BklynMario

That’s Entertainment? Judi and I went to only two contests this year. Actually, it was more like one and a half, as one of these was the closed circuit, theater DCI Quarter-Finals. I’m not certain if that counts as much as a butt bedeviling, bench seated, small city stadium in upstate New York on a nearly humidity and mosquito free Saturday August night. That was what I remember as a real contest, and not so much a performance, whether live or on-screen. (Don’t stop me now! I know about the difference of actually being there vs. viewing a broadcast. That’s not exactly where I’m going.) Using guile and Italian guilt trip techniques, (“Someday you’ll say to yourself, ‘I should have gone with my mother and father to see that show. Now it’s too late.’”) I craftily convinced my 31 year old, Lincoln Center ticket holding, newly employed Adjunct Professor of Graphic Design at Kean University (NJ), co-author of a soon-to-be-published book in that field, and owner of more than a thousand CDs ranging from Sinatra to Shakira, and from von Beethooven to Van Halen to join us. Not that this was the first drum corps show he had ever seen, but it had been some time between. On the drive home… “So?” “It wasn’t very interesting.” “‘Interesting’? Do you mean ‘boring’?” “No, I mean interesting, as in ‘engaging’ or ‘captivating.’” “What? None of it?” “I didn’t say ‘none of it.’” “Oh?” (Historically— thirty-one years to be exact— our conversations/discussions evolve into controlled contentiousness. For about eleven years of that span, I was deluded into believing that my nurturing wisdom had guided this child. My sagacity and sometimes a strategic smack assured me of this. Somewhere in the vicinity of year twelve, sagacity became suspicion. He didn’t need help with homework. Rumpelstiltskin-like, he put together the entertainment unit that I ###### as “missing five screws.” Unlike the queen, I grew less needed and grimmer, and lost the child, in spite of the fact that I knew his benefactor’s name. Not long after that, he taught himself to play guitar by videotaping a Moody Blues concert, then slow motion emulating the fret fingering. Looking over a paper I had written for a school committee, he questioned the subject-verb agreement of a sentence…or two. I could go on, but suffice it to say that this story will not be e-mailed without his stringent scrutiny.) “There were about three corps that I did like.” (Hope. There was hope!) “You did? Why? Tell me why! Which ones? “ “Dad.” (Sometimes he still calls me that despite his claim that Judi and I found him in a small space ship that crash landed in a Jersey City park. He so wants his disavowal of my parentage to be explained rationally.) “Be patient. Wait’ll we get home.” “But…don’t we turn left here? We always turn left here.” “No. The overpass that they built five years ago will get us home faster.” “Yeah, I knew that.” A minute or so of silence. “Put on the Mets game. I think they’re in California.” Chris is a monomaniacal Yankees fan. The Guile Master is at work! “Phantom Regiment should have placed higher. The Flower Duet was something that a good part of the audience recognized, even though they may not have known its name. Not that you’d need to have heard it before. It’s a beautiful piece. People reacted to it. But I think what made it even better is that it’s a two-part operatic vocal. Who would have thought someone in drum corps would have had the balls to take on something like that… and make it work?” “Right. The Flower Duet.” My response reeks of deception before discernment, and he immediately perceives it. “British Airways used it in one of their commercials.” Commercials! Television! Now I know what he’s referring to. Immediate epiphany. “Could be.” (Accompanied by a thoughtful nod that isn’t fooling him at all.) “I really appreciated what they did. It was a terrific presentation.” “Who else did you like?” “The Bluecoats. Everything they did visually and musically made sense. It was just plain clever. The props they used were meaningful and were actually integrated into the performance as a whole. They weren’t just there to clutter the field. As for the music…” “I knew most of it!” (Even though they weren’t commercials.) “I would hope so. More than anything else, it was engaging. You wanted to know what would happen next. You know— how would it end? It was a good story.” “I thought so, too” (How could I be wrong if I agreed with him?) “I thought Carolina Crown had a fun show. There was an obvious, easily recognized theme to all of it. Kinda like the Bluecoats, they had a story to tell. Here’s the thing— it was something familiar… like a movie that you’d like to see more than once… which means it was entertaining.” (Just for the record, Judi sat in the back of the car, acknowledging her perceptive son with well placed utterances of agreement and pride. He was entertaining her.) Entertaining. We’d spent more than five hours and $54 for about sixty minutes of entertainment in the only theater in all of New Jersey (You remember New Jersey? Blessed Sacrament, Bridgemen, Caballeros, Cadets, and lots of marching bands) that was carrying the broadcast. I didn’t count the audience, but there were no lines at the ticket booths, and no frenzied clamoring for seats. Had every other New Jersey drum corps denizen gone to Pasadena? Not likely. “How about the Blue Devils?” He knows that they’re my favorite corps, and that I plan my resurrection to be as a muscular 19 year-old, 6’2”, well-bronzed, blonde haired Californian with the most incredible set of soprano( O.K., trumpet)chops in Blue Devil history) But we were home now. I wanted to hear more, but he Chris had had enough. The guilt trip ended with an, “I have some work to do.” punctuation. The Master was foiled, but it was an educational and entertaining night. * * * To be certain, there is a great deal more that has been and can be said about the entertainment factor. But to even attempt a truly insightful explanation is far beyond my ability. Rather, let me offer what I feel is the most definitive piece of work on the subject, and something that should be required reading for everyone involved with drum corps in any administrative or instructional capacity. Drum Corps Planet, Inside the Arc, Issue 1, “Why You Hate the Music” by Frank Dorritie http://www.drumcorpsplanet.com/content/view/883/53/ That's Entertainment(Howard Dietz and Arthur Schwartz, from Bandwagon") The clown with his pants falling down or the dance that's a dream of romance Or the scene where the villain is mean. That's entertainment The world is a stage, the stage is a world of entertainment. Or, at least, it should be...................................mario

