All Over Time

 This has turned out to be "The Great Project" of many potential "great projects" I have designated for myself--putting all my hard copy photos (or most of them) on the cloud and some here on this blog. I'd say it is a history of one, but really it is part of the history of others, people I have known, some no longer, some still. As if I am not introspective enough, this endeavor has made me more so, for the things done, the things not done, and the people in that context. 

Above are the high school graduation photos of several youngsters who once were. The third from the left looking like a bear with a shag cut is me. Ugh. I am still in touch with three of these folks, saw them just this past August at Bryant Park Grill in New York. It's only ahem, 50 plus years!

Two of my favorite things in the photos above, one my Plymouth Fiero, a two seater sports-ish car no longer made. And frankly it had lots of mechanical issues. Which is probably why it is no longer made. But I loved it. And Fiero with car and cat. And me outside the front door of my apartment in the Fairfax District. This is all circa late 80s, early 90s.

Naturally, when I first moved to Los Angeles, I was a regular visitor to the beach. Almost every weekend. Then life and work took over and those dalliances were fewer and farther in between. These two photos I know the date of because it is on the back, 1982.

Now, the next series of photos are from a visit or two I made back in the early 80s, I think. The reason I think it's early ish 80s is that you will note that my dear friend Ellen is enceinte as we are pictured in front of a lovely Manhattan restaurant, Cent'anni. (Don't know if it's still there, why would it be it's like 40 years!) The first of her two children, Matt, is a regular visitor to these climes for events at the Hollywood Bowl in the summer, and other such LA events. 

Below a few pics of Len and me at Yamashiro in Los Angeles, before he made Los Angeles his bi-coastal home; me, reclining on my 200.00 Ortho bed; and me with a couple of friends, among those with whom contact was lost, but still they are a part of my life and so here they are. 

Larry and Len and me below.

Below, Susan and my dad communing musically. Isabel, a friend from law school visits, and Margo, a college friend who also moved to Los Angeles in the 1980s.

Below, a publicity shot of Alan Alda and writer-producer Thad Mumford, who was a friend until his passing in Sept. 2018. We are Fordhamites all. 

My architect and college friend Ralph. The top picture he sent to me long ago. The bottom picture is from his 1980s visit to Los Angeles, a year or two before he met and married the love of his life, Mary. 

Ralph and I visited the then new LA County Museum on Wilshire Boulevard, Museum Row. After only 30 something years, it has been torn down and something new and massive is being built. 

Family and Friends

 

As will be the case in many of these photo entries, there is no particular order to this bunch. I tried to go from older to newer but that did not entirely work out. So I shall narrate the time frames as best as I can.

Above. Aunt Teri and Uncle Frank. She is my mother's last remaining sister, still with us at nearly 97. She is the one I visited in New York a couple of months ago. Uncle Frank was a bus driver. In one of the old photos I think I've already posted, I am a four year old opened and closing the door of his bus one afternoon near Woodlawn Cemetery (I think). Uncle Frank was an inveterate Camel smoker, without filters. He ended up with throat cancer, but survived it for quite a while before he did circa 1999. When I was a kid, they lived right next door to us on the fourth floor of a Bronx walk up.

This is my grandmother on my father's side. She was four foot 10 or 11 of Italian toughness. Born on Mulberry Street in Manhattan at the end of the 19th century. I can't say we were close. For some odd reason my mother wasn't invested in my father's side of the family, nor frankly, other than her sisters, in her own side. When she got sick in the 1970s, she became more family oriented, at least on her side of the family. And my father wasn't that crazy about his childhood. 

More pics from probably around the late seventies, at the top at least. My late cousin Barbara, my late Uncle Nathan, my Aunt Georgia, somewhat younger than she is in the lower photo. She lived until she was 100. She was a kind, and soft soul. On the right top my Aunt Rita, one of my mother's other sisters. She was the salt of the earth.  She also died way too young.

Above. I begin my life in Southern California. Some pics are before I actually oved, and some after. I couldn't tell you which at this point. I do believe the restaurant shot, which I think was La Villa Taxco, one of which was then in Hollywood, reflects my cousin being just a tad upset about something. At this time, she was about 14 or 15 and I was in my early 20s. They were very good to me when I visited and ultimately when I moved here, letting me sleep on their couch until I found a job. And then, for 31 years after that, I lived right across the street from them.

