Saturday, June 11, 2016


I've had my share of
embarrassing moments,
to be sure. Or maybe I
was mostly over-sexed.
In the time periods I'm
writing of here, two
instances come to mind.
Both in Woodbridge, NJ.
One time, a woman and
a guy came into the old
granary where I was
working. It was a print-shop
at this time, the one I've
written of, with the pigeons
inside allover the back-roof
grain loft, open to the sky
by rotted wood, and all the
pigeons who had taken to
roosting in there. A noisy
coterie of coos and pigeon
purrs. The owner of the print
shop would every so often
allow in these Portuguese, or
Hispanic anyway, guys from
Perth Amboy, with shotguns.
They'd go about shooting like
a hundred pigeons and take
them away as food. Then,
for the next few months, once
again there'd be a bunch of
pigeon propagation, and
another batch to shoot.
Gruesome stuff again, and
I'd walk away in shock.
Anyway, there was this girl
in there, working as secretary
and payroll girl. Her name
was Marlene, from Newark.
Ghetto Newark. She'd drive
in to work each day, in her
brand new Mustang. I used
it any number of times for
my quick work-trips to
Philadelphia with legal
stuff that had to be docketed
by three pm. But, that's not
the point here, I'll write more
of this later. She always
dressed like a crazy hooker,
and I (and others) was
always seeing up her legs.
Follow my gist, OK. The
way she sat, the manner
in which she comported
herself  -  and she damn
well knew it. Anyway, one
day this guy and lady came
in, to the counter, and she
(the lady) had on a sheer,
black, see-through blouse,
with absolutely nothing
on underneath. It was just
a mainstream, two-breasts
view point. Straight on, like
headlamps. I was apoplectic,
and just pretended I didn't
notice a thing. If anyone
knows the protocol for
stuff like that, let me know.
Also, what's the medical
cure for a severely bitten
lower lip? Another time,
over at St. George Press,
another time, early eighties,
I had a customer in Edison,
called 'Pride Electric'. It was
just an electrician-company,
installations, home-repairs,
that sort of thing. They used
to send over, for their work,
and pick-up of finished
printing jobs and stuff, the
most spectacular looking  -
to my taste  -  young blond
girl, maybe 20 years old. One
day she walked in with the
Pride Electric guy's son, also
about like 25, maybe. They
came in to order business
cards and stuff for their
new company. Fair enough
-  logo design, cards,
envelopes, letterheads,
all that. I was ready, but
then suddenly I was not.
The new 'company's' name
was 'Fourplay'  -  yes, just
as it shows. These two ran
sex foursomes, with other
couples who would contract
with them for like 200 bucks,
for a clean, hygienic, safe
and wine-fueled foursome.
Like having a Tupper-Ware
party at your house, but for
private sex. I was still having 
enough trouble with foreplay 
(not the golf kind), and they
were running off with their
'Four-Play.' For and by this one,
I was completely bowled over.
They talked of it and told me
about it like it was as simple
as a peanut-butter of the
month club or something.
Otherwise, you see, I'm an
easy guy. Well, I probably
exaggerate that, but who
then doesn't, when talking
about their own self? 
Why short-change the 
change maker, right?
New York City made me a
better person, I mean in
hindsight. As I went through
it, I was never sure if I would
end up at Riker's Island, the
the Tombs (a downtown jail)
Potter's Field on Ward's Island,
or some curb somewhere, shot
down like a bum-dog. Over
at 509 east 11th, last I knew,
there were two subversive things
underway, three if you count the
draft-dodging runaways and
thievery, and the drugs. There
were plans afoot to bomb the
Con Ed generating station over
at the foot of e14th street. It may
just have been idle-asshole talk,
but whatever. In that Polish guy's
diner, each morning, there were
Con Ed workers, early, in for
their ham and eggs, or coffee
and donuts and things. I knew
already to feel bad for those
suckers if that was true. They'd 
be dead then soon enough. Up
towards the other end of 11th
Street, (#18) the townhouse,
Boudin place Wilkerson,or
whatever it was  -  Dustin
Hoffman's neighbors, in fact
-  had already been turned into
a nail-bomb-amateurs' factory
in the basement, unknowing and
absentee owners notwithstanding.
Later on, that blew up, and some
folks lost their lives. And, also
at east 11th, this very weird plan
was afoot to join with the the
already scheduled and planned
March on Washington (10.21.67)
to exorcise and 'levitate' the
Pentagon. I didn't go on that
trek, but when everyone was
gone the apartment was once
again, albeit briefly, a breathable
and welcome place. They soon
all came trundling back, with
all their stories and adventures.
Nothing had occurred, but they'd
tried. It was also, as I recall,
uncharacteristically very cold,
almost freezing, for those days.
They talked on and on, of it,
everything: drugs, cops, the
barricades, songs, people,
crowds, food, more drugs, 
buses, and the rest. Evidently 
the buses had been ringed 
around the buildings or 
something, nose to rear, 
end to end, and it was 
like an impassable fortress.
But they didn't care, and they
laughed at the authorities 
having missed the point of 
it all. It wasn't power and
force. It was to be a gentle 
persuasion  -  they'd really 
meant to 'exorcise the Pentagon' 
by mass-thinking, and by
mass-thinking it, the building
itself, by means of an exalted 
group consciousness, right up, 
off its base and out into space. 
('That was 'Enlightenment',
man! Far Out! And pass me 
that joint, and where's the
acid; I'm still trippin')....
Well, baby, that's how 
it was.
Life was always an adventure.
It's funny now, because I
sit around here trying to
remember if 509 had a stove.
I can't remember there being
one, though I guess there
was. There was a refrigerator,
yes, of some marginal or
non-working sort. All I
remember of that are roaches
crawling all over it at night
when lights were off. All
over the walls and everywhere,
in fact. When you'd turn on
the light(s) they'd all be off in
an instant, scurrying back to
every crack and slit in the walls
and floorboards that you'd
never even seen. Amazing
little creatures, real survivalists
and tough to kill, by any means.
One time, Thanksgiving time
of that year, '67, someone had
deposited a turkey carcass, just
pretty much the bones and
shape left, and it stayed in
that refrigerator for, I bet,
two months. If it was meant
as a foil for the cockroaches,
it didn't work, or wasn't enough
anyhow. Just a bare carcass.

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