get me wrong. Virginia was a helluva kid. A real spitfire. Had a temper to match mine and then some. She was alotta fun to be around . . . most of the time. Knew what she was doin' in the sack too. Liked it a little rough but that was fine by me. Romeo and Juliet we weren't though. As for me naming the Flamingo for her 'cause she was long and leggy . . . well . . . Virginia was many things but long and leggy she wasn't. Virginia was short and buxom. "Rubenesque" as she liked me to say. A little fat in the can but nothing wrong with that. Actually the whole name thing was kinda ironic since Virginia hated flamingos. Was attacked by one while vacationing in the Caribbean. Go figure.
Anyway, gettin' back to Billy. He borrowed a ton of dough using Ciro's as collateral; bought a parcel of land from some crazy old broad living in a shack out on what's now The Strip -- and set about building the Flamingo. Had it more than half finished by the time I stepped in. Like I mentioned earlier, Billy had the fever. Had it in spades. He went and gambled away the money he needed to finish the place, and with Billy mortgaged to the eyeballs and his "problem" a topic of the rumor mill, there wasn't a bank outside of Timbuktu that'd lend him another nickle. That's when I heard opportunity knock. I got my old cronies Charlie Luciano and Meyer Lansky to pony up the cash and I became Billy's "partner."
I gotta admit, at first it was strictly all business. I thought Billy was really onto something. Not just a gambling joint but fine dining and cocktails; a lounge for top-notch acts like Lena Horne and Henny Youngman. And a hotel attached to it all. First-rate accomodations to match anything you'd find at The Plaza or Waldorf in New York. The Flamingo would have it all. I'd spare no expense. That's when I got the fever. What was supposed to cost a million turned into two million. Then three. Then four. Six million before it was all said and done. I was getting calls and telegrams from Meyer Lansky asking what the hell was going on. Six million dollars for a gambling joint in the middle of the desert? Had I flipped my stack? Charlie Luciano was foaming at the mouth. Where was all the dough going? For shit sakes put the brakes on. But I couldn't. Not even if I wanted to.
Not only was I spending money like a drunken Shiek, I was getting ripped off. Imagine me, Benny Siegel -- strong-arming pushcart operators when I was thirteen; cofounder of Murder Icorporated -- I was getting took. I'd have palm trees trucked in from California and at night the same guys who made the delivery would steal 'em back and sell 'em to me again. But I didn't know. Or maybe just didn't care. The only thing I cared about was the Flamingo. It was no longer Billy's dream. It was my dream. I forced Billy out. Gave him some dough. Told him it was his choice. He could either have the silver or the lead. He took the silver. Billy was no dope. The Flamingo was all mine.
I watched it grow, day by day. From a bunch of planks and beams and cement and plaster to a palace. It meant more to me than any dame. More than money. It meant more to me than my two daughters. God help me for saying it. It was beautiful. Majestic. The Flamingo was my lady. There would never be another. One night, shortly after it was finished, I stood watching it from a distance; all lit with neon. A thousand stars in the desert sky. Stars like I never seen sleeping on that fire escape back in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, when I was a kid. Looking up at the night sky and dreaming I'd do something big. But nothing like this. A thousand stars in the desert sky but the Flamingo was the brightest. That was it. I'd done it. Benny Siegel had fulfilled his destiny. I knew it. Just like a part of me knew it was already over. I didn't see it when the end finally came. Never knew what hit me. That's all you can ask for in my business. Bye, bye Benny.
They tore it down eventually. Built an even bigger place. Bigger but not better. If you visit the Flamingo today, out back by the wedding chapel and the exotic bird habitat where they keep the African penguins and flamingos (Virginia would shit), you'll find a little memorial: a stone and plaque bearing my face and name. A memorial for Benjamin Siegel. The man who built the Flamingo. At least they didn't call me Bugsy.
