INSIDE CANARSIE'S GREAT WALL OF NEGATIVITY

On the night of August 12, 1968, before the term "drive-by shooting" became a part of our culture, my community (Canarise, Brooklyn, New York), was throttled by one.

"The Wall," was a huge teenage hang-out, (six short blocks and three long blocks from my house).  This long concrete barrier separated busy Rockaway Parkway (just before the Belt Parkway entrance) and the el-shaped Shoreview Shopping Center's parking lot.

THE SHOREVIEW SHOPPING CENTER OPENED IN THE FALL OF 1963.  BY THE TIME THIS 1971 PHOTO WAS TAKEN, THE NAME HAD BEEN CHANGED TO THE SEAVIEW SHOPPING CENTER.  IN THE FOREGROUND, A CAR TURNS OFF SKIDMORE AVENUE WHERE "THE WALL" BEGINS.  IN THE BACKGROUND, JAMAICA BAY IS CANARSIE'S EASTERN-MOST BOUNDARY.

The wall itself was low enough to easily hop on and the perfect width to sit on.  So on an (SRO) Saturday night, you can imagine what a colossal target of pretty clay pigeons all in a row, these peace-loving, hippie, sitting ducks made...for some gun-wielding asshole.

Two kids were shot.  One was a fifteen-year old girl from two blocks away from my house (same street).  She was hospitalized and survived the serious wound and of course (like everyone in the vicinity) was traumatized. 

Coincidentally, another girl from my immediate street was confused with the shooting victim.  Both girls were the same age and their names (first and last) were both a letter or two away from being the same, (something like Maddie Rosen and Maggie Rogen).  Adding to the oddball circumstances, the last two digits of both girl's house numbers was the same, (something like 1113 and 1313).  Therefore, my neighbor received several (highly unwanted) get well cards.

INCREDIBLY, NEARLY EVERY MEMORY I HAVE OF THAT STRIP MALL IS NEGATIVE. (Above) MY 1976 PHOTO,  OF ROCKAWAY PARKWAY, LOOKING WEST, WAS TAKEN FROM THE ROOF OF THE BAYVIEW HOUSES, (HIGHLIGHTED BY THE WORLD TRADE CENTER,  IN THE EXTREME BACKGROUND).  PLEASE NOTE THAT THE BULK OF THE STORES (FAR LEFT) ARE OFF-CAMERA BUT IN THE FOREGROUND, YOU CAN SEE, "THE WALL."

When I was seven, a year before Shoreview opened, the omen of what was to come appropriately happened on Halloween. At a time when getting two or three pennies instead of candy was the highlight of trick-or-treating, older kids on my street, played off the naivete of my friends and I.  They told us that a bank, (six short blocks and one long block away) was giving trick-or-treaters...money.  These little bastards made their prank more tempting by describing their windfall as a handful of mostly pennies with silver nuggets of nickels and dimes and the occasional gem in the rough, a quarter.

My friends and I wasted a lot of sweet door-to-door panhandling time.  But we justified the marathon march, as sugarplum fairies danced in our mind and helped count our imagined cool, hard, coins of the realm. When we reached nirvana, our fantasy was burst...the bank was closed.

The onion-like layers of our bad situation worsened after trudging home without a cent or even a single "pity-lollipop." That's when our moms went off on us for straying so far without permission.  If that scolding wasn't enough, we were also teased by our adolescent tormentors who sent us on our gallant quest to begin with.

This episode in my life would haunt me the following year when the strip mall opened.  The anchor store Kress (a miniature department store...which in a short time was replaced in name by Star Value City) had several OPENING DAY give-aways...one of which was a live goldfish, in a water-filled baggie.  Unlike being lied to about the bank giving away cash, I could see other kids getting out of their parents cars with their glittering, gilded prize...and I was green with envy.  I was so jealous that I soloed, (two long blocks further), only to find out that they had run out of goldfish.  I was so dejected that I refused the rent-a-clown's balloon animal offer and a Dixie cup full of free popcorn.

When I look back at my Shoreview/Seaview experiences, nothing inside that wall, turned out well.

The mall had a little restaurant, Charcoal Chef.  Even as a ten-year, I knew that the greasy stairway down to the filthy restroom was disgusting.  So maybe I shouldn't have been petrified when the first rat I ever encountered, scurried up from behind and passed me.

Years later, in front of Charcoal Chef, I had a drunken escapade, ( I was fifteen).  The incident went from bad...when a neighbor found me there...to worse when he dragged me home at 2:AM and woke up my folks.  For that full story, check out my blog from January 9, 2012 called, "BABY OTT, MAN OF A THOUSAND NICKNAMES."  

The next storefront was a Carvel franchise.  When I was twelve, an older kid on my block worked there and bragged that he gave free ice cream to his friends...after another long walk over there, I found out the hard way that he didn't consider me a friend.

