Music: Jay Traynor, RIP

by George Molé

Just about a month ago, on Saturday, December 7, I attended quite a colorful doo-wop concert at St. Athanasius Church, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. In the house was what you might call the old Brooklyn--a lot of white-haired guys sporting their black leather Fonzie jackets, and yellow-haired ladies rocking their leopard-prints and furs. And a nice enough crowd to make you wish the old Brooklyn wasn't being replaced so rapidly by the new.

After the show, I got to take a photo with a highly respected singer--Jay Traynor, who, back in the days of early rock, replaced Paul Simon as lead vocalist of the Mystics, and then went on to be the original "Jay" of Jay and the Americans. That photo is below (and, no, it's not blurry, it's soft-focus, like an Impressionist painting). And Traynor's voice can best be heard in this 1962 hit by Jay and the Americans, "She Cried."

Traynor performed at the December show as a member of Jay Siegel's Tokens (yes, another Jay), with whom he had been touring, and who were among the best of all the great groups to grace that school auditorium that evening. The original Tokens, with Siegel as the lead singer (but long before Traynor was on board), were best known for their 1961 hit "The Lion Sleeps Tonight." They did that song that night, and Siegel got all the notes, with the able assistance of Traynor and the rest of the group.

Now it's been announced that Traynor has passed away, on January 2, having succumbed to the liver cancer he had been battling. This is not an original observation--but, man, life is short and fragile. RIP, Jay Traynor, and thanks for the fine music.

Singer Jay Traynor (right) with yours truly at the December show in Brooklyn.

Politics: The corner of Truth and Reality, and step on it

Text and photos by George Molé

Soon after last month's election, the media began to explain to us that President Obama had been reelected largely because African-Americans, Hispanics and other members of minority ethnic groups comprise a growing segment of the electorate--and they support liberalism and the Democrats overwhelmingly.  Most of the media appeared quite thrilled with this state of affairs.  And, of course, polling seems to bear it out.

But maybe it's my good fortune that I tend to encounter people of independent mind.

On a Thursday evening in mid-November, I got into a yellow cab in midtown, almost late in meeting a friend for dinner.  The driver, a black man, was listening to WABC, the AM radio station that carries Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity and other conservative hosts.

"You're listening to my favorite station," I said.

"We lost," he said, with an accent I pegged as African.

"Excuse me?"

"If this is your favorite radio station, then I can say to you--we lost."

He meant the election, of course--he was a Romney supporter, and we started chatting about the state of the world. I asked where he was from.

"Nigeria," he said. "I know what inflation is about."

"Well, inflation comes from debt," I ventured.

"From debt!" he almost shouted. "We are at 16 trillion.  Are you hearing me?"

"Oh, I'm hearing you, pal."

"Obama cares," he said sarcastically. "But after 'cares' comes facts. He is giving out the goody-goods. But from where? And the rich men, who they demonize, will not invest."

I glanced at his hack license. His last name was as similar to the last name of the president as it's possible to be.

"Well, let me ask you this," I said. "They say the Republicans have trouble reaching immigrants. What do you think is the answer to that?"

"There are few channels for the message," he answered. He gestured at the radio. "Rush is a very intelligent man. But ABC is liberal. By grace they allow Rush and Hannity to speak, but they are few."

We happened to be rolling past the building on Sixth Avenue where Fox News is headquartered, and he gestured toward it. "Fox is the only channel propagating conservative ideology. We need more. Are you hearing me?"

I not only heard him, I could have wept from hearing him. Free thought, real thought, of the kind you won't see in the media, from a real person of the kind you won't hear about from the pundits, amid the canyons of Manhattan. Almost a religious experience.

Then, more recently, during my work day, I got talking with a man in an outer-borough neighborhood diner.  More intelligent conversation takes place in New York diners, by the way, than on any television chat show.

    
This gentleman was African-American, a bit older than me, having his lunch at the counter.  After I ordered my coffee to go, he asked me a bit about what I do as a cop, then told me he's an elder at a nearby church.  People talk to him about their lives, he said, and their choices.

