Madison Ice House

This is probably one of the most photographed buildings in town - and I couldn't resist taking a shot myself!

Nashville Record Shop

Was in nashville recently, and it may have turned into one of my favorite cities. The people were dynamite and the music was awesome! The level of musicianship was remarkable and the city had a lot of character to it. Almost like a country version of New Orleans - but without the overwhelming culture!

Fall, Winter, Football and Beer - The Things You Can Count On! - April 2010

My father was a hard-core Oakland Raiders fan in the days of the old AFL- the upstart American Football League. In 1968, the Raiders were one of the best teams in the league and I remember watching them play on television just about every Sunday.
As 13-year-old watching games with my father, it was easy to root for the Raiders because they had the coolest uniforms! Silver and black with an emblem on their helmets that featured cross-swords and a Raider with an eye-patch. You couldn’t get any cooler than that!
Their quarterback was Darryl Lamonica, aka “The Mad Bomber,” who loved to air it out. They had crazy receivers, a mean defense and a back-up quarterback who had a peace sign sticker on the back of his helmet. I would sit in front of the television with the TV Guide, which listed the rosters of the teams on television each weekend, and study every player and every play.
In the NFL – the established and more respected National Football League – my father liked the lowly New York Giants and the seemingly invincible Baltimore Colts.
He hated – and I mean really hated – the Dallas Cowboys, who were the archrivals of the Giants, and the New York Jets. My father and his friends seemed to have two problems with the Jets. First, they weren’t the Giants. Secondly was the brash quarterback with the white shoes, cocky attitude and handlebar mustache – Joe Namath. Joe had an arm like a rifle. He was the first passer I can remember who, every time he threw the ball, made it look graceful as it sailed in a tight spiral to the arms of the waiting receiver, who would rarely have to break stride to retrieve it. Joe could thread a needle throwing that ball, I thought!
So, when I checked the TV Guide on Saturday, November 16,1968, and saw that the Jets were playing the Raiders – in Oakland – on Sunday at 4 o’clock, I knew it would be a great day of football.
Football was a ritual in my house – almost a religion. On Saturdays, my mother would make a large pot of sauce with sausage and meatballs. Anyone who came over would be offered a fresh baked grinder roll from Altieri’s Bakery on the Stratford Green and told to make a meatball or sausage grinder. My mother loved to make large quantities of everything so we could share with friends. If my friends and I went to see the Stratford High School game at Longbrook Park on a crisp, chilly Fall Saturday afternoon, we would look forward to hitting my house after the game for a grinder, some sodas and to watch the University of Notre Dame – the “Fighting Irish” football team - with my father, who would be sitting on his Captain’s chair in front of the television. He would hang out watching football until about 6 o’clock, when he would go to his job – one of two he had - as a bartender.
My father’s Sunday ritual consisted of waking up in the morning – his only day off from both jobs – and sitting at the dining room table to read the newspaper and drink coffee for awhile. He would then meet some of his friends at Spada’s Blue Goose for a few Schaeffer draft beers and a few shots of Seagram’s VO. From there, he was off to Gold’s Delicatessen in downtown Stratford to pick up something to nibble on while watching the games. Gold’s was probably the best Deli in Connecticut.
Sometimes, if my mother was cooking dinner, he would just grab a jar of cow or lamb’s tongues that he would slice on a small cutting board on a table next to the Captain’s chair and eat while watching the game. Other times, if we weren’t having a sit-down dinner, he would get some corned beef or pastrami, Swiss cheese, a Jewish rye, spicy mustard, lettuce, tomatoes, onion and pickles from a barrel and make a large sandwich. The corned beef and pastrami was so good at Gold’s that, for years, it was almost impossible for me to enjoy it from any place else. My 15-year-old older sister Jackie and I loved it when my father would bring home some sliced meats from Gold’s.
We would never try the cow or lamb tongues, though. The thought of eating a tongue grossed us both out, but I never said anything about it. Jackie, however, would make it a point to say just how gross she thought it was. So when my father put a lamb’s tongue on the end of a fork and waved it in front of Jackie’s face while offering her a bite, she screamed and stormed off to her room, slamming the door shut in the process. My father went upstairs after her.
“Come on, Jackie,” he said from outside her bedroom door. “For Christ’s sake. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just having some fun.”
