Upon entering my first semester of college, I was invited with the rest of the freshmen art students to the senior art student’s exhibit. It is a great way to inspire well adjusted freshmen as to what they will soon be capable of. When I entered the gallery with the other students, I took a look around at all the incredible artwork on display in the gallery and thought, “What’s the use?” The enormity of ever being able to accomplish what they had done was too much for me to bear. So I left and joined the Military.  I figured this act of patriotism would mask my cowardice. During my five years of active duty I learned a valuable tool for success; a silly little slogan, “inch by inch, life is a cinch, by the yard it’s hard.”  Discharged from active duty and armed with this slogan I had the courage to pick up where I had left off and re-apply to an Art School.

After being accepted to an Art School, this slogan became a regular mantra of mine. Everyday when I felt like giving up because the goal seemed too incredible to reach, I would remind myself of this simple truth, “inch by inch, life’s a cinch, by the yard it’s hard.” It calmed me down.  It deactivated my self-imposed pressure.  I could focus simply on what I was doing at that moment and nothing more. This prevented me from getting caught up in the overwhelming thoughts of where I should be and everything I needed to do to get there. I began to just enjoy finishing each assignment, one by one, inch by inch.

It did not take long for this method to start paying off. I began receiving scholarships and awards for my work. And while still a student, I was invited to become an honorary member of the NJ Art Directors Club. At the Club’s reception, one of the members, who was also a college professor, asked if I would be available to speak to her students on the secret to my success. I was flattered and without hesitation said, “Of course!” When she told me where she taught I was blown away.  She was a Professor of Art at the very school I had left defeated by my own outlook years before. How ironic, I left that school overwhelmed by the burden of my own doubts and I got to return as an inspiration. I brought hope to a new generation of art students sharing the secret of my success; a silly little slogan that when applied brings so much more than expected. Inch by inch, life really is a cinch and a lot more fun too.

(click on image to enlarge)

It was so incredible that I saved one of the posters that hung in the Student Center.

Recently, “MeltDown,” a trendy restaurant closed it’s doors.  They were known for their gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches.  MeltDown was walking distance from our home located right next door to my favorite Starbucks in downtown Culver City.  Lori and I loved their motto, “It’s OK to have a MeltDown!”  Not because of the double entendre but because it helped us justify eating a delicious gourmet grilled cheese sandwich, without too much guilt.

I was sad to see them close their doors.  While the contractors were doing the demo I asked them what was in store for the old “MeltDown” sign.  They already began to tear down most of it but the large letters spelling out “MeltDown” still remained.  The foreman, Todd, said that it was going to be trashed with the rest of the old fixtures.  Since that was the case, I asked if it be alright for me to have the sign once they got it down.  He said, “Sure.”

A few days later Todd’s right hand man, Lester, had the letters safely put aside for me.  I asked him what I owed him and surprisingly he said, “Nothing, we were taking ‘em down anyway.”  I loaded the letters in my car, zipped over to the ATM and returned to hand Lester forty-bucks.  He tried to deny my offer so I explained giving him the forty-bucks would make me feel better.  “At least take it to buy the guys some beer after work.” I said.  He smiled thanked me and took the money.

I went home excited about my new unique purchase.  The “MeltDown” font in orange and yellow had a retro mid-century era feel that would work perfectly in our home.  So that’s where it went, on the wall over our couch between two windows in our living room.  Lori loves it and so do I.  What did you do with your extra hour today?

Imposing isn't it?

I dreaded our forth grade assembly.  All the kids scampered around the classroom asking each other, “Is your mommy coming?” and without waiting for a response, they’d finish with; “MY mommy’s coming!”  Over and over, the same thing would bounce out of every kid’s mouth but mine.  I answered by nodding yes and then I immediately prayed, “Sweet Jesus, please don’t let my mommy come to the assembly.”

At School 9 the assemblies were held in the auditorium.  It was really an indoor basketball court with a stage where folding chairs were set up for the audience.  The students from all the other grades attended and the parents of the students performing were all invited.  But because the assemblies were held during the day usually only mommies showed up.

The performance began as planned.  Through out the performance I was tormented by the idea that at any moment my mother would show up while I was on stage.  It wasn’t until we were half way through that I began to feel relief, thinking; maybe my mom’s not going to make it after all!

Everyone in the class was at the assembly.

Then a loud “Ka-Chun-Ka!” came from back of the auditorium.  It was the loud sound of those, “Ka-Chun-Ka” bars, the long brass bar handles on the doors to the auditorium that you have to press down hard to open, and when you do they make a loud, “Ka-Chun-Ka!”

The doors flew open and the entire audience turned around toward the back of the auditorium.  Silence.  Everything stopped.  It felt like I was dreaming while standing in shock.

There she was, my mommy, standing slightly off balance in the doorway with her frosted hair all banged up, a purse dangling off her arm, wearing a tight sweater, Capri pants and heels.  Oblivious to the fact that the entire audience was twisted around in their seats and staring at her, she pointed at the stage and proudly shouted, “My baby!”  This shattered the silence and I was instantly very conscious of myself.

Oh my god, it's my mom.

All at once everyone swung back around in their seats curious to see who her “baby” was.  Frozen on stage, I convinced myself, as my face heated up like the coils on a toaster oven and turned just as red, that maybe they’d think it’s one of the other kids; after all, there are four of us up here.

That’s when she shouted, “Daaaaar-rell!”  I just wanted to fall on my cardboard sword and end it all.