ANDY, and all.....no question about that....which is why I put John's name first.....and I appreciate all the kind comments....rest assured that all respondents who offer positive remarks will be handsomely rewarded this Christmas....mario

As previously published in Masters of the Marching Arts, and Heritage Dey Didn’t Call Dem ‘Dead End Kids’ Fuh Nuthin’! The World War ll veterans who founded so many of the senior corps in 1946 and '47 were a special group that our activity will never see again. Most left for Europe or the Pacific as skinny, ill-educated kids from not the best of neighborhoods. They returned as hard-driving, hard-drinking men having experienced life at its cruelest and most dramatic. This life and death camaraderie they shared on a daily basis made a natural transition to drum corps. Understandably, the more successful corps had a tendency to treat rehearsals and competitions, both on and off the field, as a continuing act of warfare The Raymond A. Garbarina American Legion Post #1523 and the Frederick W. Reilly VFW Post #7947 headed this list. The Raiders were commanded by "Wild Bill" Hooton— a charismatic, deceptively unprepossessing man that few would ever challenge a second time. Losing was never an option to Hooton, and thus the corps’ record of victories was its own message. But I'll leave the Reilly stories to those who know the facts firsthand. For me, thinking back to the Garbarina-Mazarakos Skyliner stories passed down or witnessed still puts a smile on my mug. Most readers of drum corps prose, at one time or another, have run across a variety of side-splitting Robert "Pepe" Notaro tales but there were others not as famous that made "The Dead End Kids" the way we were. (Cue the music.) Ninety miles north of Phiily in the Big Apple, Garbarina’s Skyliners quickly soared to the winner's circle with a membership comprised mostly of two very successful pre-war Manhattan corps with a deep-seated rivalry. You could say that going off to war made them finally understand they were both on the same side (maybe). The cast of characters in Gabby would have fit easily into Damon Runyon's Guys and Dolls as they had their Sky Mastersons and Nathan Detroits by the boat load, and rocking the boat was their specialty both inside and outside the corps. For starters, there was Bobby "The Kid" Bellarosa. In addition to being a hugely talented French horn player who commuted his way from Brooklyn to Garfield in his junior corps years, Bobby published Eastern Review magazine, and boxed, with some success, in the New York Daily News-sponsored Golden Gloves. Red Hook, Brooklyn tough with a lightning temper to match, there is the tale of how he one-punch-laid out Mickey Petrone at a rehearsal, allegedly over some romantic dispute. Fearless and passionate, and loyal to a fault to people he considers his friends, he continues to be the guy you want to be with should you ever be confronted by terrorists. Jimmy Salamone was a New York City cop, a charter corps’ member, and a first rate lead baritone. He was a big powerful man with a clichéd heart of gold, accompanied by the requisite, “You won’t like me when I’m angry!” caveat. So endowed, Jimmy made self-control his watchword. But there were limits. One arctic November night when Jimmy should otherwise have been on duty, he and his gun made an unscheduled, brief, but forever memorable appearance at an armory rehearsal. The object of Jimmy's unassigned assignment was the chronic contempt he had too long tolerated from a corps’ member who was not taking the rehearsals with the seriousness Jim thought necessary. Out comes his piece with an accompanying warning voice that shook the limestone walls of the facility. The target of his rage quickly understood Jimmy's point of view and left for the men's room post haste. As the winter progressed, the November Scrooge became more and more devoted to his responsibilities. At the time, NYC police, by law, were required to have their revolvers on their person at all times. The counterbalance to these first two personalities was Paul Julian. In the ‘50s, Paul was someone you didn't see in the better senior corps— not ever. Paul's problem was that he was black. "Need not apply" fit Paul perfectly, but, over time, he became a majority of one and respected by all. Aside from being a good horn player, Paul was what most people would call a gentleman of the first rank. He, like many other drum corps people of color, had the strength, dignity and courage to withstand the cowardly "Come back next week," "We don't have a horn for you," and "The line is full" euphemisms that were so prevalent in our activity at that time. Paul's presence caused a fissure in Garbarina that initially led to some severe membership issues, but those who remained never regretted the door being opened to Paul. He was "Dead End" tough in a more meaningful way. Gabby learned a major life lesson long before their competitors. The line "no one remembers who came in second," fits another charter member— Danny Feldstein. Infantryman turned actor, Audie Murphy was the most decorated and renowned soldier of World War ll. Danny was number two. To minimize, he was what most people would call odd. For starters, he answers the question: Where are the Jews in drum corps? Fact is Danny was just one of many in the corps. But what really separated Danny from the pack was his ability to talk your ear off. "Hello" was a minimum five paragraph statement. Added to this foible was his ever-present filtered cigarette dangling from the right side of his lips with the ash bending towards the floor but never falling free. Some claimed he could play his horn and smoke at the same time. What made Danny a "Dead End Kid" was his highly ethical "do the right thing" approach to life and he had no qualms about telling you what that was no matter the consequences. People laughed about his eccentricities but no ever disrespected him. To even think of doing that was a loss of self-respect. All corps have people who border on the invisible. The Skyliners had Johnny Long— yet another WW ll veteran. Having lost an arm in battle, but not allowing it to detract from his beloved activity, further exemplified him as a genuine Dead End Kid. In all his many years in the corps, he rarely missed a rehearsal, let alone the most insignificant turnout. John could be found on the IRT subway, distractedly staring out nothing-more-to-see-than-subway-platforms-window, his horn safely embedded in an inconspicuous drawstring bag. In a time when there was little more sophistication to horn playing than depressing a single