8370. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #106

106. STREETS

'This is the world you have,

and if you believe it.' I've been

a writer my entire life, and most

people have always seemed to

know that, or sense something

of it anyway. It sure was often

funny. One time in the Studio

School a guy I shared some studio

space with came in one day and

said he had a book for me, one

that I just had to buy, and read.

Wilentz's famous bookstore on

8th street was right across the

street, so after he'd told me

what it was, I went to buy it.

I still have it, in fact, right

here now in front of me. Books

back then were like $1.75,

which is the price of this one,

stamped large on the back.

My painter friend (more on him

next chapter) had told me this

book was as absurd to him as

anything I'd ever said, written,

drawn, or painted, in his view.

He said it was 'me', through and

through, and I'd love it. Actually,

that would have me hate it, for

I did not ever wish to meet myself

coming the other way, or find that

I was doing something in the exact

mode that someone else was doing.

As it turned out, it was maybe close,

but far too anal and detail-oriented

in its approaches and ways for the

sort of writing, of these things,

I'd do. But, no matter. He'd called

the book, by Richard Brautigan,

'Trout Fishing in America.' Which

was the title, still is. I raced across

the street, to Wilentz's, and asked

for 'Trout Fishing In the United

States,' which promptly elicited a

groan of some proportion from the

clerk, who proceeded to chide me

on my incorrect designation of

the title. 'Uh oh,' I replied, 'that's

called 'Titular Homicide' in police

lingo.' The smug little hippie

bastard didn't even crack a smile.

So then I said, 'I've just come

from having sex with your

mother and your sister, over on

9th street, at the Royal Pip Hotel

where we meet each Thursday.

They said to say hello if I saw

you.' OK, OK, just kidding on

that last crack. It was just his

mother. No, kidding there too.

-

So, anyway, I went across the

street and got the book. That

was, like, Oct. '67, maybe. This

Brautigan guy is dead now, having

committed some form of suicide

I cannot recall. I hope, of course,

it wasn't over something as trite

as me getting the title of his

book wrong but, hey, stranger

things have happened and this

whole 'suicide' thing is weird.

(In Latin, 'sui' is 'self', as in

'sui generis' being, as it were,

'self-generated, authenticized

by self, one of a kind.' Thus,

sui-cide, like geno-cide or

homo-cide. Got that?)...The

self-death of anyone is traceable

to a hundred disappointments,

or a million little pin-point things,

or, perhaps, to one vast and large

thing. Who's to say. In 1967, I'd

have to say it never entered my

mind. I guess I was too oblivious,

and all things were too fresh to

me, to think about like that. Now,

50 plus years later, I'd have to say

it's always on my mind and, yes,

often held out as an option. No

part of it, however, yet makes

sense to me. Perhaps if and

when it does, you'll know. I

could almost, just almost, see

it on my horizon, but I'm sure

just regular death will come to

me first. Whatever.

-

This was New York, and all I

was doing was absorbing. On just

about every corner, and more,

there was a little store, a bodega,

as it were  -  Spanish, all sort of

incidental and household stuff

needed, Raid, roach killer, candles,

food, drinks, beer, fruits and

vegetables usually also sold

out front on shelves and bins.

It  was all petty much different

than today. All of that is still

done, yes, but now it's all different.

Cold water, sold everywhere,

in bottles; refrigeration now

keeps the fruits & vegetables more

fresh, with mist and spray, and

cooling. Before, it was just all on

ice, if you were lucky. They still

have things on beds of ice, but it's

no longer the central factor. A

chair or two, back then, out front,

would act as the attractant for the

locals to come out, stand or sit

around for hours; long, hot nights,

and just talk or watch. Cold beer,

soda, watermelon, cigarettes. It was,

in spite of all else, all the city frenzy,

still a lazy old, slowed-down world

from these vantage points. Every

couple of buildings had its own store,

by allegiance anyway. 'If you live

in this building, that's where you go.

That's Frankie's place, Frankie takes

care of us, y'unnerstand?' And it was

so  -  Frankie would hold things for

people, run tabs, or have to, and be 

told sometimes to whom and how to

sell things. Frankie had to probably

'pay' some money back too, to the

local hoods, or the strong-arm of

the mob, run numbers, hide this or

that. It was Martin Scorcese, (I knew

his down-at-luck, glum brother, also

named Frankie), who said that those

immigrant buildings in Little Italy

each had a location attached. If you

came from Pantolino, say, in Italy,

when you got here you were

directed  to #81 Sullivan Street,

as an example at random. That

was the Pantolino building. Most,

or many, of the people in there

would also be from the Pantolino

area  -  chances are, there'd even

be people you knew. Same with

any village or town name, they

each had a connection or region

anyway. He said that's how people

took care of each other, offered

protection, covered each other's

actions. Strange place, new land,

new city. I could see that. Sometimes,

even, and this was fairly prevalent

too with buildings all over the

upper west side, the old buildings

had names, carved in the stonework,

over the doorways : 'The Trieste',

The Budapest', 'The Dierbronck'',

'The Trento'. It was all fairly

simple, and you'd just, most often,

try to go to where your connections

were. People, upon leaving the old

world in Cammoruto, were told to

look up, once they arrived here, L.