Walking home from school, humiliated, I couldn’t imagine anything worse, until I heard Brazil 66 blasting from the open windows and front door of our house.  When I stepped inside my mom grabbed my hand, pulled me into the living room began dancing with me, with a drink one hand and holding mine with the other, “Come on Darrell, dance with mommy.”

Let's dance, Darrell!

Seeing your mother drunk is one thing, but being forced to dance with your drunken mother is discomfort like no other.  Even though no one was there to witness this, except for my younger brother, Eric, (who pretended to be a cat so he wouldn’t have to dance with her), I felt even more embarrassed and uncomfortable than I did on stage just moments before.

Oh no, not another record!

At five o’clock everything changed.  My dad walked in and she made a beeline for the kitchen.  The crash of the silverware drawer hitting the floor and my father shouting, “Billie, will you put down the knife!” was routine.  I knew she didn’t really intend to stab my dad; she just wanted to get his attention.

But apparently, this time she really wanted to teach him a lesson.  So she stripped down naked, threw down the knife and ran out the back door.  “God damn it!  Darrell, Eric get out here!” my father shouting, “Your mother just ran out of the house, naked!”

When my father caught a glimpse of me his impatience was apparent; “What the hell are you doing putting shoes on for?  Your mother’s not wearing any!  Come on we’re losing her, we got to go get her!”

She's outside naked?

So there I was with my little brother chasing our naked mother through the neighborhood and it wasn’t easy keeping up with her, she was jumping hedges like a wild gazelle!  The neighbor’s porch lights started popping on like flash bulbs on cameras.  It wasn’t until we were half way down the block that we got her cornered.  Unfortunately, on Rhonda Mangels’ front yard.  I had a crush on Rhonda, so all opportunity there was just smothered.  Oh, and all my friends who lived in the neighborhood and walked to school with us were now coming outside to witness the commotion.

It wasn’t long after this episode that my parents divorced and our mom moved out.  I thought having her out of our lives would change how inadequate I felt.  It didn’t.  I still felt like a turd compared to all the other kids on the School 9 playground.  I knew I needed something special to transform myself from what I believed everyone thought of me, into someone they would admire.

That day came when I discovered where my dad hid his card playing money.  I knew with money I could impress the other kids.  I had a plan, if I only took the change, and not the bills, my father would never notice.

Nothing a roll of quarters won't fix.

Our dad worked during the day, so each day I came home for lunch; I’d steal a roll of quarters.  This was 1972 when a roll of quarters was worth, like…what, eight grand?  So, I was able to buy massive bags of Starburst fruit chews.  I didn’t even like Starburst fruit chews, but the cool kids like Wayne Giambatista did.  Then as soon as I’d arrive at the playground all the kids would crowd around me and I’d throw out Starburst fruit chews to the group like herring to hungry sea lions.  The kids went wild for these fruit chews.  It was incredible, I felt like a Rock Star with groping fans.  I had arrived, I was becoming famous.

This went on for weeks seemingly unnoticed until the owner of Carousel, the local candy shop, asked me where I was getting all the loot.  I told him it was from allowance and shining shoes.  This lie made me feel uncomfortable but not enough to stop.

Then one day skipping home for lunch to snatch another roll of quarters I noticed my dad’s car in the driveway.  Because of his job he was never home at lunchtime.  I panicked; “He knows!”  There was no way out, if I don’t show up for lunch it would confirm my guilt and if I do, I faced severe punishment and death.  I decided, since running away wasn’t an option for a cowardly ten year old, that I’d take my chances with trying to explain or deny it.  I continued toward our house working out the most plausible lie, or excuse, if the evidence he had was too great to surmount.

This is it, I'm finished.

Before I got up the front steps my dad swung open the screen door and looking down at me he began; “Darrell I want to talk to you.  Someone’s been taking rolls of quarters from my card money…” Bracing myself as he continued, he asked; “Have you seen your mother around here, lately?”

I stood in shock and slowly nodded, “yes.”

Only ten years old and I threw my mother under the bus.

Whew, that was close.

The years following this incident flew by without our mother around.  Her leaving us became my great excuse, for all sorts of irresponsibility and bad behavior, especially when I got caught.  When I was eighteen our father died and without a rudder and no direction I was lost.  Full of self-pity, I was quick to blame it all on my mother’s leaving us.

I was heading towards disaster and it wasn’t until I was nearly twenty-four years old that I finally hit a wall.  I could no longer lower my standards as fast as my behavior.  It took a military Court Martial for me to realize that my problems were of my own making, no one else was to blame.  The only alternatives left were that I could either change or die.  Thank God for the U.S. Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant who made that clear.

I spent my life screwing up, finally, I was growing up.

It was during this time, motivated to change, that I reached out to renew a relationship with my mother, it had been many years since I had been in touch with her.  When I contacted her she was very happy to hear from me, but because she left when I was so young, the best way to describe how I felt would be, ambivalence.  Over the years I continued to keep in touch with her, with letters, postcards, and phone calls telling her I loved her, but mostly because I felt I ought to.

A picture I took of my mom on one of her visits with us after she had moved out.

Then about seven years ago, out of nowhere, guilt over stealing those damn quarters began to resurface.  Should I say something to my mother, admit what I did and apologize?  It went back and forth in my mind, from “I should apologize to her for that.” to,  “Why should I bring that up?  It wasn’t a big deal.  I was only a kid.  It happened so long ago, besides, she left us.  She’s lucky I’m talking to her at all.”  But every time I thought of my mother I’d remember the quarters and wrestle with why I should or should not apologize.  It’s true; avoidance is a full time job.

