Monday, January 2, 2017


286. AVENEL, Pt. 8
I mostly stayed with
everything. I went
through thick and
thin with concepts
and situations, and
never abandoned ship
-  whether it was
marriage, work, fun,
sport, travel. Where
I started, that's where
I stayed, whatever
the venture and
wherever the
destination. I
didn't much ever
like change,
although I sure
got myself
involved in
a lot of it over
time. From 509
east 11th, NYC,
to my parking
space on the
moon. Just nothing
ever real sudden.
All the change
happened slowly,
and steadily. In these
pages I try to relate
things, as I saw them
and as I mostly recall.
There are things I
never squared away
- like, 'davenport.'
What in the heck
is a davenport? That
one always bugged
me. There are multiple
levels here, of course.
I could very simply
look up the word
and see what it
means. I think it's
some sort of couch
or sofa (is there
a difference between
those two things as
well?), but that
would only tell me
the word's use and
meaning. Okay,
bully for that. It
does not, however,
or would not (I've
not looked it up)
tell me the real
import of the word,
why it hangs so
on me, why it's
always bothered
me, what other
level of some
meaningful aspect
of 'being' it impinges
on for me. Maybe
I'll never know  -
but I think there
are such words or
things, for everyone.
Different for everyone.
Words of a strange
 and deep, or festive,
meaning within
people's lives, the
'inside out' of the
outside world. I
figure it's a
spiritual thing,
and the world is
 always way, way
 deeper than we
give it credit for,
and that  -  in
each of our lives
-  there are things
that are simply
fraught with meaning.
Unidentifiable, sometimes,
but there. The things
that bug us, entice us,
the kind of things
which we never,
ever really run
down, even to
our last, dying
days. Life's
mystery juice,
perhaps. 'The
world is too
much with us,
late and soon.'
As someone said.
Enough of that.
One time in St.
George Press this
absolutely crazy-gorgeous
girl started coming in,
ordering and picking
up stuff for her company,
or the company she
worked for, in Edison
-  Pride Electric. I
knew right off
something was up
-  she looked way
too perfect for
being an electrical
company's office
girl. She was way
more than that  -
had to be an
album cover girl,
or a model, or
something, maybe
even a dancer.
Never a question
passed my lips;
just hello, hi,
how are you,
here's your order.
Then once or twice
she started coming
in with some
really handsome,
suave dude. I found
out he was the son,
like maybe 25, of that
company's owner and
soon to be owner, etc.
Ok, no sweat, but
it still didn't add up.
Then one day she
mentions, 'You
know, I'm going
to be coming back
with Bob (whatever
his name was....).
We'll be needing
business cards for
our new company.'
I said sure, not a
problem. Lots of
these companies
were always
doing off-shoots
or other little
ventures; letterheads,
envelopes, bus. cards.
This girl was, shall
I say, 'fashionable'
enough to just give
me a constant
pounding headache.
Then she strolls in
one day with that
Bob guy, and they
introduce themselves
again as the owners
of a new company.
Fine, no problem.
They wanted a logo,
business cards, the
whole bit. I'm trying
to keep my mind
on my work, just
going about the
order, and they
tell me the name,
and then the gist
of their new company.
Yikes! What to do!
Their new venture
(oh so suddenly
how it all came
together) was
called 'Fourplay.'
Yep. that's right,
Fourplay. Not Fore
Play, like you'd
maybe think, and
not Fore! Play,
for golf stuff either.
 This was Fourplay,
a simple play on
words, for sexual
evenings with
the two of them,
sharing their
'customers', as
it were. Intense,
loving moments,
OK? Trying to
keep my cool,
I listen. The
things they
wanted listed :
intimate surroundings,
private atmosphere,
champagne, muted
lighting, mirrors, etc.,
etc. Priced by the
hour, I forget,
something like
$140 per hour.
(I was thinking,
immediately, for
the cheapskates
out there, I could
only imagine what
that 59th minute
must have been
like if another
140 bucks were
looming). Oh well,
I did what they
wanted, figuring
an electric company
would certainly
know a lot about
 getting the buzz
out of putting
something in
the socket.
Screwing the
bulb in, as it were?
It could have been
worse, I figured -
they could have
asked for
'scratch n' sniff'
I never even
knew if any of
that stuff was
legal, as a real
'business' venture,
but I never asked.
Just another of
the wonderful
attributes of
St. George Press.
For a while there 
too we had working 
for us (not using 
names here) a guy 
from Perth Amboy 
whose sister had
somehow, out in 
California, married 
or been hooked up 
with, Robbie Kreiger, 
of the Doors. The 
Rock Group Doors.  