“Go away,” Jackie yelled back at him. “You are sick!”
“Come on,” my father said, then waited a few more minutes before gently knocking on the door again.
When Jackie opened the door, she was greeted by my father, holding the lamb’s tongue at face level, as he let out a lamb-like, “Baaaaaaaaaaa!”
“That’s it!” Jackie yelled as she slammed the door again. “You people are sick! I’m never coming out again.”
Once, I made the mistake of getting into the middle of a dispute between my father and my sister. She was dressed to go out one Sunday afternoon, but my father deemed her skirt too short. She was upset and he wasn’t budging. I thought I would add a little football humor by tossing a yellow dish towel on the floor and calling a penalty on the play. “Penalty; skirt too high;” I said signaling the short skirt length high on my thigh. “Offense. Fifteen yards.”
My father chuckled and walked out of the kitchen. My sister said, “Fuck you, Kevin,” and walked over and kicked me in the shin. It was hard – I’d estimate that if she kicked a football it would have been good for a 35-yard field goal. It was also loud and it hurt! I hobbled to the couch to watch some football and vowed that I would try to keep my mouth shut during any future family disagreements.
More often, though, my mother would be the one upset with my father’s antics. On some occasions he would arrive home from Spada’s after a few too many beers and shots. This particularly upset my mother if she cooked dinner.
“John, the roast is probably overcooked!,” my mother would say, taking my father’s tardiness as a personal affront to her dinner plans. “It is probably tough! It’s the only day we can all be together for dinner, and the roast is overcooked now and is probably tough – it’s ruined!!”
“I’m sure it’s fine, Millie,” my father would say. “It smells great. Let’s eat. Everything will be fine.”
But my mother would still be stewing – she took everything personally - and my father knew it. My mother wanted everything to be perfect for the Sunday dinner – and having a tough roast basically ruined her day and put her on edge.
“Everything is delicious, Millie,” my father would say. “You did a great job with everything…”
This is about the time I wished I ran for cover…
“… but the meat was a little tough,” my father continued. “Not too bad, but a little tough.”
After a food critique like that, my mother usually did one of two things: stay at the table and stew some more while glaring at my father or storm out of the room. This time, she introduced a third option when she stood up and flung her plate of food at the wall. “That’s it, I can’t take any more of this,” she said, storming out of the room.
My father continued eating; acting like he didn’t notice what just went on.
I thought it was funny, but in an uneasy kind of way, probably not realizing at the time the level of disfunctioning that was actually going on in the house. Jackie and I would not talk about these instances until years later. Our youngest sister at the time, Hillary, seemed oblivious to the insanity.
Sometimes, if my mother stormed out of a room on a Sunday after my father came home from an afternoon of too much drinking, he would usually make a joke out of it as he went after her (once, he went after her on his knees while singing “Bess, you is my woman now” from Porgy and Bess)
But, eventually he would settle into his chair and start watching the game – yelling at the TV on occasion, “For Christ’s sake, how could you drop that pass? Jesus…” My mother, meanwhile, would resume her afternoon of sitting in the kitchen, talking on the phone endlessly with friends and relatives and chain smoking.
For both my parents, there would always be a beer close by – something I didn’t really realize as odd until years later when I went to a friend’s house and noticed that the whole time visiting, practically an entire afternoon passed, and no one was drinking. My father would have a beer glass or mug nearby, as well as a shot glass for the occasional Seagram’s VO. My mother would use a Styrofoam cup.
On Sunday, November 17, 1968, though, my father was revved-up for the Jets/Raiders game. “I hope Ben Davison breaks Joe Namath’s fuckin’ jaw,” he would randomly say during the San Diego Chargers/Buffalo Bills game. (Actually, it was Ike Lassiter of the Raiders that eventually broke Joe’s jaw). The Chargers/Bills game – although good - was almost like a formality – we had to watch it while building up to the Jets/Raiders.
And the Jets/Raiders game was a classic. Both defenses played fierce at times – and there was a lot of pushing, shoving and jawing after the plays. Both offenses would find a way to score, with Oakland up 14-12 at the half. I thought the Raiders would pull ahead in the second half, but Namath lead the Jets on two fourth-quarter touchdown drives. The Jet’s Jim Turner kicked a field goal late in the game, and the Jets were ahead 32-29 and about to seal the game.