So, I threw in the towel, asked God for the courage and called her.  The conversation went like this:

“Mom, remember when I was little and you got blamed for stealing the quarters from daddy’s card playing money?  I lied to daddy; I was stealing them and blamed you.  I feel really bad about doing that.  I’m sorry.”

She responded kindly, “Isn’t it funny the silly things we do when we are young?” and then after a pause, her voice quivered,  “Darrell, I don’t want to go to my grave with you and Eric thinking that I didn’t love you both.”  She began to cry as she continued,  “The hardest thing I ever did was to leave you boys, and it kills me to think how much I loved you both and that you both probably think I didn’t.”

A warm feeling grew in my chest; wonderful moments began to bubble up to the surface of my heart.  Memories of my mom teaching me how to tie my shoes, how she’d never get frustrated and praised me continuously for the slightest improvement.  I remembered her teaching me how to color in the lines of the coloring book and her secret on how to apply more pressure to the crayon making a dark outline around the image, this seemed magnificent to me.  Then came the clear recollection that she always told me how special I was and all the amazing things I would do when I grew up.  The overwhelming desire to hug her led me to say.  “We know you loved us.  I love you, Mommy.”  It was true I felt it.

She really was special to me after all.

Funny, how this all came about by admitting my faults, rather than demanding she acknowledge hers.  Did my mom really set out to humiliate me by pointing me out at the assembly or wanting me to dance with her?  No, I can believe she was just trying to include me in moments when she was temporarily free from her anxieties and feeling good.  In any case, if it weren’t for my mom being exactly the way she was, I would have missed out on the wonderful life I have today.

So, thank you mom.  And to all the other moms out there, good luck, have fun and regardless of any mistakes you make along the way, eventually your kids will realize how fortunate they have been to have a mom exactly like you.

All the proof I need. I had the perfect mom.

Now for those who have attended School No. 9, feel free to sing along.

“Nine will shine tonight, Nine will shine.

She’ll shine in beauty bright, all down the line.

Won’t we look neat tonight, dressed up so fine.

When the sun goes down and the moon goes up, Nine will shine!

All of the students, they are so fine.  They are the pride of School Number Nine.

They will always try to work at their best.

And we always know that Nine will go, ‘Way above the rest!”

-Sung at assemblies at School No. 9 located in the Allwood section of Clifton, NJ.

The active ingredient

Several years ago I received a letter congratulating me on a short video documentary I produced about the doorman at the Four Seasons Hotel, NYC.  It was from the Hollywood Director Joel Schumacher and, in a friendly way, he said, “you are an excellent Director.”

Somehow this letter activated delusions of grandeur.  I decided to leave New York, abandon my art career and move to Los Angeles.  “Hollywood here I come!”

It made perfect sense.

My girlfriend, Lori, now my wife, was an actress so it was easy to convince her that this move would be great for the both of us.  Within a few weeks we were landing in Los Angeles.

Spotting celebrities and driving by famous locations seen on television, was exciting!  Soon we began to suspect familiar looking strangers were celebrities, whispering to each other, “I think that’s someone famous.”  But our excitement diminished as our credit card balances grew.

My focus soon shifted from making it in the movies to just making it, period.  What the hell was I thinking?  Moving to L.A. was beginning to look like a tragic mistake.  To ease my worry I figured out, if worse came to worse, we could survive if I found a job that netted just ten dollars an hour.  So, I took immediate action, filling out two applications a day, the only requirement I had for any job was; it paid ten dollars an hour.  As I set out each day I repeated an affirmation I read in the book, “The Game of Life and How to Play it,” by Florence Scovel Shinn; “I have a wonderful job in a wonderful way, I give wonderful service for wonderful pay.”

This would squelch my panic and renew my faith that I would have the right job, at the right time, in the right way, if I just stayed the course.  It also helped me accept the fact that even if moving to L.A. was a blunder, nothing happens by mistake, and a wonderful opportunity, if only for growth, would present itself.  To be honest, I was still hoping for something better than just growth.

Then, out of nowhere, a neighbor familiar with my situation came with good news.   He said his mother was having a difficult time finding an artist for a job she had available and since I was an artist and needed a job, I might be interested.  My enthusiasm rose, see, “nothing happens by mistake,” I told myself.  Maybe I was lead to Los Angeles, not to work in the movies, but to kick-start my art career!  I was very excited about this new possibility.

He seemed glad that I was eager and went on to explain what the job would be. He said, his mother needed someone with some artistic ability to paint neon bulbs.  What do you mean, paint neon bulbs?  He explained that the job was to dip glass neon bulbs into paint and then hang them to dry.  What the…?  You mean like on an assembly line?

I heard the voice inside my head say, “You exhibited with Andy Warhol in New York and now you’re gonna work in an L.A. sweatshop?  How pathetic.”

But humility, born out of desperation, coerced me to ask, “How much?”

“Ten bucks and hour,” he replied.

The next day I was alone wearing protective gloves and a mask in an abandoned airplane hangar dipping delicate glass neon bulbs in paint and carefully hanging them on fishing line to dry.  Nothing could be further from my dream to be in movies or an Art Star.

A wonderful job...?

But I accepted it and surrendered to the fact that this was meeting our needs.  I decided to swim with the current and continued with my silly little rhyme as I dipped each bulb and hung it to dry; “I have a wonderful job in a wonderful way, I give wonderful service for wonderful pay!”

Soon I began to look forward to my days dipping the neon bulbs in paint.  It became a pleasant form of meditation.  I started to take pride in my daily output, striving to keep up with the load of unpainted neon bulbs that would be delivered by my neighbor’s mom each day.  Her name was Barbara Ryan and she always came delivering the bulbs with a smile and complimented me often, telling me how happy she was that I was willing to take the job.