Rinaldo, in such and such the

building, the Cammoruto

building, as it were.

-

The Brautigan book, I absorbed.

I was right there with the

flavor of the entire thing,

attuned well to the guy,

Richard Brautigan, and his

words and approach. I could

see exactly what he was

doing, and though in most

all respects it was a bit too

arch for me, too much ironic

detailing (that kind of thing

always seemed cheap to me),

I could easily stay with it and,

in point of fact, see it as a

microcosm-writing-lesson

in doing some of this stuff.

Instead of 'slamming with an

iron fist,' this was more just

slamming with an irony fish.'

That was good enough, and,

perhaps at one time, right then,

something I really needed. I've

had plenty of the 'heavies' since

then. If, perhaps, you ever get

the chance, pick yourself up a

copy of this book. I see it on,

for instance, Amazon, in a

range of $4 - to - 94 cents.

For a perfect example of

what I'm referring, go to the

chapter on page 22, entitled

'Sea Sea Rider' and read the

absurd sex-romp it presents.

-

This was street stuff to me,

at age 18, the bizarre and

always absurd world which

was presented to me. It was

as if I myself was an

astronaut, on some strange,

interplanetary trip through

a cosmos I'd neither been

prepped on nor taught about.

Let me face it, here, Brautigan's

book, in that social climate of

those years, was more in the vein

of 'music' and countercultural

rock n' roll than it was about

'literature,' of which it was

very little. I wouldn't be so 

surprised, in point of fact, 

to learn that three-quarters 

of the fucked-Jewboy pap in

Bob Dylan's 'Tarantula'  - a

highly-vaunted but centerless

piece of drivel  -  had not had

its style, content and entirety

pretty much purloined from the

workings of  'Trout Fishing In

America', and 'the Springhill 

Mining Disaster' (its companion

piece) as well. I always hated

when people mixed up 'genres'.

All these creepy music guys 

were pretty valueless, and just

more caught up in the tribal

publicity/marketing ploy than

anything  - all those Paul Simon,

Bob Dylan, David Byrne, Johnnie

Cougar Mellencamp, Blondie

types  -  the entire, mucky 

boatload  -  play their run 

through all that crap and then start

being writers and 'artists' besides.

Through their lenses, it's all the

same, pretty much : me, me, me.

Tme it's was vampy crapness.

The only one, maybe, that I see

now with any staying-power and

ballsy-enough 'centeredness' to

keep it level, is Patti Smith. The

rest all just seems like 'Brand X'.
-
On east 11th street, pretty much 
all the living that first Summer  -  
not just for me, no, I mean for 
everyone  -  was done outdoors, on
the street, above it on fire escapes,
or in the park nearby. There were huge
factions of people  -  they crossed, but 
never really intermingled. The
newcomers were all hippies, just
dropped down, like flyshit from some
vast mother-ship somewhere; a weird
fairy-dust of kids, wispy long-hair, 
beads, peasant-shirts and clothing. The 
guys acted mostly gay  -  as it would be 
called now  -  wan, weak, effeminate, 
indeterminate. Not the flashy, 
demonstrative and fluffy gay stuff.
Just weak and wasted. Like a tambourine 
commercial. The girls exuded some 
bizarre,  very tasty, other-worldly 
sexuality that had to be seen to be 
understood. It's a wonder there wasn't a 
rape a minute. Hell, maybe there was;
I wouldn't know. The problem was in 
mixing such a sexual exuberance with
a form of naivete. It spelled trouble :
the old-line New York guys knew it, and
they could spell and they could tell just
the who and the how of getting these girls
right down to basics. A lot of premise,
with little promise. Know what I mean?
That entire 'wham-bam-thank you ma'am'
thing was constantly underway. The New
York originals were getting it all.
-
Anyway, the Brautigan stuff was where
 I was : on page 15, the whole Cobra Lily
thing, 'The Ballet For Trout Fishing In
America'  -  so wasteful and absurd. You
see, when a writer writes something  - 
indifferent, ironic, or smug (this is
all three), whatever he or she includes
is immediately psychotic. You too MUST
accept it to keep in on the game the writer
has started. If the writer creates a 'giant blue
birthday cake filled with words made of
putty, and from which Indians emerge' you
have to accede to that  -  even if it's patently
stupid, without meaning, or absurd.
That's what writing, in this vein, is. A
talented, rock-music, form of hippie play,
junk writing, some disposable Jello of 
words. He's got it, he did it, it's all still
around, and you really ought to read it.