"So many different kinds of problems," he said.  "Some of these young women can have three or four babies from two or three different fathers.  I don't know why they think they can conquer these guys by having a baby.  A lot of these girls are still in school, and they can't pay attention because their babies are at home."  The babies, in turn, he said, develop behavioral problems as they grow, and are then given medications to deal with those problems, "which just messes them up."

He seemed exasperated that so many would take paths that can lead only to a life of struggle.  And this led to his view that some government programs provide incentives for those poor choices--for example, by providing increased benefits, and sometimes apartments, for young women who have babies they can't support.

"I try not to be political, Republican or Democrat," he continued.  "But the Republicans talk about people trying to do something, put some money together, start a business, and the government takes it to help people who aren't trying to do anything.  I see what they're saying."

Being in my official capacity, I tried to be noncommittal.  "Well, that's an interesting point," I said.

"On one block in the area you can have 10 apartment buildings," the older man marveled, "with 50 or 60 apartments in each--and they're all Section 8!  Where can that money come from?

The waitress gave me my coffee and my check.

"Come visit our church," the man said, handing me his card.  And I will.

It only takes one pin to puncture the biggest balloon.  Can it be that each time someone thinks for themselves, looks at the world with fresh eyes, says something the media didn't tell them to say, it lets some air out of the balloon of our corrupt liberalism?  And if that someone is a member of a group that the left most arrogantly considers to be in their pocket, maybe the air rushes out a little faster.

Let's hope that 2013 brings us a lot more truth-telling--and if it's just a couple of guys kicking it around in a New York City taxi or diner, that's not a bad start.

New York: The soul of Queens (Get it? See, Aretha Franklin was called...ah, never mind)

 Text and photos by George Molé

Perhaps some of the other boroughs are a bit more iconic.  The Bronx--Yankee Stadium; the Bronx Zoo; Howard Cosell telling everyone that it's burning.  Brooklyn--Ebbets Field (knocked down); Coney Island (partly knocked down); Thomas Wolfe telling everyone that only the dead know it.

But Queens has some soul of it's own.

"I don't know how youse do it anymore," a guy in Queens says to a cop.  "It's so crazy out there..."


Woodland clearings have nothing on under the el when it comes to dappled sunlight.


"So f---ing crazy.  People don't give a s--t..."



Need curry--store on the left.  Need to curry favor--store on the right.


"I'm waiting for robberies and everything else to start picking up..."



A steal--needs a little work.

"I don't care if God becomes president.  We ain't gettin' fixed..."

Few remember that paperbacks were once called "pocketbooks."  Actually, few remember paperbacks.

"We're in big trouble."

Rainstorm, Hillside Avenue.

And we've barely dipped our fork in the place...

New York: Space Shuttle Enterprise comes home

Text and photos by George Molé

The Space Shuttle Enterprise, finally at home on the deck of the Intrepid Sea, Air and Space Museum on the West Side of Manhattan, opened to the public yesterday.

A lovely event; a new jewel in New York's crown.

But I was on the Brooklyn shoreline last month--Sunday, June 4, to be exact--when scattered groups of New Yorkers watched as Enterprise, newly-arrived in the Big Apple, was transported by barge from John F. Kennedy Airport, through the Verrazano Narrows, to temporary digs in Bayonne, New Jersey.  (Enterprise was transferred to a crane-equipped barge in Bayonne, then delivered a few days later to the Intrepid.)

For me, that event had the melancholy feel of a funeral procession--reminiscent, perhaps, of when Americans lined the railroad tracks along the route as Lincoln's body was brought home to Illinois for burial.  In this case, though, the corpse was that of America's beloved, world-changing space program.

In a USA Today opinion piece published in May of last year, three astronauts who commanded Lunar missions lamented the demise of America's manned space program.  One of the writers was the reclusive Neil Armstrong, whose Apollo 11 spacecraft was the first to land on the moon, 43 years ago today, and who was the first human to walk on the moon.