One bulb at a time.

After a couple of months, I had completed about a thousand bulbs when, Barbara, came to inform me that, that was it.  I was done painting neon bulbs; my job was finished.  For a moment I thought, “Now what will I do?”  Believe it or not I really began to enjoy this humble labor.  Then she asked, “Can you stay on and work on the set installing them?”  Did she just say, “…on the set?”

Barbara explained that all the neon bulbs were for a miniature recreation of the Las Vegas strip to be used in a movie.  She also went on to explain that her boss Larry Albright, was a Hollywood legend.  Larry Albright, that funny old man who looked like Einstein?  I had no idea.  He just seemed like a regular guy.  She filled me in on how he was responsible for many award-winning lighting effects, including those seen in Close Encounters, Star Wars and even Michael Jackson’s illuminated shirt and sidewalk in the music video for “Billy Jean.”

The next day I was on the set, a small airfield in Simi Valley, where a crew was working on the miniature Las Vegas strip.  I was shown a 1/15th scale replica of the Las Vegas Hard Rock Hotel sign still under construction.  It was my responsibility to install all the neon and illuminate the sign under Larry Albright’s specifications.

1/15th scale is bigger than imagined.

The movie was titled, “Con Air” and all I knew about it at that time was, we were creating the miniatures for a stunt where a large model C-123 Provider plane – nicknamed the ‘Jailbird’ – would smash through the Hard Rock Hotel sign just before crash landing on the recreated Las Vegas strip.  I was amazed at how real the models looked.  This was even better than I imagined it would be.  I reflected back to memories of my childhood fascination watching the behind the scenes making of “Star Wars” on TV.

The scene behind the scenes.

Each day was spent carefully adhering and wiring the delicate neon bulbs on the sign and all the while enthusiastically reminding myself, “I have a wonderful job in a wonderful way, I give wonderful service for wonderful pay.”  In two months the sign was completed.

Inch by inch.

When we lit up the sign for the first time the aroma of a fresh clean spring day started to fill the room.  Apparently the power packs were emitting some sort of gas.  Even though I enjoyed the fragrance, I had a hunch this may not be good to inhale.  So, I decided to inform the Art Director, Mike Stuart, and ask him if he knew if the fumes were lethal.

It took a team to achieve the dream.

“You would know better than me, you’re the electrical engineer.” He responded.  “What?”  I went on to explain that, “I’m no electrical engineer, I got hired off the street to paint neon bulbs in a shed for ten bucks and hour.”

Some final adjustments.

“Yeah, right Fusaro.”  Mike responded and he continued, “In any case, I was hoping you would be able to stay on and supervise the stunt.”  Supervise the stunt?

Now that the sign was completed, Larry Albright’s contract was over, so I’d be jobless if I didn’t accept his offer.  Once again it was intuitively obvious, “Of course I could stay on.”  Within ten minutes I was signing contracts with Disney as a ‘Special Effects Stunt Supervisor.’

Aligning the "Jailbird" for the shot.

For the final weeks before and up until the actual filming of the stunt, I was on hand during the rehearsals to insure the sign would operate according to plan.

Heroic shot appeared in Cinefex Magazine

When the day finally came to film the stunt, every crewmember and subcontractor that had contributed to the stunt, including Larry Albright and Barbara, came to watch.  At the moment the director shouted, “Action,” the model C-123 “Jailbird” suspended by cables high above the airfield was released smoking with engine fire FX.  It flew perfectly, heading directly into the illuminated Hard Rock Hotel sign.  Immediately upon contact the sign exploded into flames as six high-speed cameras caught the action.  When, “Cut!” was shouted the applause and cheers were spontaneous.

Successfully destroyed.

Six months later sitting in a theater with Lori waiting to see “Con Air,” I realized what an incredible experience this had been and how fortunate I was. I went from painting neon bulbs in an old airplane hangar to Stunt Supervisor on a major motion picture in less than six months.  If I snubbed that ten-dollar an hour job I would have missed out on an unbelievable adventure.  This is one of those indelible incidents forever reminding me that if I ever feel that a job seems to be beneath me, it may very well be God presenting me with an opportunity that is far above me.

A wonderful adventure in a wonderful way

All this for only $7.99!

Some people have saints on their dashboards to protect themselves while driving.  I find having a Bob’s Big Boy on the dash much more effective.   At first, I thought the Big Boy on my dash contributed to my cool image, (and every once in a while I get a compliment by a fan of the ol’ Big Boy), but it has actually had the opposite effect; its increased my humility.  Someone, way more adept at living than I, once said, “humility is the best defense against humiliation.”  And how!

Now my fear of looking pathetic, giving someone the finger, red faced and bug eyed, as I speed pass them, with my middle-aged balding head, in my PT Cruiser with a Bob’s Big Boy on the dash, coerces me to be way more tolerant, patient and considerate.

With Bob’s Big Boy looking at me, his silly little grin, holding a hamburger up in his hand, I resist the urge to act out and within minutes I am always grateful that I had.  Especially, if I notice the other driver I was about to stick it to, is actually cooler, or rather, tougher than I.  I can usually tell by the bandanna, tank top and tattoo.  Whew, that was a close one.  Thank you Big Boy.

The irony is, although this was forced humility at first, this new attitude has paid off.  It seems I get to wherever I am going with less stress, more joy and most important, no regrets.

