THE STOLEN KISS THAT NEVER FADES

 What a blast to move to New York from  Wexford town - the size, the bustle, and the sheer moxie of the city, but also the originality and diversity of the music!

You could see and hear something different every night, often brilliant, usually thought-provoking.

 

Pierce Turner and I went out every night. The streets were our oyster. All you needed was the price of a tallboy and a stoop to perch on. New York provided the rest.

With time, Irish accents, and the acquisition of some much-needed chutzpah, we learned how to bluff our way into shows from CBGB to Carnegie Hall.

CB’s was easy. Turner & Kirwan of Wexford was the first band to play there. Owner, Hilly Kristal, had seen us fill the back room of the Bells of Hell, and hired us to play opening night at his new emporium on the Bowery. 

If you played CBGB and drew people, you were inevitably invited to gig at Max’s Kansas City on Park Avenue South, and that opened up the Mudd Club on White Street and Hurrah uptown.

Max’s was my favorite. If you played the upstairs room, then you were welcome to attend any night, as long as there was room – and there always was, as people continually came and went in search of friends or excitement.

Remember, there were no cell phones or texts – doormen and bartenders let you know who was there, who had been, and where they were heading.

The nights were long, closing time stretched past 4am, and if you were still standing, then the inevitable fashionable or seedy after-hours beckoned.

There was no sitting at home, staring into a screen, hoping for clicks or likes, just hot happening streets - sweaty or freezing - in the nightlife capital of the world. 

 

Your repeated presence granted you membership of the scene, and nights you were gigging you too became an act worth checking out.

Should you get a review or a mention in the Voice, the Post (particularly Page 6), the Times, or a myriad of magazines, so much the better; but remember, the media was also on the prowl looking for interesting content. Get a spin or two on WNEW, WLIR or WFMU, and you were really happening. 

You just had to have stamina, a thirst for adventure, and some form of originality that made you stand out - for better or worse.

There were fun nights too, and without cell phones and websites it was a lot easier to pull off the occasional scam.

One night in the late ‘70’s, Turner and I were invited to the Palladium by music insider Neil Stocker to see The Boomtown Rats on their first NYC appearance. The show was great, Geldof was in top arrogant form, when Stocker suggested we crash their party at the very toney One Fifth Restaurant in the Village. He called ahead from a pay-phone to say that the Rats were on their way.

On our arrival sporting our best Dublin accents, Stocker introduced us to the manager of One Fifth who insisted we try his new creation of Rat/Champagne and Guinness.

Our guests soon began to file in and wave to us as we imbibed pints of this magical mix. 

Soon the room was throbbing with the usual hangers-on and first-night scavengers, none of whom apparently knew the Rats or what they looked like.

Well sated from the Champagne/Guinness concoction, we were about to beat a retreat when the manager corralled us and declared, “Time to meet your guests.”

And so we three stood behind a velvet rope and accepted busses, handshakes and congratulations. Suddenly Debbie Harry materialized. She leaned into me smiling, and murmured in “Heart of Glass” tones, “You were wonderful on stage tonight.”

Someone pushed her from behind and she melted into my arms. I leaned closer and we kissed magically and without haste. Then she was gone, another face in a first-night crowd.

By the time Geldof arrived we had greeted most of his guests, and managed to stay a step ahead of him all that long night. My last sighting was of him surrounded by his handlers outside Studio 54 arguing with the puzzled bouncers that “The Rats have NOT been here already, we just stepped out of that bloody limo!”

Ah well, just another of those analog nights – long before the dawn of clicks and likes. But, oh, that stolen kiss still feels magical!

FROM HERBERT HOOVER TO DONALD TRUMP - TARIFF MASTERS

The word on the street in Queens was, “Donny couldn’t organize a two car funeral.”

Anyone could be forgiven one bankruptcy, but six was stretching a point. The guy couldn’t even turn a buck on his casinos.

And now he’s gambling that universal tariffs will bring the world to its knees. He may well be right – but at what cost?

Herbert Hoover was the last president to play the great tariff game. He too was hoping to protect and encourage American industries, but instead he turned a recession into a raging depression.

President Trump had no recession to grapple with. Less than 4 months ago he was handed a first class economy by President Biden.

Now, I’m no ageist, but why have we elected the two oldest American presidents?

Mr. Biden’s family and advisers had for long obscured his age issues, before all was sadly revealed in the presidential debate.

This led to the reign of an even older President Trump whose cock-and-bull ideas are matched only by his megalomania.

Did you catch any of a recent televised cabinet meeting? It would have put Mussolini to shame.

There sat The Donald, head nodding in sated appreciation, while cabinet members took turns eulogizing his “awesome first-100 days.” 

The only irony is that most of these sycophants will receive their pink slips in the course of this administration. Loyalty flows but one way for the man from Queens.

Not one speaker had the courage - or common sense - to question Mr. Trump’s inane belief that tariffs can eventually replace income tax in funding the US Government.

But given that the Trump cabinet is stocked with doting sheep, are we lost?

Far from it, megalomania to the rescue! Mr. Trump does not believe in taking any blame for his actions. See how quickly he folded when stocks, bonds and the almighty dollar shuddered on “Liberation Day.” A 90-day postponement of excessive tariffs was hastily called, and now it looks as though the EU will be forgiven their tariff negotiation transgressions.

And so the farce will continue, two steps forward, one step back like a drunken bridegroom adrift on the dance floor.

We, however, will be left to pick up the pieces. The trust destroyed by our president’s embarrassing behavior to friends and neighbors will not return automatically. Global economic slowdowns leave all sorts of scars.