When I was fourteen, I was hanging out in the Bayview Houses. I temporarily broke away from my friends (11:PM). Despite the drive-by-shooting the summer before, the hordes at "the wall" never diminished.  But to get to my destination, I had to navigate through the sea of older teens to buy a Pepsi.

Inside the bagel store, I was surprised to see that the clerk was "Fat" Marty, (a former teammate from my Junior High's softball team).  This fifteen-year old was working alone and offered my drink for free, if I kept him company.  Then he said it was his neighbor's store and if I stayed till closing, (midnight), I could take home everything I could carry. I thought I was living large but it turned out bad.

Within twenty minutes, while Marty was goofing off, (eating) I worked the cash register (under his supervision) and restocked shelves. It was like he was Tom Sawyer and I was white-washing the fence...I was having a ball.  But WAIT !  Here's a scary thought...in that hour, he showed me the bagel-making process...and I actually took part, in the whole assembly line procedure, (oopsies, I can't swear I washed my hands).

FIRST, I ADDED FLOUR , WATER AND OTHER INGREDIENTS  INTO A LARGE CEMENT-MIXER-LIKE CONTRAPTION. I SET THE TIMER AND LEFT IT UNATTENDED AS THE WHOLE SHEBANG WAS KNEADED INTO  DOUGH.  WHILE THAT BATCH WAS "COOKING," I ROLLED FINISHED DOUGH INTO "SNAKES" AND CONNECTED THE ENDS BEFORE DROPPING THE RAW BAGELS INTO A BOILER.  AFTER SCOOPING OTHERS OUT (above), I ADDED TOPPINGS AND SET THEM INTO THE OVEN TO BAKE. 

Just before I left, an enormous woman with a folding four-wheel shopping cart came in.  She started buying out the store; two dozen bagels, butter, cream cheese, lox spread, doughnuts, potato chips, orange juice and two, six-packs of Fresca. 

WHEN MANY HOUSEHOLDS HAD ONE CAR AND FEW WOMEN WORKED OUTSIDE THE HOME, SHOPPING CARTS LIKE THIS WERE THE MAIN WAY FOR THEM TO GET GROCERIES HOME.

Marty totalled her up and said, "You want that in a bag or you'll eat it here?"  The woman didn't react but I held my hand over my smirk and hustled to the sanctuary of the back room.

When she left, Marty helped me prepare my "pay."  So when the overnight baker banged on the back door to close-up, I took my loot and went out the front.

Our arrangement was so good, I came back the next Saturday night at ten (for a two-hour shift).  On that second night, I would be rewarded again...with a memory that has stayed fresh for forty-five years.  That's when my eyes bugged out of my head because a teenager came in...on horseback...did I just say on horseback...YES!

The stoned rider had to duck down to fit through the door.  I knew the situation was wrong for a million reasons, but I was so flabbergasted, I probably couldn't have thought of one. Once I got over the shock, I laughed as Marty waited on him (them) like a regular customer. 

So if you were nauseated that I made bagels or that a horse was sniffing around all that food...you'll be pleased to know that the board of health closed the store before I worked the following Saturday because a customer discovered a mouse paw in an "everything" bagel. 

The owner was heavily fined after several health code violations were discovered plus he faced civil litigation.  The store closed temporarily but there were too many financial obstacles to overcome, so it never reopened. Come to think of it, I made "everything" bagels that first night...YUCK!  That explains why I shy away from them.

The Abundanza Pizzeria was another thorn in my side.  When my friends and I played roller hockey, (across the street in the barrel park of the Bayview Houses), they frequently went for a post-game slice.  One time, (I was fifteen), I made sure I had enough money to join them in this perceived Utopia. 

At a time when two slices, a medium soda and small lemon ices totaled under a dollar, I felt like an adult as we dined...until the nasty owner ordered us out. We questioned his decision and he said, "You're too loud, you use too many straws, waste garlic salt and littered the floor with torn bits of napkins," (spitball residue).

Due to this misconduct penalty, I bad-rapped his place by telling other friends that we saw cockroaches and waterbugs there, (I probably wasn't lying, that disease-carrying rodent I saw in Charcoal Chef's cellar was only two doors away). 

In 1990 I had a chance at real retribution with the Pizza Nazi. I recognized him in the casino but couldn't place his face.  When he opened his mouth and started talking down to the staff, I guessed right.  But to confirm my suspicions, I asked my supervisor for his name...it was Nunzio Abundanza.  I never thought the pizzeria's name was a family name, I thought it was an Italian word suggesting big portions of food. So once I realized that I had this prick right where I wanted him, I became frustrated because I couldn't figure a way to get even without jeopardizing my job.  So I stifled my need for revenge.

