A JOKE IS NEVER JUST A JOKE

 

I recently came across an old English music hall joke. A young Irish lad was warmly welcomed into an English pub , but after a few drinks the boy got a sad look about him. He explained he appreciated the comradeship, but missed his corner pub back home. “The first time you set foot in the place”, he explained , “they'd buy you a drink, then another, all the drinks you like. Then when you've finally had enough, they'd take you upstairs and make sure you get laid.” 

The English patrons were skeptical, and the barkeep asked how many times the Irish lad had experienced this kind of welcome. “Never”, he admitted. “But it happened to my sister quite a few times.” Now I have to ask you, do you think that a racist joke? Sexist, yes. But racist?  I suspect your answer depends on if you are Irish.

After almost thirty years of success London Publisher James Henderson finally hit the mother lode in a penny tabloid weekly magazine, “Our Young Folks Weekly Budget”. Its 16 pages of action art work and adventure fiction dominated the youth market through various incarnations for 26 years. 

(Henderson paid Robert Louis Stevens a pound per column for “Treasure Island”, which he serialized in “Young Folks”). And each noon, the savvy capitalist would meet with his editors, issuing detailed instructions for the flurry of newspapers and magazines – even a line of picture post cards - that cascaded from 169 Red Lion Court, Fleet street, each seeking to replicate “Young Folks” profits. Henderson had stumbled upon the concept of a specialty market.

A London Bobby asks two drunks for their names and addresses. The first answers, “I'm Paddy O'Day, of no fixed address.” And the second replies, “I'm Seamus O'Toole, and I live in the flat above Paddy.”

Beginning in 1831 royal taxes on newspapers were lowered by three-fourths. The response was instantaneous. New papers popped up like mushrooms after a rain. The industrial revolution was bringing people into the cities, and putting coins in their pockets. For the first time in history, that created consumers, which made advertising profitable (i.e. capitalism). More papers encouraged more people to read. By 1854, out of a population of 28 million, weekly newspaper sales in England had topped 122 million a year. In 1857 the last newspaper taxes were finally eliminated, triggering yet another wave – daily newspapers. It was this new customer vox populi that James Henderson and Sons were riding to success.

Paddy: Is your family in business? Seamus; Yes, iron and steel. My mother irons and my father steals

In December of 1874, Henderson created the first humor magazine in England, a sort of Victorian Daily Show in print, called “Funny Folks, The Comic Companion to the Newspaper”. The cover art for the first issue was drawn by John Proctor, who signed his work, “Puck”. “Funny Folks” proved so successful that Henderson released an entire line of humor magazines - “Big Comic”, “Lot-O-Fun” “Comic Life”, “Scraps and Sparks”. In 1892 came Henderson's most popular humor magazine, “Nuggets”

Bobby: “Madam, I could cite you for indecent exposure, walking down the street with your breast exposed like that.” Irish lass: “Holy Mary and Joseph, I left the baby on the bus.”

Like “Funny Folks”, Nuggets had its own featured artist, T.S. Baker, and his most popular creation was an Irish family living “in contented poverty” in South London - the Hooligans. The father, P. Hooligan, was a would-be entrepreneur, and shades of the 1950's Honeymooners TV show, a member of the Shamrock Lodge.  And his every scheme in some way involved his wheelbarrow, and the family goat. Mrs. Hooligan was fashion conscious, but always copying far above her economic station. And there were, of course, a hoard of unnamed ginger haired children about. 

It seems impossible to believe that the term hooligans, as in violent law breakers, practitioners of impractical anarchy, began as the name of a gentle Irish family imitating proper Victorian society. In the nine year run this cartoon Irish family, proved popular because it was drawn by an artist and comic writer of ingenious and subtle talents. In person the Hooligans don't make an obvious racist image. But what did the intended audience see in this cartoon, that a hundred plus years later, we might not? And how is being called a Paddy in 1890, different from being hit with the “N” word, today? Time and distance, I suspect.

Whats the first thing an Irish lass does in the morning? She walks home

The bigotry towards Ireland seems to have started about a thousand years ago, with Gerald of Wales, the ultra-orthodox chaplain to the English King Henry II, who joined his monarch in the church endorsed invasion of Ireland, and with his observation of the locals. “This is a filthy people, wallowing in vice. They indulge in incest, for example in marrying – or rather debauching – the wives of their dead brothers.” 

