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Joe Montaperto
Category:
Memoir
Publisher: Createspace
ISBN-10: 1533397465
Type: Non-Fiction
Pages: 322
Copyright: August 2016
ISBN-13: 9781533397461
Price: $4.49 (eBook)
Conflict and chaos meet opportunity and adventure amidst the backdrop of the gritty, vibrant New York City City of the 1980s. Young Joe Montaperto is tormented by dueling ambitions in this often hilarious and somber spiritual journey.
1980s New York City. A paradox onto itself. Gritty and violent – yeah – but also crackling with excitement, intrigue and – especially – possibility. For a young guy open to that kind of energy, this was a city that could be absolutely intoxicating.
Nineteen year-old Joey Montaperto journeys over from his nearby downtrodden New Jersey town, seeking to escape the dreary negativity of his surroundings. Enrolling in a prestigious Russian drama school, he is determined to become the next great actor in the Stanislavski/Moscow Art Theater tradition. It doesn’t pan out exactly the way he plans, though, and after a time there, he hits the streets even more conflicted and alienated, seeking answers.
He finds a gig as a nut vendor in a grimy Hell’s Kitchen location and dreams of a better life. Subsequently introduced to the ancient texts of Eastern spirituality (The Upanishads) by Vassant, an elderly, brilliant, but drunken Indian scholar who also works as a nut vendor, he becomes fascinated. When Vassant dies unexpectedly, Joey vows to continue his quest for a Master, joining an ashram in the city, while working at the connected health food store. Devoting himself entirely to the the rigors of spiritual practice for the next year, he sits in daily meditation - until one day he is rocked by a major epiphany.
Oh my God! I could sit here in my white yoga pants and meditate for the next 40 years, and still not reach enlightenment! Then what?! What about travel? Adventure? Life?! Upon that realization, he dives headlong into what he believes to be his true calling - stand-up comedy, embracing the comedy circuit and the whole lifestyle that ensues. While performing, he also hits the seedy Hell’s Kitchen bars – dancing, drinking heavily and mixing with the denizens – the pimps, prostitutes, dealers and other comics who populate the bar. He learns quite a lot from these characters, but still maintains his spiritual practice.
Quickly rising up the ranks of the comedy scene, he is consumed by the lure of fame, by the rush of performing. Now, he has to get onstage. He is jonesing. This is his life. Out on the streets at all hours of the night, he has to defend himself against the hordes of crackheads roaming the streets, soon even relishing the violence, the rush of revenge. He gets involved in a romantic affair with the sultry Vanessa, a Puerto Rican former streetwalker – who is also transgender - and revels in that scene. It fuels the rush, but it’s still not enough. Nothing ever is. He can’t come down. Finally, disgusted with the comedy club scene, the comedy bookers, the rough streets, and his annoyance with no matter what club he goes to, it seems Jon Stewart and Dave Attell are already regulars there, blocking his way.
A chance viewing of the movie ‘My Dinner With Andre’, makes a life-changing impression on him, and he becomes spellbound by the film, the book, and it’s conversations about exotic travels, and mystical experiences at the spiritual community, Findhorn. He excitedly applies, but finds it is way too expensive, and is sadly resigned to staying in the city. He is unexpectedly reprieved when he hears about Omega Institute, a holistic community in rural upstate New York. Abandoning everything, he then jumps on an Amtrak to begin the adventure of his life.
Excerpt
Those boots.
Those boots. They scare me. Make me anxious. Yet, at the same time, I find them to be overwhelmingly sexy. Confusion and fear reign in my mind. Why do the boots do this to me? I mean, there must be some kind of significance to this. These boots are attached to the girls sitting around the room, as I survey my surroundings. All look like they’re pretty much in their twenties. Yeah, early to late twenties. Definitely hipsters. New Yorkers. Gorgeous. At least most of them. Knit scarves, wool sweaters, the sleeves pulled mostly over their slender white hands, only their fingers protruding. Dark long skirts. And the boots. Short boots, long boots. I shudder as the drowning feeling of intimidation courses through my body. This plummeting sense that I will never belong. I do my best to adopt a solitary hard guy pose, but at 5’6, 130 pounds, and a face splattered with acne - cystic acne at that - it’s not very convincing. I wasn’t scaring anybody. Who knows if anyone even noticed me at all?
CLANG! CLANK! CLANK!
The heat, struggling to funnel its way up to the antiquated radiator snaps me out of my self-induced calculations. The thermometer seems to be dropping by the minute,
“The hawk be out tonight, brotha…thass how January be.” That’s what they would be saying in my neighborhood in Jersey right now.
