THE LEGEND OF PTERODACTYL GARY
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Hello, there. My name is DPR and I welcome you to the first installment of a semi-regular column depicting the life, times, and philosophy of our dear departed friend, "Pterodactyl" Gary Goldberg. I say semi-regular because, as any of you know that have read my other postings on this site, they come in febrile spurts between long droughts of silence. I am going to try to be more timely with these posts, but I am warning you now: Do not expect regularity. (My diet is to blame: an alternating daily intake of Whoppers, sweet tea, and Vitamin C tablets yields an intestinal situation tantamount to a perpetually unstable Mt. St. Helens.) Nonetheless, I owe Gary, Matt, and you, Gentle Reader, some degree of commitment. I will buy the jumbo box of Pepto Bismol and try my best.

Gary Goldberg was born in Valdosta, Ga. on May 10, 1920, to Moses and Ida Goldberg, a pair of traveling comedian/musicians late of the Vaudeville Circuit. Moses' father, (and Gary's grandfather) Josef Goldberg had been a successful Vaudeville performer for about fifteen years, known across the Borscht Belt for his inimical characters 'Gap-Tooth Sanchez' and 'Smarty Weinstein and Mable'. Having lost his mother, Andrea, in childbirth, Moses Goldberg looked up to his father, traveling across the Catskills through most of his youth, running props across the stage and learning from various local makeup artists and supporting acts the ins and outs of stage comedy. That his father, Josef, never really connected to Moses is a fact Gary reminded us of all the time, and was the apparent reason he (Gary) came to loathe all things Orthodox (be that Judaism or other.) Further destined to separate Gary from the roots of his faith was the fact that Moses, at seventeen, married Ida May McAdams, fourteen, of Binghamton, NY. They were clearly in love, but it meant nothing to Josef, as he was determined that Moses marry a Jewish woman and sire--as Gary put it--a "real Jew, from a real Hebrew vagina." This, of course, was the fracture that finally separated Moses from his father, and caused him to leave the Traveling Life and settle down with his new wife in Binghamton. Sadly, a year and a half later, Josef Goldberg was killed by three men who may or may not have been Freemasons committing a hate crime: the police reports were sadly, suspiciously lost soon after they were filed--by a Precinct containing at least six confirmed Egyptian Rite Freemasons, all in positions of authority. (This, too, would inform Pterodactyl Gary's philosophy of life.)

Saddened by the loss of his father, and determined to bring the family name back into entertainment, in the Spring of 1918 Moses and Ida May Goldberg left Binghamton and headed South. Gary always referred to this move as "the flushing of the two, a direct dive into the shit-pot of racism and intransigence that was the South in those days." The Goldbergs encountered more than their share of anti-Semitism, often stooping to such shameful tactics as keeping their last name (and Moses) hidden until the day of the show-- often performed in Hillbilly dives and dangerous, out-of-the-way barnhouses that might have signs outside advertising the next week's Klan meeting. However, as Gary so succinctly put it: "These inbred Klanspeople probably would have slit my father's throat if they knew where he came from, and what he was, but as long as the stage was far enough from the audience--and Dad went through costume changes lightning-fast--they were too busy laughing to think about how much they hated Jews. Plus, you know, he would trot my Mom out there, the beautiful Scottish-English Princess, before he ever stepped on stage, and all these rednecks would fall in love with her, would watch her while she and Dad were making them laugh so hard that by the end of the set their mouths would be covered in tobacco juice. Then Dad would have the the old Model-T rumbling, she would get the money-- all smiles and tossing back her luxurious blond hair--and they'd drive out of there as fast as they could, laughing at the rubes all the way--not that the rubes didn't get a damn good show out of it. Mom and Dad were always honest with the money and they always put on a fine show."

By the Summer of 1920 Ida May was showing and the Goldbergs found themselves in Valdosta, Ga. Inexplicably, they liked it. They managed to find themselves on a street that, by luck, contained several progressive, friendly families and hence decided that this was where Gary should grow up. Moses started a theater company in the downtown district and Ida May made crafts--"they were creative bohemians before that term came into our language and was ruined by filthy, shiftless hippies", Gary once said. Gary was born in May, on a day that "was so hot the pigs melted in the mud", to a very happy mixed-race couple, living in a tiny tolerant niche in the national center of intolerance, surrounded by people of myriad ethnic backgrounds who were kind and forward-thinking and bonded together "like one of those ungodly-looking but delicious gumwads with all the different flavors."

Gary grew up in Georgia, and by the time he was sixteen he was an accomplished drummer, music critic, steady-mover and general rabble-rouser. He found himself involved in the percolating Civil Rights movement, as well as other things...

