Schlockumentaries

HOLLYWOODLAND...growing up with Pinocchio and Bambi

2010-02-15T12:40:00.001-08:00

(This was the view from our apartment on Glen Alden, where I lived with my grandmother, it's where I first learned about Laughing In Hell)

Everyone from Hollywood was in the movies. Everyone! You either lived next door to Clark Gable, like my Grandmother, or went to Hollywood High, where my father met my mother, a rare beauty and accomplished swimmer, when she was ‘discovered’ by Busby Berkely, while doing laps in the pool. And later, as the story goes, she was ‘forbidden’ by my father to become the next Esther Williams. My mother had the right stuff for Hollywood.... I did not. Paradoxically contributing to my feelings of alienation, my parents actually worked at Walt Disney Studios, before AND after “The Great War", during The Golden Years. My father Jack was a film editor, my mother was an airbrush artist doing special effects for "Fantasia" and "Pinocchio", her pal from Hollywood High, Marge Champion, was the Blue Fairy she would brag. Everyday they would have Malomars and drink tea out of china cups while watching the rushes from the films they were making, like "Fantasia", there was even a suggestion box where you could put ideas they would incorporate into the films. (My mother was an airbrush artist and gave me this original cell. In the final film "Pinocchio" is wearing red britches and shoes!) (This is my dad, Jack Bachom, in the center with the white shirt, he was a film editor working here on "Pinocchio" in 1939.)

When the war was over, returning to Hollywood from Washington DC where I was born, a “War Baby”, there was no housing, so we lived in a metal Quonset Hut, in what is now, The Griffith Park Zoo. During the summer months, it was not unlike living in a frying pan. My upbringing had an uneasy and tenuous shroud. There was a temporary aura to the place which exacerbated feelings of loneliness. It had no core, no center, no Times Square. The closest thing, I suppose, was Sunset and Vine. Terry Southern once said of Hollywood, “It’s like they’re waiting to see the dailies and then they are going to strike it.” Night Blooming Jasmine perfumed the crisp, damp, evening air. Rivulets of black asphalt snake across the streets, mending the consequences of a restless earth. These are the imprints from a vague recollection that was my childhood. Eucalyptus and Orange Blossoms. The familiar scents of an otherwise forgotten adolescence.

Johnny Crawford was a Mouseketeer and the object of a ferocious and heartbreaking crush at Cheremoya Grammar School. I would follow him through the labyrinth of canyons, puffing up the 300 granite steps to the foot of the Hollywood sign in hopes of a serendipitous meeting. My labored breathing, from an untreated asthmatic condition, made this odyssey, one of sadly diminishing returns, leaving my 8 year old heart pounding and broken. Twenty years earlier, an aspiring starlet of dubious talent, Peg Entwhistle, trudged those 300 steps and leaped to her death from the “H” of what was then the “Hollywoodland” sign. When I was 5, the ‘land’ was dropped and so it remains to this day. Behemoth palm trees, like perfectly placed bowling pins, defying gravity, always baffled me, as to their origin. They lined Sunset Boulevard all the way to the sea, like some vestige of an Alien culture, left behind for us to ponder. My grandmother told tales of Orange Groves, Great Earthquakes, Fatty Arbuckle and Coke bottles. There was a terrible “sameness” about the place. The temperature never above or below a certain degree. The flatline of ennui.., And then, to be picked up and unceremoniously , thrashed about at a moments’ notice. The hazards of growing up with a trembling earth cannot be measured on any emotional Richter Scale. “Ike” was President. A double bill of “The Incredible Shrinking Man” and “The Man With The Atom Brain” at the Pantages cost a quarter. The price of admission for a swim at Hollywood High School, instead, purloined for this delicious sin, began my life long love affair with the movies. For, if it is anything that I took away from this place, it is that. During The Great Depression, my mother sneaked into the movies and for an hour, it was she, and not Ginger Rogers up there with Fred.

The Red Car Trolley’s still clattered along Hollywood Boulevard. Cachunk, Cachunk. Rhythmically. On occasion they ignited a spark at the coupling of the overhead tracks. Knees aching, on all fours, I reverently placed my childs’ hand into the cold, hard cement of Grauman’s Chinese Theater. First the pinky....ring...middle...index...until my whole body sank into the imprint and for one brief, intoxicating moment, I became Marilyn. Paranoia was abundant in 1950’s Hollywood. “The Red Menace”, formerly, “The Yellow Menace”, crept like some ominous fog, corroding our innocence. J Edgar Hoover, Unidentified Flying Objects, Black Lists, Communist Conspiracies, Fluoride and Polio, created a cauldron of free floating anxiety, smoothing the way for a lifetime of neurosis and phobias. In readiness for the impending and inevitable Nuclear Holocaust, a paroinic double header; the “Duck and Cover” and the “Earthquake Drill,” were the order of the day in Cheremoya Grammar School. For the earth could capriciously, and at any moment, split open and swallow us.. Particularly incidious and sprung upon us with the randomness of the event itself. At the “Brrrrrring” of the school alarm. “Stand in a doorway, away from glass, cover your eyes to protect you from the bright light of the blast!” Which, was rumored to reveal the inner workings of your skeleton right through your arm! The stuff of recurring childhood nightmares, only to be replaced by falling elevator dreams when I moved East. Plopped on the alter of this superficial Gomorrah, I was a stranger in a strange land, never belonging, never fitting in. Too fat, too shy, and always the dread of one who is NOT destined for the silver screen, but nevertheless, by accident of birth.is groomed and rehearsed and prodded and encouraged like some “Children of the Damned”...... “Father, why are we different” The image of a pigtailed 8 year old, freckled and totally talentless Annie Oakley, struggling through, “Doin’ What Comes Natur’lly”, was perhaps my defining moment of humiliation and self-loathing and fodder for the, “wandering-on-the-stage-naked-in-your-school-play-and-forgetting-your lines.” dream. I simply HAD to get out of this place.