*Author's Note*: Bugsy -- excuse me -- Benny Siegel's photo hangs on my wall right next to a matted and framed fragment of a legal document bearing his actual signature. I believe I was channeling him as I wrote this piece of fiction. Rest in peace Benny -- Quinn
The Hollywood types would have you believe that it was I, Benjamin Siegel, who first hatched the idea to build an "oasis" in the desert; a palace rising outa the Mojave like a mirage; a vision imagined by some drunken goatherd whose brains had been fried by the sun -- and that it was me who named it the "Flamingo" in honor of my lady friend, Virginia Hill. While this makes for a great yarn it simply ain't so. Let it never be said that Benny Siegel didn't give credit where credit was due. The Flamingo was really the idea of a guy named Billy Wilkerson. Billy owned Ciro's, a joint in L.A.; a nightclub that all the Hollywood hotshots frequented: John Wayne; Marlene Dietrich. Even my old pal Georgie Raft. Anybody who was anybody hung out at Ciro's. I'd known Billy for years. We'd bend an elbow every now and again at The Stork Club in New York. Billy loved The Stork Club. It was his favorite joint in the entire world. He often told me how he wished his own place, Ciro's, could exude that kinda class -- that elegance you normally only got to see in Europe or on the French Riviera. Fuck John Wayne and Marlene Dietrich.
Like I say, Billy was an okay guy. Very personable. Always with a joke or story to tell. And very successful. Ciro's might not have been The Stork Club, but lemme tell ya it was a friggin' goldmine just the same. Excuse my French. Like most high fliers Billy had a fatal flaw. It's either booze, broads or gambling. For Billy it was gambling. If you pissed your pants Billy would bet on which leg it would run down. Billy would bet on everything from the ponies to prizefights. I even took some of his action. The thing Billy really loved though was all them sawdust joints along Fremont Street. He'd charter a plane and fly in from L.A.; spend the afternoon, sometimes the weekend. There were days Billy would fly outa Vegas 50 Gs lighter than when he arrived. Billy had the fever. And he had it bad.
One day a friend of Billy's said: "Billy, if you like gambling so much, why not own the house?"
This was how Billy got the idea for the Flamingo. Billy was a dreamer though. A guy who imagined things on a grand scale. Like yours truly. He wasn't just gonna build another cowboy joint like the dives on Fremont. He was gonna build The Stork Club right there in the middle of the Mojave desert. A place that would be every bit as elegant and glamorous as those joints on the French Riviera; where all them high rollers he catered to back home could come to drop a bundle. He even decided to call it the "Flamingo" so people would be reminded of The Stork Club. Flamingo. Stork. Both exotic birds. Capice? As Charlie Lucky would say. So much for the bit about me naming the place for Virginia Hill.
Let me set the record straight about me and Virginia. It wasn't exactly the great love affair Hollywood's made it out to be. Don't get me wrong. Virginia was a helluva kid. A real spitfire. Had a temper to match mine and then some. She was alotta fun to be around . . . most of the time. Knew what she was doin' in the sack too. Liked it a little rough but that was fine by me. Romeo and Juliet we weren't though. As for me naming the Flamingo for her 'cause she was long and leggy . . . well . . . Virginia was many things but long and leggy she wasn't. Virginia was short and buxom. "Rubenesque" as she liked me to say. A little fat in the can but nothing wrong with that. Actually the whole name thing was kinda ironic since Virginia hated flamingos. Was attacked by one while vacationing in the Caribbean. Go figure.
Anyway, gettin' back to Billy. He borrowed a ton of dough using Ciro's as collateral; bought a parcel of land from some crazy old broad living in a shack out on what's now The Strip -- and set about building the Flamingo. Had it more than half finished by the time I stepped in. Like I mentioned earlier, Billy had the fever. Had it in spades. He went and gambled away the money he needed to finish the place, and with Billy mortgaged to the eyeballs and his "problem" a topic of the rumor mill, there wasn't a bank outside of Timbuktu that'd lend him another nickle. That's when I heard opportunity knock. I got my old cronies Charlie Luciano and Meyer Lansky to pony up the cash and I became Billy's "partner."
