JimmyDMook

“Boxes don’t complain about the heat” - Jimmy G. explaining why he invested in warehouses and not rental housing.

Up until his passing a few days ago, Jimmy’s personal email was an AOL account, JIMMYDMOOK, referencing a scene in Martin Scorsese’s MEAN STREETS. A character asks what a MOOK is and it triggers a head-cracking pool hall brawl. MEAN STREETS was shot on a 14th street location in the basement of the former Palladium, then known as Howard Stein’s Academy of music next to the old Luchow’s restaurant. This is also where the seminal 1973 Lou Reed album “Rock’n’Roll Animal” was recorded the same year MEAN STREETS premiered. 1973 is also the year the twin towers were finally completed. None of this means much to anyone born in the last thirty years but Jimmy and I shared a large part of our lives embedded in New York City of a very specific, generative time. Jimmy and I watched the Trade Center slowly rise above the lower Manhattan skyline for half a decade. We came of age in a world of subway tokens, LPs and payphones.

When I first met Jimmy G, he was a coach at my grade school, St. Davids located next to the Gugenheim museum on the upper eastside. But this was before Manhattan was a fancy place filled with international billionaires. When I was a school kid, the subways were covered in graffiti and you could get a 3 bedroom apartment on park avenue for 90K. It was a city some people of means tried to avoid and felt much more like a small town with a lot of crime. Jimmy, however, did not live on the Upper East Side. He was strictly “bridge and tunnel” and damn proud of it. He wore “wife-beater” tank tops which prominently displayed his marijuana leaf tattoo on his upper arm. It’s hard to explain how radical a gesture this was at the time. His hair was Carlos Santana at Woodstock, complete with mustache. He was physically chiseled and sometimes wore short T’s that showcased his 6 pack. St. David’s wouldn’t let someone like Jimmy in the front door these days. His sports were gymnastics, basketball and boxing. It might be hard for his recent acquaintances to square this portrait with the gray-haired polo-shirt wearing, portly older man he became, holding court with an array of successful businessmen at prominent golf clubs. But make no mistake, he was the exact same person. Jimmy was always himself.

Many years ago Jimmy was invited to a lunch with my family at the Top of the Sixes, a high-end hot spot in midtown where a certain attire was required. I can’t remember the occasion but I do remember the look on my grandmother’s face when Jimmy appeared. He was wearing a sweatshirt with a colorfully emblazoned full size image of a bikini clad water skier. Adding to the awkwardness of the moment was the insistence of the restaurant staff that he wear an equally garish jacket they had on hand for those who didn’t follow the dress code. Jimmy joked to the waiter, in his heavy New York accent, that he wanted another color. The staff didn’t think it was funny. I’m happy to report that after he met his wife, Geralynne, his sartorial choices improved dramatically. Geralynne’s beneficial influence extended well beyond clothes.

Geralynne was a driving force behind Jimmy’s transition from jock, lady’s man, stoner to sober, family-man, successful entrepreneur. She was never judgemental, never a scold. She led by quiet example. I think her getting up every morning in her exquisite business attire to report to her job on Wall Street helped Jimmy aspire to his potential. At that point Jimmy was in the nascent stages of forming his company. He had worked as a taxi driver and been taken hostage at gunpoint which certainly aided in his decision to embark on a different career path. I remember him discussing his idea with us of establishing a moving company and calling it Celebrity Moving. I thought it might work but I thought the name was dumb. He insisted. The rest is history because he turned it into a huge success. I actually reflected on this one day walking around his massive warehouse when I ran into a movie star inspecting his boxes. Jimmy had been right: celebrities called up Celebrity Moving to do their moving and storage. Dear God.

In the early days of Celebrity moving, when he and his number 2, Chuck, did the actual moving themselves, I asked them to help me haul some furniture to New Hampshire where I was attending school. I met Jimmy on 48th Ave in front of his one room office where he and Chuck ran “operations”. Chuck was the Scottie Pippen of Celebrity Moving. We boarded the large third-hand, rusting former water-hauling truck to begin our journey. Jimmy told me we were making a delivery to Boston before NH. We were on 95 in Old Lyme CT when the sneaker he had been using to prop up the radiator dislodged, producing a torrent of antifreeze as it made contact with the fan. Eight hours later Jimmy’s brother arrived from Jersey with a tow truck. I remember a somewhat tense conversation crammed in the truck cab as his brother expressed some skepticism about the prospects for his new venture. How their father and he “had solid pensions which they gained BEFORE doing anything else.” Jimmy was not receptive. It was a long drive back to the city.

I had noticed Jimmy’s makeshift repair had used a sneaker from his award-winning run.

Jimmy was the unlikely winner of a feminist-themed 5K race put on by Betty Friedan. The New York Times interviewed him after his win. When asked why he entered the race he responded: “I thought I’d meet some girls.”