The above picture was taken in my Dad's apartment near Fairfax and Beverly.  Not sure of the date, but figure it is somewhere in the late 1980s or early 1990s. My friend Susan Margolis is listening to me hold forth, glass of somethin' somethin' in my hand. I am always a bit surprised by this photo of me. So sad I did not think of myself as attractive when I was young(er). What an idiot! Or truthfully. I was afraid to be. Now that I am old(er) such disclosures really aren't particularly sensitive. As you will see, below, my weight always fluctuated. At this point, I was my best size. Hmmm, Need to try for that again, just for nostalgia sake no?

More Dad, and me. The top polaroid? I think it might have been when Dad took me to a Greek place that used to be on Cahuenga, for my 30th birthday.  He always enjoyed the scenery.

Brothers Constantine and Steve at top. Steve was the youngest in Dad's multi-children family, and they really weren't close as there was something like 7 or more years between them. They never realized, either of them, how much they were like each other. The middle picture is later, probably in the 1990s or later, when my friends Len, and Chris, and Andrew and various folk used to gather for Christmas dinners and wild exchanges of gifts.

Above: My Cousin Carol and I on my 50th birthday in Malibu. I threw myself a party at Moonshadows and got a few rooms at the then not extravagant, but very nice, Malibu Beach Inn for visitors. Now renovated and owned by David Geffen, I would have to sell my possessions to afford it. That weekend I also did an ethics presentation at Pepperdine, and Carol and Mike (who took the picture) joined me. That's Carol also with Aunt Teri all the way on the right, in the 80s. Always looking good! Me in the middle also in the 1980s, with too much weight. I really hate this picture, but in the interest of transparency about the vagaries of life. . . . there it is and my Aunt looks great there. She still lives in that same apartment, which was once all rentals and now is a big old condo building. 

This pic is a little out of left field with the others, but I don't want to forget it. On the right is Geri F. Geri and I met many years ago, when each of us was in Rome, like the early 1990s. We met on a bus that I had taken a tour on of the sites. She was from Australia and really worried about one of her grandkids' health. I promised to pray for him. We parted at the Roman Forum but promised to keep in touch. Her grandson survived and thrived. And Geri and I became friends of many years. She even came to my 50th all the way across the world. It is a regret that I lost touch with her in the last 20 or so years. I never did make it to Australia, with my fear of flying. (I fly but it's white knuckle all the way).

Reflections of No Real Consequence by Constantine Gochis

Dad was apoplectic about the state of our nation way back in the 1960s. I was young, so while I didn't dispute, or necessarily disagree with him, I had the typical teenage fish to fry and paid little attention. As we got into the 90s, that is the 1990s, I was seeing what he did, but I didn't have time to absorb it and become, as perhaps we all should have, alarmed by the disintegration of our nation. Dad was retired. I was working. When Dad died, we were, nationally, at the denouement of all the years of corrupting influences of things like, yeah, Communism. My father was aghast when Mr. Obama, the candidate out of the blue promised to "transform America". People failed to ask "into what?" My father knew. He's been spared seeing the sad ending of a once imperfect, but still, great, nation. You and I are not so lucky.

This was written circa 1998. And a quarter of a century later, after sex and drugs have fully blinded us, we are on the edge of WWIII. And led by individuals that used to be diagnosed as non compos mentis. 

    REFLECTIONS OF NO REAL CONSEQUENCE

It is, perhaps, of some significance that Thoth, the ancient Egyptian god of wisdom, is represented as a baboon.

This is not a new expression of an apocalyptic discovery. Timon of ancient Athens, an historic observer, studying his peers, is said to have the following epitaph. "Timon, the misanthrope, I am below. Go and revile me, stranger. Only, go!" Timon was clearly not enchanted with his fellow man.

Then, of course, there is the reclining cynic Diogenes, who, when offered anything he might wish by the conqueror Alexander the Great replied, as reported by Plutarch:

"Move a little. You are blocking the sun."

This brings me to my street person friend who is named, coincidentally, Diogenes. He materializes with such regularity for his periodic stipend that I am convinced his orbital peregrinations are governed by the immutable physical laws that direct the universe.

Diogenes has none of the pretensions of polite conversation. He is always on point. There is never a greeting or a sign of superfluous amity.

"Christmas is next week, can you spare a little extra change this time around?" His expression suggests my contributions are generally penurious. I feel guilt.

In a way his address is a kind of a lexicon of plebian grandeur. It makes me admire the egalitarians of the world. Truly, this latter day Diogenes is as self-contained and independent as was his homonymous predecessor--he of the ever present lamp in a quest for an honest man. My hobo carries a flashlight, these being more modern times, though I suspect he has no particular desire to see any politically correct holy grail.

Like the ancient Diogenes, he has eschewed obeisance to the amenities which burden ordinary man.  He is asking simply that the passerby do him the courtesy not to block he sun while he seeks its warmth. Of course, "spare change" is welcome at any time.

