12,271. RUDIMENTS, pt. 863

RUDIMENTS, pt. 863

(st. crispin's day you say?)

I was never gung ho for

any of that battlements to

the hilt stuff, preaching

for espirit and keeping

all the men together in

battle. It just never worked

for me. It's akin to cheerleading,

which I always thought to be

about one of the wackiest

things in the world. George W.

W. Bush was a cheerleader,

did you know? Yes, at

Yale, and at Philips Exeter,

Andover. (Prep school, I

think). Dwight Eisenhower,

also a President, was a

cheerleader at West Point.

I guess someone had to do it

It might as well have been

them, I suppose  - leadership

abilities in a flippy skirt?

-

There was something about

the essence of life that I could

never get to the bottom of,

or understand. Most all of the

people I knew in NYC, as a for

instance, were for sure the

whole other spectrum of that

stuff, and what's the difference?

Jim Carroll, if you read 'The

Basketball Diaries,' he never

even touches on that sort of thing,

instead it's all angst and grit, and

the rancor and fighting of drugs

and coming down, and death.

I always felt a lot more closer

to that end of the spectrum. Jim

kind of spoke to me more than,

say, anything from Norman

Vincent Peale ever would. The

other part of it always seemed

to be made up of people striving,

trying to find placement, be

something they were not, just

in order to be part of a crowd

they'd been led to idealize.

Like the goons always at

Max's Kansas City, or Elaine's,

or any of those downtown and

uptown bars considered all

high and correct for that

big entertainment crowd  -

as if everyone ought to be,

you know, like David

Johannson or something.

Hell, I'd rather die in a

Needle Park with Jim Carroll

than slog through all that

nightlife stuff. I had a friend

who used to go to the Tunnel

nightclub. And before that,

at 157 Hudson Street, the

Area club. That place was a

bit cool  -  a hundred years

before it had been stables for

the original American Express

Company, when it actually was

a freight and express company.

That building is still there, and

has their horse logo thing high

up in the bricks, still. Like I

said, the Area Club had been

their stables, for horses and

wagons. The club itself was

simple, but very cool  -  wild

and well-covered. Press and

famed fools. My friend, at the

time, was living with  -  actually

more like fighting and brawling

with, the sister of the girlfriend

of Robby Krieger, of the Doors.

They were all over by then,

Jim Morrison long dead, and their

whole scene was a mess, mostly

a California mess  -  The Doors  

I mean  -  but this sister thing

was always running on, with

visits from them, occasional

archival tapes and recordings

dredged up to make new stuff,

and talk of Doors reunions with

no Jim, of course. They hung

out there a lot  -  the Area Club.

Drugs flying everywhere, crazy

antics along the rope line, lights

action, camera, all that. I never

knew how my friend survived.

I know he and the girlfriend

didn't. The rave talk was that

he was doing both her AND

her mother. It all broke apart,

and last I knew he was far off, 

Louisiana, and then later, Texas.

And selling cars, no less. 

What a life.

-

I always felt this was the sort

of thing that vapid cheerleader

stuff led people into  -  like on

St. Crispin's Day, celebrated

in late October, two early martyrs,

with weird names Crispin and

Cristianus or something, I guess

they were not brothers, but they

went at this together and were

martyred as one. That's the story

anyway  -  cheering for God all

the way out. That's a nice story,

but why isn't it 'suicide'  -  I

always wondered. Why they

would make a saint's day out 

of that, and have a calendar

saint's holiday for it and all

always baffled me  -  too much

seminary stuff I guess, still

bolted around in my head.

All that crazy martyrdom stuff,

I always figured, wasn't martyrdom

then, when it happened, it was just

death, or chosen death  in a weird

suicidal way, using religion as a

motivator. Which is odd. But

it wasn't martyrdom until much 

later, after the 'script' was 

developed and they'd laid put

the plans for such a concept

and the narrative and the

sequence. None of it so real

as a moment, ever. Yet, people

go cheering into it all.

-

Ramshackle stuff, tiredness,

feeling a bit beleaguered  -  those

things happened to me, but I

never faltered. One night I

remember taking my bicycle

up, from 11th Street, right up 

to some club over by the

United Nations somewhere.

It was a club called Rolling

Stone, and that DJ guy Scott

Muni owned. He always

annoyed, all serious and frumpy

about 'rock n' roll'  -  like he

knew anything about that. he

was just a huckster, for the

trade. And for the morons he

was always pumping up and

interviewing   -  nincompoops

like Elton John, whose 'tragic'

story, according to Scott Muni, 

was that his hands bled when he

played piano at his concerts. I

think the point was he 'played'

so hard. Whoopee. Anyway,

I got there  -  can't remember

the motivation; I certainly had

no clothes apt for that crap, and

no money either, just a stolen

bicycle I'd taken from someone's

curb trash, I think, and managed

to get it working as a one-speed.

I got to Rolling Stone, went coyly

around the back, and some guys 

let me in. No questions. Turned

out the band for the night was a

recorded group called 'The Fallen

Angels'  -  an album or two, I've

seen  -  but their drummer was so

f'd up he couldn't hardly stand

steady, let alone play drums.

So they pulled him off, and 

down, and someone asked 

me what I could do, could I 

play drums? And if so would 

I please step in, keeping

it all simple. So I said, 'Sure,'

and took my new position. I

mumbled something about 'Get

it started I'll follow in.' They

did so, and I just began pounding 

the skins. It was easy, except for

the lights blasting in my eyes.

Whatever I played, I don't 

remember, but of the maybe 

70 people in there, amid the 

retch, stink, some and haze, 

there were probably, maybe, 

three that could piss straight, 

and that includes the girls, 

only if they had to, by that 

time. It as a raucous nasty, mess.

But I got it done. 'nice goin,' kid,'

and all that crap, ate some food,

drank something, pretended to be

cleaning up the drum area and

gathering sticks and all, and

just left, slinking out just like

I'd come in. The raggy old

bike was still there, and it was

probably 3am. I rode slowly, 

back downtown, along First or

Second Ave., which it was,

and all I can remember are 

strings black limos, Cadillacs

all, back then, slowly cruising,

with old, wealthy looking people

getting in or out, getting their

rides home, from other clubs 

and all that. At the lights, I'd

see people just staring at me,

bored, from their or through

their rear limo-windows.

It was cool, and mysterious,

and deep and inviting  -  and

I never needed a cheerleader

to get me all hepped up.