To this day, when I go back there and walk into a restaurant and everyone looks up, as they always do, to see if you are ‘anybody’ and when you’re NOT, they return nonchalantly to their Pacific Rim Food, there is a muscle memory response of feeling ‘less than’. I pondered the enigma. It seems that everyone couldn’t wait to get to Hollywood, and I couldn’t wait to get out! Sandi Higgins Bachom "Laughing In Hell" LAUGHING IN HELL: "HOLLYWOODLAND" Growing up with Pinocchio and Bambi

SANTACON NYC 2009: SantaCam's Schlockumentary Santarchy, Empire Diner to Washington Sq Park! My very first Santa Convention 12/12/09

2010-02-14T12:47:00.000-08:00

My first ever Santa Convention was truly a unique sociological experience...about being different and about being the same. As the day progressed, it was the people NOT in Santa Claus suits who were the ones who were "different!"

When I showed this film to my early Alzheimer's patients at the Stein Senior Center's weekly "Schlockumentary Film Festival", Ishmael who hadn't said a word since I met him, piped up...."Is that you?" and brought the house down with, "Is that your husband?" about my drag queen pal, Mink Claus!

Leaving my apartment in full Santa Claus drag, the morning of December 12, was not unlike having sex in an airplane bathroom, and those of you who are members of the Mile High Club and remember piano bars in flight....know what I'm talking about!

As Mink Claus and I met our merry band of Santarchists at the Empire Diner, all bets were off, and anyone NOT in a Santa suit for the rest of the day was a total loser.

I will say this, I have never felt such complete and utter acceptance in joy....in a red suit in my life and can't wait to meet my Ho Ho Ho brothers and sisters again next year!...."Santa's On The Move!"

With love and laughter
SantaCam

"If this dies, New York's soul and heart dies"......"THIS IS MY HOME" say 25,000 residents of PETER COOPER/STUYVESANT TOWN some for 63 yrs! 1/31/10

2010-01-31T20:04:00.000-08:00

I live in Peter Cooper/Stuyvesant Town, one of the greatest kept secrets nestled in the heart of New York City....AND...the biggest real estate default in US history!

I wanted to put a face on my fellow tenants, this is our home, we are not just 25,000 Monopoly pieces, many have lived here since 1947 when it was built for returning WWII veterans and has remained affordable middle class housing since then....that is until Tishman Speyer bought it in the largest real estate deal in US history and now they walked away from us, betrayed us for greed and avarice.

By my calculations, they owe ME about $30,000 in overpayment. We won a landmark case and my market rate apartment was rolled back to Rent Stabilized which could only happen to me, I have the best apartment Karma in the world ....for instance, I've lived on 22nd street in THREE different apartments (moving east) in 40 years!

"THE DUDE ABIDES" a WWII photo, a silver rattle, a 67 year old mystery solved, and the Great Veteran's Day, Facebook Miracle 11/11/09

2009-12-20T11:59:00.000-08:00

This Veteran's Day 2009, I received a message on Facebook along with this photo and the final piece of a 67 year old mystery fit into place. A silver rattle, a missed plane cheating destiny, a photograph and a 'sister' I never met.

Hi Sandi
This may be a long shot, but I was looking up my fathers military service records and found this link that maybe (?) has your Uncle "Dude" Bachom and my father, Edmund Thornton, together in the B-17F Crew of the Zombie back in 1942. They were the two Radio operators on the flight. Apparently the plane crashed and all were presumed killed, although my father did survive only to wind up in a POW camp. If this is not your uncle, my apologies for this note and my presumptions; but if it was your uncle, I wanted to connect with my father on this Veterans day and thought that a hello to one of the family members of his crew would be a small way.

ORVILLE S. WITT CREW - 359th BS

B-17F #41-24566 Zombie (359BS) BN-W

(Lt Witt assigned 359BS: 23 June 1942 - photo: 10 Oct 1942)

(Front - not in order) (E)(KIA)(3), Cpl Edmund R. Thornton (R)

(4), Sgt Thomas F. "Dude" Bachom (Assistant Radio)(KIA)(3)

Lt Witt Crew:Mission #7 303rd Bomb Group, "The Hells Angels", 20 December 1942, in B-17F "Zombie" (359BS) BN-W. Shot down by enemy fighters and ditched in the English Channel- All ten crewmen were Killed in Action.

We discovered, not only were my Uncle Dude and her dad Edmund crew mates, but we solved the mystery of a wonderful photograph that came to us with both of them training in 1942 in Austin, Texas, where I had misidentified the photographer as being in the photo, when in fact it was Katie's dad, Edmund Thornton in the picture below. And she told me that he too was a jokester as was Dude, and that her father had in fact missed the final Zombie mission which claimed my 19 year old uncle, missed because of a chance meeting in the Netherlands with his brother. And in 1943, he was, himself shot down and presumed dead, but instead was captured by the enemy and was a prisoner in the infamous Stalag XVII B in Krems Austria, a German POW camp. His barracks were 35B. And, we discovered the mystery of a missed plane and a life saved, and her very existence.

What a beautiful story two "War Babies" shared and cried about today, of course, we believe, engineered by the 303rd "Zombie" pranksters....Dude and Ed.

Here is the orignal blog....

Photo Taken by Charles Terry: (L) Edmund Thornton (R) Thomas "Dude" Bachom

Five days before Christmas, December 20, 1942, my uncle, Thomas "Dude" Bachom flew his third, and last, mission with the 303rd Bomb Group known as "The Hells Angels" when his B-17 bomber, "The Zombie" was shot down over the English Channel. He was 19 years old.

66 years to the day, December 20, 2008, I just got off the phone with Tech Sergeant Charles Terry, now 87, took this photograph of my uncle, on the right. Not only did he train with my uncle Dude in Austin, Texas, but he was in the B-17 bomber, "The 8 Ball" in front of Dude when he was shot down 66 years ago today!

When I asked the historian of the 303rd Bomb Group, website (http://www.303rdbg.com) if the man who had sent us this photograph 10 years ago might still be alive, he responded with a phone number saying, "Why don't you give him a call and make all our Christmases?"