While Diogenes has the classic appurtenances of a bum, he once was a man of substance.  In our meetings over the years, I have given him an ear as he described the travails of his past. I have also enjoyed the wisdom of his vast experience when I need solace, understanding and compassion.

Diogenes is a veritable expert in the arena of sexual encounters, the subject of so much of our present day life. He knows what is and what is not.

He was toppled from the pinnacle when his beloved wife fitted him with the horned headdress of the cuckold. She forsook him for a woman, though, in mitigation, she was a noted poetess.

I probed him regarding a hot news item of our times.

"I hear that the new speaker of the House has admitted to 'occasional' departures from the hearth."

"Curious," mused Diogenes, "you should bring this up.  Last night I have great trouble sleeping. The guy in the next cot at the mission has one of those little radios tuned to KABC radio. It was like an echo of the past, a woman with the harridan voice of my ex-wife. She was screaming at conservative callers. 'All the great men fooled around. How the hell can we get good leaders who never unzip their pants. Take the President Kennedy, Roosevelt, even Eisenhower. . . "

"Did she mention," I interrupted, "old Ted Kennedy and the nephew who followed the example of old Joe Kennedy himself--you know, ten children at home with Rose, while with Gloria Swanson for better sex?"

"She did not," he answered. "Frankly, though, I have to note that the prurient left has brought such aplomb, such diversity, such grandeur to what started as a simple bit of the apple."

I think of Ramses the Great. He had over one hundred, shall I call them gently, illegitimate children, though they were embalmed royally, as even then, the enlightened imbued their extraneous issue with validity of a sort. The progeny were all embalmed in the approved manner, so that they could be admitted unblemished to the Egyptian afterlife. Henry the Eighth might have spared many a head if he had legitimized the birth of any one of his male bearing dalliances."

Diogenes is indeed a lamp unto the darkness. I prodded further.

"How do you explain Jimmy Carter. He was above carnal sin. The only fault I can find with him is his brother. Alas he was prone to open his zipper, but only after each gallon of beer he drank."

"Ah," countered Diogenes. "He was a lousy president."

"But he did lust in his heart," I said.

"That's the point," confirmed Diogenes. "He needed some kind of stimulus. Perhaps a little cavorting in the Oval Office might have been more salutary for his running of the country."

Diogenes digresses, but to a related point of societal reality. "Did you know that Larry Flynt, that paragon of pornography, appeared on that same harridan's radio show? He said he would pay a million dollars for information about sexual dalliances of any member of Congress? One has to respect him, no? After all he is protecting my constitutional freedom, which I would lose if his magazine were prohibited."

I cannot rebut his wisdom. Diogenes is certainly worth the few pesos I accord him periodically.

Truly, he bespeaks the new verity garnered in the crash pads of the sixties where the 'sine qua non' of good leadership was practiced.

There was none of that middle class Victorianism to inhibit education. Once could lie down with one partner in the evening and awaken with another in the morning. It was a free-wheeling time, and a liberating heritage for the maturating baby boomers to pass to their progeny.

Sixty-eight percent of the 'people' approve of the new freedom, not merely for the leadership, but for the 'hoi polloi' as well.

I gave Diogenes a little extra. I did not go overboard since I expect we will probably meet again just before Christmas.  I am hopeful that before that time, Monica's war, will be history. It is sad that our revered President is not allowed to devote his full attention to a pursuit which everyone knows is a favorite of his--leading the troops in battle.

In the meantime, there is still time for Joan Baez to gather an audience for some old Vietnam songs. Just a few changes in the lyrics, perhaps. Maybe there are some CNN reporters in Baghdad available for a photo-op. Jane Fonda can sit on a cannon for all the world to see and the everlasting glory of Turner Enterprises.

Then there is Ramadan, a time for introspection for men of good will, perhaps even a right winger or two. 

Cats Galore

Hollywood, my first California cat, circa 1981,was a little kitten when I got him in Torrance, Ca. and he lived to the ripe age of 18 passing on in 1999. His adopted sister, who looked like a litter clone, Trouble, came into our lives in 1989 and she lived until 2008. Cat lovers will enjoy, I hope.

I wish you could see his little face, but the shot itself was dark and I could not improve it sufficiently. But you can tell from his size just how young Hollywood was. He is sitting in front of my Los Angeles apt. window in the Fairfax District on top of a loaner desk from my uncle upon which I studied for the California Bar. In these early days, Hollywood was a bit like a dog, playing fetch with rolled up tin foil. Somewhere down the line maybe I'll find that pic.

