“The Left Wing talk about giving power to the people. Anybody knows that the people have the power. All we have to do is awaken the power in the people. The people are unaware. It’s like they’re not educated to realize they have power. They put the politicians in power, they vote for the local mayor. The people do that. But the system is so geared that everybody believes the father will fix everything – the father being the government. The government will fix everything; it’s all the government’s fault; shake your fist at the government. Well, we are the government.”

Somewhere along the line, I had developed boardwalk eyes – an unnatural instinct for seeing the wayward angles clearly. I knew how to pinpoint which game operators were skimming money, which ride operators were skimming tickets, and which small business owners were selling street drugs directly out of their stands. I could spot a counterfeit bill. I knew how to seek out the red and blue fibers, the federal watermark, the security strip and the shape-shifting ink. I knew the lay of the land, who worked where and for how long. I knew who owned every block of boardwalk real estate, who rented every lot and which contracts would soon be available for bidding. I knew the Class II Cops and the Kohr Brother girls, the Gateway boys and the tram car birds. I waved good morning to all the small-town curiosities – Elvis and Tippy and Fire Marshall Brian, Frankie the Sun Man and Boardwalk Lou Delvechhio. I had become an integral part of their network, both experienced and inexperienced enough to remain trusted by the masses.

I was the full-time barker at Surfside’s one-win Can Game, much like I had been the previous summer. Three seasons deep, I had proven exceptional at drawing and maintaining a considerable crowd. Unlike the majority of game operators, I felt it was my duty to be out there night after night, entertaining the masses. I had compassion, and this was largely based upon my childhood. Growing up, I spent the majority of my summers looking forward to the one week every year when we’d vacation in Cape May. Three generations of my mother’s side of the family would cram themselves into a two-story rental on the corner of Corgie and Madison. The house, which was designed to sleep six, would shelter somewhere between 18-25 of our closest relatives, with kids and cousins sleeping on chaise lounges and on floors. We were a cohesive unit back in those days, so much so that the constant run on hot water and privacy never seemed to be an issue.

Well, at least not for the lot of us, that is.

My father, on the other hand, would blow a gasket a few days into each vacation, allowing matters to escalate onto a point where he would drive back home in order to spend the remainder of that week alone. My assumption is – subconscious or not – this perennial cycle was little more than a matter of design. On some level, it was clear my father resented the harmonious relationship my mother shared with her four siblings. As such, familial occasions like these would often turn into a massive tug-of-war. Vacations were bad. Christmas was worse. Neither one ever ended without some form of dust-up.

And so, shortly after our first full weekend in Cape May, my father would storm off in disgust, portraying himself as the victim even as he set a course toward the one thing he’d been craving all along – 4-5 days of unlimited silence, during which he could enjoy full run of both the TV and the refrigerator.

***

One night during each vacation, the majority of my relatives would form a caravan on the short road over to Wildwood. We’d strike out early, before dusk, enjoying dinner at Menz Restaurant before continuing north along Route 9, going miles out of our way just to ensure a trip across the Beach Creek Bridge. The original Beach Creek rumbled narrow and loud with ragged piles and splintered planks. The entire deck was stressed to the extent that you could feel the weighted shift of wheels on wood. You could smell the salt air rising from out of Hereford Inlet. You could see the giant Ferris wheel climbing high out of the sky.

This … This was Wildwood, New Jersey – a gilded pleasure dome of ribaldry and magic.

It was the most anticipated moment of the year for me, one that I would prepare for several weeks in advance, riding my purple Schwinn off to the local Acme, where I would stand outside for hours, asking patrons if I could help them with their bags. Every time someone accepted, I’d earn a nickel or a dime, perhaps even a quarter. I’d average two-to-three customers an hour, slowly building toward the overarching goal of $40. I kept this money in a tube sock, hidden deep inside my dresser drawer. And every day when I’d return home from work, I’d dump that sock onto my bed, counting out the growing bank inside.

When it came time for us to strike out for Cape May, I’d transfer all that change into a canister, and – every day during that week – I’d ration myself an allowance of $5-7, more than enough to finance bouncing back and forth between the two arcades on Cape May’s promenade. Meanwhile, I’d set aside at least $15 for the one night when we would travel north to Wildwood – some of which I would put toward cotton candy and amusement rides; most of which I would put toward carnival games … any and all manner of such that I could find along that boardwalk.

