RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,056
(searching out Micky Marion)
Just about the time of Walter
Cronkite, and Dan Rather, the
CBS guys coming out of what
was called 'Black Rock' - the
CBS headquarters in midtown,
and the Broadcast Center, over
on the westside, midtown,which
I saw everyday for a very long
time, there was this curious NY
thing about a guy named Micky
Marion. They wanted to do a show
about him, a profile sort of news
thing, 15 minutes, whatever. Word
had gotten to one of my friends,
serious inquiries too (there were 3
of us) that CBS was interested, and
offering to pay $5,000, for interview
rights for the 'profile' of Micky
Marion. None of us could figure
how this had gotten so out of
control, nor how it happened, but
we had, certainly, to decide what
to do, and decide quickly. You see,
this 'Micky Marion' person was
all made up - we'd come up with
it as a bar gimmick one long, dumb,
night; I think it was at Peter McManus'
Tavern, at 19th and Seventh Ave, or
whatever it was. Is (it's still there).
There was, at the time of the 1970's
and 1980's, a guy across the street
from there, at an angle over, who
sold LP's, out of crates - hundreds
of things - 50's and 60's music,
psychedelic stuff, soundtracks,
you name it. The guy was always
there, is was usually boring, his
clientele was risky, and those who
came around - not as clients but
as pests - were riskier. Micky
Marion was one of those. We
had endlessly made up, and
strung along, tales and stories
about him, half the time no one
had ever seen him anyway, but
in the bar-business, you could
talk and get away with a lot if
you did it right. I never did
understand the certain gullibility
of a particular class of people,
but here it was in abundance.
-
I'd started the whole thing by
weaving a bar tale about the one
character I'd seen, embellishing it,
letting it grow and then having
2 other guys pick up on my craft
and add in. (One time, I erroneously
did much the same thing to a group
of drawings I'd made into a booklet
and sent to a friend at the Art
Institute in San Francisco. It soon
enough came back to me, with
a note of praise and all that BUT,
thinking I guess it was meant too
for him to embellish it, with HIS
own additions and contributions
onto a good number of my drawings.
I had to think, what do I do now? Is
this still mine? Must I share his
contribution? Did I wish for that?
What was he thinking? So many
strange occurrences lurked. He later
solved the problem for me by killing
himself; the old drawings are still
no worse for wear). But anyway,
what does one do, as in this Micky
Marion case? Others had bought into
it, and did not WANT to be let down.
Others had begun picking up the
weird strands of my thought and
adding their own, and I went along
for sport.
-
The guy behind the bar, at McManus',
he thought it was pretty cool - how it
was growing and bringing people in
to hear more. Even if it was all BS,
he didn't care. I guess to them, nothing
about reality or truthfulness had to
matter because they're probably
selling fantasy anyway; what else is
a bar about? Micky Marion, he
said, 'sort of existed,' so who cared?
Across the street, one of those record
dogs always was passing around; and
a story could be had about any one
of them; so why bother now over
truthfulness and the 'Real?' The area
right there, of old Chelsea, was a
wreck anyway, and whatever I could
do to improve that lot, he was for.
He also explained how, McManus
Tavern being a famed old-line NY
tavern (NYC taverns are always
fighting and contesting which was
the oldest, the best, the one with
the most famous clientele, the oldest
owned by one family or person, etc.,
ad nauseum), you never really knew
what bigwig of a 'who knows who,
who then knows who else...' kind of
connection was liable to walk in and
pick up on something. Which is kind
of what had happened anyway. I,
and then we, had certainly created
a hot number of sorts, which people
wanted to hear about. If it had been
up to me I'd probably have gone
along with the gag and faked it some
more, worrying about a denouement
later, but the other guys 'fessed up
and the weird deal was done off.
Didn't much matter to me; my life
was all kind of a fiction anyway
and the more I did to it the worse
it got. It was funny, in its way, how,
how later on this sort of thing was
repeated two other times; both
on me. I wanted to wonder, even
though it was useless - 'was this
'fame' knocking at my door, or
just another dumb endeavor?
-
Everyone was a bit let down. I'd
even gone across the street once
or twice just to try and find my
made-up Micky Marion guy, not
that I'd know what to say to him
if he did come by. But I told the
record guy to have him find me
a means of contact if he did see
him.
-
The funny thing, which I alluded to,
was that this kind of bravado, later
in life, would get me into two other
situations worth remarking upon.