Meanwhile, Canadians are boycotting US goods and forsaking their annual winter sojourns in the Sun Belt. Europeans too are steering clear of us – including the Irish. Soho boutiques, once awash with fashionable Chinese are feeling the pinch, and who’d want to be a foreign student, now that the Ugly American has been unleashed and is on the prowl for any hint of college dissent?

Stephen Miller’s “flooding the zone” strategy - government by executive order, attack dogs unleashed at all manner of “radical liberal” threats - is working for now. 

But judges are challenging many of these directives, and a constitutional crisis is on the way. 

Eventually the Supreme Court will have to choose between loyalty to Trump or the constitution.

It seemed for a moment that colleges and white shoe law firms were buckling under the bullyboy pressure, but Harvard and more principled lawyers have drawn lines in the sand against a presidency that Donald Trump has transformed into a weapon of grievance and revenge.

Americans will soon have to decide if due process is a bedrock of our constitutional democracy or are we willing to sacrifice it at the whim of a convicted felon?

One figure should not be forgotten - the national debt of over $36 Trillion. Most of the Trump Tax Cuts of 2017 are now up for renewal. The president is also proposing new fiscal enhancements, including no tax on tips. 

Over 10 years these gifts could cost $4.5 Trillion, less a hoped for $1.5 Trillion in cuts to current expenditures. The balance could add $3 Trillion to the National Debt.

A frightening thought, especially if interest rates should rise to counter expected inflation. What happened to the legion of principled Republican deficit hawks? Did Donald clip their scolding wings?

But ultimately President Trump’s fate may depend on more prosaic figures, like the price of eggs, gas or the cost of a new car, as the 2026 midterms loom closer.

In the meantime, keep your tattoos covered. You too might qualify for an extended vacation down in the Trump Due Process Hostel in sunny El Salvador. 

LACE CURTAIN VERSUS SHANTY AT THE AMERICAN IRISH HISTORICAL SOCIETY

The divide between lace curtain and shanty had pretty much disappeared by the time I hit New York in the 1970’s. That being said, the clientele of the original Irish Pavilion on 57^th Street bore little resemblance to those of us who frequented the many Blarney Stones that dotted the city.

Free love, dime bags, and the general couldn’t-give-a-damn attitudes of the 1960’s had swept away many social barriers. Guys like me who dwelt in lowly tenements on the Lower East Side were welcomed to such temples of culture as the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Frick up on toney Fifth Avenue. But never once did I think of approaching the lace curtain fortress of the American Irish  Historical Society across the avenue from the Met.

There was an air of “keep your distance” about this gilded age mansion. I occasionally wondered about it, for I was interested in Irish-American history, but like most others I gave this forbidding, and seemingly forbidden, ivory tower a pass.

Then some years back Brian McCabe became Chairman of the AIHS Executive Council and Sophie Colgan assumed management of events. These two dynamic New Yorkers took over the day-to-day administration of the building and threw the doors wide open. It was a new beginning and many of us organized or took part in events. It was then I came to appreciate the beauty and stateliness of the mansion.

But I was never able to discover how many valuable original documents are contained within the hallowed walls of 991 Fifth Avenue, though I did hear rumors of a vast collection of rare books among the “10,000 or so” volumes in the building. The AIHS has never been known for its specificity.

Despite their trojan work Brian and Sophie were eventually dismissed and in 2021 the building was put on sale for $52 million along with a proposal to transfer the archives to Cooperstown. Perhaps room for Irish-America’s heritage had been found within the Baseball Hall of Fame?

A general uproar ensued, the sale price was reduced, and eventually the building was taken off the market.

In 2022 New York Attorney General, Letita James intervened, and in 2023 a “permanent” board of directors was appointed, along with a new executive director, Dr. Elizabeth Stack.

Hallelujah! I knew Elizabeth from her sterling work as Executive Director of the Irish American Heritage Museum in Albany. She had transformed that organization and was a popular cultural figure throughout the Capital Region.

The AIHS appeared to be in safe hands and Elizabeth set to her task of reopening 991 Fifth Avenue with her customary transparency and vivacity. The Irish Rep resumed their wonderful immersive Yuletide production of James Joyce’s The Dead, many readings, lectures and exhibitions were held, and though cash flow – the bane of most non-profit establishments – was a problem, there was a general air of optimism about the future of the AIHS. What could go wrong?

Oh, something as simple as another dismissal notice, this time of Dr. Stack, along with the resignation of a sizeable portion of the “permanent” board. Then, to add a little farce - a Dickensian changing of locks. Talk about Bleak House!

So where do we stand? As ever with the opaque AIHS, who knows? There is talk of a lawsuit over an unpaid $3 million loan, and the necessity of selling the building so that the organization might be salvaged.

To my mind that would go against the spirit of Irish-America. With hard work, miracles can happen. Remember back in 2008 the rescue of St. Brigid’s Church on Avenue B from the wrecking ball?  That too seemed impossible until a sainted anonymous donor provided $20 million. 

Regardless, the road to recovery should begin with the immediate reinstatement of Dr. Stack. All who have met her – except, apparently, some “permanent” board members – have been impressed by her hard work, and devotion to the organization and the building. 

But if, in the end, the mansion must be sold, then so be it. Another building can be leased, or even bought, in a less pricey area of the city where the digitized archives, library, paintings and other treasures can be opened to the public.

Perhaps then the AIHS can finally fulfill its original mission, “to place permanently on record the story of the Irish in America” - be they shanty or lace curtain.