As a kid, it was always the allure that drew me in – the off-hand possibility that I could outsmart the game or outduel the competition. To that end, I would force my mother to stand there alongside me, waiting impatiently as I observed what all the previous players were doing. Which balls were they using? Which targets were they aiming for? Which horses were winning the majority of races? Even as a child, I assumed that there must be some requisite science involved. It never actually occurred to me that the odds were irretrievably stacked against me; that it was the operator – and not the mechanism – I was actually grappling against.

And so I’d count out several quarters, hand them over to the operator. And then I would lose. Time and time and time again, I would lose. Sometimes I wouldn’t even comprehend that I had lost. I would simply stand there, looking on, as if assuming the nice man would get around to me.

The thing that I remember most – the thing that somehow stuck with me for years to come – was the look of disappointment on my mother’s face. She knew I only had a pocket full of quarters to my name. And, as such, she would constantly discourage me from squandering my money on such nonsense. I mean, my parents had very little, as well. They were struggling to put four kids through Catholic school. Over time, it had become a stretch for them to afford any type of vacation at all, even one via which they were only footing one-quarter of the whole bill. And so my mother, perhaps unable to contend with seeing her son come up so empty, would call the operator aside, pleading with the guy to “at least give him something.” The two would volley back and forth for several minutes, my mother insisting there must be something small beneath the counter the operator could allow me.

It was heart-wrenching, watching my mother plead on my behalf that way, if for no other reason than it demonstrated how much it hurt that woman to see any of her children being hustled. And yet, I was aware that there were probably a thousand other mothers on a thousand other nights, making a thousand other likewise pleas to a thousand other operators. This despite the fact most career carneys had long since given up on compassion. Compassion was the vestige of the weak, so far as lifelong carneys were concerned – an inexcusable chink in the armor that worked against their nightly percentage.

“He lost, lady,” these game operators would say, or “What do you think, I’m runnin’ a goddamn charity over here?” or, worst of all, some flat-out version of “Fuck you,” before walking away while my mother was still speaking.

Regardless, I still found myself completely fascinated. Come the end of those evenings, I would climb over the backseat into the rear hatch of our Aspen, staring blankly out the window as we headed back through Rio Grande, soaking in those sparkling party lights until they disappeared beyond the Grassy Channel.

***

The boardwalk carneys – they were an ignorant lot, driven by some awkward notion that the world at large had done them wrong. Having worked amongst their ranks for three summers, I knew the majority of these scoundrels took great pride in sticking it to the public, especially those customers whose station in life was considerably more desirable. Career carneys experienced the same perverse rush from bilking unsuspecting customers that a finance banker might experience from signing off on a subprime mortgage. So far as either party was concerned, two wrongs invariably made a right. The eternal shame of it being the longer either one of them had been at it, the more easily that bitter taste gave way to hunger.

One night during the last week of July, 1994, at a point in the season when every day bleeds almost seamlessly into the next, I wandered down to Fisher’s Restaurant to grab a slice of pizza on my break. It was late, well past 11 pm, and the lion’s share of tourist traffic north of 25^th Street had given way to dust and fog. It was during these hours, hours when the crowds ran thin and the lights hung low, that the majority of boardwalk arguments would ensue. A lot of late-night tourists were drunk, after all, and a certain percentage of the boardwalk employees were as well.

On that particular night, Lucky Lou happened to be one of those employees.

Lucky Lou was a veteran bushel basket owner who’d been working on the circuit for two decades. Lou spent the majority of his winters hustling fairgrounds, barnstorming every festival from Oklahoma to East Memphis. The lion’s share of his brethren were lonely drifters of men, vagrants who had long since given up on healthy living or strict hygiene. Theirs was a lonely, campfire existence – an ongoing back-and-forth between straight liquor and infection, one staving off the other until the latter swallowed them completely.

Lucky Lou stood 6’2 with a gut like a kettle and a face like a walrus. He knew me from my first summer working on the boardwalk, and he’d approached me several times during the pair of summers since then, proposing a mutually beneficial arrangement via which I could short-sell him some of Bill, Jr.’s stock – the unspoken assumption being I would pocket any and all of the proceeds.

It was a slippery slope, agreeing to do double deals with a career carney like Lou, which is precisely why I turned him down. And yet, I never held the effrontery against him. Lou was a business owner, after all – one with extremely limited resources. Analytically speaking, if he was willing to pay cash money to some low-level employee who had no problem with two-timing his own boss, which party should really be held more accountable?