Above and below, various shots of Hollywood, and of Trouble.

They really were mirror images no?

And after Hollywood, and Trouble, and in a bit of an overlap, came Bud and Bert. Bud and Bert were part of one of several litters of a cat that ultimately, if memory serves, got hit by a car. My then neighbor and I agreed that he'd catch them (there were like 5-7 of them) and we'd split the cost of spay and neuter. Two of one of the litters, who were a bit older, stayed in our backyard, while the younger kits were adopted out. Over time, I became largely responsible for them both, and we spent much time together in my seedy apartment back yard, which developed into something a little less seedy due to each of the neighbors putting in various improvements from plants to a little gazebo. You really couldn't tell easily which was Bud and which was Bert; they looked nearly identical. I could tell after much exposure to their somewhat distinct personalities. Bert died of natural causes, at least I think. I found him under one of our parked cars one morning, no injuries, just as if he were laying out for a nap. He was a senior cat, around 15 or more. Bud stayed outside for a while longer, but as he got older and less limber, I would let him come inside my apartment for a look see until one day, he didn't leave. He lived until he was 21, the longest lived of my cats. 

Bud and Bert living the good life in the backyard.

Accustoming Trouble to a new boarder. Bud sees his likeness for the first time.

Every cat has been a pleasure. 

We're Here Because We're Here--Constantine Gochis

He sat disconsolate on the concrete ledge of a street level window.  Both of his hands were clasped over the handle of his cane as he leaned forward to balance himself.  He was taxed by his black suit and tie.  Clearly it was not appropriate to a hot Los Angeles afternoon.  I asked him if he needed some help.

He declined assistance.  "I'm ninety-two,"  he said.  It sounded as if he was protesting his age or my question.  I was not sure so I decided to proceed on my own way.  I stopped when he continued:

"It was two days before they found me on the floor, the medics I mean."

There was more.

"My girlfriend didn't lift a finger as I lay in bed.  Didn't bring me a glass of water.  Two days, she sat and watched television. Then she left."

"For good?" I asked.

"You might say that.  On the other hand, I spent big bucks on that broad."

I had several questions about his transition from lying prone on the floor to lying in his bed. "No hospital?" I thought.  I decided to forego and explanation in favor of more important matters.

"Did she get her hands on your checkbook?" I inquired.

"Nah," he said, "she has three times the money I have.  What's more, last I heard, she was on a cruise ship with another rich guy."

Three things were apparent.  He was rich, there was life in the old bones, and goin's on going on.

He continued.

"Don't look now. See that woman crossing the street?  She sits at my table at the home. She thinks she's the Queen of Sheba. She says she was married, but I say she's an old maid."

The woman was tall and well proportioned.  She approached us, her head turning neither right nor left.

"Where are you headed Hilda?" he asked.

She answered without the slightest interruption in her stride,  "I have an appointment with some friends." There seemed to be an emphasis on the word, "friends". 

"You know," he mused, "I came home a year ago.  You know it was ten months before anyone said, "Good morning."  He was silent for a moment, then he brightened.

"Here comes another witch."

Indeed the comment was unkind, but the description somewhat accurate.  She was pushing her shopping cart before her as she stopped in front of us.  She was small and wizened, but immediately articulate.

"Where was you born?" she asked, without referencing either of us.

"New York," I said, and he echoed, "Brooklyn."

"Ah," she said with disgust, "Americans."

"You don't like Americans?" I asked.

"I love Americans." She hastened to add. "It's just I vant to hear and speak mine own langvige." She mentioned a town in Czechoslovakia whose name was incomprehensible to me.

"You live in one of these rest homes?" I inquired.

"I live in mine own home. Three rooms, and I have a house in Long Island.  I rent it, but only to Jewish people. You Jewish?"

"No, I have a Goyisher kopf," I answered.

"C'mon, you Jewish," she insisted as she left us.

"Another rich broad," said my elderly companion, who arose from his cramped sitting position.  We walked to the corner and I made as to leave.

"One more thing," he said, smiling.  "There's a guy at my table. He's blind, but he's funny.  He asked me one day, "Why are we here?"  I said, "I don't know."

"And he said, 'We're here because we're here.'"

Kind of a  profundity.