valve, he had no problem. Pulling a slide wasn’t possible, so Hy Dreitzer gave John “personal” music. It was the only assistance that he ever needed. Fear was a synonym for our color guard captain, John Leonard. John was the owner of a very lucrative seafood store on Manhattan's Upper East Side. If he went toe to toe with a great white, the shark would swim away. John had a perfectly proportioned body that the honor guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier would die for. John was born with military bearing, but it was his steely-eyed demands of the guard members that made grown men quiver. Guarding Old Glory and the post flag wasn’t to be taken lightly. The wrath of the Color Guar Captain would be close at hand and impressed upon your sorry soul, and sometimes body, in no uncertain terms. Patton had nothing on Leonard. Though he was never considered as Nobel Peace Prize material, Henry Lynch was the antidote to our martial mania. With zero body fat and muscle enough for two men, Henry was an ominously genteel presence, who (Thank God!) never seemed to get angry. He had a nearly clairvoyant ability to perceive crisis by opposing parties. Time and again Henry would intercede with a simple, "Can I help you two with something?” The joint response was always, "No, Henry. We're cool.” His final, elementary pacifying pronouncement was, "I thought so. I’m glad. The two potential combatants knew that a near death experience had just been eluded. As the corps rushed into the ‘60s, we entered the age of Walter Winkleman, with a cast of personalities that approached rock star status with audiences and groupies alike. We gained hoards of exceptionally talented city kids with very high opinions of themselves— but leave it to Pepe to set them straight immediately upon joining with his classic welcoming line, "Just remember at all times you're nuthin' but a junior corps punk until I tell you otherwise." Humility soon followed. The "Dead End Kids" toughness of the ‘40s and ‘50s gave way to possibly the zaniest characters drum corps has ever seen. While the ‘60s produced a return to much competitive success, herding cats was an easier task than dealing with the ‘60s mirrored eccentricities of the membership. But the corps' talent overcame uneven rehearsal habits that, along with a mystical ability to generate in the moment performances on a random basis, would catalyze audiences to breathlessness. Meanwhile, our instructors stood on the sidelines and confounded themselves with self-inflicted baldness. Socially, the corps was way ahead of society, let alone other corps, in its collective mix and acceptance of ethnicities, races, lifestyles and religions. Common purpose trumped differences naturally. This easily led to sharp-edged humor exchanges that made the famous Chevy Chase/Richard Pryor skits on SNL look like very polite diplomatic discourse. Insult humor was raised to a high art with Sol Anthony's and Bucky Swan's reflex retorted wit leading the way. Nothing human or sacred (like Neil Gargiulo’s edgily spoofed homage to crucifixion) was inviolable. In today’s ultra-sensitive, yet less sincere world, we would, at the very least, find ourselves in the defendant’s seat. In addition to bizarre contortionist antics of master soloist Johhny Guarino, The Bronx also gave our world the semi-spontaneous (“Three more beers, please!”) comedy team of Weekes, Wuender, and Gallagher. The trio would do shtick any place and anytime with no regard for the purpose of the occasion. They were equally audacious individually. One of Bernie Weekes' more illustriously generous, but labor intensive escapades came at a post contest party in Mechanicsburg, PA. Undaunted by the size of the gorging and guzzling horde, he proceeded to plead for a quarter from any and all who had ventured within, claiming that the besieged bartenders wouldn’t take the time to exchange a large bill for juke box coins. After nearly an hour of untiring effort, Bernie made his way to the bar, and unloaded his treasure with the loud proclamation, “A round for everyone until the money runs out! It’s on me!” And speaking of bar stories, none was more legendary than the continuing adventures in Johson’s Tavern. The 12-foot by 40-foot rat hole, that otherwise hosted the denizens of New York City rush hours, was our Friday night church. Replete with a slightly scarred pool table and an erratic but always loud juke box, it was our spider web for ensnaring women (Some who were even unsuspecting) who loved Skyliners. It’s been said that some errant debauchery took place there, but that remains unproven to this day. What can be confirmed is that some thirty marriages (some planned, some necessary) took place because of Johnson’s. We’ll end our story with the final representative Dead End Kid character study and anecdote of Mike Siglow. All corps have a handful of guys who are so competitive that winning is never by enough and losing is cause for conspiracy theories never before imagined in all of human history. For this, Mike was our guy. Before a show he would Zen himself into a near-kamikaze state of mind, transforming himself into a gladiatorial combatant entering a raucous coliseum. Knowing who and what we were, few of us ever gave Mike’s metamorphosis much attention. With this as background, we travel through the night on the bus-buster road old Route 17 to enemy territory in Waverly, NY after a woeful Friday evening rehearsal. Compounding the situation was a Saturday of numerous AWOL members, showers that refused to surrender their water, and day long strife between staff and members. The Rochester Crusaders (nicknamed The Rabbits) were having an incredible year and were more than ready to contradictorily dine on our collective carcass. The smell of a beating was in the air for us. As showtime neared, Winkey vainly attempted to energize us with “Fiery Speech #4,” but we weren’t listening. One horn player tried to rescue the day with the admonishment that, given our considerable talent, losing to Rochester would be a new low point in our history. An ember of light was lit with this ploy, but it was too weak to ignite us. As we stood forlornly on the starting line, Siglow stepped out in front of the corps with an enormous, stuffed bunny doll in one hand and an axe in the other. Executioner-like, he held the rabbit in the air for all to see and mercilessly flung it to ground. With one mighty swing of his weapon, he lopped off the cotton filled head, and held it victoriously aloft for all to see. A Skyliner show for the ages ensued. Dead End Kids stories are countless. They reflect an era of drum corps life that will never happen again. Today, most of these “kids” are only sometimes watchers of a drum corps show. Many more are no longer with us. Their legacy to us is a treasure of fact and fable to retell or laugh about in quiet corners of a stadium or post bar each summer. In that sense, these kids will never die and their exploits ever end. John Keays - and me. mario

