Notes on Notes

Rev. Braxton's timely resignation from Riverside Church

The following was in response to a Times City Room post: 

It's been a race thing for a while;  Rev. Forbes, who got the position by a single vote, delayed announcing an agenda till the oldliners got fed up and left (taking their money with them).  Then he got on the radio and advertised "Riverside Church in Harlem."  There are good black ministers out there, and there should have been a ground swell for one of them, but the RSC blacks were so glad to be "in this space now," as one said, that there wasn't enough majority to jettison Rev. Forbes, who was fine with whites one-on-one, but dogmatic, tedious and not too educated in the pulpit.

The divisive Rev. Braxton was downward from there in terms of elegance, command and (only-this-or- that-group-will-be-saved) dogma.  As for his inflated salary ,Jon Stewart on the Daily Show, responding to the Wall St. CEO who said you had to give giant bonuses in order to get the best people, put it best:  "You don't HAVE the best people!"

Let RSC get a better black minister--it should be easy, but if that's not possible, let it backtrack to the days of putting quality ahead of race.

Sunday is a Slow Day in Strip Bars

An article in The New York Times, Hungry in New York? Buy a Beer, reminded me of the Glory Days in the mid-1970's, singing double services at St. Bartholomew's (Our Lady of the Waldorf Astoria).  A choir member found a gay leather bar that was totally dead on Sundays (I don't know what they did on that pool table Saturday nights), so they were happy to serve us a hearty lunch and a drink.  Our group increased, and they'd put out a long table.  It was very jovial.

One day I discovered another place, where the food was free.  What happened then follows, in a vignette I wrote down at the time:

Walking along East 53rd Street between services, I saw a sign that said "Free Lunch." I went in to inquire. It was dark, with the bar near the entrance and the restaurant in back. No, said the bar girl, there was no cover, no minimum.

"What's the catch?" I asked.

"Well, the drinks are expensive––three and a quarter."

"How's the food?"

"During the week, we have chicken and canneloni and a lot of swell things, but on Sundays the kitchen is closed, so there's just hot dogs and pizza."

"Okay, there's a bunch of us who sing Sunday church services near here. Supposing we came in for unlimited hot dogs and pizza, and maybe a couple of us order a drink. You mean we wouldn't be hassled?"

"No, I'm sure that would be fine."

Meanwhile, I squinted into the darkened restaurant. On the center table was a completely, totally naked girl--she may have had high heels on--gyrating around with her elbows and knees on the table. A bunch of guys sat at the table looking up and studying her as if they were in economics class. I asked, "No charge for this either?"

When I got back to church for the afternoon service, I told the group I'd found a new brunch hangout. The very next night, what was on the news but the cops busting this very place, dragging out girls in trench coats and kerchiefs, trundling them into a Black Maria. The girls were talking into the reporter's mic through their upturned collars: "We didn't do nothing wrong."

Sure enough, next Sunday when the choir group and I got to that place for our free brunch, there were signs plastered all over: KEEP OUT. CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE MAYOR. No free lunch.

One of our singers had a kazoo full of pot and passed it around as we strolled back to the gay leather bar where we usually went for a drink, omelet, muffins and coffee--all for $2.50, because Sunday is a slow day in strip bars.