I was seventeen when my neighbor hooked me up with a job interview at the men's clothes store, "THE HOUSE OF JACKS."  I was dressed like a schlump and all the other workers looked sharp.  I couldn't picture myself buying all those duds just to work there, so I walked out.

I have only three distinct recollections from the Seaview Theater and none were good.  First, my friend's older brother, Timmy "Trenchmouth" Monteleone worked the candy counter.  Whether or not he suffered from an actual malady is not important...what is important is, it was completely unappetizing to look at his misshapen lips when my parents bought me Bon-Bons.

BILLED AS THE FIRST NEW MOVIE HOUSE BUILT IN BROOKLYN IN FOURTEEN YEARS, THE SEAVIEW DEBUTED WITH THE DOUBLE FEATURE (above), ON DECEMBER 19, 1963.

My next Seaview Theater incident occurred in 1965, (I was in fifth grade). I walked all the way to the theater to meet SK (a.k.a. Cap'n Krunch).  The film, "DR. TERROR'S HOUSE OF HORRORS," was about to start.  So when he didn't show up, I assumed he was already inside...I was wrong.

THIS IS THE ONLY MOVIE I EVER SAW IN A THEATER...ALONE.  AND AT TEN YEARS OLD, IT WASN'T SUCH A GOOD IDEA.  PRETTY SILLY STUFF BY TODAY'S STANDARDS,  BUT THE CREEPING HAND, LEFT AN INDELIBLE MARK ON MY PSYCHE.

Another movie I saw at the Seaview was 1977's, "STAR WARS."  What could I possibly say against this four-star, smash hit...NOTHING!  But when we left the theater, our smiles of fulfillment vanished as the sirens of zooming police cars, ambulances and fire trucks left a dust trail, as they headed toward Canarsie Pier.  An usher stepped into the crowd and cried out, "Some kid fell into the bay!"  Like the Oklahoma land rush, everyone from the theater ran to their cars and sped two blocks away, to the scene.  We were just getting out of the car when we heard that they dredged the water and recovered the corpse.

My last memory of the Seaview Shopping Center happened in March 1978, at Off-Track Betting (OTB). If you've never had the displeasure of going into one of these horse betting parlors then you missed seeing the dregs, that the dregs of society complain about...in an environment that smells worse than a New York City subway alcove.

OFF-TRACK BETTING WAS A LEGAL FORM OF HORSE RACE GAMBLING IN NYC FROM 1970-2010.  AT THE HEIGHT OF ITS POPULARITY THERE WERE OVER 200 OTB's SCATTERED THROUGH THE FIVE BOROUGHS.

On August 19, 2009, I wrote this story as a separate blog called, "POWER JUDGE IN THE FOURTH AT AQUEDUCT."  In order for you to get the full impact of that experience's negativity, which involved my friends and I being threatened with police intervention, you're going to have to read the whole story.  Just go to the archives on the right hand side of the MGTP cover page.  It's easy, just click on 2009, then August and scroll down to the date or find the title.

It's been about thirty-five years since I broke my cycle of tumult with the Shoreview/Seaview Shopping Center...because I stopped going there.  The mom and pop stores couldn't compete with the malls, the giant club stores and Internet shopping...so the last time I drove by (three years ago), only a handful of stout-hearted businesses remain. 

(photo credit to SHELLYBASEBALLKING) "THE WALL" TODAY, IN THE SPOT WHERE THE TWO YOUTHS WERE SHOT.  THE CVS IS WHERE THE THEATER WAS, THE CONVENIENCE STORE WAS WHERE THE PIZZERIA WAS AND HIDDEN BY THE TREE WAS WHERE CARVEL AND CHARCOAL CHEF WERE.

I wasn't tempted to stop in, even for the sake of nostalgia because every brick in Canarsie's Great Wall of Negativity was still intact.

HELLO LIFE, GOOD-BYE CANARSIE !

A week before Memorial Day, I came back to my street in Canarsie, to complete the sale of my parent's house. Down the block, on the corner of Avenue N, I nodded at a mounted police officer. Cops on horseback seem so old-school but in all my 54-years there, I never saw one. So by today's standards, he really seemed out of place.

DESPITE THE OBVIOUS SIMILARITIES, I DID NOT THINK OF THE VILLAGE PEOPLE, THE MARLBORO MAN OR MY NEIGHBOR'S STRANGE AND MUSTACHIOED, UNCLE MORTY. RATHER, THIS GENTLEMAN MADE ME FEEL SAFE AT A TIME WHEN I WAS SWEATING-OUT TONS OF LAST MINUTE DETAILS.

The guardian of the peace ignored my friendly and supportive gesture. I took it as macho posturing and still appreciated him as a positive omen. The police, fire department, emergency personnel even the armed forces have always been a welcome sight in my neighborhood.