Lou was standing high atop the west side ramp at 24^th Street on that evening, looking on as a Class II Officer interrogated some short Italian kid by the railing. I couldn’t make out one word that the Italian kid was saying, but I did notice he kept referencing a three-foot wooly mammoth underneath his arm. As I approached from the north, Lucky Lou sauntered over, reaching clear across the Class II Officer’s shoulder in order to cold-cock that young kid. The sudden impact forced that kid back on his heels, and he continued reeling for several seconds, trying desperately to gain his balance.

It was stunning … absolutely stunning. Even more stunning was the aftermath, during which that short Italian kid set his frame against a nearby wall, gathering his wits as the Class II Officer instructed him to exit the boardwalk immediately. Lucky Lou, on the other hand, had already made off for his outlet, having snatched that wooly mammoth in the fracas. He tossed the reclaimed plush inside his stand, then stood stoically behind the counter. He was drinking from an open container, daring anyone to challenge his judgment.

Day 538

(Moving On is a regular feature on IFB)

©Copyright Bob Hill

Last month, the Howard Greenberg Gallery debuted “1963” – a group exhibition of black and white photos which chronicled everything from Bob Dylan and The Beatles to the assassination of President Kennedy. As of today, the gallery adds a month-long solo show entitled “Time of Change: Civil Rights Photographs”. This series of black and white prints – all of which were taken between 1961 and 1965 – captures the essence of racial intolerance and social upheaval in this country. Certain images are sure to stick with you, specifically because of their accompanying messages – “Damn the Defiant,” “Don’t Cry When They Lynch Me,” and “Whites Only,” chief among them. All told, Bruce Davidson’s solo collection provides the perfect compliment to more than a dozen signature photos already on display. The combination is a must-see for any ardent student of the fight for civil liberties.

(Time of Change by Bruce Davidson runs through July 6th @ Howard Greenberg Gallery, Free, 41 East 57th Street, Suite 1406) 

Five More For The Offing: 

• Mobile Uploads by Chrisa Biddy @ Lyons Weir Gallery (Free, through 7/6, 542 West 24th Street)
• The Civil War and American Art @ The Metropolitan Museum of Art (Free with suggested donation, through 9/2, 5th Avenue & 82nd Street)
  
• States by Alexi Worth @ DC Moore Gallery (Free, through 6/15, 535 West 22nd Street)
• Restless II featuring various artists @ Cavin-Morris Gallery (Free, through 6/29, 201 11th Avenue, Suite 201)
• Truck Baby featuring various artists @ Rachel Uffner Gallery (Free, 47 Orchard Street, 6/7-7/21)

It never works.

It never ever ever ever ever works.

The End

(Joss Whedon’s Much Ado About Nothing opens in limited release this Friday, June 7th.) Continue reading →

“Disneyland is something that will never be finished. Something that I can keep developing, keep plussing and adding to. It’s alive. It will be a live, breathing thing that will need to change. A picture is a thing. Once you wrap it up and turn it over to Technicolor you’re through. Snow White is a dead issue with me. A live picture I just finished – the one I wrapped a few weeks ago – it’s gone. I can’t touch it. There are things in it I don’t like. I can’t do anything about it. I wanted something alive, something that could grow; something that I could keep plussing with ideas. The park is that. Not only can I add things, but the trees will keep growing. The things will get more beautiful each year, whereas when a picture’s finished and I put it out and I find out what the public doesn’t like, I can’t change it. It’s finished. But I can change the park,
because it’s alive. That is why I wanted a park.”

FREE PUSSY RIOT!