This is what football was all about, I thought: a tough game with players hitting each other hard and ending-up with dirty uniforms. But I really wanted to see the Raiders pull the game out.
With only a couple of minutes to go, though, and the Raiders driving, the game abruptly went off the air.
The movie “Heidi” came on.
“What the fucking Hell…” my father started, walking over to the TV and changing the channels to see if the game was on somewhere else. “This better be a God-damn commercial!”
When he realized that the game was in fact off and “Heidi” was on, he walked over to the wood-paneled wall, swearing under his breath the entire time, and kicked a hole in it before limping into the kitchen to grab a beer, still cursing up a storm. Then he was right back at the TV, looking at Heidi in disbelief that the game was actually off.
My sister Jackie ran into the room. “I have the game on,” she yelled. “I have the game on!”
“What? How?” he shot back.
“On Hillary’s radio,” she said, holding up a small, pink transistor radio. “The game’s on!”
“Give me that,” he said, reaching for the radio.
When he couldn’t get good reception in the living room, or dining room, or kitchen, or foyer… he ran out the front door, into the chilly evening air, and sat on the front porch, seemingly wrapping his body around that radio as he held it up to his ear.
We all stayed back - my mother, Jackie, Hillary and myself – watching my father through a window as he enjoyed the last minute of the game, which saw the Raiders score two touchdowns in the last minute to pull out a 43-32 victory.
“Unbelievable,” my fathered yelled through his hearty laughs. “Jesus Christ! This is unbelievable!”
The Jets had the last laugh in the AFL championship game, beating the Raiders for a trip to Super Bowl III and a game against the Baltimore Colts. My father was pissed the Raiders lost, but dismissed it by saying, “That’s OK. I wouldn’t want Darryl Lamonica to get hurt too badly by the Colts defense. They are going to kill Namath! The Colts cannot lose!”
My father had a lot of his friends over for the Super Bowl – and all but one put some big money down on the Colts. The other, Eddie McDonald, was a Jets fan and apparently put a good chunk of money on the Jets, hoping that they could somehow beat the spread and pay out a few bucks. After all, he reasoned, they had to beat the Raiders, as well as the powerhouse Kansas City Chiefs, Bills and Houston Oilers to get to the Super Bowl.
With each passing set of downs during the Super Bowl, with each minute that ticked off the clock, with each Baltimore miscue, with each disciplined Jet’s drive, it looked like somehow the Jets might actually pull off this miracle. But my father and his friends would have none of it.
“Enjoy this while you can, Eddie, the Colts will be waking up soon and will pull this one out,” they chided.
But Jets cornerback Randy Beverly intercepted two Earl Morrill passes to stop Colts’ drives.
“Any second Bubba Smith is going to get to Namath and will probably fucken’ kill him!,” they said.
And Jets running back Emerson Boozer kept gaining yards, tiring the Colts defense and keeping the Colts offense on the sideline.
“Absolutely right,” Eddie agreed. “There is no way the Jets can beat the Colts. No way!”
The boys started hooting and yelling when Johnny Unitis finally came into the game for the Colts and led the team on a touchdown drive. But that turned out to be the last gasp of a team that was totally outplayed.
As the game wound down to its end, so did my father and all his friends. My mother cooked a lot, but they also drank a lot. Everyone sat stunned staring at the television. Most had dropped jaws, except Eddie, who had a huge grin on his face.
“If they played again, the Colts would kill them,” one of my father’s friends’ finally said.
“Yea, but I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen - this was the one game championship,” Eddie said.
“I can’t believe this,” my father said. “And that cocky-son-of-a-bitch Namath pulled it off. He’s not half the quarterback Unitis is. I hope he gets his nose broken playing the college all-stars. That son-of-a-bitch! Bastard!”
“That was a good game,” I said to my father as he went into the kitchen to grab a beer. “Too bad the Raiders weren’t there. They could have won!”
“You never know,” my father said. “But the Raiders weren’t there. The Jets were. And this only goes to show you that nothing is ever guaranteed. Take nothing for granted. There is never any way to tell how anything will turn out. You can’t count on anything.”
True, I thought – and always remembered that.
Except fall and winter days and football. And beer. You can always count on that.

Thinking Out Loud - in there!

75 Whitney Ave in New Haven. I ran across it the other day while visiting the Educational Center for the Arts. 26 years ago, Steve lived there and we used the basement to practice regularly, thinking that we were somehow pretty good (we weren't bad - and the songs were great!) Where did the time go? (And, no, there massage parlor was not there when we used the space... damn!)