Halfway to the house, I took great solace in seeing that the cop's stallion had left its steamy horse-sized business behind. I smiled because I remembered the old adage that, stepping in dog shit is good luck. I got another internal laugh when I realized that the cop didn't clean-up Seabiscuit's mess, (so much for pooper-scooper laws).  But heaven forbid if that same cop caught somebody leaving their Chihuahua's half ounce of doggie dirt behind.

My family's ownership of that house started on Valentine's Day 1956. Before the area was developed, Canarsie was a distant, rural outpost and little more than a punchline for New York hillbilly jokes.

BURGEONING CANARSIE, (APRIL 1956), WAS A CLEAN, MODERN AND SAFE COMMUNITY. IN FRONT OF OUR HOUSE, SNUG AS A BUG IN A RUG, THAT'S ME INSIDE THE CARRIAGE WITH MY SISTER AND MOM.

When I tell people I'm from Brooklyn, they imagine that I had a survivalist childhood. This perception might have been accurate in 95% of the borough but Charles Dickens would never have sold one book if he wrote about my calm and fulfilling childhood. In fact at the age of six, I had the autonomy to go and come as I pleased as long as I was home for meals.

Our street wasn't perfect...there were bullies and signs of the desperation from the drug culture. Plus home invasions, sexual assaults, stolen cars, armed robberies, shootings and the like. But they were so rare that our surroundings remained pleasant and our sense of security never wavered.

NATIVE AMERICANS, (THE CANARSIE TRIBE),  DWELLED IN MY TOWN LONG BEFORE THE EUROPEANS ARRIVED. ONCE THIS SLICE OF HEAVEN REALIZED ITS REAL ESTATE POTENTIAL, THE LOCAL FARMLANDS AND SWAMPY CREEKS WERE CULTIVATED. THE BOGGY WATERFRONT WAS LAND-FILLED AND THE PASTURES DEVELOPED. THUS, THE NEIGHBORHOOD WAS LEFT WITH PLENTY OF ATYPICAL (FOR NEW YORK), GRASSLANDS, PARKS AND GARDENS.

Nearby Floyd Bennett Field was used by all branches of the military. It was not uncommon to see an army convoy drive down Rockaway Parkway, fighter jets zooming in formation over Bayview or naval ships in Jamaica Bay.

IN 1976, THE TWIN TOWERS, LIKE A PAIR OF SENTINELS, WATCHED OVER BROOKLYN. THESE DAYS, IT HURTS COMING HOME OVER THE VERRAZANO BRIDGE AND SEEING THE MISSING TEETH IN THE MANHATTAN SKYLINE WHERE THIS SYMBOL OF THE AMERICAN WAY OF LIFE WAS...AS WELL AS THE NEEDLESS DEATHS OF CIVILIAN AND RESCUE PERSONNEL.

I remember on a summer night in 1977, my friends and I saw "STAR WARS," in the Seaview Theater. In the parking lot, (far left in photo above), we heard that a kid had fallen into the bay. We rushed the short distance to Canarsie Pier.  We cheered as the emergency crew screeching to a stop at the water's edge. The limp body was tenderly placed on a gurney and whisked away. The next day, we found out that the boy didn't make it. Nevertheless, I never forgot the exhilaration and appreciation that I felt when the heroic EMT squad arrived.

CANARSIE PIER.  I ONLY REMEMBER BEING THERE THREE OTHER TIMES. THE LAST TIME, TWO YEARS AGO, I TOOK MY MOM AND WE SAW A COAST GUARD CUTTER PATROLLING THE WATERS NEAR KENNEDY AIRPORT.

By the late 1970's, Canarsie's long run as something fresh and new had run its course. In an attempt to maintain its reputation for being a clean and safe place, the federal government designated Canarsie and some of its neighboring districts as Gateway National Recreation Area which included a bird sanctuary.

THE DERELICTION OF MY TOWN WAS OBVIOUS AT FRESH CREEK, WHERE 108th STREET ENDS AT THE BELT PARKWAY.

Unfortunately, even with federal tax dollars behind it, coastal Canarsie as well as the whole town continued to go downhill.

Today, thirty years after I moved to Las Vegas, my old street looks tired. The trees are fatter and their roots are busting through the formerly perfect sidewalks. The homes lack pride and the properties aren't well kept. Sadder still, the neighbors are all strangers.

The pleasant thought of the mounted policeman remained on my mind, as the buyers inspected my parent's house during the final walk-through.

This final page of my childhood was to sign the papers. The closing was in Westbury on Long Island. On my way over there, I didn't see the cop or his horse. But I was re-assured that the rest of the deal would go smoothly when I intentionally drove through his steed's pile of horse waste.

The closing was a two-hour ordeal that went as well as it possibly could.

My return to South Jersey included re-tracing my steps.

TO SIGNAL THE END OF THE ERA, WHEN I PASSED CANARSIE, (EXIT-13 ON THE BELT PARKWAY), I THOUGHT I'D GET A LITTLE MISTY...BUT I DIDN'T.