One would think a clergyman who had studied logic in Paris would have remembered Deuteronomy 25:5 - “...her husband's brother shall go in to her, and take her to him to wife, and perform the duty of a husband's brother to her.” I guess it's easier to butcher people, if you can manage to despise them for whatever reason.  And imagine them as apes, be it the Irish or African Americans.

What do you call an Irishman with half a brain? Gifted

Illogically the English originally justified their oppression of the Irish because they were bringing them Catholicism. Then after their own Protestant reformation, the English used Catholicism to denigrate the Irish, calling them “cat licks” and “mackerel snappers” who ate fish on Fridays. With time the insults came to include local terrain (bog trotters) physical characteristics (carrot top), perceived laziness (narrow backs) and diet (potato heads, spud fuckers and tater tots for the children). Irish jokes (read insults) were standard fare in English music halls from the 1850's on, and always good for a laugh. And it was from this racism that the sophisticated simplicity of the Hooligans achieved something approaching an art form.

“What's the difference between an Irish wedding and an Irish wake? One drink.”

James Henderson, and his son Nelson, may have been racists. History has failed to record their opinions outside of the business decisions they made. And it may be valid to label them with the black mark because of the Hooligans. And they did publish worse. But then they were publishers, not social activists. And like a music hall comic who told Irish jokes, they provided the public what the public wanted, or else they could not remain in business. Morality is an affect, not an effect. So were these purveyors of anti-Irish humor racists, or were they merely businessmen? And did the Hooligans transcend racism because it was so well done? You might as well ask Norman Lear if Archie Bunker made life easier for African Americans by calling them “jungle bunnies” on national television. In fact that question has been asked

“Paddy, he said you weren't fit to associate with pigs, but I stuck up for you. I said you most certainly were.”

Its hard for me to dismiss the Hooligans because they make me smile, and because they were a loving respectful family, and because they were always striving. But mostly because they make me smile. Why I laugh at them, tells a story about me, not them. It is a lesson every artist must learn at some point, the sooner the better. What is put on the page, is rarely what is seen there. It is the job of the artist to limit confusion. But you can never be completely understood. The most you can consistently hope to achieve is to entertain. Enlightenment is the responsibility of the reader, not the writer. 

Bobby; "Where were you born?" Paddy; "Dublin". Bobby; "What part?"   Paddy; "All of me."

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THE FLAMBOYANT JAMOOK

 

I gotta' tell you about this big jamook named David Friendland, who is a suitcase  (i.e. a mob lawyer) with a very big motor mouth. He could sell life insurance to your dead grandmother., He never shuts up. He's also what you call, flamboyant.

Friendland was the lawyer for Johnny Dee -  that’s Johnny Digilo (above), an ex-boxer and a lieutenant in the Genovese crime family in New Jersey.   Now, the Genovese have been running Jersey unions since forever, and they made Johnny Dee Treasurer of the Longshoreman’s Local 1588 in Bayonne. Johnny is a little crazy sometimes, but he's a big earner, and between the Union pension skim and the protection rackets, not to mention the loansharking, its a cash cow for the Genovese.

This Friendland (above) is brought in by his old man when the kid graduates law school, back in 1961. Father and son are both Teamster suitcases, so it seems like the perfect deal, one hand watches the other - you know? But the younger Friedland, first he's oobatz – he's crazy – and then he decides to become a politician. That oughta make everything perfect, but for one little problem.

See, in 1966 Johnny Dee approved a one 'G' loan to this car wash goomba named Julius Pereria. The vig is fifty small a week, until Pereria pays off the principal. Of course he never pays off the principal. That's the whole point of making the loan.  And a year later this goomba borrows another 'G', under the same terms. So now the vig goes up to $100 a week. Well, when the hundred a week adds up to seven “G's', and the goomba is still hasn't paid off a dime of the principle, Pereria decides he's paid enough. 

This goomba Pereria gets outraged and calls the state police. Now he's really in trouble. And when four of Johnny Dee's associates visit the Du-Rite Car wash in Iselin, N.J.,  Pereria won't come out of the toilet. So the boys leave him a few messages, smashing up a couple of windows, some water pumps and electric motors.  To the state police this is evidence. But Pereria gets the message and suddenly develops amnesia in court. Case closed, right? Wrong.

