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CONTAINER DIARIES

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Category Archives: Pat Fenton

THE STREETS

14 Thursday Nov 2019

Posted by Steve in 17th street, Blog, Pat Fenton

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

Container Diaries, Prospect Park West

My main man Pat Fenton from 17th street takes us back, back into time…

https://mrbellersneighborhood.com/2014/12/the-last-winter-dance-party-of-america?fbclid=IwAR2Bt7jXQhNEDz2j980GZ9tKvbH6SoBsh-b3re-3dJ-Sri4861w1qzAvENk

It’s 1957, and the three of us, Jacky,Vinnie from 19th Street, and me, are doing this Brooklyn strut sort of a walk down Eastern Parkway.  Vinnie is a thief.  He will steal anything he can get his hands on, doesn’t matter who owns it.  That’s just the way he is.  But there’s something cool and hip about him.  He has an Emerson portable radio in his arms and he’s talking about the rock and roll music that he listens to way down at the other end of the radio dial where the black stations are, where most white boys don’t go…

PPW sign

THE SHOW

02 Tuesday Jan 2018

Posted by Steve in Blog, Brooklyn, Container Diaries, Farrell's Bar & Grill, Pat Fenton, Stoopdreamer

≈ 2 Comments

My main man Pat Fenton has done it…Pat is a terrific writer (he’s been an huge inspiration for me while I scribble down my experience growing up on 9th avenue.)

Pat’s an old-school neighborhood guy from 17th street. He wrote StoopDreamer, a play about the lingering effects of gentrification that takes place in Farrell’s Bar & Grill.

In 1945 Robert Moses began a massive roads project (the prospect expressway) that would displace 1,252 families from Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn.

Stoopdreamer

This Saturday, January 13, 2018 at 8pm and Sunday, January 14, 2018 at 3pm at Shepherds Hall in Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn (245 Prospect Park West / 9th Ave, Brooklyn NY 11215) the Holy Name Fundraising Committee, playwright Pat Fenton, Park Slope Films, director Aimee Todoroff, and Elephant Run District present two Dramatic Readings of StoopDreamers by Pat Fenton in the Brooklyn neighborhood where the play is set.

Pat dreamed of the play being performed in Windsor Terrance.

“I thought it would be a great way to get people together that grew up knowing about Farrell’s Bar, the Windsor Terrance neighborhood and long time owner Eddie Farrell. This became one of the main reasons for these performances, as well as a fundraiser for Holy Name Church, a portion of the process will go to Holy Name.”

The ticket price is $30. Pre- show will have a cash donation bar set up with beer and wine.

For more info and tickets- https://www.eventbrite.com/e/holy-name-presents-stoopdreamer-tickets-41474053009

Atta boy Pat…

-Red

Hoops135@hotmail.com

 

GRACE. DIGNITY AND STYLE

07 Sunday May 2017

Posted by Steve in Blog, Pat Fenton

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

Christopher Morley Park, Container Diaries, The Ice Cream Man

My guy Pat Fenton with a tremendous piece on his brother, “The Ice Cream Man.”

IMG_2074

http://www.newsday.com/opinion/the-ice-cream-man-of-christopher-morley-park-1.13571487

His drinking days were over now. They neared their end one night after he took a severe beating when someone followed him home and robbed him when he was drunk. When the eye swelling went down, he put on the last suit he owned and went looking for a job. He didn’t get it.

-Red

Hoops135@hotmail.com

JACKY MALONE

27 Thursday Apr 2017

Posted by Steve in Blog, Pat Fenton

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

17th street, Brooklyn, Container Diaries, Farrell's, Holy Name, Jacky Malone

By Pat Fenton

The following piece was posted on Pat’s Facebook Page…

The obituary in the upstate New York newspaper called him John “Jack” Malone.

It had a few facts about his life underneath his picture. Nothing much though, really.

It didn’t say that for 40 or more years he walked in the back door entrance to Farrell’s bar on the corner of 9th Avenue and 16th Street and sat where he always did at the very end of the bar. Always at the same spot.