P.S. Bob’s Big Boy is still standing there on my dash with his coy little grin seeming to say, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

If you are interested in purchasing your “Big Boy System for Success” now, copy this link and paste in your browser;  http://bobs.net/Merchant2/merchant.mvc?Screen=PROD&Store_Code=BBB&Product_Code=M02

Of course he got the girl, look at his car

One Saturday morning when I was about 10 years old a couple of the neighbor kids, Johnny Pelkowski and Eddie Buccafogli, rolled into our cul de sac with a brand new go-cart. It was magnificent, the kind that you roll down a hill in. Johnny sat inside and, after Eddie gave him a push, he drove down the hill using the steering wheel like a real car!  I asked them where they got it and they said that their fathers’ bought it from Sears and built it for them. They also made it clear that it was theirs and no one else could ride in it.

Why weren’t we, my little brother Eric, the other neighborhood kid, Charlie Hofker, our cousin, Lil’ Tommy, or me, included?

Anyway, I ran inside and my dad was seated at the dining room table but all I could see of him were his hands, one with a lit cigar between his fingers, and both holding up the newspaper in front of his face.  I asked him,  “Dad, did you see the go-cart Mr. Pelkowski and Mr. Buccafogli made for Johnny and Eddie?  They got it from Sears.”   “That’s nice,” my father responded from behind the paper. “That’s nice,” meant he knew exactly where I was going and it clearly implied, “Don’t bother asking for one.”  I didn’t have the courage to press further.  But a miracle happened.

They got it at Sears!

As I walked out the door it occurred to me that we could make our own go-cart.  It would be easy; the “Little Rascals” did it.

I watched the “Little Rascals” every morning before school.  They were my inspiration.  Here were a bunch of misfit kids who seemed to be on their own; like Eric, Lil’ Tommy, Charlie Hofker and me.  I really believed we could do anything they could do.

It was the episode titled, “Hey Neighbor!” that made building our own go-cart seem so easy to me.  In this episode a rich kid moves into the neighborhood with a brand new fire engine go-cart. He snubs the Little Rascals and rides off with the neighborhood sweetheart.  Determined to win her back the Little Rascal’s set out to build their own go-cart with whatever they can scavenge from the neighborhood and in the end, through a series of mishaps and dumb luck, they win a race and the girl.

We’ll show’em!  So we did exactly what the Little Rascals did.  Simple!  Like following a recipe.  Charlie and I scoured the dumpsters behind all the manufacturing plants in our town for all the junk that we thought could be used, including a big metal pulley gear that would be our steering wheel.

Inspiring isn't it?

We found everything, wood, metal, screws, hinges, brackets, nuts, bolts, and on the side of Route 3, a gallon can of bright orange paint used for road signs. We dragged everything back to our garage.  For wheels we were able to get some off a discarded baby carriage.  In the episode of the Little Rascals they used baby carriage wheels.  It worked great in the show but not for us, they were way too slow, we couldn’t even roll down hill.  It looked as if it was all for nothing, I should have known.

Disappointed about the wheels, I sat on our back porch and told the story to Joey Laurence’s feet while he worked under his car. Joey Laurence was overweight, a lot older and was always working on his car in his parent’s driveway.  When I finished telling how none of the wheels we got worked, he said, “I got a set of wheels.  Real Soap Box Derby wheels from when I was your age.” He squeezed out from under his car, “You want to check them out?”

I had no idea what a Soap Box Derby was but it sounded impressive.  I followed Joey up into his attic and there they were, a set of bright red metal wheels with thin black rubber treads and steel rod axles.  Then he spun a wheel and made a point to demonstrate how it will continue to spin indefinitely.  I was hypnotized thinking of how we must have these wheels.  Then he said, “You can have them for five dollars.”  Five dollars?  Where the hell was I going to get five dollars?  This was 1972 and I was only 10 years old, five dollars was a fortune.  I had no other choice, I forced up the nerve to ask my father for the five dollars.  “Five dollars for a set of wheels for a go-cart?  Tell him you’ll give him $2.50,” was my father’s response.

Ah, man, now I have to go back and tell Joey this?  Why couldn’t my dad just give me the five dollars?  There was no other option; we were sunk without those wheels.  Joey was back under his car when I offered $2.50, and his muffled response from underneath the car was firm, “five dollars or forget about it.”

The exact same wheels but not exactly our go-cart

There had to be a way to get five dollars, Mr. Hofker!  I had to find Hofker.  Once I got a hold of Hofker I brought him to Joey Laurence’s hoping the demonstration would help convince him to ask his father for the five dollars.  It did, and Mr. Hofker agreed to come with us to the Laurence’s.  He looked over the wheels and then he wanted to talk with me and Charlie outside.  He was very serious and explained that he would pay for the wheels under the condition that we… I still can’t remember what the condition was but whatever it was we agreed to it!  Mr. Hofker paid for the wheels and Hofker and I carried them right into my garage.

We attached the wheels with U-bolts, rolled up the garage door and Hofker, Lil’ Tommy and Eric, pushed me out in our very own go-cart.  Just like in the episode of the Little Rascals, it was time for our big finale with Eddie and Johnny in their store-bought-father-assembled go-cart.  We’d race them to the bottom of the hill.

Our cul de sac was at the top of a slight hill about twenty yards before a cross street, Woodridge Rd., and the entire length our street, Sussex Rd., was about a quarter of a mile long before the traffic signal at the busy intersection of Allwood Road and Main Street.  I was pushed up to the top of the cul de sac and positioned along side Johnny seated in their cart.  Our go-cart looked huge next to theirs.  The body made of discarded plywood painted bright orange looked more like a coffin with a point on the front and a ledge on the back than it did a go-cart.  We added the ledge so whoever gave the push could jump on and go for the ride too.