I was surprised that I didn't get nostalgic as I went by. But I was so removed from the house and more so from the community that the only emotion I experienced was satisfaction and relief.   I glimpsed at my town in the rear view mirror as I whispering to myself, "Hello life, good-bye Canarsie."

In Staten Island at Todt Hill Road, I reflected on the mounted police officer and all the others who beyond September 11, 2001, routinely willingly risk their lives to protect us, our freedom and way of life. That idea made me feel safe again.

Back in Jersey, on the Garden State Parkway, as I zipped by the exit for Spring Lake, I added to the respect I have for emergency personnel with the warmth my parents put into that happy home. I reflected on the inner peace they provided throughout their lives...and long after they were gone.   At that point, I indeed got misty.

GIMME ALLA DA MUNNY YOU GOT

When I was growing up in early 60's, it was not unusual for various vendors to drive by my house in Canarsie, selling their wares.

My favorite was Joe (the ice cream man). He was a kindly senior citizen whose upbeat personality, through a heavy Italian accent and misuse of English, represented a safe, iconic, grandfatherly...if not Santa Claus-like figure. His catchphrase to us little kids was, "Gimme alla da munny you got."

Unlike GOOD HUMOR or BUNGALOW BAR, Joe was an independent.

GOOD HUMOR IS A NATIONALLY RESPECTED, FIRST-CLASS OUTFIT THAT HAS WITHSTOOD THE TEST OF TIME. I LIKED THEIR CHOCOLATE ECLAIR BECAUSE OF THE SOLID CHOCOLATE CENTER.

Joe was not tied to company standards. Therefore his white truck with its red roof was a cornucopia of frozen sweets. Plus, he carried a full array of candy, gum and soda. He even sold baseball cards. So aside from getting just about anything that rots teeth, you wanted to buy from Joe because he was such a great guy. A NEW YORK COMPANY, BUNGALOW BAR COULDN'T COMPETE WITH THE STREAMLINE AND MODERN LOOK OF GOOD HUMOR. MY CLIQUE HATED IT AND WE'D REALLY HAVE BE "JONES-ING" FOR ICE CREAM TO BUY IT. WE EVEN HAD A LITTLE SONG THAT DEMONSTRATED OUR FEELINGS; BUNGALOW BAR TASTES LIKE TAR...THE MORE YOU EAT IT...THE SICKER YOU ARE!

I gravitated to Joe's, Centrone's Italian Ices. Despite a nearly guaranteed brain-freeze, I liked it because it was so tasty and lasted a long time. At first you'd scrape a little at a time with the wooden spoon because it was solid. As it thawed, you were able to make better progress. After a while, within the cup, you'd flip the iceberg upside down and get to the real target, the flavorful, pure sugar underbelly. I liked the chocolate best. The grape was okay and I'd tolerate the cola. I'm not saying I wouldn't eat the lemon or cherry if my life depended on it...but without my top three, I'd almost always settle for the nearly impossible to find anywhere else... but Joe's...the ice cream sandwich with chocolate ice cream.

Joe had one major independent competitor named Johnny. His gimmick was occasionally giving a kid a cover-less comic book. Other than that, there was no upside to him. Johnny was intense and impatient with kids. In retrospect maybe he was hyped-up on coffee or some such thing. But his ice cream didn't taste so good and he didn't sell candy. More importantly, unlike Joe, who meticulously explained to his young customers, the price of their items, the amount paid and the change...Johnny's integrity, regarding short-changing people was an issue.

Our moms took advantage of other non-ice cream drive-by vendors too. At a time when most families only had one car, housewives relied on these "peddlers" to save them a seven block walk to the nearest strip mall. In addition to Ruby the Knishman's pushcart, I remember BILL'S SUPERETTE as a convenience store on wheels. MR. BACCIAGALUPE was a rolling fruit stand, Natey the handyman came around to fix household items, sharpen tools, knives etc., and a nameless mobile cobbler repaired shoes.

Our neighborhood also had its share of trucks that had amusement park-like rides rigged to them.

WITH THE INSURANCE CONCERNS OF TODAY, IT'S HARD TO IMAGINE A SMALL FERRIS WHEEL OR ANY RIDE WELDED TO THE BACK OF A FLATBED.

For a dime you could ride, "the whip," "half-moon" or "satellite" and get a prize, (usually better than a Cracker Jack prize) when you got off. SOME MORONS WENT ON SEVERAL TIMES JUST FOR PRIZES.

Canarsie also a truck that sold the world's worst pizza and another called CHOW-CHOW CUP that served up an ersatz version of Chinese food.MY SISTER'S 8th BIRTHDAY PARTY WAS "CATERED" BY CHOW-CHOW CUP. SHE SAYS THAT SHE AND THREE OF HER FRIENDS MISSED SCHOOL THE NEXT DAY WITH VARYING AILMENTS RELATING TO THE BELLY.