Jacky Malone

It didn’t call him Jacky Malone. That’s what I always called him. We hung out together. He lived next door to me at 481 17th Street. I lived, and grew up at 483 17th Street. I knew more about him than probably some of his family. And he knew more about me than probably some of my family. He was like an older brother to me. Always giving me good advice. And all my life that street, that Irish working-class street filled with tough guys and lovers where we grew up kept coming back into my life. It always pulled me back.

It still does.

It was like the writer Peggy Noonan once said about Catholicism: “at some point, if you are lucky, being Catholic lands like a harpoon in your heart. You can swim away with that harpoon in your heart forever, but you will be pulled back.” Windsor Terrace is like that. Probably one of the last neighborhoods like that.

Recently, I was pulled back to 17th Street and Windsor Terrace for what turned out to be an Irish wake for Jacky Malone. It took place in Farrell’s Bar on the corner of 16th Street and 9th Avenue. Jacky Malone missed out on what the writer Denis Hamill once called a “marvelous three –cushion shot in the same zip code, Smith’s Funeral Home, Holy Name Church, and Greenwood Cemetery.”

Smith’s Funeral home, which was in Windsor Terrace for almost a hundred years, is closed now. From what I hear they turned part of it into a Dunkin Dounuts. But he got part of it. He got an Irish wake, something that never happens anymore in Windsor Terrace. “Hipsters”, the new people, don’t know much about Irish wakes. And I don’t imagine they really care about them.

Jacky’s sister, Snooki Malone, and her family brought his ashes down from Lake Luzerne in upstate, New York where he retired to a few years ago, and they had a funeral mass for him in Holy Name Church. After mass they all walked down 9th Avenue to Farrell’s Bar, like we used to do years ago after wakes and funerals from Smith’s. And they brought Jacky’s ashes with them.

After moving through the crowd of the bar with my wife Patricia and Gladys Mastrion , who also grew up on 17th Street, I didn’t notice until later that his ashes were placed in the very same spot he drank in for so many years. I ordered some drinks, stared into the long row of mirrors behind Farrell’s Bar that me and Jacky once stared into when we were so young, and then Gladys picked up her glass and the three of us walked down and tapped our glasses against Jacky’s ashes at the end of the bar.

CHILDREN PLAY…IN THE PARK

25 Saturday Feb 2017

Posted by Steve in 17th street, 1959, 1970, 1977, 19th Street, 8th avenue, Advice, Blog, Bruce Davidson, Fight, Five Balls of Life, Friends, Gladys Mastrion, Hang out, Pat Fenton

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

Container Diaries

USA. New York City. 1959. Brooklyn Gang.

USA. New York City. 1959. Brooklyn Gang.

HAMILL, BRESLIN AND FENTON

25 Monday Apr 2016

Posted by Steve in Jimmy Breslin, Pat Fenton, Pete Hamill, Windsor Terrace

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

Beer, Eddie Mills, Farrell's, Holy Name, Sunday Afternoon, Writing

As a writer, I am always looking for inspiration.

Growing up in Windsor Terrace it’s not hard to find material to write about. And it helps to have other writers to read (both good and bad) to be inspired to write.

Pete Hamill

Have a look at some outstanding work by our guy Pat Fenton.

Click the link below for a wonderful piece in the Irish Echo on a documentary they are putting together about Pete Hamill and Jimmy Breslin.

http://irishecho.com/2016/04/a-sunday-afternoon-in-farrells/

MY MAIN MAN

31 Thursday Dec 2015

Posted by Steve in Blog, Farrell's Bar & Grill, Pat Fenton

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Happy New Year

A message from Pat Fenton:

A most happy New Year to all my friends out there. May it be a good one for all of you. And may you be with someone you love this night, champagne in hand. And hold them tight.

To all my writing friends, may you write well.

And to my actor friends, I hope you find yourself walking the boards when the year is still young.

Glasses up to the Nancy Manocherian and the Cell Theatre.

A special toast to the wonderful Kira Simring who helped me go a little further into my writing.

And to all the talent at the Cell, Brian Reager, Mackenzie Meeks, Gertjan Houben, Siene Zoe Allen, Louisa Pough, Jane Marie Davis, Samantha Keogh, Sulie Jones, and Marianne Driscoll.