Eric and Hofker were standing at the cross street which was the finish line at the bottom of the hill.  They were there to signal us to start the race when the coast was clear of any on-coming cars.  Eddie was behind Johnny to give him the initial push off and Lil’ Tommy was behind me to do the same.  We settled on Lil’ Tommy to be the pusher, because he never feared getting injured doing something absurd.  This was important because we weren’t sure if the ledge on the back would be safe.

"Gentlemen start your engines"

Then came the signal from Eric and Hofker, the coast was clear.  Tommy pushed and jumped aboard.  Eddie pushed Johnny and let him go.  We rolled down the hill, passing Johnny and then past Eric and Hofker. We crossed the finish line first!  And we kept on going. “He’s slowing down and stopping.”  Tommy was giving me the blow by blow of what was going on behind us as he hung on the back. We were amazed we won and were quickly approaching Rhonda Mangel’s house, the half way marker to the traffic light.  Because of the grade of the street we were still picking up speed.  From that distance we could see the light and it was red. Johnny and the rest of the gang seemed miles behind us now.  It felt like what Joey Laurence said was true, that the wheels would continue to spin indefinitely.  We had a braking system, a wooden board that would drag against the ground when pulled up hard, just like I saw on the Little Rascal’s go-cart.  But just like theirs it wasn’t slowing us down and we were quickly approaching the light.  In the panic, Lil’ Tommy began trying to slow us down by dragging his feet, but the weight of the cart and our momentum was making it almost impossible to stop we began to slow down right before the intersection when we both heard the loud mechanical click from the big steel box on the corner.  We knew what that meant and Lil’ Tommy asked, “What should we do?”  “Go!” I shouted.  He lifted up his feet and the light turned green!  We rolled right on through the major downtown intersection.  Traffic was stopped at every corner.  Pedestrians froze in place and watched.  Lil’ Tommy and me were the happiest we had ever been.  I already knew right where we would be heading, since both Allwood Rd. and Market St. ran down hill at an even steeper decline than our street did I chose to turn down Merrill Rd.

Merrill Rd., which ran perpendicular to Market St. and remained level.  As we cruised through the intersection I turned the big metal pulley steering wheel just like a real car and we made the left between the Buster Brown Shoe Store and the corner Liquor Store, right down Merrill.  We made it!  The coasted for another fifty yards as Merrill Rd. leveled off and then we slowed to a stop.

Soon Eric and Hofker arrived on their bikes.  They were as enthusiastic as we were.  Asking questions a mile a minute.  “What happened?  What was it like?  We saw you keep going and when we lost sight of you we were worried what would happen at the light.”   Tommy and I pushed the cart back toward our house repeating the entire story back to them in every detail as they walked their bikes alongside us.  I was more alive that day than I could ever remember.  We did it just like the Little Rascals did.

My belief, that if the Little Rascals could do it so could we, was enough for the universe to conspire in our favor.

No easier way to say it

Ironically, today I live just a few blocks from where the Little Rascals series was filmed, Culver City, CA.  I had no idea, when we purchased our home, that my neighborhood was the world the Little Rascals lived in.  I discovered this fact on a jog where at the corner of National and Washington Blvd. there is a large tree and underneath a bronze marker indicating that here is where Hal Roach Studios once stood aka, “The Laugh Factory.”  Home of the Little Rascals.

The Perfect Match

Back in 1992 I was living in Little Falls, NJ attending art school.   When home, I would often set my easel up outside and paint.  One of my neighbors was a biker named Frank.  He liked my paintings and we would talk whenever we saw each other.
That summer he was going to have a party and invited me.  I was happy to be invited but I wouldn’t know anyone, they’re all bikers.  So I declined.  Besides I didn’t have any tattoos, since my mother had tattoos, the rebel in me resisted the urge.  Plus these were real bikers, not 40-year-old accountants who had a mid-life crisis, bought a pair of leather chaps, a Harley and pretended they were tough guys.  So I didn’t think I’d fit in.  Oh, and I almost forgot, I already had plans to meet up with a girl for a date that same day.

Well, the day of the party the girl I had a date with was missing in action and I couldn’t get in touch with her, so I took my easel outside and began to do another painting.

While I was painting two great looking girls, a blonde and a brunette, were walking around lost and I had a hunch they were probably looking for Frank’s party.  I yelled out to them, “Are you looking for the party?”  They responded, “Yes!”  So I pointed them in the right direction.

I immediately packed up my easel, threw everything into my place and headed to Frank’s party.  His apartment was packed with rough looking characters.  I noticed the hot blonde at the food table.  She was talking with a baldheaded biker who had a tattoo of a bullet going in one side of his head and another tattoo of his brains blasting out the other side. So, she was off limits.

Your friendly neighborhood bikers

Then I began to do what I learned to do in situations where I didn’t know many people and felt uncomfortable; I asked the host if he needed any help?  He did, so was able to keep busy.  I picked up empty bottles and empty plates as I introduced myself to the bikers and their girls.  Every time I passed the blonde or the brunette I would give a friendly wave, “hi.”  I was beginning to have a good time.  Well, except when I would catch a glimpse of myself in the big mirror Frank had hanging in the living room.

I made a bad judgment call a few days before the party and got one of those, long on top, one length, Michael Hutchence, the lead singer from INXS, haircuts.  But mine came out more like, Moe from the Three Stooges.  Most of the time, I was able to avoid looking at myself in the mirror and remain in denial, until one of Frank’s friends, “Joker,” who met me sometime before the haircut yelled out from across the room, “What the hell happened to you?  Why did you cut your hair like that, man?  It used to look good!”  Thanks, Joker.