Leap Back to 1992 and 1993

I pull them out of the cupboard in their unwieldy albums (the empties of which I shall give to charitable organizations, if they should want them) and scan them. They have been in no order in that cupboard; hence the jumping through time. Today's offering is from about Christmas time 1992 to June 1993. In those days, I was a member of the Choir at my parish. This particular Christmas, I think, though I am not certain, we sang Handel's Messiah. I am an alto, and not very good at harmonizing naturally, so I really had to work to keep my part (which is not the main "tune" as it were) properly managed. But what a joy whatever we sang. And those who were in the group, so few names do I now remember, except Veronica and Ginny. Veronica just passed away aged 99. Ginny is a retired physician, and we have in common that we went to the same college, a few years apart. A couple of gatherings with my father and some friends, Dad delighted to show some of his cha cha or tango steps to us all. A gathering of some parishioners and their pastor and his mother. And finally, the 40th anniversary of the ordination of the now late Msgr. George Parnassus. And, of course, a couple more shots of my sweet cats.

The choir circa Christmas 1992, my parish, St. Victor.

Dad being instructor on the proper steps with Lynn and Susan.

St. Patrick's at Una's. Dad talking to Nancy.

Getting ready to celebrate Mass on Monsignor P's 40 anniversary as a priest. In a couple of years, the priest at the lower right will be installed as the Bishop of Salt Lake City, and then in 2005 as Archbishop of San Francisco. 

The party, June 1993, in our parish hall. Msgrs. Parnassus and Niederauer. the late Michael Novarese, the late Fr. Patrick Elliot (he became a priest later), and terrific set designer Don Remacle (My Favorite Year, Coach), who did the room for us. Me, pretending to be a cook. 

Gathering at the little home of Rosalie Parnassus, summer 1993.

Trouble on the left. Hollywood on the right.

Paschal Memories by Constantine Gochis

 The character of Myra I always thought was a version of my late mother. Actually, I am sure of it. There was a complicated, fascinating soul. But this particular event I know never happened, at least in this context, as the setting is Los Angeles and my mother had died long ago, in New York. 

MYRA

Myra is never happier than when she is about to embark on a shopping tour for a new outfit.

The current occasion is the imminence of Easter Sunday and the concomitant Church services to commemorate, on this March 31, the Resurrection.

Now, let me say at the outset. Myra is deeply conscious of the mystical depths of her chosen religion. Still, she is a beautiful woman and very much in need of the peripheral benefits of her very visible emoluments.

Accordingly, she aspires to a kind of perfection in the manner of her dress when she is called upon to share her radiance before the multitude.

I find holidays kind of a trial which I must undergo--sort of a concession I must allow in order that I might benefit as amply as I do from a beneficence few men achieve in a lifetime of marriages.

One of the negatives is that I must accompany Myra on her forays into the centers of haute couture for a selection of major importance, as in this case, the Easter outfit. I hate shopping of any kind.

The other matter--one I learned never to articulate--is to mention Myra's predilection to accumulate outfits that hang in a well stocked closet of high fashion ensembles without ever having been worn.

"It's very simple," Myra explains. "I just could not find that one important accessory."  Myra will never enter the stage upon which we "strut and fret" for proper recognition unless she is panoplied cap-a-pie, correctly.

It is judicious at this point of her explanation to nod as if in assent.  I must confess that privately I do not find anything simple about the explanation. For example, last year's Easter outfit was rejected on the basis of the absence of that critical accessory. Why then do we not limit the shopping to this one missing item?

On the other hand, this particular selection was, and is, still the source of Myra's humiliation and long-term trauma at last year's Easter Mass.

At this point I must make mention of the church which is the setting for this story.  I will not divulge its name, as it is a small sanctuary that does not seek notoriety.  Those of you who read such publications as the Calendar section of the LA Times, and follow the peregrinations of the Hollywood elite, are sure to find a name or two among the congregants you would recognize. Certainly, the names of notables abound in the obituary section. It is here the faithful come on this annual day of the Resurrection of their God to worship and, coincidentally to lend color to the ceremony with their sartorial plumage.

I said earlier that Myra did not wear last year's Easter selection. I said, also, that it was missing an important accessory. Both are not true. Myra wore both and she was then and is now a resplendent image in my treasured collections.

She giggled like a little girl. "The hat," she chirped, as she placed the low crowned and very wide brimmed item upon her coif, "that was the missing accessory!"

Fellow males, those of you who chortle over the idiosyncrasies of the distaff side, be advised. There are glimpses of the divine that come rarely into our lives. Such was the radiance, though briefly, as Myra stood ready for her descent from Olympus into the world of mortals.

But her joy was premature, and short lived. Fate can make cruel interpostions on the limited pleasures we are alloted in our earthly journey.

There was a knock at the door. Myra answered. And there, framed in the doorway was our next-door neighbor, also arrayed for the coming celebration. She had come, she said, to offer us a ride to the Church. 

There was a muffled gasp from Myra.

The neighbor was wearing the same hat.