The local D.A. now has a hard on for Johnny Dee, and calls Pereria in front of a Grand Jury. Safe behind closed doors the goomba remembers again, and Johnny Dee gets indicted for racketeering. This is a problem. And that's where this jamook Freidland comes in to our story. 

Its 1968 by now, and Friedland is still a suitcase for the Teamsters, but now he's also a state representative from Hudson County and the “quintessential New Jersey politician”. Flamboyant, you know?  He approaches the goomba's suitcase and tells him, if Pereria doesn't take a $6,500 cash gift from Johnny Dee in exchange for dropping the whole thing, then Johnny Dee is going to sue him, Pereria, for slander or liable or false arrest or something.  It's like a gift he can't refuse, if you know what I mean.

When Pereria takes too long thinking about the offer, Johnny Dee (above, light jacket)) calls and tells the goomba if the doesn't take the money then people are going to come down to the car wash and "chop your fucking head off!"  Not surprisingly, that intimidates Pereria all over again.

But, see, the problem is not that Pereria can't be intimidated. Oh, they intimidated the hell out of him. And he takes money. The problem is, the goomba has a record of not staying intimidated. So Friedland shows the $6,500 to Pereria,  But instead of handing it over, Friendland puts it in his desk drawer. He says he's gonna hold onto it until Pereia  suffers another memory lapse in front of the new Grand Jury. So Pereria does, and the charges against Johnny Dee are dropped, again.  

Of course, on his own,  Friedland takes a fee for holding the cash. And the goomba's lawyer takes his cut. By the time the cash gets to Pereria, there's only like $2,500 left. You gotta love suits. What Johnny Dee did was called extortion. What Friedland and the other suits did was called an out-of-court settlement. 

Anyway, now the D.A. is so pissed, he brings ethics charges against Friedland. The New Jersey Supreme Court suspends Friendland's law license for six months. He doesn't lose his seat in the Jersey Senate, of course. But Friedland is now on the Fed's radar.

All this is B.R., Before RICO, the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, named after some ancient movie gangster. Anyway, After RICO, in 1971,  the feds start prosecuting the family bosses. And knocking them off.   

By 1979 they are down to smaller fish, indicting Friedland and his old man for taking a 360 “G” kickback for setting up that $4 million loan from their Teamster's local 701 pension fund to Johnny Dee. On Wall Street they call that a “finders fee”, business as usual. Across the river in Jersey, that's a RICO violation.  And in 1980 Friedland and his papa are convicted and the jamook is forced to  resign  from the state Senate. 

Well, this jamook Friedland doesn't want to go to prison. So in 1982 he turns C-double U,  a cooperating witness. He even wears a wire. Now this could be a problem, a connected suitcase wearing a wire. Except everybody knows Friedland is a jamook, and that he's facing serious jail time. Nobody is going to talk to him;. What strunz of a prosecutor signed that deal? But Friedland is nothing if not adaptable. He tells the feds a long and colorful story that leads pretty much no where, leaving the Feds stuck with their own deal gone sour and then Friedland disappears into the witness protection program. 

And guess where they ship him off to? Miami. Which in 1982 is the cocaine empire. So here is David Friedland, ex-mob lawyer, ex-mob state senator, a guy with the morals of a rat. . He's got a new name, a new job - working for a mortgage company, like nothing illegal ever went on in the legit banking business - a  new name, even a new girl friend. And what a girl friend. Great lungs, you know what I mean?  

She is the the smoldering brunette named Colette Golightly, who had just dumped her cold and cloudy Indiana optometrist husband for sunny Boca Rotan, Florida (above).  Now single, she becomes an underwater photographer, which is how she meets David Friedland. Underwater.  And together they are gonna go straight. Right? Fur-getta-bout it!

It takes Friendland just six moths before this jamook is back in New Jersey, setting up yet another loan from local 701 Pension fund, again for his old buddy Johnny Dee, and taking his cut.  Now, who thinks the feds have forgotten about Teamsters' local 701? 

Two years later the Jamook gets indicted again, for falsifying loan documents.  And in 1986 he gets convicted again. And this time the feds are not interested in a deal. Friedland is going to have to do something really flamboyant to get out of this one. Like, name names. And maybe his boss, Johnny Dee, starts thinking, maybe we ought to clip Friedland before he starts singing. Maybe not, but that is what Friedland is thinking Johnny Dee is thinking.