I gotta admit, at first it was strictly all business. I thought Billy was really onto something. Not just a gambling joint but fine dining and cocktails; a lounge for top-notch acts like Lena Horne and Henny Youngman. And a hotel attached to it all. First-rate accomodations to match anything you'd find at The Plaza or Waldorf in New York. The Flamingo would have it all. I'd spare no expense. That's when I got the fever. What was supposed to cost a million turned into two million. Then three. Then four. Six million before it was all said and done. I was getting calls and telegrams from Meyer Lansky asking what the hell was going on. Six million dollars for a gambling joint in the middle of the desert? Had I flipped my stack? Charlie Luciano was foaming at the mouth. Where was all the dough going? For shit sakes put the brakes on. But I couldn't. Not even if I wanted to.
Not only was I spending money like a drunken Shiek, I was getting ripped off. Imagine me, Benny Siegel -- strong-arming pushcart operators when I was thirteen; cofounder of Murder Icorporated -- I was getting took. I'd have palm trees trucked in from California and at night the same guys who made the delivery would steal 'em back and sell 'em to me again. But I didn't know. Or maybe just didn't care. The only thing I cared about was the Flamingo. It was no longer Billy's dream. It was my dream. I forced Billy out. Gave him some dough. Told him it was his choice. He could either have the silver or the lead. He took the silver. Billy was no dope. The Flamingo was all mine.
I watched it grow, day by day. From a bunch of planks and beams and cement and plaster to a palace. It meant more to me than any dame. More than money. It meant more to me than my two daughters. God help me for saying it. It was beautiful. Majestic. The Flamingo was my lady. There would never be another. One night, shortly after it was finished, I stood watching it from a distance; all lit with neon. A thousand stars in the desert sky. Stars like I never seen sleeping on that fire escape back in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, when I was a kid. Looking up at the night sky and dreaming I'd do something big. But nothing like this. A thousand stars in the desert sky but the Flamingo was the brightest. That was it. I'd done it. Benny Siegel had fulfilled his destiny. I knew it. Just like a part of me knew it was already over. I didn't see it when the end finally came. Never knew what hit me. That's all you can ask for in my business. Bye, bye Benny.
They tore it down eventually. Built an even bigger place. Bigger but not better. If you visit the Flamingo today, out back by the wedding chapel and the exotic bird habitat where they keep the African penguins and flamingos (Virginia would shit), you'll find a little memorial: a stone and plaque bearing my face and name. A memorial for Benjamin Siegel. The man who built the Flamingo. At least they didn't call me Bugsy.
*Author's Note*: Bugsy -- excuse me -- Benny Siegel's photo hangs on my wall right next to a matted and framed fragment of a legal document bearing his actual signature. I believe I was channeling him as I wrote this piece of fiction. Rest in peace Benny -- Quinn
May 2, 2009
MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE
How do you define a writer? A writer isn't merely someone who writes and publishes a book. No. There are any number of authors who aren't "writers." There's no logical reason for any person to want to be a writer (any sane person). Now more than ever, with the entire publishing industry dying a slow death; magazines and newspapers slipping into bankruptcy or ceasing to exist altogether; book publishers adopting a corporate "play it safe, more of the same" mentality. The odds of ever ekeing out a living by means of the written word resemble hitting the jackpot on a penny slot machine.
Writing is about passion. Desire. Writing isn't a job or a career or even a vocation; it's an affliction. There must be no choice in the matter. How often have I heard it said, "If you can imagine yourself doing anything other than writing, for God's sake, do it."
Sherwood Anderson, the author of "Winesburg, Ohio" -- a book which inspired such wildly diverse (and important) American authors as Ernest Hemingway and Henry Miller -- had this to say about writing:
"What ever meant more to me than this? What thing, what woman, what possession, what promise of life after death?"
For those of you not familiar, Anderson was a highly successful, middle-aged businessman who one day literally up and walked away from it all to pursue his burning desire to write. Sherwood Anderson was a "writer."
I once had what I believed to be the perfect litmus test for determining if someone were truly a "writer." Hypothetically put, could you answer "yes" to the following question . . .
If you found yourself permanently stranded on an uncharted island, completely alone (not even Mrs. Howell for company), would you continue to write?
Consider the implications of this: no monetary reward; no fame; no potential groupies; not even the slightest chance that another human being would ever read what you'd written. Would you still continue to answer the call of the muse? . . . Continue to toil away day after day; scratching words into the sand with a stick if necessary, only to see your profundity erased by the first strong wind -- not a trace left behind?