I first met him in 1987, when I was in Junior High, through a friend's mother. Nearly a hippie, she majored in Pottery in College and managed a kind of trinket store here in Savannah, Ga. Gary would sometimes come over for her constant parties, small affairs where Professors and small business owners and repo men and garbage collectors--truly freak parades, these were--would stand around and hold lofty discussions about the future of the environment and such, stinking of patchouli and "freaky herbs only those weirdos know how to find". Gary was always the highlight of these gatherings, and was the first and only person there I actually noticed. He talked very loud, was always insulting the people for being lazy and ineffectual, for driving Volkswagons and backing Democrats. I remember on more than one occasion he was thrown out, although my friend's mother would always relent and invite him again; I think even she appreciated the life he breathed into these times. (Once he was banned from the house for three months for hiding a large ham in the back of her freezer. A strict vegan, she went absolutely nuts when she found it. I was there when she starting screaming at my friend (her son) about the negative karma it was going to bring her and then I watched in amazement as she threw this gigantic ham out the back door and into the yard she shared with her downstairs neighbor.) But she loved Gary, and even though I suspect she was a lesbian I think she would forgive him and invite him back because she had a very strange sort of crush on him.

(I found out later that, in fact, Gary had another, more troubling connection to me through my family. That is, he'd had what he liked to call "run-ins" with a certain progenitor of mine...)

Gary found out that my friend and I were writing and drawing--and planning to self-publish--our own comic book. (It was a horrible rip-off of all the bad late-80s Marvel comics we were reading religiously, complete with a hero with a blatantly derivative costume who talked half the time like a horny teenager and half the time like Darth Vader.) It was then, as he talked to us in detail about our little project, that "Pterodactyl" Gary made a real impression on me. It was astounding that someone with his experience and intelligence would talk to us kids like we were real artists, making something worthy from scratch. It was then Gary explained to me what he called 'Zen Fuck You'. "The best revenge is doing your job well and for your own reasons. The work is action, and action is all that counts. Your Zen will be a big Fuck You to those who think you can't, who're jealous, and who want you to fail. Do it and the hell with them. That's a big Zen Fuck You."

I saw a lot of Gary over that year and throughout High School, as my friend and I continued doing our little projects. He was living in a small apartment here in Savannah, and would let us hang out there and work when he was out of town. (He was out of town a lot.) My Senior Year I introduced Wampus to Gary, and Wampus passed on the favor to Matt. In the last few years, Gary became a huge advocate of both of these guys. He loved Matt's cartoons and the music of Tailothepup. Having played drums all his life and been in and out of the Music Business-- as a musician and critic-- for almost sixty years, he had plenty of advice to give Wampus as he was studying music in college. And even better than that, he had stories. I mean, some of the best stories you'll ever hear. "Pterodactyl" Gary, throughout his life, and living all across the United States, managed to find himself in some incredibly dangerous, gut-bustingly funny, and (once in a while) historically significant situations. (When the movie Forrest Gump came out, Gary was convinced that "some jerk" he'd met at once place or another had written a book about him "making me a retard, probably because I gave his band a bad review or took his money at the poker table.")

We lost Gary last year, as any of you who have the latest TOTP CD, Throw Up Throw Down, will know. We don't know exactly how he died yet. We're still trying to find out. As Gary had no living family, it's difficult to know. We do know that he was traveling, but we don't know where or to what end. We do know that he was 84, and he had been complaining of breathing difficulties for the last year or so, but as to the exact nature and location of his death we can't say. (I do know that he was a huge fan of the 19th C. American satirist Ambrose Bierce, whose death--or disappearance--Gary always said was "the perfect way to go.") We know he is dead because we all received letters-- Matt, Wampus, and I-- in Gary's handwriting, dated over a year ago and mailed by God-knows-who. In closing, I am going to include a portion of Gary's letter to me. Just know that, although he may be gone, his presence lives on through the advice he gave all of us and his crazy, wonderful stories....which, semi-regularly, will be posted on this website as a reminder of all he was to us.

"...know you're a big baby and you'll probably cry about it, but you've got to pull yourself together. Don't forget what I told you-- Fuck 'em. Save the soft heart for the ladies, and stare down the Jerks. Be tough, *****, and make your own damn stories. As for mine, I'd prefer you not compile them in a book. Books get dusty and get stuffed in a corner and people forget about the stuff in them (especially biographies of relative nobodies like me). I don't mind you telling them-- I had some damn good times and you know I loved to talk about all the crazy shit that happened to me-- but it doesn't need any fancy cover or presentation. Just tell the people and watch to see if it inspires them to do something, fuckin' anything, without apology."

R.I.P. Pterodactyl Gary

JLDPR

TALES OF PTERODACTYL GARY

Pterodactyl Gary Meets Elvis Presley
Gary, A Cock-Fight, and the Lizard King
Fear and Loathing and Snow Balls