Livin' It: True Story of a Bad Kid from Philly Who Defies the Odds

First Ten Pages

Prologue

I was once out strolling one very hot summer's day
When I thought I'd lay myself down to rest
I laid there in the sun and felt it caressing my face...
As I fell asleep and dreamed
“Spill the Wine” by Eric Burdon and War.

The first 45 record I ever bought.

I was 11 years old and I cut school for two weeks straight. It's 1967 and America was going through an incredible phase called the 60s. If you missed it, well, I'm sorry. It was a decade chock full of all kinds of fun things one could do, but out of all of the delightful ways the 60s provided to while away the day, cutting school was way up there. We'll get to all the other crazy things shortly.

I would go down to the woods that were no more than a 10 minute walk from my house. I had my favorite spot, a patch of grass about 20 square feet in size on the edge of the crick, otherwise known as a creek in most of the rest of the world.

There was an amazingly large oak tree that hung over a perfectly maintained patch of grass. I would go there, take off my clothes and lie in that lush chunk of nature. Occasionally I would climb the tree and find a spot where I could stretch all the way out and just chill.

It was a perfect spring day, balmy air with a scent of fresh pine and blooming azaleas that's hard to beat. I utilized two branches to accomplish my mission. Beat the hell out of fourth period social studies. It was heaven.

One day while napping in the tree, I was harshly awakened by two Parkies, or as they were better known, Philadelphia Mounted Police. They patrolled this area called Pennypack Park.

As I emerged from my lovely and comforting slumber I realized they were laughing. Can you imagine a little kid, naked, lying in a tree, taking a nap? I'd be laughing, too.

They told me to get dressed, which I did with great speed and efficiency, and before I even had my T-shirt back on, they promptly hoisted me onto the back of one of their horses. We galloped away as I held tightly to the uniformed Parkie.

Embarrassing.

They took me to their remote police horse station, which was nothing more than a small shack. With all three of us in there, it was really cramped. And be aware, I was a skinny little kid. No more than 80 pounds dripping wet.

They called my house, but luckily no one answered. They were as stern and humorless as the nuns at my enthralling Catholic school. More on that later.

My guess is that the Parkies probably laughed their asses off after I was gone. They said to go home and explain to my mom or dad what had happened. They were going to call and keep calling until they spoke to my parents.

I of course said “Yes sir,” nearly saluting them in the process. I ran all the way home and promptly took the phone off the hook.

That was my first encounter with the law. There would be plenty more to follow.

Chapter 1: Philly

I was born and raised in Philly. Philadelphia is a name composed of two Greek words, philos, meaning “love,” and adelphos, meaning “brother.” The city of brotherly love.

Philadelphia is home, of course, to all kinds of huge historical events, and that’s why it’s on everybody’s bucket list. Sometimes people break my balls about growing up in Philly, especially those lovely folks from bumfuck nowhere. So then I ask them what’s the name of your major league football, baseball, basketball, hockey, or soccer team? How good is your orchestra, how big is your art museum? Shuts them right up.

Here’s a short list of amazing things that only Philly, and no other place, can claim.

Home of the …

1. Philly Cheesesteak. No other place makes it right, and green peppers DO NOT go on a cheesesteak.
2. Our Italian Wooder (water) Ice. Don’t even think about it anywhere else.
3. Home of the Original Soft Pretzel. You could buy them on every street corner.
4. The Liberty Bell. 1776
5. The most murals. Over 2,000
6. American Bandstand, with Dick Clark. 1952. Later moved to L.A. in 1963.
7. Philly vernacular. Never pronounce the “g” at the end of a word ending in “ing,” i.e. Livin’ It and too many other examples to mention.
8. First-ever …
9. Hospital. Built in 1751
10. Zoo. 1859
11. Newspaper. 1784
12. Musical auditorium. The Academy of Music, still going. 1857
13. Thanksgiving Day Parade. 1920
14. Naval Ship Yard. 1801
15. American-made piano. 1775
16. Stock Exchange in America. 1790
17. First indoor playhouse in the world. No, it was not in London. The Walnut Street Theater, which is still going. Built in 1808.