Only this isn’t New Jersey, man, this is New York Fuckin’ City! It’s 1980, I’m nineteen years old going on twenty, and I’m sitting in a room on the second floor of a church building. Maybe it’s Episcopalian, maybe it’s Baptist, I don’t know. I just know it’s definitely not Catholic. It’s not at all church-like either. In fact, it’s a rented room on Fifty Seventh Street and Ninth Avenue, right at the edge of the ghastly neighborhood known as ‘Hell’s Kitchen.’
In my best nonchalant attitude, I take a peek again at the strangers huddled
‘round together on one side of the room. I sit off to the side. Everybody’s sitting in these kinds of cold, beige metal folding chairs - beat up chairs at that.
From the looks of these chairs, they’ve supported a lot of fat asses in their time. A lot of drunk fat asses too, which is confirmed by the large block lettering on the back of the seats. OA and AA - Overeaters Anonymous and Alcoholic Anonymous.
I glance up at battered clock hanging precariously on the wall.
Ten to seven.
Suddenly, the door swings open. A commanding presence enters the room. All chatter immediately ceases. The steaming take-out cups of coffee and tea the girls are sipping are quickly placed on the floor next to them. Books thump shut and bodies straighten up. Complete silence.
“Good evening class, ladies and gentlemen, and velcome to the Sonia
Moore Studio of the Theater.”
The distinctive voice, rather heavily tinged with a Russian accent, belongs to none other than Sonia Moore herself. The foremost authority on the final conclusion of the great Constantine Stanislavski, the legendary Russian director, actor and teacher. And she, herself, was the author of several books on the subject. Fairly ancient (she must be around 85), she still presents a thoroughly intimidating presence. At least to me.
“My ferverent hope for every vone of you present here tonight, is that you vill all persevere to complete the four years of study required to truly learn and assimilate The Stanislavski System. And vith that development, you shall enter and usher in a new and profound era in American theater.
I must varn you, however, that vork on The Stanislavski System is not all fun. Acting is a profession. Stanislavski believed that actors vere the heart of the theater - and therefore imposed tremendous demands on them.
But if you truly vant to become professional actors who vill contribute to our theater - this is the only vay. The only vay.”
The only vay?! Holy shit! The only vay? What if I can’t do it?! What if I’m a total failure? My frantic thoughts are unleashed at full fury.
“The System is as important to you as the technique and theory of music are to musicians. And since the System is based on natural laws of human behavior, it is the same for old and young actors, for classic and contemporary plays, for conventional and unconventional productions, for all nationalities, and in all times.
“Ve cannot make any of you another Laurence Olivier or Eleanora Duse, but ve can teach you the laws, vich ven assimilated, can help talented actors to be as good. How much you succeed vill depend on how dedicated you are, how much talent you have, and how diligently you vork.”
After a few improvisations and demonstrations, the class is over. But Sonia
Moore’s words echo through my mind like an evil, deranged parrot, as I’m hauling ass down Ninth Avenue in a desperate race against certain frostbite
Oh my God! The entire state of the American theater will depend on us! Our class - mastering the Stanislavski System! We must answer the call! Usher in a whole new era in theater!!
Jeez…what a massive responsibility…the pressure…what have I gotten myself into?! Maybe-maybe - if I leave right now - maybe I can get my money back! Yeah! Yeah - no! No! I have to do this. I must! Whatever it takes…even if I have to read crazy Russian plays…I’ll do it! The world is counting on me! I have to be famous!
My incessant inner diatribe is quickly interrupted, as the raging wind blows over a garbage pail. Various McDonalds wrappers, papers, and even mustard, pelt my face. I curse loudly, fighting off the flying debris, until my attention turns to the long row of cardboard refrigerator boxes lined up outside the walls of the creepy abandoned buildings on Forty Third Street. People are inside of them. Homeless people. Wrapped up, ensconced inside these cardboard boxes, attempting to forge a night’s sleep in this frigid nightmare. I feel bad for the homeless people. A heavy gloom settles over me, replacing my vaunted aspirations. I don’t understand…what could possibly motivate them to stay here? How do they live? Why do they even keep on living? I mean, why didn’t they just hop a Greyhound to Florida, or somewhere? It’s better than freezing to death! I’d just kill myself, man. Really. I mean, it’s like being a slave. Why would you even want to go on if you were a slave?! You just work till you die.
You can’t even dream about a vacation - or a day off, for that matter. Jeez.
Finally, I enter Port Authority. Ahh, it’s warm here. I breathe a little, shake off the bitter cold…in 10 minutes I’ll be on the #115 bus, back to the warmth of my parent’s house in Roselle.
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