Anyway, I was by the bar to see if the old guy mixing drinks needed anything when the gorgeous brunette made her way over and sparked up a conversation with me about art.  Apparently, I was the reason she was at the party.  Frank’s girlfriend was the brunette’s beautician and told her that I was a “famous” artist and would be at the party.  I wasn’t famous but was flattered.  Then she asked me if I frequented “the Met?”  I knew she meant the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC.  Of course I’ve been to the Met, “Yes.”  She immediately told me her favorite gallery at the Met was the, “Egyptian,” something or other, I can’t remember.  Then she went right into rambling off historical dates, periods, dynasties, and an entire history on Egyptian art.  I had no idea what the hell she was talking about, but I looked interested.  When she was all done she looked right at me and asked, “What’s your favorite gallery at the Met?”  Ought oh.

The Met

I immediately started thinking, she is smart and great looking, so, I better pretend I know what she is talking about and say I like some important gallery at the Met too.  Should I tell her I like the modern art gallery?  What if it’s not called that?  Maybe I should just pretend to love whatever she said; I’ll just repeat the stuff she said back to her.  But I really wasn’t paying close enough attention and could never repeat any of those hard to pronounce words she was saying.  So I finally gave in and blurted out, “My favorite room at the Met is the bookstore!”  She was silent and looked at me like she didn’t hear me correctly.

But, and this was surprising even to me, I didn’t care, It felt good, because it was true, I loved the bookstore!  I loved looking at all the books, souvenirs, interesting toys and gadgets.  It felt so great to just tell the truth that I continued to describe everything I enjoyed at the Met bookstore.  During my enthusiastic descriptions, the blonde had made her way over to join us and was listening too. Once I was finished, the blonde asked me, “Are you talking about the bookstore at the Met?”  Still feeling great, with a big smile on my face, I said, “Yeah!”

Then she smiled and said, “My uncle manages that bookstore.”

They even have a paper Dali

Can you believe it?  We started talking about what a coincidence that was, then more about the bookstore and her uncle.  She told me how she lived in New York City and her friend, the brunette, dragged her to the party because her friend didn’t want to go to it alone.  But the most significant thing she told me was, the guy with the bullet tattoo on his head was just someone who struck up a conversation with her at the food table, not her boyfriend.

That was seventeen years ago and the blonde and I have been together everyday since.  Seventeen years, even we’re amazed it’s been seventeen years.  I’ve been in relationships that were seventeen days that felt like seventeen years.  I still can’t believe how lucky I am, and extremely grateful, that I just told the truth.  If I lied to impress the brunette I would have been in the wrong relationship, and probably alone today.

It amazes me how a little lie to get what I thought would be good for me would have ruined my chance of getting what turned out to be perfect for me.

Everyday I wake up and see my beautiful little wife, Lori, I am reminded that honesty is the best and quickest way to get what is truly meant for me and motivates me to just be me, honestly.

It's nice having Lori in the picture

Wheel of Chance at Pt. Pleasant, NJ

Growing up in New Jersey,  Memorial Day was a big deal.  We were all taught what the day signified, but as a kid it really meant the beginning of the summer and the first weekend at the Jersey Shore.  It was well worth sitting in the traffic on the Garden State Parkway and listening to my father’s frustration as he smoked his cigar to get there.  Today what I enjoy remembering is the sound of the wheels on the boardwalk.  You know, the wheels that have numbers, symbols, and words like, Mom, Pop, Lucky, and Son, painted on them.  They were called “Wheels of Chance.”

You would place your quarter on a corresponding, word, number or symbol that was on a long counter and in front of you was a small little metal push button, once the button was depressed a giant pointer mounted to the center of the wheel would start spinning.  Then, when you felt the moment was right, you would depress the little button again to stop the motor and if the pointer landed on your word, number or symbol, you won!  If not, your quarter, along with all the others, was swept down to the end of the counter where they all fell through a slot and clanked as they landed in the container underneath.  It’s the sound of the pointer spinning and picking up speed that I miss.  A zwirling sound, made by the combination of the motor propelling it and the clicking of its little rubber tip as it brushed along the metal posts that lined the circumference of the wheel.  I love that sound!  Just thinking of that zwirling sound brings up good feelings of enthusiasm and anticipation.  Living in California, I miss that sound.

Recently, while on a trip back to New Jersey I brought along my video camera in order to capture that sound.  I was inspired to mix it with music when I got back to Los Angeles.  My wife came along to photograph the sights.  We went to Point Pleasant.  I chose Pt. Pleasant because it was the place where I spent the greatest summer of my childhood.  I was 14 and my father left me in the hands of his bachelor buddy Willie, who owned a couple of stands on the boardwalk, which included one with a “wheel.”   My dad would come down on weekends when he could.  I earned my keep working the stands and cleaning up the house for Willie and the rest of his buddies who would end up staying there during the summer.  Soon I was trusted to run the stands, mainly because Willie would rather have fun than worry about the business.  I admired him for that.  It was the first time in my life that I was truly on my own and responsible for adult things, it was as if these guys didn’t even notice I was only 14, I was treated like one of the gang.

Now I was excited to show it all to my wife and since she is a professional photographer I would finally have some pictures to remember the place by.