Without Jim Morrison, 
dead already a number 
of years, they would 
re-group, re-master
 a bunch of crap, 
and go on these 
mini-tours as 
like a fake Doors. 
All there, except 
for those emotionally 
intense grunts and 
wails of Jim Morrison, 
I guess. I never cared 
much. He was, this 
Perth Amboy guy, 
pretty much a dolt,
and I just tolerated 
him. And his stories. 
One time the original 
Doors guys were 
having an album 
party, I guess about 
1984, can't remember, 
for some re-mastered, 
newly-found Doors 
stuff. It was going 
to be held at the Area
Club, 157 Hudson Street  
-  that was a cutting-edge, 
really trendy and 
breaking rock-club, 
after-hours club, etc,
 of 1980's NYC, just 
outside (south) of 
the Holland Tunnel, 
on Hudson Street. 
I passed it a million
 times  -  there were 
certain days, evenings, 
nights, when there 
were people, punks, 
rockers, models, you 
name it, stars, artists, 
'rock' journalists, and 
rich people too, lined 
up for a full block, 
just hanging out so 
as to get in later. 
I never went in, 
though I was invited 
to this big Doors 
listening party. One 
of the crazy guys 
I worked with, 
named Don S., 
who was going 
out with this guy's 
other sister, they 
went, having gotten 
invitations from 
Krieger. This Don 
guy was an itinerant, 
pool-cue hitchhiker 
who'd bounce around
 the country, pretty 
much with only 
his pool cue-stick, 
in a little suitcase 
thing, and, going from 
bar to bar and pool 
room to pool room, 
bet on games of pool, 
until he won enough 
for whatever he 
then needed. Every
 so often he'd just 
be tapped out, broke 
or busted, and he'd 
call his uncle (the 
owner of St. George 
Press) for some 
money and 
to chill out awhile 
in Colonia. He 
was crazy as a 
loon, in the most 
admirable way  - 
boozing and 
fornicating were 
perhaps his two 
best assets. I said 
perhaps. There 
was one period, 
this period I'm 
speaking of, when 
he 'gave up the road' 
for a while  -  too 
hard a life, too 
much danger. Also, 
running from the cops, 
and having warrants 
out in about 4 states 
probably helped. 
His uncle, newly 
single again at 
the time too, took 
him in, for about 
a year, and gave 
him work, a job. 
With me. I learned 
so much from Don 
I could probably 
write it on a gravestone  
-  I think it would fit. 
I coached him through 
things; some things 
he did on his own, 
a few customers 
we shared. He 
kept a light load, 
and it was fun. 
Mostly. There 
would be times 
where he'd suddenly 
be incommunicado 
for three or four 
days, stuck down 
in Keansburg 
(Club Miami, a regular 
haunt), hung up 
'with a mother-daughter 
deal' in some God-awful 
duplex somewhere. 
I picked him up a 
few times. A mutual 
friend, Louie, also 
living in Keansburg 
was his close buddy. 
Until he drove his 
white, used Cadillac 
one time into the 
Keansburg surf, 
(a lot of stuff can 
happen when you're 
drunk big time), which 
isn't hardly any surf 
at all since it's a really 
crummy bay, and 
lost his teeth too, 
in the bargain. Yes, 
this is all true. We 
waded around for an
hour, looking for 
uppers and lowers 
in the God-damned 
salt water while Louie 
was basking away, 
comatose, in some 
Keansburg jail cell, 
plus losing his '77 
Caddy in the bargain, 
with a police tow and 
impound to pay as 
well. Louie had a 
wife and about 14 
kids. All 3 years 
old, somehow. 
Busy year, I guess. 
Well anyway, there 
was one Louie-wife, 
of sorts, that I got 
to know. We never 
found the teeth. 
That family all 
ended up in Florida, 
somewhere. And 
Don, last I knew, 
after a stint in Houston, 
TX, sells used cars 
in New Orleans, 
actually with a 
wife and child 
too. No, wonders 
don't ever cease.
Now, I could go on, 
for days, with St. 
George Press stories 
alone, but I know 
it's probably boring; 
plus, I know you 
probably want 
the phone number 
for Four Play, 
which number I no 
longer have. Remember 
too, please, that girl 
I mentioned  -  if she 
was like 25 in 1984, 
I'm sure by now 
she's only 26 or 
27, correct? So 
be careful what
you wish for too, 
all you young 
roosters of the walk. 
Leave her for me 
then. I'll find that 
number somewhere.
If you can't find her,
just ask Don.

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