Go ahead, say it. As a matter of fact, scream it. Just let that shit roll off your tongue. Do it because it’s fun and funny; because it’s vulgar and edgy, because it’s off-putting and it’s awesome. Do it because it’s sociopolitically relevant; because it speaks to the very heart of separating one’s church and state. Do it because it is indicative of the mass hypocrisy that ensues when party politics give way to Putinism. Do it because Putinism is really nothing more than a bolshevik term for Hooliganism. Do it because Hooliganism is the primary offense that three members of the punk group Pussy Riot were charged with. Do it because Hooliganism – defined as unruly and destructive behavior, usually perpetrated by gangs of young people – is really nothing more than a catch-all term that dates back to 19th Century London. Do it because – in this instance – Hooliganism was a term used to categorize the peaceful actions of a minor faction of staunch feminists, a handful of whom rushed the altar inside a capitol Cathedral. Do it because these rabble rousers were actually standing on the altar for a little under one minute. Do it because they were each originally sentenced to more than two full years in prison. Do it because they dressed up in brightly-colored balaclavas and sang a silly punk song about the wacked-out, crazy Jesus people. Do it because we all remember what the religious right did immediately after Jesus went kablooey in the marketplace. Do it because one man’s altar is another man’s performance space. Do it because the media turned this into an international incident. Do it because Pussy Riot has become a cause celebrity; because Madoonna and Paul McCartney and Lady Gaga and Yoko Ono have all offered their support. Do it because there’s a significant difference between a mortal sin and a minor crime. Do it because it’s time to compensate for all the witches that were burned in Salem. Do it because progress only occurs once people tip their sacred cows. Do it because provocation is at the heart of every protest. Do it because God has yet to offer a single thought on the whole incident. Do it because the dust has long since settled; because two members of that feminist group are still left languishing in prison. Do it because it is altogether right and proper and fitting. Do it because the punishment has long since overshadowed the crime.

FREE PUSSY RIOT!

And watch this documentary while you’re at it. It does a pretty effective job of covering all the bases.

(Pussy Riot: A Punk Prayer premieres Monday, June 10th on HBO.)

Continue reading →

“Ideas are very frustrating because they don’t exist, y’know. It’s like in comic books, when you see the thought bubbles around people, it’s in smoke that evaporates. Ideas evaporate. So the [area] where I feel very blessed is that I’ve had an opportunity with some of my ideas to be able to execute them. The 12 years I spent on Blue Valentine, I was just going crazy because I had these thoughts that were just smoke. They weren’t there. They didn’t exist. There’s nothing in an idea. It’s in execution. It’s in doing. It’s in making. So to me, it’s all about making.”

Gluttony is a sin, and a deadly one, at that. It’s never been on more embarrassing display than in the upper echelon of 21st Century America. While this collection of oil on canvas paintings is billed as a semi-autobiographical homage to consumption, it hints at something much deeper (and more dangerous) – namely, the long-term impact ongoing selfishness might have on future generations. Artist Nicole McCormick Santiago has tapped into something here, lighthearted but visceral; wholly indicative of how easily people shirk their responsibilities in the face of self-indulgence. On top of which, this exhibition includes pictures of cupcakes and glitter and soda and candy, and who on earth doesn’t like those?

(The Sweet Life by Nicole McCormick Santiago runs through June 15th at the First Street Gallery, Free, 526 West 26th Street, Suite 209) 

Five More For The Offing: 

• The Lovers by James Gortner @ Lyons Wier Gallery (Free, through June 1st, 542 West 24th Street)
• Equilibrium by Christopher Evans @ Fischbach Gallery (Free, through 6/28, 210 11th Avenue, Suite 801)
• One Hundred and Forty Characters featuring various artists @ Feldman Gallery (Free, 6/1 through 8/2, 31 Mercer Street)
• Unique featuring various artists @ Von Lintel Gallery (Free, 6/1 through 7/12, 520 West 23rd Street)
• Summer Sights featuring various artists @ Bernarducci Meisel Gallery (Free, 6/6 through 7/19, 37 West 57th Street, 3rd Floor)

I am reminded of the late great film Director John Hughes, who was once quoted as saying, “The first objective is to make a good movie. The second objective is to have a hit. If you get it backward, you probably won’t get either.”

I am reminded of After Earth co-writer Will Smith, who revealed in a 2009 60 Minutes interview that – early on in his career – he and his agent got together and researched the top 10 highest grossing motion pictures of all-time. The majority of Smith’s early film choices were a reflection of common elements from those 10 motion pictures.

I am reminded of Director M. Night Shyamalan, who has either given up on the idea of admirable storytelling altogether or is suffering from the mistaken belief that – much like Alfred Hitchhock – his biggest flops will not be fully appreciated until several decades after he’s gone.

Finally, I am reminded of this, and then this. And then nothing.

After Earth.

(After Earth opens in theaters nationwide tomorrow.)

Continue reading →

Click through for full-size gallery.   Continue reading →