Before Celebrity Moving, Jimmy spent a huge amount of time at my family’s house near the beach. One summer he was in residence, working odd jobs and helping while the house was being refurbished. He was also keeping an eye on my younger brother who was experiencing some challenges. In addition to his running success, he landed the job of being the chaperone for a very prominent writer who didn’t trust himself driving home after parties. This was prior to Jimmy’s commitment to sobriety, so being a hired designated driver was a mighty odd choice, but Jimmy’s natural charm and trustworthiness won everyone over.

My father and mother were both smitten with Jimmy. In fact, they consented to him in a chaperone role for a cross country adventure with myself, my brother and another close friend. Since no one else was old enough to have a license Jimmy handled all the driving of the camper. He was 25, my friend and I were 16 and Zach was 11. In hindsight I wonder about my parent’s judgement. A drug addict chaperoning children for a cross country trip sounds like a case for child protective services. But you had to know Jimmy. Surprisingly, this streetwise Queens boy has an encyclopedic knowledge of the Western National Parks. I remember paddling down the snake river and having Jim talk about the rock formations in the eroded canyon walls. You might not know but Jimmy finished an undergraduate degree in… geology. It was great fun, but not without its terror. It was the 1970s. No cell phones, no tracking, to backstop. We had paper maps and a giant bag of highly illegal cannabis and other substances. Perhaps the scariest moment was when we had just visited Bryce & Zion and suddenly came upon what appeared to be a toll booth. There were uniformed officers searching vehicles. We were driving an enclosed camper and quickly began fumigating. We considered making a U turn but it would have been too obvious. So we hid the bag of weed in the freezer and stuffed the bag of peyote in a couch pillow. The officer entered. I’m sure we looked like a backup band for Alice Cooper as we feigned being responsible good citizens. The officer b-lined it to the fridge. We were crest-fallen. He grabbed a bag of lettuce tomatoes and asked “Can I have these?” SURE!!!! Turns out this was an agricultural checkpoint and they were guarding against pests to protect the crops in the central states.

Another fright was on the return trip. We pulled into a rural town in Louisiana. We were trying to find an old friend of Jimmy’s. Our NY plates garnered more attention than we expected. Not sure if this crowd ever encountered anyone outside their Parrish (the Louisiana term for County) In the end we found the friend who was a “bean farmer”. It is true that there were beans on the farm but there was a completely different crop that brought home the bacon… magic mushrooms. We had a wonderful dinner in his trailer with his wife and infant son. I tried to help with the dishes but the wife insisted the men needed to sit and have a smoke while she cleaned up. I invited the farmer to visit us in NY. Jimmy shot me a look meaning “SHUT UP.” The guy gave a cryptic answer, “I’d love to but that’s not in the cards. I had a rough trip up in those parts”. Jimmy explained later that he was wanted for armed robbery in New Jersey. I should not have been surprised. Years earlier I went with Jimmy to pick up two friends at the airport who had just returned from Thailand… I don’t think they went to tour the sites. We were crossing the Triborough Bridge when one of them leaped forward from the back seat and covered Jimmy’s eyes — sending the car careening across lanes of honking traffic. We managed to avoid hitting the wall but paused in the breakdown lane where Jimmy threatened to kill his backseat jokester. Needless to say, it was a long rest of the ride as the friend, obviously high on something, didn’t seem to understand Jimmy’s warning and kept laughing at odd intervals. This makes me reflect on the career choices of two of Jimmy’s kids. No doubt the prosecutor and the State Trooper would have probably had some professional encounters with Jimmy’s old crowd. I’m not sure that any of his kids know that Jimmy once got into a spitting match with the Ramones at CBGB’s back in the day.

What is that Lou Reed line, “those were different times”. We like to think all the flashy technology makes life easier.No doubt if we had had a rearview camera in the camper Jimmy wouldn’t have backed up into that tree at the forest campsite in Montana. Full confession: I was supposed to be his lookout. No rearview camera. No google maps. No way to call for help. It was insane for Jimmy, as a novice surfer, to try and swim out to the second break during a hurricane, but he was not confining his life to a swimming pool. Jimmy didn’t play it safe but he was not reckless either . He knew how to turn his weakness for drugs into the backbone of his success in life. You didn’t doubt him because you knew he’d lived it. The pot leaf tattoo was re-inked as a prohibition sign. Everyone respects someone whose trustworthiness is based on real world experiences. Jimmy lived the lesson but never preached. This is why he had fans from all walks of life: tycoons, mobsters and street people in Long Island City, the suburban crowd from the Island, all those friends in FLA…

