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“Fooling Around with Neil”

Someone on Goodreads wrote of  Lunch in Brooklyn,But where was the fooling around with Neil part??

This was my first published story, in Sassy, July 1992. It takes place in 11th grade, as the small Quaker school years are coming to a close. The story was built backwards from a note my husband had left me one day, of the “going out, back 5ish” variety, where at the end he scrawled something, which could have been “love” or “later,”  I really couldn’t tell. In the context of the note and our relationship, it was insignificant, but what if this were something a boy had written in a girl’s yearbook?

The other day I did a search on the story title and up popped a blog of the same name with a stated (and very much unfulfilled) intention to create a screenplay based on the story. The story was 22 years ago, the blog 10, but who doesn’t like to write something that has been remembered?

Meet Vic Giovanni

Robert-Weinberger-Photo-236x300Well, actually, meet Robert Weinberger. If you like funny, well-written memoirs, especially those set in the 1970s, in Brooklyn, or on Long Island, read this. Vic Giovanni was Robert’s piano teacher, but maybe you took driver’s ed with this guy. Or maybe you knew Lorna, a missed opportunity.

Here’s how this memoir begins:

Vic Giovanni is my new piano teacher.

He is thirty-five, wears Hai Karate aftershave, drives a maroon 1970 El Dorado, and sits too close to me on the piano bench.

For the first fifteen minutes of every piano lesson, Vic Giovanni details his sexual exploits, claiming numerous rendezvous with many Hollywood actresses. He doesn’t use words like hump or screw or other words I know, but boink, buff, bang (his favorite), ball, boff, bleep, and just about anything beginning with the letter b. Every actress he has either boinked or banged.

Vic Giovanni is determined to make me popular with the opposite sex, the chicks. “And chicks dig a guy who can bang those piano keys,” he explains with a wink.

Read the rest at Hippocampus Magazine: http://www.hippocampusmagazine.com/2012/12/sex-drugs-and-vic-giovanni-by-robert-weinberger/

Robert says this of himself: He was raised across the street from the Cyclone roller coaster ride at the world-renowned Coney Island amusement park in Brooklyn, New York. He legally immigrated to the Los Angeles area in his early twenties. His memoirs, “My Letter,” “The Year of Living Nervously,” and “Look Homeward, Brooklyn” have been published in Memoir Journal and Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood. In a previous life, Robert toiled as a publicist for Universal Pictures, working with some of the most recognizable names in the entertainment industry — none of whom will return his phone calls.

A bite of Lunch: underground

“He opens his mouth to say something but the train is picking up speed as we go under the river. We glance at each other without speaking. The empty cars of the CC train rattle through the tunnel. They are gray with yellow walls, dim light, dirty linoleum and slow electric fans. They are like someone’s kitchen in a long dream. When the train pulls into Broadway-Nassau Street, the car fills with miserable people in steaming trench coats. Harry pushes out against the tide of them to transfer to the Lexington Avenue IRT.”

Buy yourself Lunch on Amazon.com

Be the first person to buy Lunch from Amazon.co.uk

I took this picture of an old CC train at the Transit Museum. Either the colors of the carriage walls had changed by the late 70s or I misremembered them by the time this scene was written. Also, the museum has used brighter lighting. The way I remember it, there was always at least one light flickering and it was darker. Underground was like being underwater. Note the porthole window in the door.

No such thing as a free Lunch?

During the month of July, I am taking part in the Smashwords Summer/Winter Sale and offering Lunch in Brooklyn for FREE all month at Smashwords.

Click here for the book page and code. What’s the catch? There isn’t one, just a request: if you like it, be like Heather Locklear and tell a friend.

Have Lunch in Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood

Read a little more of Lunch on Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood.

“The Gift of Tongues” combines the New Yorker’s love of rooftops with the middle schoolers love of the grotesque and overtly sexual.

And in the spirit of NYC 1970s autobiographical realness, here’s a picture of me in 7th grade, holding a light meter for my father, who was a photographer. New Yorkers will recognize the Fox Police locks.

Smells like a ’90s revival

Sassy Editor Christina Kelly aka Fallen Princess has 10 of these vintage Sassy Nirvana stickers to give away. Here’s what you can do to win one:

1) Write a review of Lunch in Brooklyn on Amazon that mentions Fallen Princess.

2) Email the link to your review to the PrincessImage along with a mailing address.

The first 10 people who post a review win.

The girls are back in town

Sassy readers of yesteryear, get on over to Christina Kelly’s blog, Fallen Princess. I did an author Q & A with her!

In addition to Christina’s rants, whims, wit and wisdom, you will also find Andrea, Kim and (I think) Marjorie, fka Margie.

Thanks again, Christina. I am proud to be a “colleague“!

Bad idea

If you are from a certain time and of a certain age, and your parents were hip, but, you know, they were still parents. But they understood. But they were concerned. They knew. But they didn’t know. They knew how it was for them, but not for you. They knew “the score.” They’d say, “if you ever want to experiment with drugs, let us know.” As I type this, I’m asking myself, Really? Did parents in the 70s actually say things like this?  But they did. They really did. We compared notes. They didn’t all say it but enough did. And, you’d be like, Yeah my parents are cool. They said if I ever wanted to try something I should let them know. They understood how kids would want to experiment, but they want me to be safe, you know? I know a lot of people whose parents would say this, but I can’t think of anyone who called their bluff. And I can’t imagine ever saying this to my kids.