What a shame Cadets have to have a disclaimer "Once you goguset past that....." Its uttered by eery fan, used as a tool of reason by ever "honk" ,and needed as a set-up for the average fan to "get it". ThankGod, in the "real world" the majority get it, and realize the narration is a major design flaw, isnt fun, groundbreaking, or inovative, and is just plain silly, a distraction, a nuisance and yet another cross to bear for those presenting this show. Its what you will take away the most from this show, and thats just sad as there is a geat show behind it. George Hopkins, the controversy, the outcome, I will not comment. Holy crowd not happy, booing en masse, louder and more vocal than any other time ever in the history of me and DCI (going back to 1979) Was it right ? was it wrong ? was it all on Hopkins ?? GO BD ! ~G~ No real argument....however, from a somewhat simplistic point of view, it's analogous to saying that Atlanta has a "great" team, except for their terrible bullpen. In either context, (IMVHO, of course!) it just isn't so. As for BD, I don't especially love what they're doing, but they do it so *%#@^ well. In fact, I've decided that when I'm resurrected, I will devote my entire life to becoming an incredibly accomplished horn(not trumpet)player, and become a star soloist with BD. I fully realize that this might mean abandoning my Brooklyn, Italian-American heritage in exchange for California tall, blonde, blue eyed-ness, but I think that it will be worth it...........mario

Forgive the cross posting....I wasn't certain where to post this.....m The Season When I think of it now, I am certain— well, almost— that it was something hormonal. The New York City winter would leave its grey smudged remnants melting on cold-shadowed factory streets. The block-sized park that disguised itself as our country retreat was again trying to prove to us that trees *do*, in fact, grow in Brooklyn. And we, we began to get drunk with the savor of the bittersweet and confusing tumult of angst and euphoria that youth can’t restrain and old age can’t remember. In this illusory foreplay of eternal spring, the synergistic storms of our world needed few natural catalysts to inspire us to passion— though we never used *that*t word. And for those of us who were fortunate or foolish enough to belong to a competing drum and bugle corps, it was the beginning of that elemental stimulation known as *The Season*. To be certain, The Season had begun long before on nearby “Don’t play too loud!” Novena-Novembered autumn, and frigid Friday nights of subway rides to Arctic armories. But these were nothing more than restless, semi-celibate deferments of our obsession that had to be endured before we were mature enough for summer consummation. And the seductive days and nights of late April and early May only intensified our lust. Hyper-optimism was most often our paramount attitude. It would be different this year. We had survived the near-loss of our lead soprano soloist whose family abandoned the beauty of Brooklyn for the lush country life of Lawn Gyland. Somehow or other, he convinced his parents that it was of life or death importance that he make the three hour round trip at least twice a week. And one of our snare drummers broke an arm when he slipped on the iced basketball court of the schoolyard. That happens when you do things out of season. We lit candles for his recovery. Divine intercession was a reality for us. I don’t think it’s necessary to relate the details of his miraculous mending. And if that wasn’t enough supernatural intervention, we had two new non-Brooklynites in our horn line. One, a former member of the Norwood Park Imperials, had moved to New York from Chicago. The other came all the way from the suburbs (“Yo, Vinnie! What’s a suboib?”) of New Jersey, and had played with Garfield! We had a new off-the-line that had taken us weeks to learn. The concert had also been restructured with more complex soprano and French horn runs. The drum solo following our production number had likewise been rewritten to better proclaim to the world we knew, just how much greater we were than last year. This Season would be *our* Season. Our treks to find marchable outdoor space led us to a parking lot not all that far from a mental institution. Forget that it took us almost forty-five minutes just to get there! Remember that we were thin enough to almost comfortably fit seven of us in a two-door coupe. And recall with even greater astonishment that we had only to dig for change under the car seats in order to buy enough gas to get us there and back: “Lemme have seventy-eight cents regular” Luckily for us, the remainder of that seemingly never ending seat mining venture always yielded just about enough to pay for a post-practice pizza. Life was good! The final schedule was always like an unopened Christmas present whose contents we more or less knew. There were the perennial Holland/Lincoln Tunneled sites of Bayonne, Union City, and Newark, but we were never prepared for the little extra packages of exotic venues such as Horseheads, Giants Neck, and our favorite, Toms River (“What and where the %* is ‘Toms River’? Hey, can somebody own a river?”) We even got a paying exhibition job at a Long Island sanitarium. (“I wonder who told them about us?”) But the greatest gift of all was the shortest of all our New Jersey excursions. We were going to Jersey City. We were going to Roosevelt Stadium. We were going to the Dream Contest! This was the fabled Xanadu and El Dorado of drum corps that served as the Camelot-like backdrop for the legendary jousts of drum corps’ preeminent combatants. And *we* would be there! We waited with all the impatience that being young is cursed. We generously squandered our time on anything that would bring that first contest closer. School became almost meaningful. It was now the tolerable occupier of morning and afternoon hours, except when our attention was disrupted by the flirtatious perfume of newly cut grass from our schoolyard’s meager lawn which transported us to the ethereal realm of the contest field. We played long card games and saw double features twice. We stayed up late and harmonized in subways, talked about baseball and the fantasies that were the realities of our love lives. But all that was never good