"America's leadership in space is slipping," they wrote.  "NASA's human spaceflight program is in substantial disarray with no clear-cut mission in the offing.  We will have no rockets to carry humans to low-Earth orbit and beyond for an indeterminate number of years...After a half-century of remarkable progress, a coherent plan for maintaining America's leadership in space exploration is no longer apparent."

The astronauts quoted President Kennedy, who thought of space as "the new ocean," which the U.S. must be prepared to sail upon.  "For 50 years we explored the waters to become the leader in space exploration," they concluded sadly.  "Today...the voyage is over.  John F. Kennedy would have been sorely disappointed."

So, looked at one way, Enterprise is only an evocative memorial to glories past.  Today's leaders dream of changing America's demographics through open borders, transforming the definition of marriage and ensuring free contraception for all.  With these noble goals before us, exploring the stars has no place on the to-do list.

But, who knows, maybe that strange-looking space plane, sitting on the deck of that old warrior ship, will nudge just one kid to look at the sky and imagine...

It doesn't always have to be like this; better times, wiser leaders and more American adventures in space lie ahead, let us hope.  Welcome, Enterprise!

New York: Cop jokes and old-time flavor at the Coney Island Nathan's

Text and photo by George Molé

Professional duties took me to the Coney Island section of Brooklyn today and, not one to waste an opportunity, I soon found myself on line at the original Nathan's, Surf and Stillwell Avenues, New York's hot dog cathedral.  I was with another cop, both of us in uniform.

A frail-looking older man, thin, a bit stooped, wearing a baseball cap, moving with the help of a wheeled walker, was in the place.  His walker, parts of which seemed to be covered in leopard-skin, had an American flag flying from the handlebar.  He said something in a low voice, and I asked for a repeat.

"Tell me a cop joke I haven't heard before," he demanded.

We were stumped, and said so.  "All right, here's one," he said.

"A cop pulls a guy over.  He looks at the guy's license, and tells him, 'Hey, this says you're supposed to be wearing glasses, but you're not.  You're getting a summons.'

"The guy says, 'Wait a minute, I have contacts!'

"The cop says, 'I don't care who you know, you're getting a summons.'"

We all laughed.

"One day," the man went on, "the Pope tells his chauffeur, 'I want to know what it's like to drive.  Let's switch for today.'  So they do.

"The Pope's not driving too well, weaving around, and he gets pulled over by a cop.  The chauffeur, who's in the back seat, says to the cop, 'Do you know who you're stopping here?'

"The cop goes back to his car and calls the sergeant.  'Sarge, I got a problem.  I think I pulled over somebody very important.'  The sergeant asks, "Who is he and what makes you think he's so important?'

"'I don't know who he is, Sarge,' the cop says.  'But the Pope is his chauffeur.'"

Okay, this guy is good.  "Are you a Coney Island lifer?" I asked.

"Yeah, I was born in Sea Gate in 1935," he said.

"What do you think of the changes they're doing here?" I asked.  Coney has been the focus of a lot of construction--and a tsunami of vicious destruction--by the developers to whom the city gave free rein to remake the historic amusement district.

"The changes are good, but they were going too far," he said.  "But I'd like to see them put in a bowling alley.  Maybe a pool hall."

"At least they saved Ruby's," I observed.  Ruby's is a classic old Coney Island bar that had been on the verge of being closed by the developers, only to be reprieved at the eleventh hour--but not without being forced to modernize their atmospheric place.

"Yes, that's good," he replied glumly.  "But it lost some of the old-time flavor."

Losing the old-time flavor--there's a lot of that going around lately.  The old Yankee Stadium.  Too much of the old Coney Island.  Prime Burger, the lovely old Midtown eatery.  Our old Constitution.  So many of the old things that gave our lives flavor are melting away like snow in spring.

"Okay," the old man said, "an avid golfer finally gets sick of his wife.  He pulls a golf club out of his bag and hits her--one, two, three, four times, and she's dead.  The cops come, and the captain tells the guy, 'Well, you're going to jail, of course, and we're also going to alert the media.'

