As we gather tonight to celebrate the 50th anniversary of Carnevale, let’s take a moment to reflect on the many twists and turns that have brought us here.,,

 

It all began on a cold February Tuesday night in 1960, when a little boy – alone- attended his first Carnevale at Gallo Hall, in the basement of the Italian parish of Sacred Heart School in Newburgh, New York. Gallo Hall, named after Father Gallo, where bingo and mass were held with equal fervor. The beige tiled space was transformed into an indoor Italian Street Festival with fairy lights strung from the stucco ceiling, red, white and green streamers, silver balloons as the iconic smell of fried sausage and peppers and melting mozzarella wafted from the cafeteria kitchen. At the entrance, everyone got a feather mask and some chips to play some carnival games. A Mama Leone like buffet was set up and family’s sat at long bingo tables. I found an empty table in the shadows on the side, my plate filled mile high as I watched family’s dancing to a small band of accordion, drums and trumpet, playing Italian American hits like Volare Ce La Luna. After my second cannoli from Luna’s Pastry Shop, I grabbed the tambourine I won and slowly made my want to the fringe of the dance floor pretending to be part of Mrs. Polito’s family. Beulah, that’s her first name was a teacher’s aide and said I could be a writer after I showed her some the stuff I had written. I got her to drive me home that night in the light faintly falling snow. My parents, brother and sister were already in bed. It was 9 o’clock and they were already dead to the world.

 

The next day was Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent. All of the school went to church. Father Leo with his thumb, outlined a black ashen cross on my forehead as he solemnly said, “dust you are, and dust you shall return.” After the festivities of the previous evening, winter darkness returned with 40 days of fasting and giving up candy for Lent.

 

You can say it was long Lent – high school, seminary, and Brooklyn College. 1974. I remember standing in the bay window in my first apartment, a rambling railroad flat on Garfield Place in Park Slope, Brooklyn. I traced a happy face on the frosted windowpane when the red and green traffic light changed and glowed behind it lighting the face and memory of that festive evening in the basement of Gallo Hall. Why not recreate that Italian church celebration? —food, costumes, music, and dancing. My first roommate, Robert Huderski, a lanky tall Polish boy loved the idea. I forgot he was half Italian too. The Saturday before Ash Wednesday saw our place decorated, streamers everywhere, Gloria Gaynor on the Hi-Fi and Robert’s mother and aunt heating up the dishes of pasta in the oven, balloons bouncing and bursting on the living room dance floor. This time I danced in the middle of the floor.

 

The next year, more friends and even my family joined – Mom, my sister Karen, Aunt Laura with my cousin Glenn, along with an accordion player—who came from, who knows where?! Then, the following year, Loretta and Fran, two crazy gals from West Virginia, became co-hosts and my new roommates. What happened to Robert? (Never sleep with your roommates! Lesson learned.)

 

From there, Carnevale moved to my friend and ex, Michael Purser’s, apartment up the block. It then crossed the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan, to my friend and ex, Sam, in his all-white trendy loft in the Flat Iron. District. By now, the larger group competed in elaborate costumes for prizes designed by Robert’s brother Denis. I made up the categories on the spot. Best Biblical character? I won as Moses. Best Judy Garland, my sister in tux and fedora as Judy in the movie Summer Stock. My Creole friend, not ex—Clarence Carter, an opera singer, came dressed as Carmen. With jungle-red lips, he left kisses all over Sam’s pristine white walls. There were no Mr. Clean Magic Erasure sponges then. On the way home, Clarence still dressed as Carmen took off his high heels and stuck his nylon stocking feet through that little window divider in a taxi cab and asked the Cabbie, “Driver, Do I have pretty feet? “

 

As the event grew, we had to rent a loft in TriBeCa, and soon we had 200 wild revelers, complete with a DJ, fog and strobe lights. Carnevale became codified: “Anything goes, but you have to leave with the person you came with.” There are too many tales to tell. If you want the dish, ask Loretta, Fran, or Barry later. MMM? Where did Loretta go dressed as Evita for a half hour? MMM? What EMS guy had his hands down my pants? MMMM? It got out of control, like Andy Warhol’s Factory – fist fights, lovers quarrels, broken glass, poppers and trysts.

 

So we downsized and returned to our roots—back to Brooklyn, with a smaller band of merry-makers. We attended a Broadway matinee and afterwards got on a motor coach as Gary did flips on our way to Mambo Italiano in Bay Ridge or Tommaso’s Restaurant, in Bensonhurst. Many years of Italian feasts, blood pudding, catapulting coconuts, flying cows and Gary and I performing. That lasted many years till the bus ride became too long and we ended up back in Manhattan at Valbella and Zero Otto Nove in Lower Manhattan. We were a faithful group of 25 apostles supplemented by 10 or so yearly guests du jour. And now, here we are, 50 years later celebrating at Bond 45— or shall we say Bond 50.

 

Through the years, we weathered countless storms together: blizzards and hurricanes, three wars, three plagues, blackouts, mayors, presidents, and popes. Stereophonic sound, compact discs, Walkman’s, Palm Pilots. I Phones, Streaming, Amazon, and Tinder.

But through the prism of Carnevale, we have witnessed the beauty of life’s simple moments—dancing together through the night, lost in joyful ignorance and bliss. We’ve twirled with incredible friends who’ve come and gone along this river of joy we have created and nourished. Hundreds of revelers—some now distant memories—boyfriends, girlfriends, lovers, husbands, wives, liaisons, all now strangers in the night.

 

But there are those long gone, lost loved ones who will always linger in our hearts, costumed ghosts dancing somewhere in the dark to a distant Wind beneath my Wings: the Huderski sisters, gossiping around a cauldron of lasagna and manicotti; my mother dancing with in that bay window, slyly asking if I would ever get married; in the corner, my disapproving Aunt Laura tsk tsking with my shy cousin Glenn; flying above us the lovely handsome Gus; Michael Purser still blond I am sure; the dedicated Dr. Robert Coffee, always saving lives; Patrick playing black jack, Scott Charles Jewish boy with a British accent, Dr. Passer—who once wore nothing but chaps (thank you very much); Chuck of Balloon Bouquet, sashaying as Scarlett O’Hara; – Fiddle dee dee; our sweet sarcastic Moira Hearn; Gary’s dear mother, Joan; Jack Frost, flirting with young waiters (with some success); the risqué Dr. Donald Briggs; and dear Tommaso, our operatic chef and Pagliacci, who sang with Nina, the little old lady with the red hair, belting her heart out, even if the notes didn’t always come out quite right.

 

“Dust you are and dust you shall return” Hmmph!

 

This celebration is a tribute to all of them—and to all of us. For fifty years, Carnevale has been more than just a party. It has been our winter holiday, as important to us as Christmas—a beacon of light in the darkest months of the year. Over the years, it reflected our shared experiences, our hopes, our challenges, our dreams—and, of course, always our laughter, singing, and celebrating life.

 

All of this from a silly little boy, banging his tambourine, dancing the tarantella, wanting to belong to a family. Well, after 50 years, here I am with my family. Like Brigadoon, every year we appear like a Mid-Winters Night Dream and fill each other with so much love and cheer that it stretches beyond Ash Wednesday and into eternity, I think. We have turned that stuff we are made of, that dust and made it sparkle and when we dance that Last Dance we will return as diamonds. Thank you all for joining me on this crazy pilgrimage of life and joy we call Carnevale!