Pack Rat

While sorting through an old box of stuff in the basement, I came across heaps of mementos including a photo of my mom on a date in the 50s in a frame that says, "Souvenir of Moroccan Village: The Gayest Spot in the Village" and "Slumming in Greenwich Village." Inside that frame was also the front page of The AMBAssador 25th Anniversary Issue (October 1953) which I'm guessing was the internal newsletter for employees of Alexanders. My mom was apparently an Alexanderite (posh name for a salesperson?) and was pictured with four other women alongside an article that states, "Alexanderites strutting proudly down the aisles of our two Bronx stores and at White Plains recently had ample reason for thrusting out their chests and boasting a bit." You go girl!

Speaking of strutting themselves, I also unearthed a picture of my dad circa 1945 with a bunch of other guys in the Navy all dressed up like (I think) girls? They're lifting their skirts (yes, you read that right) to show their boxers but also are wearing hats, garter belts on their thighs, and scarves around their necks. I'm thinking that they may have fit in better at Moroccan Village than on the U.S.S. Richmond. What happens at sea stays at sea?

In the pile, I found a bunch of my old concert tickets including the Who, the Stones, Rush, Santana, the Dead, the Lounge Lizards, Elvis Costello, UB40, Joe Jackson, Janes Addiction, Simple Minds, the Call, Tom Petty, Cheap Trick, the Plasmatics and more.

And I found a receipt from Marine Midland Bank dated March 16, 1983 where I ran into the Thompson Twins at the ATM and they all signed my bank balance ($311.68)! I also have an REO Speedwagon ticket signed by Gary Richrath and Kevin Cronin. Ah yes, you can tune a piano but you can't tuna fish.

My least favorite ticket? The Cars. I'll never forget them singing, "Can I bring you out in the light?" and flooding the War Memorial with stadium lighting. Unbelievable buzzkill. Worst ending to a concert ever. Not just what I needed.

Lastly, I found a copy of Playbill magazine circa 1984 in which Aaron Sorkin (an SU grad with whom we used to stay on our weekend trips to the city) wrote, "It was great sex! Come live with us." Aaron S. For whatever reason, his S looks more like a backwards dollar sign. (Note to mom: We didn't really have sex. It was his roommate who hit on me at the time but I feigned death. It worked.) In any event, Aaron was convinced that he would be famous one day and I believed him. Back then he was a talented writer living in a walk-up in Hell's Kitchen; now he's a talented gazillionaire living presumably in some heavenly mansion in California. Maybe I'll take him up on his offer now?!