To me, the only really important vendors were the ice cream men. And because my favorite (Joe) only worked during the afternoon, his territory was fair game the rest of time.

On hot summer nights, the MR. SOFTEE or FREEZ-R-FRESH soft ice cream truck, (some people called it custard), drew huge crowds. Despite one operator (Kenny), having unappetizing acne and the other rumored to be an ex-convict, we still all raced to avoid the line, (it should be noted that the latter sold illegal, untaxed cigarettes on the sly...even though everyone and their mother knew what he was doing).

At either truck, 15c bought a cone with sprinkles...but for a nickel more, I liked to get a double. My mom preferred the 35c sundae (she called it a frappe) with the wet walnuts, hot fudge, whipped cream and a cherry on top. Eventually, my taste changed...and to this day, I'd kill anyone that got between me and wet walnuts.

In reality, I would take Joe over anyone. My greatest memory of him is from 1962. My day camp, (Wingate), had an outing at the Statue of Liberty. Mom gave me fifty-cents for spending money for a souvenir with one caveat...that I was to bring back ALL the change. She was so serious that if we had a few more minutes before I left, she would have drawn-up a contract for me to sign....even after I swore an oath to that affect. On my way out the door, I was still reminded twenty times to guard that half-a-buck with my life.

On Liberty Island, the campers were brought together for a picnic-style lunch. The food choices were: a random salami or baloney sandwich or for the strange kids, peanut butter (without jelly). Baloney was clearly better. It was thin, soft and easy to chew. It was my unlucky day...I got the thickly sliced slabs of salami that you could break a tooth on. The mess was washed down with a small container SUNNY DEW orange drink. Sunny Dew had so many chemicals and salt that it seemed to scratch your throat on the way down. Even worse, you were MORE thirsty afterwards.

After the fine cuisine, we were told we would get a snack later on. Then we were given a choice. Being a seven year-old with the option of going into the old, boring statue and getting yelled at by the counselors or remaining unsupervised with all my friends, to flip baseball cards or scream and chase each other...I decided on remaining free.

The first thing I did was buy a coke at the concession stand. Then I ran with the other boys all over the island until our games petered out. Our mob split in two. While some got refreshments, I adjourned with the others to the gift shop.

We went to the display of miniature Statue of Libertys. There was a large, medium, small and a puny. All the kids chose one except me. Alas, even the puny was way out of my price range. All I could get was post cards...but I didn't want them. Instead, I went outside and advanced to the long line at the concession stand, intent to buy-out the joint.

I was finally third in line when a counselor tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Its snack time." When I surrended my spot, I was next but I didn't cop an attitude because I knew we were getting something worthwhile. In anticipation of the snack, my mouth watered until it ran dry. Like cattle, the campers were lined-up in the broiling sun. We waited forever and the snack never came. We were ushered onto the boat that took us back to Manhattan. The ride back took an eternity because we were forced to sit quietly. I was parched but wasn't smart enough to ask to use the restroom, even if only to drink from the sink. On shore, the bus wasn't there yet. By the time we were finally on our way and situated well enough for them to distribute the snack, I thought I was going to die.

Up front, they started handing out ice cream. I was hoping for the usual Fudgesicle but I was so thirsty that I knew I could even deal with a Creamsicle. It then disappointed me to see them handing out dixie-cups. But being the optimist that I am, I still welcomed the lesser choice. As they got closer, I saw it wasn't the usual package and that it was especially small. When I was given mine, the situation got worse. It was Neapolitan...one third chocolate, one third vanilla and strawberry in the middle. I hate ALL things strawberry! And to my utter agony, the strawberry was my biggest stripe. And because I wouldn't touch, (and still won't 47 years later), even a chocolate piece that was attached to the strawberry, my snack got much, much smaller.

I was tired, frustrated and angry when I got off the bus. Halfway home on my three block walk, some kids waved Joe, (the ice cream man), down. With my last iota of energy, I ran to assure that he didn't pull away before he saw me. I was huffing and puffing as Joe smiled, stuck out his hand and said, "Gimme alla da munny you got." I did and he added, "Okay, thirty-a-fiva cents, whaddaya want." I knew dinner was going to be ready soon. I wanted ices but had no time. Even an ice cream sandwich would leave incriminating evidence around my mouth...proving that I was spoiling my dinner. Other kids behind me we telling me to hurry up. I panicked and said, "Baseball cards!" Joe said, "Howa menny?" I had never bought more than one at a time as Joe added, "You canna have seven...but you getta no change." I nodded.

I opened the cards down the block from my house.

I SHOULD'VE KNOWN IT WASN'T MY DAY WHEN 11 OF THE 35 CARDS WERE MARV THRONEBERRY.