enough. Inevitably and paradoxically, as we walked home in the intimately familiar quiet commotion of spring night Brooklyn streets, we exquisitely tortured ourselves with infinite if-tales of what The Season would bring. Saturday morning. Up early. So little sleep last night. “Ma, did you wash my gloves?” No need to relate the collective responses of all our mothers. And there was always the half-serious admonishment of clean underwear, “…just in case you….” “Yeah, Ma! I know the rest!” The trip to the church hall, the double and triple check for missing equipment and people, the wait for the bus, (“I hope it’s one of them new, air-conditioned jobs”), the pursuit to get the best seats, (“Open the windows. We got an old bus”), the babble and blare of the five-pound *portable* radio, the lost reception and gassed redolence of the tunnel, emerging to the early evening wonder of someplace else, and then the vaguely distant random din of horns and drums and cymbals, multi-hued flashes of glittering satin flags and uniforms, and the vista of the nearly filled stands, the indecipherable cacophony of cheers as each corps is announced, the muted resonance of music we eavesdrop on as we say a Hail Mary— this is the blurred bedlam of all that we are. The aphrodisiac radiance of this panorama is a final, near-climactic, unnecessary stimulant. We are on the starting line. “And now, from Brooklyn, New York…” The Season has begun. Mario BklynMario@aol.com

The Season When I think of it now, I am certain— well, almost— that it was something hormonal. The New York City winter would leave its grey smudged remnants melting on cold-shadowed factory streets. The block-sized park that disguised itself as our country retreat was again trying to prove to us that trees *do*, in fact, grow in Brooklyn. And we, we began to get drunk with the savor of the bittersweet and confusing tumult of angst and euphoria that youth can’t restrain and old age can’t remember. In this illusory foreplay of eternal spring, the synergistic storms of our world needed few natural catalysts to inspire us to passion— though we never used *that*t word. And for those of us who were fortunate or foolish enough to belong to a competing drum and bugle corps, it was the beginning of that elemental stimulation known as *The Season*. To be certain, The Season had begun long before on nearby “Don’t play too loud!” Novena-Novembered autumn, and frigid Friday nights of subway rides to Arctic armories. But these were nothing more than restless, semi-celibate deferments of our obsession that had to be endured before we were mature enough for summer consummation. And the seductive days and nights of late April and early May only intensified our lust. Hyper-optimism was most often our paramount attitude. It would be different this year. We had survived the near-loss of our lead soprano soloist whose family abandoned the beauty of Brooklyn for the lush country life of Lawn Gyland. Somehow or other, he convinced his parents that it was of life or death importance that he make the three hour round trip at least twice a week. And one of our snare drummers broke an arm when he slipped on the iced basketball court of the schoolyard. That happens when you do things out of season. We lit candles for his recovery. Divine intercession was a reality for us. I don’t think it’s necessary to relate the details of his miraculous mending. And if that wasn’t enough supernatural intervention, we had two new non-Brooklynites in our horn line. One, a former member of the Norwood Park Imperials, had moved to New York from Chicago. The other came all the way from the suburbs (“Yo, Vinnie! What’s a suboib?”) of New Jersey, and had played with Garfield! We had a new off-the-line that had taken us weeks to learn. The concert had also been restructured with more complex soprano and French horn runs. The drum solo following our production number had likewise been rewritten to better proclaim to the world we knew, just how much greater we were than last year. This Season would be *our* Season. Our treks to find marchable outdoor space led us to a parking lot not all that far from a mental institution. Forget that it took us almost forty-five minutes just to get there! Remember that we were thin enough to almost comfortably fit seven of us in a two-door coupe. And recall with even greater astonishment that we had only to dig for change under the car seats in order to buy enough gas to get us there and back: “Lemme have seventy-eight cents regular” Luckily for us, the remainder of that seemingly never ending seat mining venture always yielded just about enough to pay for a post-practice pizza. Life was good! The final schedule was always like an unopened Christmas present whose contents we more or less knew. There were the perennial Holland/Lincoln Tunneled sites of Bayonne, Union City, and Newark, but we were never prepared for the little extra packages of exotic venues such as Horseheads, Giants Neck, and our favorite, Toms River (“What and where the %* is ‘Toms River’? Hey, can somebody own a river?”) We even got a paying exhibition job at a Long Island sanitarium. (“I wonder who told them about us?”) But the greatest gift of all was the shortest of all our New Jersey excursions. We were going to Jersey City. We were going to Roosevelt Stadium. We were going to the Dream Contest! This was the fabled Xanadu and El Dorado of drum corps that served as the Camelot-like backdrop for the legendary jousts of drum corps’ preeminent combatants. And *we* would be there! We waited with all the impatience that being young is cursed. We generously squandered our time on anything that would bring that first contest closer. School became almost meaningful. It was now the tolerable occupier of morning and afternoon hours, except when our attention was disrupted by the flirtatious perfume of newly cut grass from our schoolyard’s meager lawn which transported us to the ethereal realm of the contest field. We played long card games and saw double features twice. We stayed up late and harmonized in subways, talked about baseball and the fantasies that were the realities of our love lives. But all that was never good enough. Inevitably and paradoxically, as we walked home in the intimately familiar quiet commotion of spring night Brooklyn streets, we exquisitely tortured ourselves with infinite if-tales of what The Season would bring. Saturday morning. Up early. So little sleep last night. “Ma, did you wash my gloves?” No need to relate the collective responses of all our mothers. And there was always the half-serious admonishment of clean underwear, “…just in case you….” “Yeah, Ma! I know the rest!” The trip to the church hall, the double and triple check for missing equipment and people, the wait for the bus, (“I hope it’s one of them new, air-conditioned jobs”), the pursuit to get the best seats, (“Open the windows. We got an old bus”), the babble and blare of the five-pound *portable* radio, the lost reception and gassed redolence of the tunnel, emerging to the early evening wonder of someplace else, and then the vaguely distant random din of horns and drums and cymbals, multi-hued flashes of glittering satin flags and uniforms, and the vista of the nearly filled stands, the indecipherable cacophony of cheers as each corps is announced, the muted resonance of music we eavesdrop on as we say a Hail Mary— this is the blurred bedlam of all that we are. The aphrodisiac radiance of this panorama is a final, near-climactic, unnecessary stimulant. We are on the starting line. “And now, from Brooklyn, New York…” The Season has begun. Mario BklynMario@aol.com