We lived the first four years of my life in the Abbotsford Projects in the East Falls neighborhood of Philly. I don’t remember shit about it other than that there was a stone wall about ten feet from our front door. East Falls was a blue-collar neighborhood mostly comprised of factory workers and tradesmen.

Then we moved to the Mayfair section of Northeast Philly. Mayfair has lawns and driveways as opposed to sidewalks and alleys. A nice step up. The people who lived there were a mix of professionals, tradesmen, and factory workers. Most of the white-collar workers had large families, and they lived in the larger row homes.

Mayfair was only a twelve-minute ride to downtown Philly and a ten-minute walk to Pennypack Park, the largest urban park in the city. It was a great place to grow up. Everybody said hello to each other and you knew everyone that lived on your block. I’m not saying that I liked everyone or they liked me, but we knew each other. Our doors were never locked. It was just that kind of place.

I lived there until I was 22, when I moved to Sin City. That’s not going to be part of our story. I’m going to concentrate on the ages of 11 to 19. About eight years. Same amount of time the Beatles were together. Liverpool vs. Philly. Is there any contest?

Chapter 2: My Mother Susan

My mom, Susan, had four boys by the time she was 24 years

old. She was very pretty and had a lot of smarts to go with

the looks. Anyone from Philly would know Sally Star, and that’s

who my mother looked like. For those who don’t know who Sally

Star is, she was a real Philly icon, the first top-rated female disc

jockey in the country. She worked as an announcer, writer, and

producer while also appearing on stage and in movies, establishing

herself as a pioneer in the history of early broadcast television and

radio. She had a local TV show in Philly called Popeye Theater,

where she always wore a cowgirl outfit. That ran from the 50s to

1971.

Anyway, my mom had blond hair and wore it in the style of the

time, like Sally Star. I remember walking with her down Frankford

Avenue under the El Train, when out of the blue, some guy driving a

blue Chevy Impala spots my mom. Suddenly this doofus in the car

sticks his head out the window, turns completely around in his seat

and whistles very loudly and enthusiastically at my mom. With a

huge Cheshire cat grin he starts saying things like, “Gimme your

number,” “I can pull over,” “You know you’re a beautiful lady,”

“Let me show you a good time.” Well, you have to wonder if that stuff ever worked

for the guy. On top of that he, went nearly a

block without ever looking forward. Even at such a young age I

recognized what a dumbass he was. I said, “What’s wrong with

him?” and my mom replied, “Nothing, honey, men just do stupid

stuff like that all the time.” Later, when I reached my teens, I finally

realized what she meant.

Mom was a real hard worker her whole life and was employed

mostly in the restaurant business, in one position or another,

usually as a waitress, until she was 66 years old. Now, I’m sure

others have done the same, but not many, and not many did it like

my mom. For instance, I gave up waitering in my late 30s. Why?

Because it was hard on me at that age! I’d had plenty enough. But

even right at the end she was doing five dinners and two lunches a

week, waiting tables. Usually 12-13 hours for the two shifts.

Her last waitress job was at a place called Philly Crab House. There was

nothing elegant about the joint. The tables were covered in brown

paper, the crabs were served on aluminum trays. Napkins were a

roll of paper towels. You get the idea. She would turn 25-30 tables

per day. Crazy! But the place was always busy and crabs weren’t

(and still aren’t) cheap, so mom made good money. But there’s no

doubt about it, it was a real physical grind.

She also acquired three rental properties, a stock portfolio and well

over $100,000 in her savings account. In Philly we call a building

with two apartments, a duplex. Everywhere else in the world a

duplex is two houses side by side. But we call them Twins. She

owned two duplexes and a triplex. She lived in one of the units (the

triplex) and rented out all of the others. She took no shit from her

tenants. If the check wasn’t there by the fifth she would knock on their door every

day until she got her rent. And she always did. Her

stocks were all blue-chip safe bets. Not bad for a waitress.