My answer: "You bet yer ass!"
Of course I would continue to write. After all, I was a "Writer." Sure.
Well, let me tell ya; somethin' strange happened. After years and years of writing simply for the sake of writing: turning out novels, short stories and humorous pieces that no one wanted to publish, I got tired. The discipline and passion that sent me straight to my writing desk after a 9 hour work day and a 90 minute commute began to wane. I realized that my situation wasn't much different than that poor, "hypothetical" sonofabitch stranded alone on an uncharted isle. Spending 2 years slaving away at a novel only to see it ultimately collect dust on a closet shelf wasn't a great deal different than scratching words into the sand with a stick. The iron resolve that made me get up off the sofa and turn off the TV; kept me out of the bars and clubs, eschewing a social life for the dreaded solitude of the blank page, had turned into Silly Putty.
I stopped writing. Days, weeks, months and ultimately years (6 to be exact) passed without having written even a single word. I'd failed my own test. The "writer" had stopped writing. Then something even stranger happened: the internet.
It was as if a mysterious crate had washed up on my lonely island; a crate containing reams of paper and pens (Pilot Precise Grip -- my favorite) . . . and bottles . . . with tightly fitting corks. I was saved. No longer did I need to scratch my words into the sand -- I could scribble them onto little bits of paper and set them adrift in a bottle -- and maybe, just maybe, somehow, someone would read them! Imagine that?
"Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days."
So here it comes . . .
Writing is about passion. Desire. Writing isn't a job or a career or even a vocation; it's an affliction. There must be no choice in the matter. How often have I heard it said, "If you can imagine yourself doing anything other than writing, for God's sake, do it."
Sherwood Anderson, the author of "Winesburg, Ohio" -- a book which inspired such wildly diverse (and important) American authors as Ernest Hemingway and Henry Miller -- had this to say about writing:
"What ever meant more to me than this? What thing, what woman, what possession, what promise of life after death?"
For those of you not familiar, Anderson was a highly successful, middle-aged businessman who one day literally up and walked away from it all to pursue his burning desire to write. Sherwood Anderson was a "writer."
I once had what I believed to be the perfect litmus test for determining if someone were truly a "writer." Hypothetically put, could you answer "yes" to the following question . . .
If you found yourself permanently stranded on an uncharted island, completely alone (not even Mrs. Howell for company), would you continue to write?
Consider the implications of this: no monetary reward; no fame; no potential groupies; not even the slightest chance that another human being would ever read what you'd written. Would you still continue to answer the call of the muse? . . . Continue to toil away day after day; scratching words into the sand with a stick if necessary, only to see your profundity erased by the first strong wind -- not a trace left behind?
My answer: "You bet yer ass!"
Of course I would continue to write. After all, I was a "Writer." Sure.
Well, let me tell ya; somethin' strange happened. After years and years of writing simply for the sake of writing: turning out novels, short stories and humorous pieces that no one wanted to publish, I got tired. The discipline and passion that sent me straight to my writing desk after a 9 hour work day and a 90 minute commute began to wane. I realized that my situation wasn't much different than that poor, "hypothetical" sonofabitch stranded alone on an uncharted isle. Spending 2 years slaving away at a novel only to see it ultimately collect dust on a closet shelf wasn't a great deal different than scratching words into the sand with a stick. The iron resolve that made me get up off the sofa and turn off the TV; kept me out of the bars and clubs, eschewing a social life for the dreaded solitude of the blank page, had turned into Silly Putty.
I stopped writing. Days, weeks, months and ultimately years (6 to be exact) passed without having written even a single word. I'd failed my own test. The "writer" had stopped writing. Then something even stranger happened: the internet.
It was as if a mysterious crate had washed up on my lonely island; a crate containing reams of paper and pens (Pilot Precise Grip -- my favorite) . . . and bottles . . . with tightly fitting corks. I was saved. No longer did I need to scratch my words into the sand -- I could scribble them onto little bits of paper and set them adrift in a bottle -- and maybe, just maybe, somehow, someone would read them! Imagine that?
"Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days."
So here it comes . . .
