I hate dogs

Recently, my daughter and I spent a morning at a horse show in Southampton, MA at King Oak Farm. To break things up from the horse trials and competitions,they held a dog show. Any dog could enter, and no special skills were required. My daughter took this picture. She's in love with taking pictures and steals my camera often. I will find hundreds of pictures of nothing after she's done with the camera. Often the pictures are pretty good.

Easthampton, MA, Fourth of July

My lady friend and I spent a pleasant Fourth of July evening on the Lower Mill Pond in Easthampton. We decided that we wanted to be away from the crowds celebrating the Fourth at Nonotuck Park and would paddle around the Lower Mill Pond and wait for the fireworks. I believe it’s called urban canoeing. It became quickly apparent to us that the pond was vibrant and teeming with wildlife such as beaver, muskrat, water rat, osprey, heron and a plethora of unseen fish jumping out of the water. While weed-choked and a bit on the dirty side, the Lower Mill Pond has an eco-system of its own that thrives in the shadows of the Eastworks building on East St.

Beaver—displeased with our presence, splashed their tails in front of us as we paddled silently across the murky water. We were rewarded with the sight of them swimming underwater or jumping through the air to circumnavigate us. Water rats swam around us, intent on escaping into the underbrush of the shore. Osprey flew overhead, lonely and dejected waiting for something to happen. Dragon flies buzzed us repeatedly. As the sky darkened, fire flies emerged, setting off a brilliant display of tiny LED’s. By 9:30 p.m. the sky became pitch black and the fireworks began. We paddled out to the best viewable area and drank our libations in silence as the fireworks ricocheted around the pound and off the Eastworks building. It was wonderful and weird. We had the pond to ourselves (at least free of humans) and it was spectacular. I would suggest to anyone to have the same experience next year.

A walk through downtown Chicopee

Not much has changed since we first filmed this in 2003. In fact the only change has been the mayor, from Goyette to Bissonette (ironic how similar the last names are). Someone should bitch about this.

Lloyd Cole @ the Brass Cat, Easthampton, MA, July 14, 2007

Sometimes life here in the Valley is so sweet. Imagine this: in 1984 Lloyd Cole and the Commotions released my all-time favorite recording, Rattlesnakes. This was the soundtrack to my teen years living in Boston. I memorized the lyrics, track listings and credits (and if need be—would recreate the album cover photo). Yes, I am a fan and will do nothing here but praise Lloyd Cole. There was a tiny listing in the Hampshire Gazette that Cole would be playing the Brass Cat. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief as Cole lives in Easthampton and has not played out here in years. Sure, whatever. As the hour approached, I stood outside the Cat, nervously pacing and braced myself for disappointment. The first person I saw in the bar was Cole chatting at the pool table with a local. Dressed for the PGA tour, his shock of black hair now graying, I nearly melted down. Should I approach him? No, not drunk enough. I perched myself on a barstool and observed his every movement. Christ, I’m a celebrity stalker. I grew anxious waiting for a sign that he would approach the Cat’s ridiculously tiny stage. Then anger. Anger over the locals ruining my religious moment with their loud voices, pool playing and Red Sox game on all three televisions. Without fanfare, Cole stepped onstage, tuned his acoustic guitar and began to strum “Perfect Skin.” I grabbed a stool and planted it right in front of the stage. Ten other people stared in rapt attention. Despite Cole's stripped down versions, I heard Anne Dudley’s strings, I heard Blair Cowan’s keyboards. I was 18 again, and in love and alive. Cole played a number of songs from “Rattlesnakes,” often hitting the high notes that were a trademark of that recording. His between songs patter was minimal and often apologetic about being an aged singer. Cole could’ve cleared his throat for an hour and that would’ve been fine by me. Cole covered two Tim Hardin tunes, a Dylan tune and of course, “Chelsea Hotel” by Leonard Cohen. His finger-picking and vocals were spry and graceful. He asked the audience to pick some tunes and my voice went mute as I wordlessly mouthed “Brand New Friend.” In the end, it was “Undressed.” Forty minutes into the set and it was all over. Cole walked off stage and packed his guitar up. I wiped the dampness out of my eyes and fled the Brass Cat.