So, with heart pounding, I dialed the number....

"Hello, is this Charles Terry? This is Sandi Bachom, Dude Bachom was my uncle!" He answered in a sprightly voice as if I was asking him what he had for breakfast....

"That plane was right behind me when it got shot down. I was looking right at it."

"You sent us a photograph of you and my uncle, he had flaming red hair cut in a Mohawk, do you remember that?"

"I sure do." he laughs.

"We used to play cards together. One time we were weathered in, it was raining like crazy. We just got paid, we all played Black Jack and him and I cleaned out everybody, we had money coming out of our ears. He went down the next mission."

"It was TODAY, December 20 and you were in front of him?"

"We had to bail out of our plane that same day too. I was radio operator on "The 8 Ball". Oh, I can still see "The Zombie" in my vision if I close my eyes, it was on fire."

I asked Charles how many from his group were still alive,"Well, I got six Christmas cards this year, all from widows."

Most of the guys, like Charles, signed up December 8, 1941...the day after Pearl Harbor. They were all teenagers.

The story of this photograph is nothing short of a miracle. It is of my Uncle Dude Bachom, (the tall red headed guy with the Mohawk), two months before he was killed on his first mission in WWII, shot down over the English Channel, his body, nor those of the other 9 crew members were ever found.

The "original" photograph, was sent to my then husband, 10 years ago when he forwarded my essay "Flanders Fields" to the 303rd Bomb Group website. It was then we were sent a hand written letter and this photograph of Charles Terry, the man who took the photo along with precious recollections of my uncle, my fathers only and younger brother, who was killed in action two years before I was born, a gift beyond measure.....he not only trained with Dude in Austin, Texas, but he was in the plane in front of him when he was shot down!

The gift of this photograph represents, not only a glimpse into a man whom I never knew, the man whose name is etched on the silver rattle given to me by him when I was born in 1944....two years after his death, but it is frozen forever, the moment..."just before"....

It is finding the words written by my grandmother's cousin, Lt Col John McCrae "just before" he wrote "Flanders Fields". It is the moment "just before" an untimely death, it is the moment "just before" my friend Werner Reich was liberated from Auschwitz, it is the moment "just before" I was hit by a car, it is the moment "just before" my last drink, it is the moment "just before" the inspiration, the art, the creation, it is the moment "just before" firefighters ran into those burning towers....it is September 10, 2001.

"I wish I could embody on paper some of the varied sensations of that seventeen days... Seventeen days of Hades! At the end of the first day if anyone had told us we had to spend seventeen days there, we would have folded our hands and said it could not have been done."
~Lt Col John McCrae, May 2, 1915 Ypres, Belgium

My Grandmother, Catharine MacKenzie McCrae's cousin John, wrote "Flanders Fields" in WWI for a fallen comrade. I wrote the essay below on Memorial Day of 2002 after meeting a man from near Flanders, who had brought his two small daughters all the way from Belgium to pay their respects to Captain Patty Brown and the men of Ladder 3, who lost half their house the morning of September 11.

When he mentioned where he was from, I said a distant relative had written the famous WWI poem, "Flanders Fields". Upon returning, he sent me the story of how the poem came to be.

"On the first of May 1915 the British withdrew from the deepest point of Ypres Salient in Belgium. The Germans taking this as a sign of weakness, took the offensive again in the morning of May 2nd, they overwhelmed the allied forces at the channel leper-Yzer with shell fire. During this bombing a shell came down at the feet of Lieutenant Alex Helmer, 2nd battery, Canadian Filed Artillery) which killed him immediately. WHen the bombing stopped his comrades gathered what was left of his body which was torn to pieces. They put the remains in sandbags and made a rough human form on an old army blanket which they fastened with safety pins. A bit past sundown the same day, Alex Helmer was buried at the quickly increasing ccemetary of Essex Farm. At the burial was also present, Major (and later Colonel) John McCrae. McCrae tried to say some fragments of the Anglican Service for the Burial of the Dead but was so overwhelmed with emotions that he stopped halfway. The exact details of which happened then is a bit confused. However it is certain that within 24 hours McCrae, inspired by the death of his friend, penned one of the most famous poems resulted from the first World War..."In Flanders Fields"

“FLANDERS FIELDS” by Sandi Bachom
Memorial Day 2002

On Memorial Day, as a child, I recall frayed old men in tattered uniforms handing out Red Paper Poppies on the corner of Hollywood and Vine. And as I dropped a dime into the bucket, a donation to the veterans of past wars, I was more enamored with the brightly colored lapel garnish than with any deeper significance.

It was tradition on this day, during the Assembly in the Auditorium of Cheremoya Grammar School, for a poem to be read, “In Flanders Fields”.

Invariably, my grandmother, Catharine Mackenzie McCrae Higgins, would tell me the same story, of how her cousin, John McCrae, had written this poem during WWI. To this 10 year old, there was a modicum of cache attached to the fact that I was a distant relative of so famous a person. But “Ike” was President and we were far enough away from WWII, the ‘last great war’, for any of this to have real meaning for me. And so, it is the Red Paper Poppy that I recall.

As the years passed, Armistice Day, (The 11th Hour of the 11th Day of the 11th Month, marking the end of World War I.), gave way to Veteran’s Day and Decoration Day became Memorial Day, which in turn became ‘The beginning of summer.’

“In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amidst the guns below.”

In all true art, there is no expiration date. Words and music born out of the artists pain, become an immortal and timeless Anthem for the reader. The great gift and healing of art is this harmonic connection with our collective grief, words WE would have written if we could summon them. The perfect words. This is the healing of art. As if to say, “You are not alone. I have gone before you and I have felt your pain and I have survived.” This is the legacy between the lines. Hope.

“In Flanders Fields” was a eulogy for a fallen brother. Although it was written in 1915, its significance and melancholy, ring even truer on this Memorial Day, in which we honor those who have made the ‘supreme sacrifice’ for their country.