April 9, 2009
A LETTER TO THE EDITOR
The April 2, 2009 issue of 'Las Vegas Weekly' featured a piece on my novel entitled, "FIVE RANDOM PASSAGES FROM HORSE LATITUDES, BY LOCAL NOVELIST QUENTIN R. BUFOGLE".
The passages were selected by the magazine's staff (randomly) and featured such highlights as: Chester Sprockett ogling the breasts of a topless sunbather with the aid of a telescope (something we've all done at one time or another); an obscure reference to a monkey (taken totally out of context), and a poignant scene where Chester ends his sordid affair with a waitress at a luncheonette by telling her he has the clap and is moving to Greenland. Pretty much standard stuff. I sent the following letter to the magazine's head honcho, Scott Dickensheets, in response . . .
Dear Mr. Dickensheets:
Just wanna thank you for running your recent feature on my novel. I was pleasantly surprised to see the piece, especially after the initial cold-shoulder I received (oh, let's call a spade a spade; you dissed me Scott). But I felt if there was a place in your pantheon of culture for 'A Stripper's Guide to Szechuan Cooking,' or 'Twilight, the Audio Book, as read by Lisa Lampanelli,' then certainly there was room for a book about a guy who checks out young ladies' cans with a telescope.
Apparently some of your readers concur, since the piece on HL made #9 on your "What's Hot" list; #8 on "Most Discussed", and an astonishing #4 on "Most E-Mailed." Thought you'd like to know what all this notoriety has garnered for me personally. Well, let's just say it's been a wild ride:
-- Horse Latitudes has soared to just under 160,000 in the Amazon.com book sales rankings (outranking 'The Red Badge of Courage' and 'Newark on $20 a Day').
-- I've received over a dozen nude pics via e-mail (some from women).
-- An invitation to join the Aryan Nation, tho didn't make the cut due to a questionable tattoo -- a portrait of Charles Nelson Riley -- the result of a drunken tequila binge. (Who knew there was a dress code?)
-- And a fan letter from Paris Hilton who thinks I'm Quentin Tarantino.
In light of this, I'm currently hard at work on my new novel: the haunting story of the star-crossed romance of a popular high school quarterback/werewolf and his perky cheerleader girlfriend. (The relationship ultimately fails when he comes down with the mange and she becomes a strict vegan.)
Hey, if ya can't beat 'em join 'em.
Thanks loads -- Quentin
The passages were selected by the magazine's staff (randomly) and featured such highlights as: Chester Sprockett ogling the breasts of a topless sunbather with the aid of a telescope (something we've all done at one time or another); an obscure reference to a monkey (taken totally out of context), and a poignant scene where Chester ends his sordid affair with a waitress at a luncheonette by telling her he has the clap and is moving to Greenland. Pretty much standard stuff. I sent the following letter to the magazine's head honcho, Scott Dickensheets, in response . . .
Dear Mr. Dickensheets:
Just wanna thank you for running your recent feature on my novel. I was pleasantly surprised to see the piece, especially after the initial cold-shoulder I received (oh, let's call a spade a spade; you dissed me Scott). But I felt if there was a place in your pantheon of culture for 'A Stripper's Guide to Szechuan Cooking,' or 'Twilight, the Audio Book, as read by Lisa Lampanelli,' then certainly there was room for a book about a guy who checks out young ladies' cans with a telescope.
Apparently some of your readers concur, since the piece on HL made #9 on your "What's Hot" list; #8 on "Most Discussed", and an astonishing #4 on "Most E-Mailed." Thought you'd like to know what all this notoriety has garnered for me personally. Well, let's just say it's been a wild ride:
-- Horse Latitudes has soared to just under 160,000 in the Amazon.com book sales rankings (outranking 'The Red Badge of Courage' and 'Newark on $20 a Day').
-- I've received over a dozen nude pics via e-mail (some from women).
-- An invitation to join the Aryan Nation, tho didn't make the cut due to a questionable tattoo -- a portrait of Charles Nelson Riley -- the result of a drunken tequila binge. (Who knew there was a dress code?)
-- And a fan letter from Paris Hilton who thinks I'm Quentin Tarantino.