Eric Suher--Ghost of the Present

We are asking our readers for an all out appeal: please find pictures of Eric Suher, the mogul of Western MA entertainment and real estate. We must have a pix of Suher's baseball-capped dome. Submit your photo's here.

The Legendary Ron Hall, late of WHMP, Northampton

There’s a song by the defunct Boston-based band, Big Dipper called, “Ron Hall.” The song has nothing to do with the enigmatic, legendary Northampton broadcaster Ron Hall formerly of WHMP. Yet, when I think of Ron Hall, that’s the soundtrack I hear. Big Dipper’s song was nervous and edgy. It was about a man who wrecked his house in the end. My Ron Hall was my neighbor for over a decade. He lived next door to me and kept to himself with his wife Barbara and their dog, a Scottish Terrier whose name eludes me. They actually had a succession of Scotties, all buried in a small patch of ground beside the apartment they lived in for years.

Ron and his wife were ghosts, specters who flashed in the night at weirdest moments—usually awkward ones. Despite my erratic lifestyle, they never complained of the noise, the crowd that revolved around me, or the late-night door banging, “open up, I know you’re in there!” They went about their mysterious business as if my life was no imposition on theirs—and it was. All things balance out. My life may have been erratic, but their life was simply put…weird. They lived in a sparsely furnished two room apartment with no air-conditioning and barely a fan in the dog days of summer. In the winter they were always bundled up—even in their apartment. At all hours of the day they would tramp up and down the stairs with their dog, going for walks or sitting in their car in the parking lot with the engine idling for long periods of time.

I moved to 158 King Street in Northampton for the first time in 1993, and then again in 1994 where I took up residency till 1998, and then again in 1999 till 2002. Ron and Barbara were constant tenants having lived at 156 King Street for nearly a decade. They moved once—next door (my old place at 158 King Street).

It was a self-contained building that offered nothing except a roof top patio that Ron would frequent in the summer—nude sun-bathing. His wife always wore a heavy coat whatever the weather and had a pallor of death about her. They entertained no one, cooked nothing but broccoli for themselves, and watched QVC constantly. One infamous encounter with Ron occurred when I cleaning my kitchen floor. He knocked on my door and asked if I was cleaning with something, I said “Ajax.” He replied, “I guess we’ll have to move.” I countered this with, “I won’t use it anymore if it bothers you.” He didn’t reply and vanished.

I had one encounter with Ron that was deep and meaningful. Augesten Burroughs’ book Running with Scissors had just come out. I asked him if he knew some of the characters in the book. He knew Dr. Turcotte (the “Dr. Finch”) and characterized him as someone far buggier than Burroughs’ depiction. He told me that Alphonse Turcotte was brilliant and an enfant terrible, and nobody crossed crazy like him. I was floored. Ron fingered somebody as crazy—he actually entered judgment about somebody other than himself. Who could be weirder than he and his wife in my book—nobody.

You see, Ron said little to anyone. While I judged him like crazy, Ron did nothing of the sort. He offered nothing in the way criticism. He never had an unkind word for anyone, or complained about the shit end of the stick that he had been given at WHMP. And boy, did they give him the shit end of the stick.

Ron was the anchor of the morning drive. He tirelessly reported on his off hours for a mere sound-bite of whatever was going on in Hampshire or Franklin County. For his efforts they cut his on-air time, benefits and livelihood. By the early 2000’s, Ron’s career was in jeopardy. WHMP had been bought out by a mega-corporation. They had no compunction about letting this weirdo go. He was buying time, day-by-day. He didn’t fit their mega-conglomerate expectations and he knew it. When the word came down that changes were to be made at WHMP, Ron had the clarity of mind to resign and move on.

Chicopee's Rivoli Theater--Another Disappointment

In the late 70’s as a child growing up under extraordinary circumstances (religious extremism and an alcoholic parent), my only healthy outlet besides fishing and a paper route was to attend viewings of films at the Rivoli Theater in Chicopee. Generally the fare was the latest crop of kid-friendly films, such as Benji, Pippi Longstocking, and Star Wars. While my memory is shaky at best, there were other viewing possibilities such as a documentary on Noah’s Ark (endorsed by my parents) and some weird supernatural film about an American Indian boy who turns into an eagle.