My Uncle, Sgt.Thomas F.(“Dude”) Bachom’s, name is carved into the cold marble of the “Wall of the Missing” in Ardennes, France. “Dude” was a radio operator and flew with the “303rd Bomb Group” known as the “Hells Angels.” He was shot down over the English Channel eleven months after he joined what was then known as The Army Air Corps, December 20, 1942, he was 19 years old.

Captain Patty Brown, whom I met only once, was a Marine and Vietnam Veteran with two tours and a Silver Star to his credit. But it was as a Captain of Ladder 3 in the FDNY, that Patrick laid down his life in defense of his country, on September 11, 2001. He was 48 years old.

For the thousands who unwittingly laid down their lives that day and for the countless ‘crosses row on row’, may I share a Red Paper Poppy and this beautiful poem as a prayer, in Memory of all the Blessed Souls who have passed, whom we honor today.

In Flanders Fields
Lt Col. John McCrae
Whose body lies in Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amidst the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

LAUGHING IN HELL: UNCLE DUDE BACHOM'S FIRST AND LAST MISSION: December 20, 1942
belgium, dude_bachom, flanders_fields, mccrae, memorial_day, patty_brown, poem, war, WWI

John Lennon's Birthday October 9, 2001 The Fab Faux at the Bowery Ballroom

2009-12-08T11:28:00.000-08:00

The jovial banter amongst the seniors in the mosh pit at the Bowery Ballroom invariably gets around to, “Where were you when you first heard “Sgt. Pepper?”

Pernell Roberts lived in the tea house of the Yamashira Temple, precariously perched on the top of the world, with the most spectacular view of Grauman’s Chinese Theater and the sprawling Hollywood basin, before it became a cauldron of filled with saffron gas. Someone handed me some head phones and said, “Here, smoke this.” And the world would never be the same again.

John Lennon’s Birthday, October 9, 2001

My friend Will Lee, whom in only ONE of his lives, is the bass player in Letterman's Band (Formerly, "The Most Dangerous Band In The World") has lovingly re-created the Beatles, note for note, in his 'cover' band, The Fab Faux, comprised of some of the greatest musicians in New York City! ( Jimmy "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" Vivino, Rich "Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick" Pagano, Frank Agnello (with a nod to Paul on left handed guitar) and the swooningly cute Jack "Oh Darling" Petruzzelli).

“People ask us why we do this? I mean it’s been DONE,” Will, like a jittery kneed adolescent giggles, “Well, we just happen to believe that it’s the best music written in the past 100 years, that’s all.” The place goes NUTS!

Our numbers, growing exponentially, hundreds of us, gather. Sandwiched in, squashed shoulder to shoulder spilling out of the Bowery Ballroom this crisp October night. Mouthing the words to total strangers as if we are life long friends, which we are. Jumping up and down as in some senior mosh pit. This singleness of purpose brought here because we love this music. It is the score to our lives. I elbow my way closer with my camera, "I'm the Fab-Fauxtographer" I claim, unchallenged by my good natured neighbors.

"What's the word?" Will, in his, “Our Man In Havana” White suit, framed against a huge American flag, serves out. "The word is LOVE!" we lop back in unison. "Grease is the word", Will quips off mic. My friends and I are standing in the front row, as we always are. I think, this must have been what it was like to see the Beatles in the early days, like at The Cavern, as our numbers grow, since I first saw them at the Elbow Room or at the Bitter End the night they performed "Abbey Road" straight through. What a gift. "Eight Days A Week", I scream, as I proudly display my Fab Faux pin I won at "Frank's Trivia Corner". "I've seen every show since 'The China Club' he barks back.

As if some mentalist parlor trick, my 23 year old friend Alexia yells at the first strains of "Happiness Is A Warm Gun".... "White Album, Side One, Cut 8". How the hell did she know that? The Beatles were MY generation not hers. And then I got it. They were all of ours and when my 13 year old son Grant plays "Revolver" over and over, I know that legacy is secure.

But tonight is different, because it was John's birthday and because of the emotion we as a world and we as New Yorkers feel now. A sense of melancholy. The words to these magnificent songs, I have known my whole life, and I know every word to every song, it is in my DNA. There is usually such joy in these evenings. Strangers of different age, jumping up and down, singing every single word to the stranger next to you, punctuating and laughing, "beep beep, mmm, beep beep, yeah". Every generation, "Come Together".

And if you close your eyes, you can hear John plucking out the first notes to "Imagine" on the piano. A hush and sadness blankets the room. The tears just flow, shamelessly, in public as they have so many times in the month since this thing happened, it is the same for all of us. There is no having to explain why my cheeks are wet, because we ALL know why.

In all true art, there is no expiration date. Words and music born out of the artists pain, become an immortal and timeless Anthem. The great gift and healing of art is this harmonic connection with our collective grief, words WE would have written if we could summon them. The perfect words. This is the healing of art. As if to say, “You are not alone. I have gone before you and I have felt your pain and I have survived.” This is the legacy between the lines. Hope.

But now, the words have an extra meaning, as is the case with great art. It becomes deeper, an anthem. As if perfectly written just for this moment and such was the case with this song.

"...Imagine there's no countries,
It isn't hard to do.
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace.......
...You may say that I'm a dreamer,
but I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
and the world will be as one"

As the last chord is played, Will leans into the mic and sweetly, softly with great reverence, I would not be surprised if he too were moved to tears, but it doesn't matter because we are all crying in our hearts.

"That is for everyone in this room. For everyone you every loved......or even hated. And for all the Captain Patty Brown's. I wonder what John would have thought of all this?"

Happy Birthday John and God Bless us All

The smell is burning again today, I am 1 mile north of 'the pile'. I woke up again today with that burning smell wafting through the cracks of my windows. The weather has turned sharply colder and I thought perhaps someone was stoking up their wood burning fireplaces (WBF) of which I have always been so envious, but I'm afraid this is not the case. It is the smell from the Gates of Heaven and Hell, with which we have become all too familiar.

I remove the comfortable vinyl from it’s tattered sleeve, Cut 1, Side 2 of Abbey Road......” Here comes the sun, here comes the sun, And I say, it’s all right.” and my heart fills with tears.