KURT VONNEGUT!?!?! You've made my morning, day, afternoon, evening, soon to come birthday (With ANOTHER "6" in it...June 8), month, year, and the remaing time in my life, complete! Unbounded joy abounds in the Turnpike toxic air!(Vonnegut? I don't think so!) Denial is a pretty nice place to wallow in..............mario

*It's an oldie, which I hope is woth repeating....mario A Pepe Memorial Day Story Although at 17, I was already Tommy Martin’s only failure, I somehow learned to play well enough to earn a place in Loretto’s solo soprano line alongside such greats as Joe (Da Fig) DaFiglia. Make no mistake about it! I wasn’t so good that I could actually play a solo, but I managed passably when I was part of the ensemble. For all my limited talent, I was grateful for what I had achieved. More than all else, I had, at least somewhat, measured up to Pepe’s expectations of me. As I swaggered - we were required to swagger in Brooklyn- my way down our local streets one late spring evening on my way to the subway, I was summoned to the corner candy store/hangout, by none other than Robert “Corbett/Pepe” Notaro. “Hey, kid! Get over here.” “I can’t. I gotta go to practice.” “ Get your ### over here or it’ll be your last practice.” “But I’ll miss the train...” “@*(*$# the train!” “Okay” “Whaddaya doin’ tomorrow?” “We got a parade.” “What time?” “ 2 o’clock.” “Good. Meet me at the square at ten. Bring your horn.” “Why?” “Because I told you to.” “But why?” “ Because you’re goin’ to play Taps for the vets.” “But I don’t want to play Taps.” “ I don’t give a #### what you want to do. You’re goin’ to play Taps, and you’ll get ten dollars for it.” (Ten dollars “Back Then” bought a month of Saturday -and some Sunday- movie dates, replete with post pic pizza and Pepsi) “Everytime I play it, I screw up. I can’t do it.” “Listen to me. I’ll start it off. You’re goin’ to be the echo. You stand under the expressway, and ‘echo’ what I play. Do you understand?” “Yeah, but I don’t want to do it.” “Mario, how old are you?’ “Seventeen. “ “Do you want to be eighteen?” “Yeah.” “Then you’ll play the echo, or the next Taps will be for you. Do you understand? Of course I did. Luckily, I got it right. ............####! I miss him...........mario

A new story(in Masters of the Marching Arts, and Heritage.) Don't think that I can upload the pics that go with it. They should be on drumcorpsofthe60sand70s@yahoo.com........*And I hope that the enhanced type comes through.....Please comment....mario The Stuff on My Shelves I am a consummate and eclectic pack rat. Having been a teacher for more than three decades, I’ve hoarded hundreds of half-sized pencils (some with erasers); a slew of slightly bent paper clips; rubber bands of every size, color, and tensile strength; batches of Bics; and textbooks whose publication dates clearly substantiate the fact that the outcome of The Great War is still in doubt. However, since I recently retired, the occurrence of the Grand Educational Cleansing of 2004 has changed all that— a little bit. Desk drawers, bookcases, filing cabinets, and the car trunk are eerily vacuous these days. What remains is the stuff on my shelves. I think an exhibitory explanation is needed here. The stuff on my shelves resides in my room. It is a room like no other in our home, that is if you don’t include the Batcave, but that is yet another story. In it, carefully situated amidst the simulated Manhattan/Metropolis/Gotham City skyline panorama, and the Star Trek bas-relief mural, replete with black-lighted Day-glo styrofoam planets, lay the remnants of my life. That is if you exclude the two-used-to-be-children, I am partly responsible for them. “Remnants” (some insensitive individuals have called it “debris”) also deserves some clarification. There are the might-be-expected things such as Brooklyn Dodger baseball cards; a small photo album of me and my 6th grade classmates; and a gaudy red, black, and white high school pin attesting to the fact that I had, indeed, made it to my senior year. (Back then, being senior was only the beginning.) Looking further there is a Roy Rogers rodeo, genuine imitation leather holster pin with a plastic six-shooter; a skate key; and a sepia and sea-green tinged print of my well-mustached grandfather Mario, who, I understand, was shot to death by the Sicilian carabineri in a latter-day Les Miserables scenario. And there are dozens of pieces of otherwise useless paraphernalia and artifacts that define who and what I am today. Prominent in that category is the stuff from drum corps. A bedraggled, threadbare and drab, once red, white, and blue overseas cap adorned with a badly sewn center-crucifixed circular patch proclaiming “O.L.M.C. Cadet Corps” is a sort of legacy from Robert “Pepe” Notaro. I’m not sure if it was actually his hat. What I am certain of is the reason why I have it. Our Lady of Mount Carmel was not only the original corps of “The Great One,” but also where Joe Genero, and Carman Cluna got their start. After many years of success that earned them top ten national ranking, the corps lost its’ key membership to age-out, and began a rebuilding program. That’s when he got me to join. In order to show the new kids what drum corps was, we were taken to see a pre-season show in the Newark Armory. As we were getting off the bus, Pepe pulled me from the open door, drumbeat entranced line, “Put this on your head!” The hat was old even then. “Show them where you come from.” Mount Carmel never did make a comeback, but the hat is still on my shelf because I still care about where I came from because he taught me to do that. I’m not in the framed picture of the Skyliners posed before the United