"The guy says, 'Listen, could you tell them I did it in three strokes?'"

By this time my partner had ordered and I was next.  "Excuse me, I have to order now," I told the old man.  And when I turned around again he was gone.

***

If you want to be able to remember some old-time things, including this old guy's old jokes, buy yourself a copy of Secrets, Tips, and Tricks of a Powerful Memory: The Memory Shock Oh-So-Easy How-to-Remember User's Guide for Your Brain by Barry Reitman--foreword by yours truly. It's now available on Amazon, in print and Kindle editions--click here to take a look. And if you want to read my foreword--which will definitely make you want to buy the book-- click here.

New York: September 11 anniversary card

So I turned out on Thursday, September 8, at St. Ann's Warehouse in DUMBO, Brooklyn, to support the NYPD Boxing Team--the "Fighting Finest," run by the great Lieutenant Dave Siev--in a series of 10 matches against fighters from the famous Gleason's Gym, located in that very same neighborhood.

And though the Finest got the worst of it by a slim margin, winning 4 of the 10 matches, a good time was had by all...

...even these guys, who seemed at one point about to fall through the ropes and break my camera.

Afterward, walking back to my car in the gathering dark, through the streets of DUMBO that seem so much like a movie set, with the old trolley tracks lining the cobblestoned roadways, the bridges looming overhead...

...and the old factory and warehouse buildings, everything industrial-gritty yet curiously clean...

...I noticed a young redheaded woman on a deserted section of sidewalk, gathering up what seemed to be a dropcloth, or perhaps some newspapers, that had been spread out on the pavement, in addition to some other objects that I couldn't quite make out.

Overcome by curiosity (yes she was, quite, if you must know, as if that had anything to do with it), I asked what she was doing.  It turns out she is the artist and sculptor Sarah Walko, and had come outdoors to paint some objects being used in her work.  Here is Sarah's website--she does some interesting, complex stuff that I won't even pretend to grasp or be able to explain, but nonetheless intriguing to look at and think about.

"I go on walks through forests and beaches as well as thrift stores and many other kinds of stores and websites and collect and order small objects," Sarah says.  "I find objects on the street and in subway stations that I collect too.  Each has a story and a history and a journey that it carries.  I use objects both fantastical and mundane, dead and alive, made by man or made by nature so once the viewer leaves the installation, these specks of symbolic language are still around them on sidewalk streets or a walk through a forest or the light switch in their bedroom."

This is Sarah in her studio...

 

(Photo courtesy of Sarah Walko)

























...and this is a bit of her art:

(Photo courtesy of Sarah Walko)

















In New York you can't walk down a street without coming across unique, creative people.  Slugging and sculpture within a few minutes and a few blocks of each other--what a rich life we live in this city.

Three days later, we commemorated the 10-year mark of the September 11, 2001 attacks.  I and many others worked that anniversary day, necessarily concerned with the mechanics of the events--dignitary visits, personnel deployments, traffic patterns, street closings and openings.  But it would have been impossible to ignore the city's radiance as we worked, the moon...

...competing with the spotlights for prominence...

...and the new Freedom Tower rising above, not just the desolation that was Ground Zero, not just the horror of what happened there, but the years of political dysfunction that made it seem as if nothing good would ever be built on that holy ground.  As lovely as it promises to be...

...I'd bet something a bit loftier than New York's corrupt political machines is at work in guiding it forth.  Whatever that spirit is, may it continue to protect us.

New York: No, thanks, I'll just use my shirt...

A deli-restaurant in an industrial section of Brooklyn, in the shadow of the BQE.

In the men's room, after you wash your hands, you want to dry them.  But the hand dryer is a little hard to spot.  It's smaller than the average hand dryer, and it's on the wall behind you.  So you might not see it.  And since there are no towels, you might be tempted to just walk out the door with your hands still wet.

The management, therefore, wishing to be helpful, put a sign on the door telling you where the dryer is.  A sign to tell you that the dryer is right behind you.

And this is the sign they posted...