In light of this, I'm currently hard at work on my new novel: the haunting story of the star-crossed romance of a popular high school quarterback/werewolf and his perky cheerleader girlfriend. (The relationship ultimately fails when he comes down with the mange and she becomes a strict vegan.)
Hey, if ya can't beat 'em join 'em.
Thanks loads -- Quentin
March 28, 2009
BARF BAG INCLUDED
I don't like disparaging other writers or their work. Writing is not a competitive endeavor and all writers -- save for a fortunate few -- have the deck stacked against them. No need to stone each other. I'm gonna make an exception in the case of Jay Mcinerney: boy wonder and literary sensation of the '80s. One of the glitter people.
Gotta hand it to ol' Jay. I've read everything from 'Mein Kampf' to the writings of the Marquis de Sade, and never before have I wanted to bitch slap another author. Mcinerney is the very embodiment of everything that was wrong with the '80s: pretentious; trendy; narcissistic. I always got a kick out of how Jay fancied himself the new Scott Fitzgerald. Well, you were half right Jay.
There were two Scott Fitzgeralds: the young, over-inflated, snot-nose who wrote two very mediocre and forgettable novels which earned him entirely too much money (much like your work) -- and the older, broken Fitzgerald who wrote two literary masterpieces which earned him little but immortality. Plain to see which served as your role model.
But none of this is why you turn my stomach, Jay. I can forgive you for being a cliched, uninspired, hack of a writer; but in your very mediocre and forgettable novel, 'Brightness Falls', you state that the only way a man can understand what it's like to be born a woman with large breasts is to be sent off to war and shot at (no folks, I'm not making this up). Your "novel" should come complete with its own barf bag. Let's recap. You compared the horrors of war to the burden of hauling around a pair of double Ds. Are you for real???
Seriously Jay, I know you're just pandering to the feminists -- showin' how sensitive you are -- but I know women who've actually paid big money to have their breasts augmented. You know any guy who's paid to be sent off to war and have his nuts shot off??? I'm certain tits and war are two subjects you know very little about, and the closest you've ever come to combat is a pillow fight with Michael Chabon. Please, please try to refrain from making such idiotic declarations in the future. It's an insult to all the men -- and women -- who've given life and limb in defense of this country, and beneath even a sniveling, pantywaist such as yourself.
Then again, what can you expect from a "creative artist" who had himself incorporated? Thank God your career (like the '80s) is over.
Gotta hand it to ol' Jay. I've read everything from 'Mein Kampf' to the writings of the Marquis de Sade, and never before have I wanted to bitch slap another author. Mcinerney is the very embodiment of everything that was wrong with the '80s: pretentious; trendy; narcissistic. I always got a kick out of how Jay fancied himself the new Scott Fitzgerald. Well, you were half right Jay.
There were two Scott Fitzgeralds: the young, over-inflated, snot-nose who wrote two very mediocre and forgettable novels which earned him entirely too much money (much like your work) -- and the older, broken Fitzgerald who wrote two literary masterpieces which earned him little but immortality. Plain to see which served as your role model.
But none of this is why you turn my stomach, Jay. I can forgive you for being a cliched, uninspired, hack of a writer; but in your very mediocre and forgettable novel, 'Brightness Falls', you state that the only way a man can understand what it's like to be born a woman with large breasts is to be sent off to war and shot at (no folks, I'm not making this up). Your "novel" should come complete with its own barf bag. Let's recap. You compared the horrors of war to the burden of hauling around a pair of double Ds. Are you for real???
Seriously Jay, I know you're just pandering to the feminists -- showin' how sensitive you are -- but I know women who've actually paid big money to have their breasts augmented. You know any guy who's paid to be sent off to war and have his nuts shot off??? I'm certain tits and war are two subjects you know very little about, and the closest you've ever come to combat is a pillow fight with Michael Chabon. Please, please try to refrain from making such idiotic declarations in the future. It's an insult to all the men -- and women -- who've given life and limb in defense of this country, and beneath even a sniveling, pantywaist such as yourself.
Then again, what can you expect from a "creative artist" who had himself incorporated? Thank God your career (like the '80s) is over.