We put up a play together in New York.

Here’s a toast to the folks down at Farrell’s Bar in Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn, one of the greatest saloons and neighborhoods on the face of the earth. And if you don’t believe me, go ask Pete Hamill.

And if any “hipster” ever asks you, what’s so great about that bar? Just tell them, well, the history of the Irish of Brooklyn started there. Proud to say it’s my old parish.

 Please excuse me as I lift a glass, and single out a very special group of actors I worked. They brought life to my words, to my play “Stoopdreamer.”

Bill Cwikowski, Jack O’Conell, Robin Leslie Brown, three stoopdreamers. And here’s to you Janice Joyce, where ever you are this night.

Happy New Year.  

STOOPDREAMER

23 Wednesday Sep 2015

Posted by Steve in Farrell's, Pat Fenton, Prospect Expressway

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

DNAinfo, Leslie Albrecht, Off-Broadway, StoopDreamer

Our guy Pat Fenton is doing some job Off-Broadway.

Local writer, Leslie Albrecht of DNAinfo has the story.

http://www.dnainfo.com/new-york/20150923/windsor-terrace/off-off-broadway-play-explores-windsor-terrace-gentrification

Congrats Pat, you’re an awesome writer.

-Steve

Hoops135@hotmail.com

THE STOOPDREAMER

03 Monday Aug 2015

Posted by Steve in Bill Cwikowski, Jack O'Connell, Pat Fenton, Robert Moses, Robin Leslie Brown, Windsor Terrace

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

Irish Echo, Kira Simring, Nancy Manocherian, Stoop Dreamer, The Cell Theatre

Our guy from 17th street, Pat Fenton:

The following is taken from BroadwayWorld.com

Nancy Manocherian’s the cell will present the World Premiere of STOOPDREAMER, a new drama about the lingering effects of gentrification, by Pat Fenton. Featuring an immersive staging by director Kira Simring, previews begin September 4 with opening slated for Thursday, September 10 as part of Origin’s 1st Irish Theater Festival 2015. NOTE: this limited engagement is produced on an Off-Broadway contract.

Pat Fenton head shot

In 1945, Robert Moses began a massive roads project that would displace 1,252 families (a large percentage of them Irish) from Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn. Now, seventy years later, haunting memories persist as three stoopdreamers gather in the last remaining Irish saloon from that era. In STOOPDREAMER, drinks are poured, stories are shared and secrets are revealed as this trio of Brooklynites imagine a future that might have been.

STOOPDREAMER stars Jack O’Connell, Bill Cwikowski, and Robin Leslie Brown with a production team includes Gertjan Houben (production design), Chris Steckel (assistant production design), M. Florian Staab (sound design), Siena Zoé Allen (costume design), Samantha Keogh (Dramaturg), Louisa Pough (stage manager) and Jane Davis (assistant stage manager

Patrick Fenton was born in Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn on St Patrick’s Day. After eight gritty years as a cargo loader at New York’s Kennedy Airport, Fenton quit to take a civil service job as a Court Officer in Manhattan’s courts, and to continue a freelance writing career as a journalist that has brought him publication in magazines and books, including the New York Times, New York Newsday, The Daily News, New York Magazine, and The Irish Echo. He has worked as a New York City taxi cab driver, bartender, and radio host. He is the author of “Confessions of a Working-Stiff,” an account of a cargo handlers life, which was published in 1973 in New York Magazine. Fenton’s writing has been published in numerous writing anthologies including, “The Irish, a Treasury of Art and Literature,” and the “Book of Irish Americans.”

Kira Simring is the Artistic Director of the cell. A professional director for over 15 years, Kira has worked closely with writers to develop and realize their work. For the past two consecutive years, Kira has been granted The Best Director Award by New York City’s 1st Irish Theatre Festival.

Nancy Manocherian’s the cell is dedicated to creating works to mine the mind, pierce the heart, and awaken the soul. the cell is a not-for-profit collective for artists to incubate and present new work.