Nations building. But I prize that photo, and the Hy Dreitzer, now-jaundiced, handwritten second soprano music for “Manhattan.” As I recall it, I was sixteen years old when I found my way to the Young Post in Da Bronx, and spring/summer nights on Randall’s Island. I hadn’t played a horn in years, but I really wanted to be part of the corps. George Rodriguez must have felt sorry for me. If nothing else, I never missed a practice or a performance, so I functioned as a useless, but useful warm body. I got to meet people like Tommy Martin, Harry Hazelwood, Walter Winkelman, Danny Feldstein, Lefty Mayer, and the inimitable Bobby Bellarosa. I used to help him hawk his now-legendary, Eastern Review mag. Often, on long upstate New York car trips, Bobby told me tales, oral histories. I listened, and I like to believe that I learned. Tucked in a corner of the frame is a card that reads, Eastern Review Drum and Bugle Corps Magazine This is to certify that Mario P. Navetta is a working member of this magazine All courtesies given him will be appreciated [signed] R. P. Bellarosa Publisher Long after my active drum corps career was over, I was still able to get into many Dream Contests for free. But while there may have been some good times in The Bronx, I didn’t belong there. . And so, heeding Pepian advice (always a good thing to do) I made my way back to Brooklyn. “Go to Loretto! It’s like Mount Carmel used to be.” The stuff on my shelves from the Knights of Our Lady of Loretto is that which I most cherish, most love— no thesaurus yields a more intimate expression. A Halloween-orange and black satin sash used to fit perfectly on my ages 16-21, 28-inch waist. As evidence of that, it is draped over a black and white on-field action photo of five other similarly waisted, garishly adorned young men— no, teenagers— then recently diaspored from Brooklyn streets. Other pictures show us in our new, Skyliner-copycat uniforms in full battle-ready force, with our Amazonian-Italian-American color guard, Instructors-Generals, Quartermasters, and— if necessary— priests. Six medals (That’s right, medals!) are enshrined in a dollar store picture frame. One of these awards was actually earned. In spite of Tommy Martin’s counseling, Carman Cluna’s warning, and corps director, Sonny Calvagna’s threats, Tim Renny, Allie De Rosa, Joe Da Figlia and Smartass decided that we were ready for quartet competition. Father Fiore believed us when we told him that we needed to get into the equipment room to look for a missing wallet with more than five dollars in it. Surreptitiously armed with horns and grimy white bucks, we stole our way into the early April night, the Jamaica Avenue EL, and St. Catherine’s Oueensmen St. Albans’ outpost. Sadly, we paid for our stealthiness during inspection: “…need haircuts, wrinkled uniforms, grimy bucks…(and) dandruff…” reads one of the two sheets that leans against the frame. It is signed “W.A. Mullens, Maj., USAR,” But our soprano, barbershop quartet performance of “Dream” was blessedly exceptional. Judge P. Mahfouz ticked us for attacks, releases and phrasing, but our overall score was 91.8. We came out in second place among more than fifteen other quartets, losing only to the great St. Kevin’s group, and their “Bugler’s Holiday” by 2.6 points. Our loss at inspection was a dirty 3.7 points. There was joy on the El that night. As for the other medals, they are, as Dad would say, “Annuda storia.” An appropriately hued, but mistakenly lettered “Loreto” overseas hat ornamented with six slightly askew, long ago tarnished, imitation gold pins, flaunts the initials I.Y.M. The International Youth Movement was somewhat differently defined back then, and its membership was limited to just four of us: Gugie, Clovis, Tommy, and me— three white guys, one black guy. Neither race nor ethnicity nor number was the proscriptive factor; it was just that we laughed a lot when we were together. That being so, we spent much of our non-corps summertime days hanging out in Coney Island, and many of our weekend winter nights in slightly post-Beatnik, pre-hippie City coffeehouses. On our way to either venue, we’d sing subway doo-wop and Blessed Sacrament’s off-the-line with similar uninhibited spontaneity. After all, this was New York. I don’t know what happened to Gugie. The last time I saw him was more than forty years ago. There are several dozen Frank Guglielmos in the New York state White Pages alone. Clovis remains a mystery. I think it was in 1996 that I found a listing for him in Kentucky. There are very few Clovis Wallaces in the United States. Calling the number, a woman’s voice shouted to someone, “Do you know a ‘Mario’? He wants to talk to you.” No answer. “Clovis?” The response was tired, annoyed, and vocally old, “Who? No, I don’t know him. Hang up the phone.” “He said that he doesn’t know you. Goodbye.” I never had a chance to respond to that finality. Trying to make the best of the situation, I sent an overly expensive Christmas card to the Kentucky address. Understanding, empathy, and apologies were included with the seasonal message. None of it helped. And my best friend Tommy is gone. Strangely, there isn’t much from the Cabs that belongs to me. I really don’t know why this is so. I do know that it took courage to join Hawthorne. Initially, only Loretto friend Tony Vaccaro (he being more talented and far less intimidated) and I went there. In those pre-Hall of Fame days, Don Angelica, Mike Del Vecchio, Gene Marotta, Frank Pisillo, Ray Cappicille, Danny Raymond, Bobby Hoffman, Ralph Silverbrand, and almost a dozen others, were just guys who were in the corps. Now I wish that I had their autographs on a 1963 Dream Contest program. As it is, most of my remembrances are on the shelves of my mind, and every dusty recollection is priceless. What remains are two three-inch plastic dolls wearing hand-knitted Cab uniforms, several battle corps and alumni pins, a sombrero splashed coffee cup; two American Legion (Miami and Dallas) participant (thus unearned) medals, a fixedly-happy wooden Cab figure and a closeted jacket. I think that much of the meagerness matches my contributions to the corps. But I like to believe that I am a part of the Cab legacy. I love wearing my jacket. For me, that is more than enough. * * * I read a great deal of science fiction. I especially enjoy time travel tales. Scientists in some future millennium may uncover inexplicable artifacts in what used to be the state of New Jersey. A few microscopic fragments of what used to pass for recorded visual accounts, and scraps of fused plastic, metal, and glass and decaying wood. All remnants of the stuff on my shelves.