Pt. Pleasant boardwalk

Once we got to the boardwalk, I intentionally picked a stand no one else was playing and where the odds were stacked against me to get the audio I wanted.  There must have been over 1000 words, symbols and numbers on this wheel.  You see, the odds all depended on the size of the gift.  Some wheels only had four items on them, much better odds, but the gifts were much cheaper and the wheel didn’t spin as fast or for as long.  The stand I chose had tremendous odds because the gifts were top of the line battery propelled scooters.  But this day winning wasn’t a consideration, getting the loudest and longest audio recording that best represented what I recalled was.  I felt a little uncomfortable asking the kids running the stands to spin the wheel just so I could record the sound.  So I placed my video camera on the counter, put my money down to play, (now a dollar), pressed the record button on the camera and then the little metal button on the counter.  With my recorder going, the sound of the wheel zwirling around and around went perfectly; starting slowly, picking up speed, really spinning and then I depressed the button again and the wheel began to wind down slowly then to a stop.  What the?  It stopped on my symbol!  A blue club!  I couldn’t believe it, the girl at the stand wearing one of those headset microphones broadcast loudly through a PA system, “We have a winner, the first lucky winner of the day!”  Just like I used to do when someone would win, only without the PA system.

Right at that moment Lori showed up and I told her, “I won!”  Caught up in the excitement I looked over the prizes and asked her what should I get?  This seemed a little strange because I had no use for a motorized scooter.  So still excited I shifted gears and asked her who should we give one to?   We started going through the list of nephews and nieces, carefully considering who deserved such a tremendous gift, who didn’t, and why, along with concern of how the other nieces and nephews would feel if they weren’t chosen.

Pt. Pleasant boardwalk at Haven Beach

Meanwhile, a young boy, about 12 or 13 years old, walked up to the stand and began asking the girl operating it questions.  He was holding a dollar in his hand.  I could tell he was deciding whether or not to play.  He asked the classic, “Does anybody win?”   And unfortunately for him I was standing right there and the girl responded, “He just won.”  Then he asked me how many tries it took?  I told the truth, “That was my first try.”  This didn’t feel that great cause I knew where it was going.  He asked what I was going to pick and I let him know I wasn’t sure yet.

While I was answering his questions and he was telling me how if he won he would get the electric scooter because he had one but his mom ran over it, my wife was standing between us with her back to him and facing me.  She started “signaling” me, you know, like wives do when they want to tell you something extremely important and urgent but don’t want anyone else to know.  “Give it to him, give it to him,” she was whispering and signaling.  I was in that in-between state of talking with the boy while trying to make sense of her signals.  This is where it becomes obvious to everyone around that my wife is “signaling” me, and it usually makes her mad.  “Really?” I said to her out loud.  “Yes!” she said, like I was a bozo, which I can be more often than not, “who are we going to give it to?  He’ll love it.”  I got the message.

I asked the boy, “What one would you pick?”  “I’d get the black one.”  I turned to the girl working the stand and said, “Give him the black one.”  The boy was oblivious and was telling Lori the details on how his mom ran over his skateboard when the girl presented him with the brand new one in the box.  He was in shock.  He asked me why I didn’t want it and told me that I could have a lot of fun with it.  I said I was too old and he would have way more fun than me.  Then he offered me his dollar since that is how much I used to play.  I declined and the last thing he said was, “Thanks, wow!”

He walked away and as I watched him, Lori said, “you just made his summer.”  And that became the best summer I ever had at the shore as an adult thanks to an idea to record a memory, an unexpected stroke of luck, a young boy just starting out, and a nudge from a loving wife with way more insight than I.

With my wonderful wifey.

Fuzz with his Dad. James Fusaro, 1940-1981

When I was 17, my father, was in the hospital.  He had been raising my younger brother and myself on his own since I was 8 and my brother 4.  Now he was really sick with colon cancer, and although he was only 39-years-old, he looked like a frail old man.

I was always intimidated by my father and could never seem to do anything he would have considered admirable.  Trying to make up for this, I decided to visit my father in the hospital with John Paderewski.  John went to a Catholic High School, had great parents, was a straight arrow and my father respected him.  In addition to John, I also thought it would really impress my father to meet my new girlfriend, Holly.  She was tall, smart, beautiful, tan and blond.  I was convinced that by bringing them along on the visit, my father would be impressed with me.

On the way to the hospital, I was enthusiastic, gabbing a mile a minute with John and Holly.  Once at the hospital, I walked in my dad’s room followed by Holly and then, John.  I felt like a big shot.  My father looked us over and then turned to John and said; “John, what the fuck are you doing with this loser?  He’s like having a fucking anchor around your neck.  Do yourself a favor and cut him lose before he drags you to the bottom.”  Right after that, my father told me to get out of the room because he said, looking at me made him sick.   John spent a few minutes more in the room with my dad and then we left.

John was as kind as he could be, not saying anything on the ride home and I didn’t utter a peep as I drove.  We drove in silence, I couldn’t wait to drop them off.  I never called Holly again.

That was one of the last times I saw my father in the hospital before he died.  Years have gone by and I realize what a serious blunder I had made; I never for once considered that my father might have been embarrassed about the condition he was in, and that having unexpected guests, let alone strangers, sprung on him like that, was that last thing he would want, let alone expect from his oldest son.  Instead of trying to impress my father by bringing an entourage with me to the hospital, I believe he would have been really impressed with me, if I just showed up by myself and spent some time with him alone.

Today I hear John is still a straight arrow and has grown into the successful family man my father would have expected.  And I ran into Holly’s brother at a school reunion, he pulled me aside to tell me that Holly told him, that out of all the guys she knew, I was one of the ones she thought highly of.

I guess she saw in me what my father did and I couldn’t; that he loved me for who I was, not who I was with.  No wonder he was frustrated with me then.  But I know he isn’t now.