8349. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #99

99. RUINATION CENTRAL

My erstwhile roommate, Andy

Bonamo, that first August, had

somehow gotten involved with

the procedural planning and

set-up of what was being billed

as 'The First Annual Psychedelic

Festival', in Forest Hills, NY.

I stayed out of it, but it was

being billed and planned for

as what now would amount to

a forerunner of the Woodstock

Music and Arts Festival, of

'Woodstock' fame, a few years

later. Except that part of the

actual, advertised, allure for

this  -  in addition to rock music

acts  -  was psychedelia and

drugs. Make no bones about

that  -  a good portion of the

idea was to push product.

Andy's and his suppliers'

products. The music list was

secondary, although it was

pretty good too, for what it

was, and it would draw people.

I knew little of any more of it.

They'd had tickets printed up,

(I got one for free; it's around

somewhere, saved and unused.

Though I don't know what it's

called when you save something

so well that you can't quickly

find it. Supersaver?) - flyers

made, a couple of goofball

kids hired to hand out flyers

everywhere they could, and

all the requisite planning and

set-up done. I remember Andy's

big job was to arranging the

power-light show, kliegs,

strobes, and the rest  -  all

sorts of things to be dancing

in the sky. Kind of like a new

version off drug-hippie

fireworks. Anyway, it was

fairly tedious and seemed to

go on for a long time. I can't

remember exactly, but I think

maybe it was for Labor Day's

newly-extended weekend (those

3-day holidays things weren't

around back in the 60's. That

was all arranged a little later).

Anyway, whatever came of this

'festival' I never found out. I'd

'split', as it used to be put, from

that apartment by then, even

though it was still in my name

and all that weird criminal stuff

going on there could still have

ostensibly be called mine, or

traced back to me if authorities

were really digging. By the

dead Winter of that year, as I

related way earlier, the place

had been raided, cleaned out,

police-taped, and everyone was

gone. I never stuck around to

find out what had occurred.

Psychedelic Festival, for sure.

-

I only mention this stuff because

it's part of the strange and new

experience that I'd stepped

myself into, all by getting on

the Carteret bus to NYC that

first day, with my five dollars

in hand given to me by Bill

Yorke. Had I only known. But

then again had Columbus only

known, we wouldn't have

America.

-

Getting to New York by bus is

different even than getting their

by train  -  yeah, they're both

cattle-calls, granted, but the

bus depot routine is bizarre.

You enter from that strange

Weehawkin helix that brings

you down to the Lincoln Tunnel

past all that grand skyline

waterfront 'New York staring

you in the face' stuff, like it's

some wonderland. The

slowness of traffic just extends

it all and presents it to you

as some sort of unreal, imagined

still-life stretched out before

you but separated too by a

half mile or so of water. It's

visceral, and real; but you

can't touch it. You can tell,

just even from the Jersey side,

that it's thick and dense, noisy

and packed, even though you

don't know any of that from

 there. It's all sensation. It's

all thought. The buses slide

through the tunnel with their

unique bus gait and bus manners.

Traffic, honking, buzz-flash

noises and views. The buses

queue up and make their way,

each, to their intended spots,

from which you get off and

enter a warren. A maze, of

shifting people, luggage

carts, heat, noise, porters,

carriers, those confused

and those concerned.

Looking at subway maps,

trying to discern where

they are and who to ask.

Cops used to be scarce  -

now they're everywhere,

with machine guns and

dogs, staring down

anything that moves.

Seeing how it was all

a daze to me, I can't

remember how I made my

way down to the Greenwich

Village area. Subway?

Walking? My second-sense

here tells me, initially,

back-then it would have been

subway. Ten-cent token, or

whatever it was.  Nowadays I

never use the subway, and find

it, and its people, despicable.

I've grown quite comfortable

walking anywhere I need to be

going  -  within the city, I

mean. Ninety blocks, one

way or the other, and back;

all good. Back then, however,

from all my previous visits, 

and from the standard NY 

romantic lore, the subway 

was all part of the experience.

All I know is that I got myself,

by first nightfall, into my own 

new world  -  an entire 'something

other' than what I'd ever known 

before. Oh yeah, it's hard to
put, and I'd be hard-put to put it.
-
I made some friends quickly.
Some I've mentioned, others I've 
not. There were some quite a few 
characters, to be sure. I used to think 
about all that I'd learned, or tried to 
learn or had jammed down my throat, 
in high school, about civics and the 
American system. Too much of it
was high-minded bullshit, and still is,
with no bearing in truth at all. Like
that leather-sandals guy would say, 
'If  you can't make a dollar one way,
just find another way.' I think they
could take all their civics and history
textbooks, and just chuck them  -  
because that almost haiku or zen-like
saying better sums up 'America' for me.
Make a buck, entrepreneur stuff, the
unfettered, Adam Smith work of
free enterprise, deals and money.
That's all you need, and that's what
it's about  -  make no mind about
who gets hurt, what lands and waters
get ruined and spoiled, how many 
die or get diseased or injured over 
your quest for a self-satisfaction  
that seems only measurable in the 
whore-like measure of money.
Despoliation. Grunge. Dirt. Fire. 
Filth. and Death, Yes, always and
ultimately, Death. Look at China. 
Look at Russia. Hell, look at us. 
Look at Andy Bonamo : the true
American entrepreneurial spirit, 
setting' up a fee-enterprise festival,
gleaning some profit, tickets, etc.,
all in the name of the grand American
capitalistic spirit of selling drugs and 
poison to kids and being applauded
for his courageous, business spirit.
Ruination everywhere.