Origins 1st Irish Theater Festival is the only festival in the world dedicated to Irish playwrights. The festival, now in its eight year, has presented the work of 122 Irish writers. This year’s festival will take place in ten venues across Manhattan and will run from September 1st to October 4th. http://www.1stirish.org

STOOPDREAMER runs September 4 – 27, Wednesday – Saturday at 7pm and Saturday & Sunday at 3pm. the cell is located at 338 W 23rd St, between 8th & 9th Avenues — accessible from the C & E trains at 23rd Street. Tickets are $25, available at 800-838-3006 or http://www.thecelltheatre.org.

CHRISTMAS IN WINDSOR TERRACE

25 Thursday Dec 2014

Posted by Steve in Pat Fenton

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Billy Coffey, Brooklyn, Prospect Park, Tommy Edwards, Windsor Terrace

A compelling essay from our guy Pat Fenton.

(Originally posted December, 2013)

The snow came hard that winter. It covered 17th Street and all of the rest of Windsor Terrace in a thick, blanket of white. Strings of stark, clear light bulbs hung over rows of Christmas trees in front of Mitchy’s Fruit Stand on Prospect Park West, and over on the corner of Prospect Avenue you could see the outline of the red bricked, Holy Name Church through the swirl of the snow.

It was the winter of 1961 and Billy Coffey was thinking of leaving the neighborhood. He was too young to understand what he would be leaving behind. He was 19 years old now and the 50’s were gone. And with them soon would go places he would never ever see again, places like the Royal Tailors on 5th Avenue where he was measured for his first pair of peg pants, the Shoe Box over on 19th Street, Bill and John’s Bar off the corner of 18th Street, Jack the Wonder Dairy’s grocery store on 17th Street, places like the Globe Theater on 15th Street, and the 16th Street Theater just off of 5th Avenue, and the Venus down on Prospect Avenue, and the Sanders on Bartell Pritchard Square, where he first saw Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis as a kid on a “standing room only” Sunday afternoon.

It was in that long ago time in America when they actually had standing room only in movie houses, and people would announce “this is where we came in”, because, like dreams, the movies went on and on, and on. And it only cost a quarter.

Now, in bars like McNulty’s on the corner of 9th Avenue and 17th Street, men would stare down at the front page of the New York Daily News and read headlines of a wall being built by the Communists between East and West Germany, and news that Russia had built missile launching pads in nearby Cuba, and the headlines said that they were pointed at the United States.

The “Cold War” was becoming something more real now, and you could sense that change was coming to the culture of America. Where once there were empty lots all over Brooklyn where kids ran free as if they were in a rye field somewhere in the country, every square foot of the borough was being built on. And you couldn’t go to Coney Island anymore, too dangerous people said. Men were moving their families out to places like Levittown on Long Island, hoping to hang on just a little longer to the innocence of the fifties that they once knew in Brooklyn.

In early evening, just before the sunset started, he would sometimes go out the back door of the railroad room flat that he lived in at 483 17th Street, and climb up this ladder in the hallway that led to a hatch way. He would push it open and stand on the roof as he looked down toward the magnificent sky over the Brooklyn waterfront.

They called his neighborhood “The Hill” because it was located on the highest point of Brooklyn. You could see the Statute of Liberty from here. Just as the sun went down you could see the bright flicker of its torch and the weathered green of its copper robes. It was so close.

Some evenings he would watch in amazement as a giant cruise ship sliced passed it through the dark green of the water as it headed for the Verrazano Narrows, and far out to sea somewhere. And as he watched it go by he would slide a can of Rheingold Beer out of his jacket and punch a hole in with a can opener, and he would daydream about leaving here.

Maybe in the morning he would go down to Livingston Street to the Draft Board and push up his draft for the Army. He could be gone in a week.

That’s what he was going to do.

Some afternoons he would play this record called, “Far Away Places,” over and over again.

“Those far away places with strange sounding names keep calling, calling to me . . . They call me a dreamer, well maybe I am…”

He had this feeling that he wanted to pack up and leave, to travel, to see places that were far away from Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn. It was such a strong feeling that it scared him sometimes, but he knew that he just had to go.