My friends at NING did this blog about Manny's Virtual Wall of Fame! written by Mackenzie Cooper

2009-07-02T20:44:00.000-07:00

Our friends at Ning wrote a piece about The Virtual Wall of Fame for their blog! Check it out:

Manny's Music, a musical instrument store in New York City opened by Manny Goldrich, closed its doors at the end of May after nearly 75 years of business. The store, long known as a landmark and icon, was a frequent stomping grounds for musicians from the Who to Paul Simon to Jimi Hendrix and had over 5,000 photos of musicians covering the walls.

When filmmaker Sandi Bachom heard that Manny's Music was closing, she decided "there had to be a way to pay tribute to such an important chapter in American musical history closing." So she got introduced to Manny Goldrich's granddaughter, Holly, to discuss filming a documentary. After talking it through, they hit upon a new idea: create a social network on Ning "for lovers of Manny’s to share their memories of a place so dear to their hearts," Sandi said.

Sandi and Holly named their social network Manny's Virtual Wall. Their vision was to scan photos from the walls of the music store and film video interviews with some of Manny's regulars to share on the social network, and they quickly began tracking down musicians to interview for the project. The closing of Manny's and the new social network was even featured in the New Yorker.

Videos on Manny's Virtual Wall play an important role. Sandi has interviewed dozens of musicians and Manny's regulars and uploaded them to the social network, from this clip of James Taylor remembering his first visit to Manny's to Paul Simon reminiscing about buying his first guitar there when he was 12 to Tim Robbins discovering his father's photo on the walls of the store shortly before it closed.

"My favorite are the first interviews I did with Henry Goldrich talking about The Beatles, The Stones and Hendrix, The Who," she said. " This is a man who played such an important role in these musician's lives, all the artists we know as superstars, Henry sold them their first guitars and, in some cases, gave them credit when they had no money so they could buy their first instruments. This is hugely important and a great story to tell."

Sandi has also said that "the best part about the social network is uploading my video interviews the same day, and being able to upload YouTube videos of performances of all the artists we interview or who blog," and she's created Pages to organize multiple videos and other information for each artist featured.

With the help of the Tab Manager, Sandi named the photos tab on the social network the "Wall of Fame," and started uploading the photos that lined the walls at Manny's, including signed promotional shots of The Beatles, U2, and Bob Dylan. Members also began uploading their own photos and memories from Manny's, and even connecting with childhood friends.

"It makes me very proud to have been a part of this, to have facilitated, in some small way, a place to share these feelings, which would have not been possible were it not for Ning," said Sandi.

ROSEMARY WOODS, Blockbuster and "THE BAD LIEUTENANT"

2008-12-18T16:44:00.000-08:00

Right around the time when the frighteningly ubiquitous Blockbuster Videos started popping up like "Triffids" on every corner, it came to my attention, the arbiters of good taste and late fees, were editing their rentals.

Someone in my office had rented Abel Ferrar’s masterpiece of self-annihilation and redemption, "The Bad Lieutenant", remarking that Harvey Keitel’s penis was missing. That the offending scenes were capriciously and surreptitiously guillotined, peaked my interest.

Was there a correlation, that a graphic rape of a nun on an alter, seminal to the moral core of this man’s torture, was all but eliminated from the Blockbuster version? Was it sheer coincidence that, "The Last Temptation of Christ" was conspicuously absent from the shelves of Blockbusters?

Like a crazed member of HUAC, I set out to do a little side by side demonstration of my own.

I rented "The Bad Lieutenant" from Blockbuster and the now defunct, Palmer Video. I taped the first 20 minutes of "both" films, with fascinating results.

The only indication on either box, was the running time, 10 fewer minutes on the Blockbuster version and an "R" rather than the "NC17" of the intact version, no doubt a nod to Mr Keitel’s penis. But was there something more sinister afoot?

Granted, Harvey Keitel loves to brandish his mighty (?), albeit flacid, sword. "The Bad Lieutenant", "The Piano" and, if I’m not mistaken, "Holy Smoke" or perhaps I was just averting my eyes because I was afraid he was going to do it again. The Triple Crown of flashing.

It is obvious that some of the scenes were shot twice by Mr Ferrara. The scenes which were altered, in some cases different wardrobe and music, beg a larger question. Certainly, there must be some collusion between the studios and Blockbuster in order to finish two completely separate release prints. But just who’s in charge of what winds up on the cutting room floor? "It seems that the further you go the more confused you get."

For instance, blood and "fuck", or even "fuck" written in blood, are cool with Blockbuster. But not sodomy, or a crucified Christ, screaming on the cross witnessing a rape. Nudity is ok, but only if you’re a chick, i.e. the violated nun appears completely nude during an examination, yet Harvey’s penis is missing. A bizarre double standard if you ask me. Perpetrated, dare I say, by sexually and religiously repressed male censors? Or am I being too harsh?

Are the Oxy Morons of Blockbuster more concerned with religious rather than secular censorship? I’d love to have been a fly on the wall at THAT meeting!

In Abel Ferrar’s original and shocking vision, which was necessary and endemic to depicting the moral decline of Keitel’s character. Putting the "Bad" in the "Bad Lieutenant." There is a Menage A Trois involving two hookers, opening on a nude blonde with a gag or ‘bit’ in her mouth, being mounted, or something to that effect, equestrian style, by a fully clothed female. Various stages of undress ensue. At one point the blonde, wearing only jockey shorts, slow dances with Keitel . Later, a completely blotto, and now infamous, full frontal Keitel. Amoral. Decadent. Naked. Bad.

Now here’s the odd thing, the track is a very sultry version of Aaron Neville’s, "Forever My Darling," which for some inexplicable reason is replaced in the Blockbuster release by an upbeat and peppy, Doo Wop, rendition of "Oh My Little Darlin." In which lingerie clad Menage do a benign Lindy as if at a Sock Hop.