One was, at the bar called Oliver's
in the Colonia part the town called
Woodbridge - where we'd often
enough end up some days after
motorcycle runs, mainly because
one of our guys lived right down
that sidestreet. They had started
running a one-night a week, straight
from NYC comedy night, and
these aspiring NY comedians
would come out to the 'sticks'
and try out there material, dry
run stuff, for the weekend dates
at the NY clubs, or New Brunswick,
which had a place called 'The Laugh
Factory,' or something and which
was part of the comedy circuit.
Accompanied by beer, we'd heckle
them or give them jokes right back.
Eventually, they, and the management
decided that my friend Pete and I,
were funny enough, and mouthy
enough, to get a night of our own.
Once again, it was BS and we were
scared shitless by the thought. But
we said yes, and got our date and
began honing a tiny routine. As it
turned out, when we checked, he'd
given us an Easter date, late afternoon,
and maybe 9 people were there. It
was useless; we called it a draw and
let it go. A lot of it was weird word
jokes anyway like the one about
the Little Rascals and the Spelling
Bee....Oh, never mind. I'd tell it
to you, but it's not very good as
a written joke, you have to hear it;
it's more an oral joke. That was the
end of our short, brouhaha of a
comedy career. The other instance,
far graver went like this: In the 90's,
when I published this monthly
motorcycle newspaper - one month
I ran this long ten-point article about
the new regulations in Turkey (the
country) regarding the wearing of
a fez (a Turkish, Dervish sort of
religious, conical cap; you can
look it up), and the new helmet
laws. It was detailed and quite
particular, and with lots of quite
absurd and funny things. All
completely made up. Anyway, I
get a phone call from Washington
DC, this guy named Wayne Curtin,
head of the national motorcycle
rights organization, called the MRF.
(Motorcycle Rights Foundation).
He was asking permission for me
to allow them to use it in their
monthly, national publication. In
no way using a sense of humor,
he'd fallen lock, stock, and barrel
for all that I'd made up, saying
what a great article it was. My
mind came to a screeching halt,
again, thinking, 'what should I
tell this guy?' If I led him on, his
entire reputation and organization
could be held up to ridicule once
found out. These 'factual' people
are linear-thinking enough to
fall for all this 'facts and figures'
stuff, no matter the origination.
I decided I couldn't do that to
him. I just wasn't THAT low.
I told him it was all made up, and
his disappointment was so intense
I swore I heard the air leaving
his lungs. After that fess-up, he
lost all interest, and we ended the
call. This was a guy who spoke
before Senate and House committees
on legislation regarding motorcycles:
Insurance, liability, helmets, fees,
the whole thing. I was way glad,
afterwards, that I didn't get into
that muddle; could have been bad.
But, once again, my stepping forth
with something brought out weird
repercussions that could easily
have gone from my control. Micky
Marion, the drawing book, the
comedy-genius BS, and this, the
motorcycle stuff. I don't know
exactly what I always walked
away from, but sometimes now
I'm just glad I did.
-
Micky Marion stories had started
out, for me, in response to, or my
version of, a writer guy's book,
called 'Up the Old Hotel.' It was
by Joseph Mitchell, and had tales
and stories about NYC characters,
places, and quirky people. One of
the most famous of these was 'Joe
Gould's Secret,' which was about
this McSorley's area eccentric guy
who haunted places, with a notebook
always in his possession, that he
said was his work in progress. He
said he was writing a history of
the world. He'd never show anyone
any part of it (turned out somewhere
it was all blank anyway). It became
a big, legendary, NYC piece of
writing - still around too. Mitchell
made a bunch from it.
-
I went back to the bar, McManus,
after that. The guy there, Jerry,
he always brought it up, wanted
new stuff, to keep it all going. I
had become like the mythmaker
in charge of weird tales. About a
very singular, fictional Micky
Marion. I said to him, one day,
'You know, Jerry, I should be rich
off this stuff. But it's a dead-end
for me, all of it. I could go
over to Pete's (Pete's was a
legendary, old, bar (another one)
in Gramercy, that took pride in,
with plaques and signs, the fact
that the writer O. Henry used
to sit there, drinking, and write
his tales and stories. He even
had his own front-table), and
they have O. Henry stuff and
keep bragging rights about him.
But really, what did he ever do,
but sit there and make stuff up.
That's no different than this,
except he made a ton of money
and got famous for making
shit up. I get nothing. By the
way, where's MY table in this
joint? I don't see nothing here.'
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