13,054. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,143

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,143

(the dirt and the gristle are gone)

I don't know if it was the

late 60's or not, but I can

recall house parties  -  my

parents' and my in-laws,

later, having silly little

house parties with neighbors

and friends, where the big

drink of the night was called

a 'Harvey Wallbanger.' I never

knew what  it was, except that

it sounded so totally stupid. It

was supposed to be a real

wipe-out drink, especially

one to get ladies to drink. In

such a world as they were all

living in, getting 'whoozy' was

a big thing. Getting dumb and

sloppy was the next step, and,

a few times I can recall, retreating

to a bedroom and passing out on

a friend's bed was considered

acceptable Harvey Wallbanger

behavior. Why the heck did

people life like that? It was as

if some white-man TV serial

cocktail party California-set

behavior was being mimicked,

except by Avenel sluggos down

on their uninteresting luck.

-

I can remember one time, as a

kid, I guess 10 or 11, going across

the street to a friend's house. He

said his father drank 'vodka.' That

too I'd never heard of, but we found

the bottle and tried it. And tried it

again. We sent the rest of that

afternoon in a some sort of daze,

listening over and over to two

45's on the early 'stereo' they had.

'North To Alaska,' was one; and

the other song was some crazy song

about the Battle of New Orleans.
I think it was by Johnny Horton.

'In 1814 we took  a little trip, down

the Gulf of Mexico on the mighty

Mississip...' The rest was about

firing their guns and rebels kept

a'comin.' I could never get it. Was
it rebels? Really? I honestly forget.

War of 1812? Not the Civil War,

I didn't think, not with 1814, but

rebels? I was all confused, and

tasting vodka didn't help.

-

So, back to Harvey Wallbanger...

Whatever that was, it made me

conscious of mixed drinks, I

guess they're called, as real

strange things. All that Bartender

School stuff, too, is weird. I

never figured that to be something

that took 'schooling,' and maybe

that's just a modern thing. It

always seemed to me that a

bartender would just learn that

stuff on the fly. Having a school

to teach all that to you seems

weird. There's one here, in

Woodbridge, I see, that oddly

enough posts TWO signs,

one on the door and on one

the window, with their store

name, that 'No alcoholic

beverages are used in this

location. What you see are

colored waters.' Now that's

weird!

-

But more than that, what really

affected me was to see ineffective

adults sloshing around. I couldn't

fathom how a person could remain

happy in those circumstances. It

was, in a bit of a way, an enforced

jollity that came off as just plain

stupid. I never took to that well.

My friend Jim Tomberg, he was

a cool NY drinker that knew his

business  -  he worked, as well,

fairly steadily, at one of those

Bleecker and McDougal Street

places, back in the hip-high '60's,

where the night crowd blazed and

frolicked to all hours. I can close 

my eyes and yet go there : a

hundred people at a time, 

outdoor tables crowding the

street and a hundred tongues

yapping; and then indoors, add

the music and the crazy atmosphere

and smoky blue air of a crowded

speakeasy atmosphere. It was

pretty incredible, and then the

music acts would come on,

maybe about 10pm and the night

was set. Jim was a big guy, bulky

and tall, and he'd be standing at

the outdoor corner, between tables

and buildings  -  in his long apron,

and holding a serving tray. When

anyone raised a hand or called

out, the drinks and orders were 

brought. He was good at it, and

could handle like, sometimes,

6 mugs at a time, and deftly. I'd

sometimes go there, sitting, just

for the free food I'd end up getting.

Jim would usually have a spot for

me where I could just plop down a

folding chair and get the best of

both worlds  -  the indoor scene 

and the outdoor. The whole street,

both of them at that corner, was like

that; Cafe this and Cafe that  -  Figaro,

Bizarre, and other names. You

go there now, it's death. Remnants

maybe, of old signs, idea and

images of the old days. They linger

in the soiled air, but even that air's

not the same. The dirt and the

gristle are gone.

-

It may be that all that stuff was a

big heap of nothing, but to me

it was amazing life. I miss that

stuff like I miss the little thing

in the middle of a turntable; the

little nib onto which you plopped

the record, the LP record, as it

turned and turned and turned.

(To every thing, there is a season).