She had a bit of a tough time growing up. Her father passed away

when she was eight years old. He was 42 and went to the hospital

for appendix surgery and died of pneumonia. Back then they didn’t know to sit you

up and do breathing exercises after surgery. My

grandfather was a founding partner of the Food Fair supermarkets.

Luckily for my grandmother and her eight kids she survived off of

his stocks until she was in her 50s. She also charged her children

who worked at the supermarket room and board. Eventually the

money ran out and my grandmother was forced to get a job. Food

Fair was ultimately purchased by a chain called Super Fresh.

My mom was the youngest girl of five boys and three girls, and she

got out of the house as soon as she could. She never even graduated

high school. My grandmother had undiagnosed mental issues.

Grandma would whack my mother in the face and my mom would

ask, “What did I do?” “You know, you know. Want another one?”

grandmother would reply. Much later in life, my grandmother was

diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. When she was in her mid60s my

grandmother was institutionalized, sent to the “funny

farm,” literally.

The facility really was a working farm. They had

cows, chickens, and pigs. They grew all sorts of crops and

vegetables. The reason she was sent to “the Farm” was because she

became increasingly paranoid. She would also hallucinate. My

Uncle Joe was living with her and woke up one day to my

grandmother screaming at Batman. Telling the invisible Batman to

get out of her house. Why do you want to kill me? My uncle tried

his best to calm her down but she just ran away from him and fell down the steps.

Not a few steps but 13. And not a single broken

bone. Go figure.

It was at the hospital where finally a psychiatrist

saw her. People were not aware of mental illness back then. They

called it getting senile. She spent a year at the Farm and she lived on

Thorazine for the rest of her life.

I have two quick stories from my one and only experience at

grandma’s funny farm. That one day while visiting I wandered

around the actual farm part, which seemed to me much more

inviting than the indoor, institutional part. While walking through

the dairy farm I noticed an identifying placard in front of a cow

that had the same birthday as mine, and on top of that it was the

skinniest cow in the barn, also like me.

The second story frightened

me at the time but I find it rather humorous now. My mother

wanted to talk to my grandmother alone so she gave me a buck to

go get something from the cafeteria.

I went and got a “Good Humor Orange Creamsicle.” As I was

leaving, I noticed an older boy down the hallway standing very still

and staring at me with an unflinching gaze. He was about 18 years

old and wearing an all-black cowboy outfit. Black boots, black

pants, black shirt, black hat, and black holsters for his pearl-handled

six shooters. This was some sight to see. I mean I’d seen plenty of

bizarre characters in Philly, but this was Top of the Pops!

I see him and he sees me, and he squares up like we’re going to have

a shootout, hands on his six shooters. Clearly he had an advantage,

as I wasn’t packing that day. Just as his shiny pistols were squarely

aimed in my direction, some older woman with the largest breasts

I’ve ever seen grabs me and pulls me into those huge gazoombas and

starts sobbing, “My boy, my boy, you’ve come back to me.”

She held on tight with my face buried in her sweaty monster jugs,

squeezing and muttering “my boy, my boy.” Just as I was starting

to feel the effects of suffocation, Black Jack started yelling, “Hey,

let my brother go” and starts firing his six shooters. Luckily they

were cap guns. And just like that she let me go.

Gulping in as much

fresh air as humanly possible, I ran like hell as they yelled at each

other in utterly incomprehensible, high-pitched shrieks. I’m

thinking now that this scenario had probably played out before.

Maybe a few times. Out of breath but having found my way back

to the safety of my mom, I asked if we could leave, ASAP. She said

sure, and would I like a tour of the farm? But by then, I’d had

enough. Apparently I wasn’t cut out for farm life.