HAPPY NEW YEAR to all! Any one young enough to recall that event? If so, I'd appreciate your input for a story.........many thanks!............mario BklynMario@aol.com

b**bs RAY....my sincere apologies! I worote the essay several years ago, and you are the irst to pick up on this.....how could I forget our Eye-talian bretheren from Newark? In fact, one of our drum majors, Hank, went from Loretto to St. Lucy's. I promise to change the original text immediately....Madonna mia! Perdonarlo prego mario

A story from a few years back...... Dream Memories Scalding Sunday sun... the Siren-coaxing sound of rehearsing horns and drums heard from a distance of three blocks before you reach the stadium... coughing monoxide fumes in the parking lots... symbiotically impassive mounted Jersey City police and their horses maneuvering orderliness and direction to wayward busses, cars, and people... jackets of every color and corps... impatiently squirming queues at the ticket windows... “Dream Contest programs! Get your Dream Contest programs!” ...the summer complementary mingled aroma of beer, hot dogs, and French fries that assails you from the shadowed food stands... your first vision of the green and brown and freshly painted whiteness of the legendary, elemental field... the rush to get to the best seats, only to discover that they are “officially” taken by the flock of black and white adorned nuns cerememoniously perched there... the indigenous, came-with-the-stadium flocks of pigeons that unceremoniously perch everywhere... the restlessness during the Star Spangled Banner... and... The so slow to come/so quick to end, once in a lifetime, pure joy of competing in your first Dream... the inexplicable reason for your uniform colors seeming to be brighter today... admiring, envious faces of kids in other corps who will never know this experience...the PA announcer proclaiming, “On the starting line, from _________. The_________!”... applause and cheers from the sun and smoke hazed crowd... the step-by-step adrenaline intensity that increases with each drum major-egotistical step... the first note/drumbeat... your leap of faith first step... more cheers... the last World War/Broadway/Hollywood color presentation that unseats the audience more by loyalty than habit... your concert piece that nearly everyone can sing or dance or clap or foot-tap to... the exit number that says goodbye to summer, farewell to love, you know who we are, please don’t forget me, you know how I love you. See you next year... the last note... the standing ovation... the one-more-time. “From ________. The________!” ...and then trying futilely to relive the eye-blink performance that ended five minutes ago... Last-note waiting EMT volunteers who don’t need to wait that long for a casualty...the in-between performances rush to the rest rooms... the last-drop-empty cans of Balllantine beer spilling over their corner hidden pails... a quick “Hello” here... a hurried, “Hey, good to see you!” there... “####! Wish the *&%$# line would at least move!”... “Was that thunder?”...a balding, chain smoking guy at the back of the field who never seems to stop pacing... a big guy on crutches at the front of the field who seems to be vigilantly watching him... and... The still-in-uniform trek through the stands--“Hey, nice job!”... “Good show!”... a quick waved, “Thanks!”-- then to the outfield bleachers to catch a few corps before retreat... the names of the once great, near great, now great, that you hear in blaring, public announcements, and privileged, personal pronouncements... the litany of: Blessed Sacrament, Holy Name, St. Vincent, St. Kevin, St. Joseph, St. Andrew, St. Ignatius, St. Patrick, St. Mary, more Saints, Our Lady of Grace, Our Lady of Loretto... semi-secular Knights, Crusaders, Lancers, Musketeers, Cavaliers... a Royal Brigade, Royal Airs, Imperials, Princemen... ethnical Kilties, Caballeros, Matadors, and young Muchachos... warring Troopers, Crossmen, Rockets, a Squadron, and more Cadets... recalcitrant Raiders, Rebels, and discrete Diplomats... spectacular Sunrisers, devastating Hurricanes, and follow the North Star ... unusual Blue Rocks, and whimsical Lampligters followed by a band of ofBrewers... soaring Skyliners... delightful, but dangerous Bonbons... and a Thing. The capricious August thunderstorm that did/did not appear this year... the self-created marktime march dirt clouds the corps mystically move through as they assemble for retreat in the dying, humidity drenched remnants of this nearly-end-of-the-season summer day... another, “I want to thank... we owe so much to... if it hadn’t been for... ” speech... the chemically-conditioned Jersey City/Newark Bay sky gaudily flaunting ethereal twilight spectrums... a solitary “To the Colors” ...and... “In fourth place, with a score of___, point___ ,the___________!” ... “And, in second place with a score of___, point 886, the __________!” “What?!?! How the ####?” ...the wait ‘til-next-year- if-they-invite- us- back- concealed tear... and then a tale of “lasts:” the illusory this-will-last-forever joy... the last song before you leave the field... the last cheers and applause from the... “We gotta get goin’. You know how this Jersey traffic is!” crowd... more bus fumes, police, and horses... ###### Jersey drivers! ...and New York drivers! ...and Pennsylvania drivers! ...and, “Go back to Illanoyz!” The silent/noisy bus ride home... elation/sadness... and “Jeez! We were in The Dream!” ~ Mario