When mom greeted me at the door, I had the big stack in my hand and a giant wad of gum in my mouth. After the usual pleasantries she asked if I bought a souvenir. Naturally, I said, "No." She said, "What did you buy?" I said, "A coke." She said, "Where's my change?" When I said, "I got no change," it wasn't hard for mom to figure out where the excess money went. She yelled so long and so loud about responsibility and trust that it made my head spin. Maybe that's why...to this day, I'm not good with money because as a kid, I didn't get much practice.

MICKEY MENTAL

I've always been amazed by the rainbow of color samples in paint stores. Being color-blind, I don't see what most people see, yet upon closer inspection, the slight differences...even to me, are obvious.

I may not be ready for HDTV but my opinions have been useful in the redecorating process. However, while I see and appreciate the differences...at a certain point...the specific shade is so minute that its nothing to stress over. Therefore, I do not relish buying paint. Instead, the highlight of the trip to the paint store is reading the funny names they give for each color. For example, did you know that when it comes to brownish-yellow, gourmet mustard is lighter than crunchy peanut butter and baby poop is somewhat deeper.

I guess my love of ranking words began in my pre-adolescent days. That talent developed from watching TV. When it was sharpened, I put it to superior use when insulting my friends.

Remember when Moe of the "THREE STOOGES" called Curley an ignoramus. Well I bet, he chose that word over simpleton, blockhead, lame-brain or numb skull because it fit the exact situation. In reality, Moe had countless slang words to choose from plus a dozen or so clinical variations. Years ago, I stumbled onto a list if these clinical terms. What made the find more interesting was that synonyms like; imbecile, cretin, moron, idiot and dolt were ranked in ascending order with the first word being the most severe.

I wanted to research that list for this column but I couldn't find it again. However, I did find the following chart written by French psychologist Alfred Binet in 1911:

• MORON .......... IQ BETWEEN.......... 51-70
• IMBECILE ...... IQ BETWEEN..........26-50
• IDIOT ............... IQ BETWEEN........... 0-25

Unfortunately for me, the article I read with Binet's list also went on to say that since around 1970, all those words have become synonymous.

That's not good enough for me. I feel now the same way I did as a kid. You should always have a strong picture in your mind when labeling someone as a dope because dope is milder than calling them a jerk. And, if there were no adults around, you might want to call that person an ass. For me, at the tender age of seven, the real show stopper in my circles was calling someone; mental...as in mental case. Today, we'll examine two incidents of my childhood where I cleverly used it.

PART - ONE

From pre-school age, I had a friend up the street who was especially dumb. By second grade I recognized that he was brain-dead. I tried every name in the book to shunt him aside. Nothing insulted him. He finally got the message when I called him mental.

At that point of my life, I did normal 1962 Canarsie activities like; vandalize the newly constructed homes on the next street, throw mud pies at girls and go hunting for rats at the creek (with rocks...no I never caught one). Thus, I grew up to be the well-adjusted man you all know and admire.

This odd-ball kid remained strange. He once swallowed a dime, nickel and penny. Forever burnt into my mind is his little swirly tracheotomy scar at his throat and his father's quote, "At least my dimwit son is now worth 16 cents." This kid took pride in getting in trouble and never did schoolwork. He was never "left-back" in school but he was barely literate. The older bullies picked on him but this doofus just took it with an empty grin...even when they beat him up.

Years later in junior high, (1970) another kid and I were playing stickball in my driveway. Across the street, a procession of low-life, juvenile offenders from my grade knocked on this genius's door. He let them in. Some time passed and suddenly, the mental guy exploded in terror out of his own house. He jumped off the porch and ran to safety across the street. Seconds later, a full glass jar of Fox's U-Bet chocolate syrup was hurled through the glass (from the inside) of the storm door.

FOX'S U-BET CHOCOLATE SYRUP HAS BEEN A NEW YORK CITY FAVORITE SINCE 1895.  IT COMPETED WITH HERSHEY'S SYRUP AND BOSCO BUT WAS THE PREFERRED INGREDIENT IN THE FOUNTAIN BEVERAGE CALLED AN, "EGG CREAM."  IN MY CHILDHOOD, FOR IN-HOME USE, MOST FAMILIES THREW AWAY THE METAL LID AND BOUGHT A PLASTIC PUMP ADAPTER.  THE GLASS JAR WAS DISCONTINUED IN 2002 AND REPLACED WITH A SQUEEZABLE BOTTLE.

The swarm of hoodlums-in-training came out onto the porch and taunted the poor schmuck as the smashed jar, oozed chocolate sauce onto the walkway. The harsh ridicule continued as the budding criminals dared him to come back in. When they pretended to run after him...he fled.