The theater was a respite from an unsettled life, its panoramic view of stars and constellations on the ceiling, its delicious concession stand, and its momentary freedom from adult supervision was a tonic to my soul. I recall the visage of the theater as Chicopee’s only impressive landmark that guided my path between downtown and home. In those days, kids were routinely allowed free range to move about—predators did not dominate our consciousness. For a mere two dollars, an afternoon of respite from adults and reality was yours to be had. Mrs. Old-Lady-in-a-Hairnet would take your money and give you a ticket to another world. Once ensconced in the moldy velvet seats, feet sticking to gum, soda and other materials, the movie would begin—magic ensued.

Benji was a seminal movie for me. It encapsulated all that I aspired to—having a dog whose intellect outshined all the stupid adults that I knew. Plus, he was furry and kind of gnarly. I bought every sort of ephemera connected to that damn dog, from mugs to books that serialized Benji’s super-“human” exploits. At the tender age of ten, Benji was the shit. I related to Benji’s adventures, connecting on a molecular level to eating garbage out of dumpster, and dressing in drag for the sake of a giggle. Benji was the cold war answer to the Super Powers—a dog who could escape villains, become invisible at a moment’s notice, or shape-shift when needed (I made that up). Benji’s dojo was Joe Camp, an irascible animal trainer with a hobo’s beard who had trained previous television animals to stardom. Camp believed that Stalin was the biznitch and that any animal employed in the service of socialism could move a million marchers towards the goal of communism. I lie. He had nothing to do with that. Benji was not subversive. Benji was camp—the evil opposite of subversive. But I digress.

The Rivoli began to wind down in the early 80’s, and settled into an abandoned repose. There were a few attempts at resuscitating the beloved, grand theater—but with all things Chicopee, those overtures were rebuffed. The residents of Chicopee found no use for culture, atmosphere and tradition. Their interests were lower taxes, free parking lots and electing a succession of bad politicians in a row. Like any sensible individual, I moved away from Chicopee’s rapid decline and moved to a large cosmopolitan city that had Friday night viewings of the Rocky Horror Picture Show and public transportation. The Rivoli was all but forgotten in my mind, and rarely did Benji cross my radar.

Fast forward to 2000’s and hark! word on the street is that developer Konrad Wargulewski of New York City has purchased the theater and the building it houses. Since that purchase, the new owner has re-modeled the office spaces, done some structural renovations to the theater’s façade, stalled with further renovations to the theater in the hopes of garnering some capital from other sources. In the meantime, Mr. Wargulewski has conceptualized his vision of restoring the theater to its original luster by creating a “European” style nightclub, which would also screen films. According to Mayor Mike Bissonnette, “Chicopee is Western, Massachusetts’s best kept secret,” and that’s just the way city leaders would like to keep it, if the current slow pace of the Rivoli’s renovation is any indication.

Who needs progress or a European style dance club if no one cares? According to the Reminder, “The Rivoli, when it re-opens will have a capacity for 1,480 people. The facility will have a second floor mezzanine and Konrad Wargulewski explained that is why the excavation took place: to prepare a place for the footings to hold the second floor structure.There will also be a VIP lounge that will hold 88 people in the plans he showed the mayor. Konrad clearly wants the new theater to reflect its past. The poster boxes will be refinished and used again. He will install 215 permanent seats and they will be part of the theater's original 1,280 seats. He has restored the theater's ticket booth, which was tightly wrapped with cloth and tape. Pointing to a water fountain, he said that would stay as well. He has removed the vintage movie projector and had it refurbished as well. Although the ceiling has been removed, the theater's trademark stars are still there and will be retained, he said.”

That being said, Chicopee like any other urban downtown, needs ample parking space as it does not rely on subways, buses or trolleys (much less horses and bicycles), and this pie-in-the-sky notion that a hip nightclub will transform Chicopee center is at best, the worst business plan in the world or drunk talk.

It took nearly a decade before our intrepid Polish developer began to conceptualize his vision of his new property. It’s been several years since the first phase of renovations of the Rivoli took place. I suspect, like anything else involving the moribund downtown Chicopee area, with this project there will be a collective scratching of the head…“whatever happened to the Rivoli Theater?”