I remember watching a TV news Special Report with my son Mike, who was a teenager at the time, about a little boy who was mashed by a runaway elephant at a circus someplace out West. It seems the boy was one of 25 or so classmates on a day trip from their school, all […]
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“Hello, boys!” … said Tony and I as we loaded our guitars and amps through the side door of the Lone Star Cafe on 5th Avenue and E. 13 Street in Manhattan, that rock club with the giant fiberglass iguana on its roof. The boys in question were the male portion of the Lone Star
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SCHOOL, 1964 By Bob Crespo / April 6, 2025 Today is going to stink. Not the way school always stinks, but even more. I hate that place. It’s a stupid stupid place I wish would get struck by lightning and toasted like that abandoned building on Bergen Avenue that time. Bergen Avenue is the last
It was 1972, when 205 Mulberry Street was Building Maintenance headquarters for The New York City Police Department, and Police Headquarters was a few bocks away at 240 Center Street, a building whose purpose had outgrown it, and was in the process of being replaced by the nearly-completed 1 Police Plaza. I was 19 and
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I’M NOT YOUR DOG My name is Frank. I’m a dog. Humans call me Scout, a name I despise. Oh, I answer to it, alright, because, what the hell, they’re only human and don’t know any better. So, Scout it is to the people in my life, and there’s quite a few of them. But
Bobby Dee’s big sister Sue (the late, great Susan D’Alessandro) tells him she’s got to use up a bunch of bonus air miles before they expire but she can’t possibly fly all over the place at the moment so she tells him “Here, go somewhere. Take Crespo.” So that was that and we were off
Late 1970’s. Living with Miss Dru in Brooklyn’s Park Slope in a huge apartment we barely used. She was in publishing. At that time there was a great deluge of books about Elvis Presley, what with him being newly dead and all. Naturally the place where Miss Dru toiled had their fair share of instant
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JD sure changed. Pretty fast, too. When I met him he was in his early twenties, fresh out of the Army and Vietnam, where he earned a bunch of medals in combat. He was also a musician, a hell of a player with a knack for arranging. His bands were always well rehearsed, tight and
Skeets is a bastard, a real son of a bitch. Which doesn’t make him a bad guy. Runs a sloppy, happy good-time joint on Staten Island just like the one he had in Brooklyn for a lot of years. Comedy shows, some good blues, a little rock and roll, whatever’s working best or fitting his
I found this slipped under my door. Thought I’d share it with you. Earth here. Yes, that Earth. Third stone from the sun. The planet on which your butt is seated. That’s right, it’s the world talking to you. I know what you’re thinking; how can a planet talk to humans? Well, I’ve been talking
