Palminteri, like Chazz

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• November 23, 2015

When I first started doing stand up comedy, I thought about using a stage name.  Palminteri was butchered by people my entire life.  Italian last names sound pretty much exactly how they’re spelled, but it’s a last name people seldom get right the first time.  I considered my stage alias to be my first and middle name, “Lori Jean,” or take my mother’s maiden name, and be “Lori George.” I had decided against it, despite having to repeat my last name over and over to emcee’s.

“Can you say your last name for me?”
“Palminteri.  Like Chazz Palminteri.  If that helps.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Chazz Palminteri!  The Usual Suspects?  A Bronx Tale?  Vanilla Coke?”
“Don’t know him.”
“Really?”  I could care less if he fucked up my name, but I was annoyed at his lack of New York Italian movie knowledge.  My whole life, I’ve dreamed of being mafioso as much as I dreamed of being a comic.  Probably picked the right path, since I’m terrible at doing business and hate the sight of blood.

For those who do know Chazz Palminteri, they always ask, “are you related?”  A question I’ve responded with… maybe?  Not surprisingly, my Italian side is huge, and I only know the family tree to a certain point.  If you met my family, Chazz certain looks like he could be my uncle.  Coincidentally, my uncle and aunt were at an event with Chazz’s parents some years ago.  They tried connecting the dots in our lineage, and depending on who you talk to in my family, our relation to the actor is debatable.  The other Palminteri’s did share a story with my uncle and aunt, which has become a favorite of mine:

Chazz, in his thirties, struggling with an acting career, lived at home.  He had legal pads spread all over his parents dining room table.  His mother nagged him to clean it up.  And Chazz advised them not to touch any of the legal pads on the table.  These notes were what would be his one man show, and ultimate big break, “A Bronx Tale.”

Colin Quinn had the best response when people ask about Chazz.  “This is what you say… just say, we don’t talk about it.”

The Palminteri’s, pretty stereo-typically, are devout Roman Catholics, who offer you copious amounts of food upon entering their home.  Italians are notorious for taking hospitality to a level of borderline insanity.  No really, I don’t need a cheese plate, an Entenmann’s cake, left over pasta, crackers, cookies, and everything that’s in your refrigerator.  The statement “I’m full” would be responded with “so?”

Our family perpetuates Italian stereotypes; we love food and wine, we’re loud and opinionated, generous and kind yet judgmental, and all the women are gorgeous.  Above all, we take care of our own.  Trust me, I bump heads with my Dad, and Italian family in so many ways.  Socially.  Politically.  Religiously (oh, that’s the big one).  They’ll give you advice, even if you’ve never asked for it.  And they’ll tell you their opinions, which they deem as solid fact.  I’ve sat quietly at many family dinners feeling like an alien.  Despite it all, family is always first.  Always.  If you don’t take care of your family, you’re a real piece of shit (pretty sure that’s an old Italian motto, engraved in stone in the old country).

I visited my 91 year old 100% Italian grandfather, who is insanely religious.  I love my grandpa, but we’ve always had to tiptoe around topics to avoid lengthy religious lectures.  For example, when my sister made her communion, my parents had a party in our backyard.  They invited the priest (because of course they did).  The priest was talking to my mom, who warned him about my grandpa.  Grandpa would, no doubt, lecture the priest on religion.  He also, no doubt, knew the bible better than any priest, and probably the pope himself.  The priest brushed off their warning, until my grandpa walked in, and the priest said, “oh no, that’s your father in law?”  So yeah, that kind of the crazy religious.

I don’t like lying, especially to my family.  But my grandpa always asks me about confession, and he thinks I’ve gone regularly throughout the years, which is hilarious if you know me, or seen my act.  For what it’s worth, if there is a Heaven, his daily prayers for my soul will probably be the only reason I’d make the list.  My grandpa is old school, and set in his stubborn ways, but he has a brilliant mind, which is sharp as ever, even now.

“Have you met any special men, Lori?”
“No, not yet grandpa.”
“How old are you?”
“26.”
“26.  My goodness.  You’re not so young anymore.”
“Neither are you.”
We both laugh.
“It’s hard meeting someone good enough for me,” I say.
“Well, maybe that’s because you’re a narcissist.”
Well played, grandpa.  Well played.

While the Palminteri’s are gifted in the arts, we’re a blue collar family.  This is likely due to their hardened traditional values of the American Dream.  Get a job (preferably a union job), find a spouse, buy a house, raise a family, provide for your family.  If you don’t take care of your family, you’re a real piece of shit.  Still, the Palminteri’s have some real artistic talent, especially in music.  It was only a matter of time until someone from the new generation of Palminteri’s decided to pursue an art for a career.  Though I’m pretty sure no one predicted it would be me.

Blue collar traditional families have a hard time accepting such a radical and unsafe path.  But I think the reason I always liked that Chazz’s story is because it relates to my Palminteri’s so well.  They’re worried about you, because they love you, and while they may not fully understand the road you’ve taken, they won’t abandon you.  Because if you don’t take care of your family, you’re a real piece of shit.  

My dad, who worked for the Long Island Rail Road for 30 years, hated his job (especially at the end).  But he still did it.  To support his family.  To give them a better life than he had.  Because of this selflessness, it puts me in a better position to pursue my passion (as daft as it may seem).

My family believes hiccups should be dealt with quietly and internally, and swept under the rug, ya know, like a mafia hit (my family isn’t in the mafia, by the way.  I wish they were.  My screenplays would be so much cooler).  The folks believe what their children do is reflected on them, and poor behavior stains the family name.  I disagree.  We’re adults, and responsible for ourselves.  We’re branches of them, sure, as we’ve inherited both good a bad traits, but every generation transforms into a more unconventional Italian mutt.  I’ve many flaws, most of which, I’m willing to share.  Because I’m not about keeping my name pristine.  That’s boring and dishonest.  Get it dirty, wring out the sullied water, and embrace the flaws just as the family would embrace you.  Because what’s as equally important as taking care of your family, is being true to yourself.  Being dishonest with yourself is resigning to a life of misery, ultimately, turning you into a real piece of shit.

Sure, I’ve fantasized about a future where Chazz plays my dad in a mafia movie I wrote, because that would be so fucking cool.  But I don’t know Chazz at all.  I’m a Palminteri, but I want to be like my dad, and his twin sister, and my grandpa, and the other Palminteri’s who are genuinely altruistic people.