Saturday, October 3, 2015


The elevator was for freight  -  it went about
minus 3 miles per hour  -  6 loft floors up, and
nearly a day later. Drink in hand, stepping out,
the music and glitter had already begun. It wasn't
Elaine's but no difference. Over there was David
Johanson, slouched by the corner. Some guy with
a camera was filming everything, walking around 
like a creep, with his silver hair and jimmy-boy
stance. Over there, over there, everybody seemed
so queer. Pounding music, the walls could peel.
I watched some girl on the drums, she played in
a steadfast manner; not plodding but steady. The
blue guy said her name was Maureen, but 
they all called her Mo.
I had been in town less than 8 months, and already I 
was one of those slackers  -  amid art-school losers, people 
walking by with their parts hanging out. Groups of those
exhibitionists who like to be seen. Two girls, it seemed
in pajamas, were making out on a polka-dot couch. 1968
seemed like a headache starting. In this city, you want
mama, but you get MOMA, or you get the La Mama
Theater Club, with some Ellen Stewart type coming at
your lungs. There was nowhere to hide anymore.
A few lights were blinking, there was food on  a long table;
nothing I wanted, just a bunch of that dumb New York
food people ate with their fingers while talking : crackers,
cheese, pieces of fruit, chunks of something that looked
strangely obscene, pieces of parfait'd fish, or something.
Wine in chilled bottles, or open at the neck, every color
in the world, pounding Underground music, a guy with
a masking-tape face. Names of only one word. 'Ondine'.
My new friend, whose name was 'Billy Name'.
Jesus, already - go figure.

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