When he came down from the roof he opened up a pint of Southern Comfort that he had been saving, and he poured some of it into a shot glass. It had a sweet sort of a taste to it that made it go down easy. Too easy. Maybe he would ask them to send him to France or even Germany, he thought. Then he reached over and started playing this song by Tommy Edwards on his record player, “It’s All in the Game.”

“Many a tear has to fall, but it’s all in the game. All in the wonderful game that we know as love…”

The song made him think about Janice Joyce. She was three years older than him, and he loved being around her. She had this dark, black hair and a face so beautiful she could have been a movie star. She used to drive around in this old 1954 Ford Customline with holes punched into the exhaust pipe so the car would make a lot of noise.

There were so many guys in his neighborhood that wanted to be with her, it always amazed him that she would come looking for him up in the old Irish bars of Prospect Park West. He would see her come up to the doorway of McNulty’s saloon wearing this suede jacket with tassels on the sleeves, and she would wave to him to come out, and he would. He would quickly slide his money off of the bar and go off with her.

Since she had so many boy friends, he never understood their relationship, but he didn’t question it either. She would ask him what songs he liked and when he would tell her she would tape them off of the radio for him. One of them was Johnny Cash’s “I guess Things Happen That way,” and Conway Twitty’s “It’s Only make Believe.” Sometimes he would tell her how much he liked it when she wore her hair in an up sweep and the next time he would see her she would tell him she was wearing it that way for him because she knew he liked it.

The closest he ever came to making love to her was one Christmas weekend that the two of them were drinking a pitcher of tap beer in a back booth in Val’s Bar on 10th Avenue and Prospect. They slow danced to the sound of Tommy Edwards singing “It’s All in the Game” from the Wurlitzer Juke box in a corner of the bar, and afterwards she asked him to take her up to the top of Lookout Mountain in Prospect Park.

The two of them walked up the long rows of steps in the darkness of Prospect Park to the top of the mountain where you could see all of Brooklyn lit up in the Christmas night, and Billy reached over and started to kiss her. She pulled him close as he wrapped the hood of her parka around her to keep her face warm. It was such a clear winter night filled with stars, and Billy felt so lucky to be gently holding her face in his hands and staring at her.

As he drank the whiskey, he played the Tommy Edwards song over and over again. A little while later, he stumbled out of the building and made his way down to Helen’s Candy Store on 8th Avenue. He nodded to a few young members of a local street gang called The Jokers. He was about a year older than most of them, but he felt much older than that.

They sat lined up along the soda counter, some talking, some like Bengie just day dreaming as he stared out the front window. Along the wall was a comic book rack with rows and rows of comics like Archie, Daredevil and the Little Wiseguys, Wonder Woman, Plastic Man, last vestiges of the innocence of the 50’s.

All of them were slowly killing themselves by staying in Windsor Terrace, he thought. All of them were facing a life time of Irish working-class jobs in the factory row that lined the nearby Bay Ridge waterfront in a place called, “Industry City.” That’s where many of their relatives worked. That’s where they were headed. Or they could wind up in one of the local factories like National Metal Art on 19th Street where Billy wound up after he dropped out of Manual Training High School in South Brooklyn, eight hours a day of stepping on the pedal of a riveting machine as it slammed a rivet into the hinge of a bathroom hamper. And in the end the boredom and helplessness of it all would lead them to escape somewhere else with drinking in the Saturday night bars of 9th Avenue.

He leaned over the juke box as he punched in Gene Vincent’s,” Be -Bop- A- LuLa.” And then he walked out the door of the candy store and tried to get his balance as he hung onto the side of a car. A group of the Jokers came out of Helen’s candy store and threw his arms over their shoulders and walked him home.

The snow fell softly on them as they made their way up 17th Street. Across the street in Lenahan’s Bar, you could hear muffled laughter and men singing Christmas carols. In his head he kept hearing the words of the song, ”Those far Away Places,” and it saddened him, but he knew that he could never stay here. He knew that he might never see Janice Joyce again. And he was right.

“Those far away places with strange sounding names keep calling, calling to me.”

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