A year later that knucklehead's family moved away. We never found out what happened to the inside of the house. That imbecile could have used me and my stickball buddy as witnesses but we were never approached. I hope this dunce doesn't try to find me on FACEBOOK. This is one case where I have no curiosity to find him or see whatever happened to him.


PART - TWO

A few days ago, another former friend from grade school found me on FACEBOOK. I ignored his "friend request" because of the abrupt end to our short friendship, at day camp. After all this time, I still remember the circumstances and the exact moment we parted company.

I was always a passionate New York Mets fan. I frequently mention that in my early years, I was the kid that would become blue in the face arguing that "Fat" Jack Fisher was better than Whitey Ford and that Ron Swoboda was going to be the next Ted Williams.

"FAT" JACK FISHER'S MAJOR LEAGUE CAREER WAS SAVED WHEN EXPANSION IN 1961 AND 1962 ADDED FOUR NEW TEAMS.  HE WAS BARELY MAJOR LEAGUE PEDIGREE BUT FOR THE WOEFUL NEW YORK METS (1964-1967) HE WAS THE BEST PITCHER THEY HAD.

After the 1964 baseball season, the hated Yankees and their latest dynasty were thankfully, a thing of the past. All those years of having my lowly Mets trod upon by the arrogant Yankee fans and their tiresome sense of entitlement...were over...temporarily.

In the summer of 1967, I befriended the FACEBOOK member above. Of Eastern-European refugee parents, this die-hard Yankee fan was a chubby, non-athletic, uncool, brainiac...a Howard Cosell-type. That means he was more inclined to act as an umpire than to play ball.

When we found out that the big camp excursion was a Yankees versus Baltimore Orioles game the following week, this kid leaped (not especially high) for joy.

I tried to kill his buzz but in a fair argument, he could easily out debate me. So rather than lose, I went for his Achilles Heel, I referred to Mr. Mantle as Mickey Mental. At first, he didn't cry...which is admirable for a twelve year-old but when his emotions started getting the better of him, he scampered off, (actually, lumbered off is a better description).

Two days later, (June 27, 1967), we were supposed to go to Prospect Park in Brooklyn, to an Angling (fishing) Contest but it was postponed. I guess the camp had already rented the buses so they took us to a Mets versus Pirates game. Coincidentally, prior to the game, a sequence from the "ODD COUPLE" movie was filmed.

(ACTUAL INTERNET PHOTO OF THE EVENT). THE SCENE CALLED FOR THE PIRATES TO HIT INTO A GAME-ENDING TRIPLE PLAY TO PRESERVE A RARE METS VICTORY.  HALL-OF-FAMER ROBERTO CLEMENTE REFUSED TO DEBASE HIS IMAGE, SO FORMER WORLD SERIES HERO BILL MAZEROSKI WAS USED.  I'VE HEARD THAT THE FEAT WAS ACCOMPLISHED IN ONE TAKE.  BUT THAT'S NOT TRUE, I WAS THERE.  MAZ DIDN'T SWING AT A FEW PITCHES, HE FOULED OFF A COUPLE AND HIT SEVERAL BALLS THAT DIDN'T FIT THE CRITERIA OF A THIRD, TO SECOND TO FIRST GROUND BALL TRIPLE PLAY.  EVEN BETTER, THE METS WON THE REAL GAME, 5-2.

My "friend" and I were seated together and he naturally cheered for the opposition. I couldn't handle it so I struck up a deal. "If you root for the Mets now, next week, I'll root for the Yanks." This kid was an intelligent and fair person. I phrased it well, and he agreed.

The next week at Yankee Stadium (the only time my fanny was ever tarnished by one of their seats), we again sat next to each other. Benignly, I waited for game time as this kid, as if doing calligraphy, artistically entered the names in his scorecard. The only time he came up for air was to say, "Did you know, the Mick's playing first base this year." After I uttered a non-committal grunt, he smugly he added, "Today, he's naturally batting clean-up. Let's hope he hits one out."

I remained quiet until the first pitch was en route. Suddenly, I became especially obnoxious in rooting for the Orioles. When this kid whined in protest, "Hey we had a deal. I rooted for the Mets last week and now you HAVE to root for the Yankees!" I said, "*SCREW YOU and Mickey Mental!"

* MY MEMORY IS A LITTLE FUZZY..."SCREW YOU" (EVEN AT TWELVE YEARS-OLD) MIGHT NOT HAVE BEEN THE WAY I PHRASED IT !

Earlier this week, his FACEBOOK request was the first time I had heard from him since that afternoon. I still can picture his huffy attitude as he shuffled away to another seat.

The moral of these two stories are; sticks and stones may break their bones but harsh words are easier to use and more fun. And if that's too corny remember this...whether it's well chosen foul language or the paint store calling light beige; "desert sand", "autumn straw" or "three week old mashed potatoes in Santa's beard," in the end, they're all pretty much the same !