The original rape on the altar is wrenchingly violent, two men, ripping the nun’s Habit revealing bare buttocks, sodomizing (a recurring theme?) and violating her with a cross, a crucified Christ looking on, screaming in anguish at the spectacle. 57 agonizing seconds that seem like 5 minutes.

The Disney version has the nun screaming in close up, while disembodied hands lop her on the head with a cup. The whole sequence is 15 seconds, which seems like, well, 15 seconds.

It remains to be seen if the artist is compromised by these alterations.

Who really wins, who is protected and from what? One thing is clear. Violence trumps deviant sex and blasphemy everytime.

A couple of years ago I was in Los Angeles at a screening of Adrian Lyne’s, "Lolita," with the director doing a Q&A after. He talked about the censors and how a lawyer was in the cutting room at all times making sure no prurient matter involving the pubescent Lolita, was allowed to pass through the Moviola. I guess they must have been at lunch for Claire Quilty’s blood bath, when Frank Langella’s full frontal flapping penis and last gasp of a Bazooka blood bubble (for which I had to avert my eyes), made the cut.

A final note to the keeper of the moral compass at Blockbuster. Call me crazy, but I’d sooner get the image of Harvey Keitel, inflagrante dilecto, out of my head, than this catchy lyric, "You’re little sister she’s so low, she sucked the dick off a little maggot."

"THANK YOU FOR FIRING ME" ....a place to kvetch, mourn, commiserate, and then get on with your new life

2008-12-11T08:26:00.000-08:00

Getting fired, losing your job, being terminated, let go, downsized, outsourced, career adjusted, getting the pink slip kiss, the boot, whatever you call it....SUCKS!

Jerry Seinfeld was on Letterman, soon after 9/11 and he said something that really moved me.

"In the Jewish religion, the basic mourning period is the seven days of Shiva. At the end of that you're required to attempt to re-engage with the world and your life as it was. . . .and that's where we come in."

By all means, kvetch, scream, kick things, rant, boo hoo....but give yourself a cutoff point at which to begin your new life!

As one door closes, another door opens, who says you can't have a few laughs while you're stuck in the hallway, make some new friends who are/were, in the same boat and survived, and learn a few tips on how to get out? Which is why I started a new social networking community http://thanksforfiringme.org

I met the legendary Robert Evans on a helicopter flying to JFK many many years ago. I was terrified and he invited me to sit next to him. "What's the most scared you've ever been in your life?" I asked and he proceeded to weave the remarkable, jaw-dropping story of his life, which continued on the airplane for the next 5 hours to Los Angeles. I can vouch for it's veracity, every word appeared in his autobiography years later. I didn't realize at the time what an honor it was to hear a story of such resilience, I did not need it till years later. I found a quote by him recently.

"Nobody who is successful hasn't fallen."

I mean, look at Al Gore, if he was President, he wouldn't have won the Academy Award, Emmy, Nobel Prize, or brought the world's consciousness to global warming! What's in store for you?

I've been drunk, sober, hired, fired, rich, poor and now on Social Security, but I never died from getting fired, although it felt as though I would at the time. As a matter of fact, I have never been fired from a job I loved, but then again, I would have stayed married to my ex husband for the rest of my life!

This is a terrible time, of people losing jobs they really love, I mean the really good and talented and brilliant people, people who have never not worked, people who have never been fired!

That’s why I started this site. It happened to me and I was convinced I was going to die. I lost a 30 year career, a 20 year marriage and 9/11 happened the same month. It was like the end of "The Sopranos."

I learned two things:
1. I was not my job, my business card or my paycheck
2. I can survive anything... with laughter.

Sometimes we have to lose everything to reveal our true essence, our purpose.

I love to ask people what they would do if they didn't have to work. I mean what would you do? It's a rare opportunity if you can close the gap between the fear and the desire. And maybe, just maybe, this might be the opportunity of a lifetime to find your bliss, your purpose for being here, a gift wrapped inside the adversity.

This is a truly unique and empowering time, we have so many more options than at any other time in history. For instance, I made this site in one hour! It's free! NING allows you to create your own social network, you can even put a paypal button, or gazillion widgets. You can upload your portfolio, photographs, writings, or, in my case..... 200 videos.

Please join and share your stories of how you cope, or afraid you won't. Ask questions, like "What happens after my COBRA runs out?"and I'm not talking your pet snake.

Just hearing others are going through the same thing, it helps to know you're not alone. it's going to be a tough time, but we can help each other, a problem shared, is a problem halved and we pull each other along by sharing our experience, strength, hope and laughter.

With love and laughter,

Sandi

LAUGHING IN HELL: "THANK YOU FOR FIRING ME" ....a place to kvetch, mourn, commiserate, and then get on with your new life

18 THINGS TO DO IF YOU GET FIRED.....NOW!

2008-12-04T21:53:00.000-08:00

1. Write down all the other times in your life you've lost something and how you made it through
2.. Write down your fears, date them
3. Write down the worst case scenario
4. Write down every thing you know and every one you know
5. Join every stupid social networking community that 'friends' you and cannibalize your friends' friends
6. Go to NING.com. Its' FREE and start your own social networking community and invite your friends to join and their friends' friends. Put a paypal button on it and sell something, you're limited only by your imagination.
7. Sell something on ebay. When I couldn't get work, I sold my collection of Bakelite jewelry and vintage clothes and supported myself for 6 months!
8. Write down what successes happened to you NEXT week and envision how it felt. That's how I met Steven Spielberg!
9. Read biographies of people like Nelson Mandela, Martin Luther King and Barack Obama and see what they went through before they made it.
10. Fear money never comes
11. People sense desperation, it goes to their fears and that's what they remember about you. Take it from me, I learned the hard way
12. Smile before you pick up the phone
13. If you have an interview or a big meeting. Write down on a piece of paper the END of the meeting and the outcome you want to happen. Trust me, this works, it's how I met Steven Spielberg!
14. After you've finished writing the email, take the last sentence and put it first
15. Watch out for negative self talk, if you catch yourself thinking about all the reasons you can't get work; you're too old, too fat, too whatever. STOP and replace with a reason why you're uniquely qualified
16. What would you do if you didn't have to work?
17. Write a gratitude list
18. Rent funny movies, at the very least it's impossible to be depressed and laugh at the same time

HOW EBAY SAVED MY LIFE!

