While online recently, I noted that a fellow member of an online group posted an image of a Comic-Con from 1975 that featured only those characters belonging to Marvel Entertainment. For legal reasons, I am unable to use the image as part of this article. However, I am free to provide this link to the image. Please take a look at it before reading further. Don’t worry, I’ll wait. 😉 Continue reading
I normally don’t post to this blog more than once a month, but I had to denote an incident that occurred on the night of March 4th. That night, around 9:15 PM here in New York City, we had an uninvited visitor. That’s “uninvited” as in some miserable piece of street garbage tried to force himself into my house via the side door.
It was supposed to be a pleasant summertime Saturday in a time when the Viverette family consisted of just me, my wife, and our two young sons. We decided to take an all-day trip by car into upstate New York for no other reason than to get out of the city for some decent family time on the road. My wife tended to the boys’ needs—bathing, clothing, and “Use the bathroom now so we don’t have to use any of those filthy roadside toilets on the way up!”—while I readied drinks and sandwiches for the trip. I was filled with “it’s time to be a good daddy” enthusiasm and walked to the rear of our driveway where the family car, a burgundy Oldsmobile Delta ’88, was parked. Continue reading
Updated on 8/1/2011:
Back when I was a skinny little kid in elementary school, I was a member of the Cub Scouts here in Queens, New York. It was a grand time filled with crafts, camaraderie, youthful play, and after-school cartoons on TV. We would always gather just a few blocks from school in the home of one of my classmates, a boy named Victor, and to this day I can recall the sinfully sweet taste of his mother’s cakes and cookies.
Nestled within the southeastern portion of New York City’s Queens County is the section in which I live, a place of tree-lined streets and wood-frame houses that has been the home of my family since 1958. Geographically, my neighborhood lies southeast of the transportation hub that is Jamaica, northeast of the land of two-family homes that is Springfield Gardens, and pretty much due north of bustling Kennedy Airport.
My earliest recollections about the neighborhood start from around 1967 when I was five years old. I remember that the area was still somewhat integrated at that time, with a few white faces starkly visible in the landscape of dark-skinned people. None of the blacks with whom my parents associated referred to the white people by name, opting instead to refer to them by nicknames. Among those so nicknamed was “Legless Charlie,” a double-amputee diabetic; “Doc,” meaning Doctor Schwartz, a kind, elderly physician who both lived and worked in a large house just a few blocks from my own; the “Crazy Lady,” a scrawny witch with salt-and-pepper-hair who would stand in front of her house in a nightgown and scream about “You damn [N-word]s!” at the top of her lungs for hours on end until her throat turned raw, even as her sheepish husband hid from view; and the “Scaredy Cats,” a family of terrified whites who were absolutely petrified at the thought of living in an increasingly dark-complexioned neighborhood.The area began as a haven for white suburbanites in the mid-1920s, changed to become a community of middle- to upper-income whites, hepcats, athletes, and soul musicians from the 1940s through the 1950s, and by the time I came around, it was a racially mixed, middle-income neighborhood. But as more financially secure blacks came, more and more racially insecure whites fled the area in an exodus of pink.