I need to go wash my hair.

The first time I ever heard the term "sandhog," was when I read about workmen on the Brooklyn bridge. I was impressed with a job that looks horrifying, and it's probably much more so in reality. In this case, sand hogs are creating tunnels that will carry water to the billions of people that live in the New York City area. I say billions because it's an unthinkable amount of people living there.

The best parts of this book were accidents that happened because of the dangerous nature of this job.

It was a love-hate relationship with this book. The wife of the protagonist, Dolores, was an admirable character. She reminded me so much of myself when I was younger and I married someone who took my innocence, my youth, my heart, and gave back nothing. I hated the character of the protagonist, "Ownie," whose real name was owen. He was an alcoholic for whom the bottle meant more than anything: more than his marriage, more than his child. Willing to throw away what was so meaningful, to prove that no woman would tell him what to do. It was terribly triggering for me, as so many books are. I wish so much I could reach through the pages and slap the crap out of the son of a b.

Here's the first of the accidents that were so thrilling:
".. when at work one day, deep in the tunnel under the dam, Morrison's friend, Jerry barry, who was here 3 months from donegal, turned off his acetylene torch at the tip but left the tank open. Lit up like he deserved a good smoke for himself. Lit up in a tight chamber far under a reservoir. Barry blew straight up through the roof and into the water. Later, standing on the gravel shore, somebody spotted Barry out in the reservoir. The head was bobbing along, the face looking up, with sometimes no water covering the face at all, looking up at the sky as the water swept it toward the gate in the dam that led to the tunnel in the city. Somebody handed Morrison a pole with a small net on it and said, 'well, this is about all you'll need to fish Barry out of the water.' It was. When Morrison picked it up in the net, the man rowing the boat looked at the head in the net and said, 'I guess he sure left a sour taste in the drinking water.' "

Here's an accident that happened to Owen Morrison's ancestor, Jimmy Morrison. It was a pretty good accident, too:
" A year later, working in High Bridge, Jimmy Morrison and three others got on a lift that dropped like a flower pot off a windowsill, dropped down a 900 ft shaft with the four men on it trying to scream out but unable to make a sound. Jimmy was on his hands and knees and forcing an Act of Contrition through his Frozen mind when the elevator cable caught and the elevator stopped at once. The four were thrown against the steel sides of the shaft with bones breaking and the first cries coming from them. Then the lift broke Free again and dropped the last 50 ft to the bottom. It splintered and the four men were pulled out and had to remain in the shaft for several hours until a new lift was fashioned and sent down to them. One of the four, Gene Cooney, went berserk and, when healed, had to be put away. The other two left sandhog work. Jimmy Morrison, with fractured vertebrae, was in a ward in Bronx general hospital for 6 months."

Throughout the book, mentions are made of a woman named cindy. Cindy is a sex worker, though to her friends it's more like friends with benefits. What I disliked immensely was the author's attitude toward her, as if she's something dirty and smelly, instead of directing it back to the men that make the bad smells and the dirt.
"in the middle of the night or the start of the morning, or whenever it was, he sat on a wicker hamper in the bathroom of Fat's apartment. He knew it was Fat's apartment and he knew his throat throbbed. She stepped out of the shower and stood directly in front of him with the towel held up under her chin. ( )

Write what you know. Whoever it was that first said those words of wisdom, must have said them loud and clear to Jimmy Breslin. Better still, it was probably Breslin that announced–in his unmistakable Queens accent–this most excellent advice to any and all writers that would listen.
Table Money is a nonpareil example of this 'write what you know' craftsmanship in all of its glory.
The 1970s, Viet Nam war issues, good cops, bad cops, drinking problems, mob guys, societal / neighborhood expectations, religious insanity, the understood roles of men and women, ugly racism, and the importance of always having money on the table. A terrific novel from someone who brilliantly wrote volumes about the city and the people and the neighborhoods he knew so very well. ( )

First chapter is great. Writing is locally very good but globally disjointed (yeah, yeah life is random, but a book about it shouldnt be). Knows what he writes about: he himself is Queens, Irish, and all that means. ( )