For a number of years in my 20s, I had the neighboring apartment to Jimmy’s on Vernon Boulevard in Queens. Jimmy had kindly introduced me to the landlord, Mr. Chichillini, who showed off the shrine to the Virgin Mary in the backyard. The interview consisted of Jimmy hugging me in front of Mr. Chichillini and saying “BRAM IS MY GOOMBAH”. Jimmy also helped me negotiate the re-rigging of the clothesline of the upstairs apartment as their underwear and sheets were obscuring my view of the East River. He introduced me to Uncle Louie, whom I dutifully bought coffee for on the weekends. The non-alternate-side-of-the-street parking was coveted and it was always good to have Uncle Louie on your side. Jimmy also explained that the occasional smell of death on the first floor was from the tenant who made homemade wine in his bathtub. He also gave insight into the always empty perfume store next to the bar across the street. The girlfriend of another mobster was running some sort of money laundering operation. There was always a group of elderly Italian women in lawn chairs on the sidewalk in front of the pizzeria. They would be brought to tears when they had to let go of Jimmy’s baby son, James, after babysitting him. I once made the mistake of leaning out on the fire escape in an attempt to calm a rowdy group of drunks. I threatened to call the 108th precinct, which was around the corner if they didn’t shut up. Turns out they were the cops from the 108 — unwinding after their shift. I had another memorable moment on the fire escape which connected out apartments.. It was the halfway point for the NYC marathon and we were all overlooking the action. The lead woman runner went by and had a very serious bathroom accident in her tight running shorts. I fell back into my bedroom and barfed on the rug. I’m sure Jimmy and Geralynne noticed but Geralynne made sure Jimmy didn’t rib me about it.

This was not the only awkward moment in the hood. In my attempt to be a friend, I bought Jimmy and Geralynne a colorful tropical fish to try and cheer them up after the sudden passing of Geralynne’s mother. A few days later I dropped in and saw their fish tank was drained. I asked “what happened” only to be met with a glare of silence from Jimmy that resembled his expression on our after dinner conversation in Louisiana. Geralynne explained in a reassuring tone. It turns out my fish had eaten all of their fish and died after gorging himself. I redeemed myself by volunteering to give their sick cat pills for a few days so they could take a long delayed vacation. After that week it took me years to be near any cat again.

Jimmy was the paradigm family man. I came from a culture where children were relegated to the kid’s table and generally excluded from adult affairs. Metaphorically speaking, JImmy was a kid’s table. He loved ALL children. Even the one upstairs who terrorized him by constantly running across the floor in heavy shoes making the lights in Jimmy’s apartment shake. I was so moved that his first grandchild arrived just a few weeks before he departed. He also bore witness to all his children’s successes. It is interesting that no matter what field they chose to pursue, they have all made their mark. Obviously Geralynne deserves much credit as well. She raised 5 kids (if you include Jimmy) and still is as charming and beautiful as the day I met her nearly half a century ago.

Of course parenting came with the burdens of adulthood. Early on it became necessary for Jimmy to give up his beloved dog. For some reason the animal had begun threatening James. Jimmy did his best to make accommodations, but the aggression couldn’t be curbed. He made the tough choice, but not without streams of tears. Hard choices were made in the workplace as well. I recall a strike as well as several tough conversations with employees when they ran astray. He gave second chances but not thirds. Celebrity became a haven for those seeking work and sobriety. Jimmy’s ability to read a situation and not hide from conflict was remarkable. Once he called my father, who was on vacation in Italy, to berate him for not supporting my young brother during a rough patch. He really tore my father a new one, and this was a man Jimmy, in many respects, hero-worshipped.

This characteristic did not always win him friends. I’m specifically recalling his giving opinions about fouls in local street basketball games. Jimmy was a tough competitor whether on the court or the course and never stifled his opinions. Everyone in NYC who lived above the third story probably remembers Jimmy’s post-9/11 message to Mr. Bin Laden. It was strategically painted on the top of each of the fleet of Celebrity Moving trucks. I asked him if he thought people would be offended by the vulgarity? His response: “Fuck them & Bid Laden.”

That really sums it up. He was who he was. Perhaps this confidence came from having to earn his keep from a very young age. Maybe his zeal for achievement came from insecurity about his own family. He would sometimes say, derisively, that his father worked as a garbage man. I failed to see the shame in that, but then again I remember my own father’s ambivalence about my grandfather’s vocation as spice salesman. It was a long journey from a stoned playboy dressed as a nurse at a Frank Zappa Halloween show at the Fillmore East to being a sober, respected, family man, and wildly successful entrepreneur on the links.

I called his office when I heard the news via Facebook. The receptionist confirmed what I had read. She said she had worked there for decades and he was like a father. Through my tears I explained he was family to me as well. He was my goombah. My favorite celebrity. What a mook.

The last time I saw Jimmy & Geralynne I came down from my farm in Vermont to visit after his operation. We sat by the pool in the backyard of his Rockville Centre mansion and I took some photos. It was quite the contrast from Vernon boulevard. At one point Geralynne went inside the house. Jimmy quickly turned to me, the extended post-op slumber seemed to vanish. He wanted me to photograph his operation scar. I tried to dissuade him but that relentless mischievous 9 year old boy spark was in his tone. “Quick BEFORE Geralynne gets back!!!” I thought it was gross and inappropriate but I was glad the operation hadn’t bent his spirit. I enclose the photograph below. I think he’d want you to know he’s still smiling.

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TRIGGER WARNING

PS — BELOW IS A PHOTOGRAPH JIMMY INSISTED I TAKE.

A special thank you to my spouse, Erica, who patiently edited and helped write. What’s that Paul McCartney line: take a sad song and make it better.