So, the jamook drowns. While scuba diving, 12 miles off Grand Bahama.  His good buddy, Jack Wynn, tells the Coast Guard he personally saw the Friedland take pain killers just before he disappeared beneath the waves, with only half an hour of air in his scuba tanks. And, of course, hours later he still has not surfaced.  Of course Wynn does not radio the Coast Guard until the next morning, and while they search most of the next day, they really don't expect to find anything. Sharks, you know. And they don't. And while they can't prove Friedland isn't really dead, the Feds do know this guy. Now that should be the end the story. The ultimate witness protection system, right?

Until...a month after he makes a clean getaway,  the flamboyant David Friedland, jamook extraordinaire, reappears healthy enough to call his lawyer from beyond his watery grave and insist he is innocent. Which nobody believes that anymore.  But for once, Freidland's timing is really good.

Back in Jersey in April of 1988, Friedland's old boss, Johnny Dee, beats the racketeering rap for the Teamster loan. But his people who run the local 701 are convicted. And  all the Genevese union officers, including Johnny Dee, are forced out. Not that the management goes clean, but all the Genevese union officers are replaced by Gambino union people.

This angers the Genevese bosses because of the loss of income, and they blame Johnny Dee. In May pf 1988 the Genevese mob takes Johnny Dee for a ride in a Lincoln Continental, and put five .38 rounds into the back of his head. He is next seen floating down the Hackensack river. So Friedland dosen't have to worry about Johnny Dee anymore.

Anyway, with this good news in his suitcase, the jamook and Colette are playing hopscotch across the globe, with the FBI half a step behind; from Bermuda, to Kenya, to Switzerland, to France, to Venice, to Hong Kong, to Singapore. When they get to Sri Lanka the feds lose track of them. 

And then for a year, the jamook and Colette disappear completely. Clean getaway. Almost. Because Friedland keeps popping up in various countries, like a whack a mole, just long enough to empty various bank accounts he has under various names, before vanishing again. And then the feds get a phone call from a string of coral atolls out in the middle of the Indian Ocean.

The cops in the Republic of the Maldive Islands had gotten curious about a flamboyant American resident named Richard Smith Harley who seems to be floating in money. He's an avid scuba diver, with pockets full of cash that nobody seems to know where it came from. But then, who ever really turned down a pile of money because it was greasy. And this Harley has invested this greasy cash in a half dozen local diving schools. 

And it seems the flamboyant mister Harley likes to have his picture taken with his scuba students, feeding sharks, while holding dead fish held in his teeth. Very flamboyant. He even started a health clinic on tiny Bondos Island (above), and everybody there calls him “Pappa”. 

But what really peaks the Maldive cops' interest is that every couple of months Harley would get his American passport stamped when he flew out of the Maldives (above). But when he flew back, always a few days later,  it was never stamped to show entry into any other country. It was like he was traveling into the Twilight Zone.  So the cops started comparing Harley's passport photo with the pictures on their alert sheets and early in December of 1988, they found a match - David Freidland. Same jamook. A couple of days later Frieland was arrested, and at the end of December the feds brought him back to the states.

“Tanned and smiling”, David Friedland tells the press, “I had a good time, but I'll tell you it's good to be back." (above)   Apparently it was not good because he was coming home to his wife Carol, and their daughter, because he wasn't doing that.  Rather, the smoldering Colette came to the states to be  with him, if only on visiting days.  Awaiting sentencing the jamook announced he had converted to Christianity, and tried to cut another deal with the feds. But nobody was impressed anymore. That's the problem with being flamboyant. Over time the your bilge tends to fill with water, until you are not so buoyant anymore  You are just flam.

In 1989 the bars of the Correctional Complex in Coleman, Florida (above)  finally slam shut behind the Flamboyant jamook.  And they did not open again until July of 1997, when David Friedland was released from a West Palm Beach halfway house. The jamook told a reporter, “'I can't tell you the nights that I lay awake just crying, because I realize the opportunity I had to do so much good, and how I blew it.”'  He never stopped selling this stuff.  He was by then about 60, and after working for a Florida advertising firm, he retired to Boca Roton, with Colette. And he finally learned to shut up.

Maybe the final word on the jamook belongs to Thomas Kean (above, left), who became the Republican governor of New Jersey, thanks in part to the political deals he cut with the Democrat David Friedland (above, right). Kean described him as “He was one of the most brilliant people I ever worked with. He just was a bit crooked.” Just a bit, do you think? Another jamook.

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