7243. DUMBFOUNDED TO THE RAFTERS

DUMBFOUNDED TO 

THE RAFTERS (pt.1)

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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