2008-12-02T11:14:00.000-08:00

From my new Social Networking Community "Thank You For Firing Me!"

I've always been really attached to my stuff, But I've learned a couple of things over the years, if you own enough stuff, it starts owning you and if you don't watch out, you're going to wind up a George Carlin routine.

So a few years ago after losing a 3 decade long career in advertising after 9/11, I was in therapy at the time and he says to me when I said I have another month's worth of money to live on....."Sell something!" he said.

Now I had been collecting vintage clothing, Hawaiian shirts and a huge collection of Bakelite jewelry I had been acquiring for 30 years. But the idea of getting rid of any of it broke my heart.

I got an ebay account, actually, I'd had one for 10 years but only to buy more STUFF! A friend of mine had told me ebay saved her life when her husband lost his job and she gave me a template for selling, which I would be happy to share with you if you email me.

The sting of letting go of my precious possessions was soon soothed by the money flowing into my checking account, and the community and the positive feedback, it's all an amazing and wonderful secret. But at the very least, you could get going TODAY to help you get passed the fear of economic insecurity.

This is what I put up on my ebay store.

*~Without question, ebay saved my life! In the process of letting go of my "stuff, I learned a couple of interesting things. 1) If you own enough "stuff", eventually, it starts owning you! 2) If you haven't worn it or looked at it in 5 years, get rid of it, SOMEBODY on ebay will be thrilled to have it. 3. Out of sight, out of mind, you really don't miss it after it's gone. 4. Besides, if you do miss it, you can always buy it back on ebay! All of the quality Vintage clothing and accessories from the 1940's and the Rockabilly 1950's, Vintage jewelry, Bakelite, Celluloid, Art Pottery, Vintage Designer clothing and Antiques are from my closet, either a family heirloom or purchased by me over the past 40 years! From the bottom of my heart I want to thank each and every ebayer world wide who has given my "stuff" a new home and me, a new lease on life! Sandi~*

I'm a Poweseller and I have 100% positive feedback which is pretty cool. I sold all my Hawaiian shirts and all my Bakelite and my grandmother's bisque doll and the Havilland China my family had schlepped cross country three times since the Civil War....and once it's gone, out of site out of mind. And I figure, if I really want it back, I'll buy it back on ebay!

I had a couple of really wild 'coincidences' happen on ebay. Once when I really needed money, I asked my ex husband if I could see the 3 Tiffany Salts he had bought me for our wedding and anniversary. It was the hardest of all my 'stuff' to release. And that's what you need to do, acknowledge what it represents to you, release it and bless it into the Universe!

So he said fine and knew I needed the money more and besides I could in fact buy them back easily, so I sold them and as luck would have it, all three went to the same guy, so I packed them up and sent them off with blessings and tears.

Three months later, the unopened box is returned with three attempts to deliver! I went onto ebay and he was no where to be found, his account dead, and I was hoping he NOT along with it. So that was just the best, not only did I get the money, go through the experience of releasing them, but I got them back! What a story.

I also sold the Havilland China, and "coincidentally" when I mailed it, it went to a person who lived on Colgate Avenue in the same complex AND street that my grandmother who owned the China lived!!!!!

And remember, you must have something that you don't use, wear or need anymore that someone would cherish. I sell all over the world. Watch "Antique Roadshow" or find an item and then go onto ebay and do some research to see what the going rate is.

I'll help you if you really get stuck.

"FLANDERS FIELDS" For Captain Patty Brown and Tech. Sgt. Thomas F. "Dude" Bachom

2008-11-30T10:43:00.000-08:00

I always like to retrace the steps leading up to the miracle. Cleaning out some old files today, I found the story of this poem written by my grandmother's cousin. Although it was written 93 years ago, it applies to any hell that we may be in. And right after he wrote this preamble, he penned one of the most enduring poems in history!

If you had told me two months ago, laying on that Brooklyn street after being hit by a car, I would not walk for two months, I would have availed myself of the cops service revolver right then and there. My friend who was a prisoner in Auschwitz, did not know as he entered hell, when or if, he would ever get out. And then one day, as abruptly as he entered, he was liberated! So it is with all of our personal hells.

"I wish I could embody on paper some of the varied sensations of that seventeen days... Seventeen days of Hades! At the end of the first day if anyone had told us we had to spend seventeen days there, we would have folded our hands and said it could not have been done."
~Lt Col John McCrae, May 2, 1915 Ypres, Belgium

My Grandmother, Catharine MacKenzie McCrae's cousin John, wrote "Flanders Fields" in WWI for a fallen comrade. I wrote the essay below on Memorial Day of 2002 after meeting a man from near Flanders, who had brought his two small daughters all the way from Belgium to pay their respecst to Captain Patty Brown and the men of Ladder 3 who lost their lives the morning of September 11.

When he mentioned where he was from, I said a distant relative had written the famous WWI poem, "Flanders Fields". Upon returning, he sent me the story of how the poem came to be.

"On the first of May 1915 the British withdrew from the deepest point of Ypres Salient in Belgium. The Germans taking this as a sign of weakness, took the offensive agin in the morning of May 2nd, they overwhelmed the allied forces at the channel leper-Yzer with shell fire. During this bombing a shell came down at the feet of Lieutenant Alex Helmer, 2nd battery, Canadian Filed Artillery) which killed him immediately. WHen the bombing stopped his comrades gathered what was left of his body which was torn to pieces. They put the remains in sandbags and made a rough human form on an old army blanket which they fastened with safety pins. A bit past sundown the same day, Alex Helmer was buried at the quickly increasing ccemetary of Essex Farm. At the burial was also present, Major (and later Colonel) John McCrae. McCrae tried to say some fragments of the Anglican Service for the Burial of the Dead but was so overwhelmed with emotions that he stopped halfway. The exact details of which happened then is a bit confused. However it is certain that within 24 hours McCrae, inspired by the death of his friend, penned one of the most famous poems resulted from the first World War..."In Flanders Fields"

“FLANDERS FIELDS” by Sandi Bachom
Memorial Day 2002

On Memorial Day, as a child, I recall frayed old men in tattered uniforms handing out Red Paper Poppies on the corner of Hollywood and Vine. And as I dropped a dime into the bucket, a donation to the veterans of past wars, I was more enamored with the brightly colored lapel garnish than with any deeper significance.

It was tradition on this day, during the Assembly in the Auditorium of Cheremoya Grammar School, for a poem to be read, “In Flanders Fields”.

Invariably, my grandmother, Catharine Mackenzie McCrae Higgins, would tell me the same story, of how her cousin, John McCrae, had written this poem during WWI. To this 10 year old, there was a modicum of cache attached to the fact that I was a distant relative of so famous a person. But “Ike” was President and we were far enough away from WWII, the ‘last great war’, for any of this to have real meaning for me. And so, it is the Red Paper Poppy that I recall.

As the years passed, Armistice Day, (The 11th Hour of the 11th Day of the 11th Month, marking the end of World War I.), gave way to Veteran’s Day and Decoration Day became Memorial Day, which in turn became ‘The beginning of summer.’

“In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amidst the guns below.”

In all true art, there is no expiration date. Words and music born out of the artists pain, become an immortal and timeless Anthem for the reader. The great gift and healing of art is this harmonic connection with our collective grief, words WE would have written if we could summon them. The perfect words. This is the healing of art. As if to say, “You are not alone. I have gone before you and I have felt your pain and I have survived.” This is the legacy between the lines. Hope.

“In Flanders Fields” was a eulogy for a fallen brother. Although it was written in 1915, its significance and melancholy, ring even truer on this Memorial Day, in which we honor those who have made the ‘supreme sacrifice’ for their country.

My Uncle, Sgt.Thomas F.(“Dude”) Bachom’s, name is carved into the cold marble of the “Wall of the Missing” in Ardennes, France. “Dude” was a radio operator and flew with the “303rd Bomb Group” known as the “Hells Angels.” He was shot down over the English Channel three months after he joined the United States Airforce, December 20, 1942, he was 19 years old.

Captain Patty Brown, whom I met only once, was a Marine and Vietnam Veteran with two tours and a Silver Star to his credit. But it was as a Captain of Ladder 3 in the FDNY, that Patrick laid down his life in defense of his country, on September 11, 2001. He was 48 years old.

For the thousands who unwittingly laid down their lives that day and for the countless ‘crosses row on row’, may I share a Red Paper Poppy and this beautiful poem as a prayer, in Memory of all the Blessed Souls who have passed, whom we honor today.

In Flanders Fields
Lt Col. John McCrae
Whose body lies in Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amidst the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

LAUGHING IN HELL: "FLANDERS FIELDS" For Captain Patty Brown and Tech. Sgt. Thomas F. "Dude" Bachom

"THANK YOU FOR FIRING ME!"

2008-08-15T18:38:00.001-07:00

“One door closes, another door opens....but it’s Hell in the Hallway!”
Chapter 1: "Thank you for firing me!"

I entered the hallway, after a 30-year career and 20-year marriage ended, in September of 2001. It was like the end of the Sopranos. At the time it sure felt like hell, but I learned, wrapped inside of every adversity is a great gift. Surviving the ‘unsurviveable’, starting over at any age, (I will be 64 next month), seemed impossible. This was not the life I would have ever scripted for myself and it is a life beyond anything I could have imagined. I was my business card for 30 years, paradoxically, when I lost it…..I found myself.

I’m thinking of calling my next book, “Thank You For Firing Me!” When people tell me they’ve been fired, they must think I’m nuts cause I always give them a big grin and say, “Congratulations!”

Then I ask the most important question you can ask anyone......

“What would you do if you didn’t have to work?”

But how can you tell what that is? Because when you’re doing it, time disappears and the hair on the back of your neck stands on end and it is usually accompanied by a lot of laughter.

Here are some unconventional steps I took, I can’t explain why, but it works and what do you have to lose…. but your fear?

1. Begin where you are…. and breathe
2. I bought one of those waitress “Guest Check” pads and started writing down my “order”, how much money I would make, (never use the word ‘want’), who I would meet, what concerts I would produce, I was specific and dated them.
3. Write down everyone and everything you know
4. I bought a camera and asked musicians if I could shoot their performances for free, next thing you know I was filming Diana Ross
5. I keep a daily running “business plan” of how much I will bill and what projects I will to do in a word document
6. Write down your fears everyday on a piece of paper and then burn it
7. Invest in a good web designer. Buy a domain name and trademark it. Be sure and get your name. www.sandibachom.com
8. Tell everybody you’re getting a book published, producing a concert, meeting a particular person (Mel Brooks is next on my list.) Two years before my first book was published I told everyone I was having my first book published.
9. Pay attention to coincidences, they are messages propelling you toward your destiny
10.Smile when you pick up the phone
11.If you have an important meeting, “create backwards”, imagine the end, how it felt to be successful
12.The Universe only has one answer to any question and that is, ‘Yes’. So, if you say, “I can’t get a job, I’m too old, I’m broke, I’ll never get out of debt.” The Universe replies with a resounding, “yes.”

For three decades I was an award winning producer of television commercials, now I’m award winning producer, director, editor and actor in my own short films. I like to say I used to produce $2 million soft drink commercials and now I make my Schlockumentaries® for $10….cost of the tape.

Begin where you are. But begin!

“Like the story of the man who was jailed for many years, counting the days on the wall of his cell till his release, every waking moment spent in plans for the day he would be free. And on that joyous day, he went to the door of the cell, heart pounding with anticipation and behold, it was unlocked.

We are all prisoners of our own making. My will and ego and pride kept me locked in the hallway for 6 years, but I could have come out at any time. This book is some of what I learned and hopefully will shorten your inevitable stay. With love and laughter, Sandi”

~from “Hell In The Hallway”