Journal Entry - April 4, 1981

This week the journliat staff from the magazine Actuel arrived at New York's JFK aeroport. The publisher Jean Francoise Bizot led the quintet of Bernard Zekri, Elizabeth D, music promoter Jacques Kourakas and another writer unkown to me across the tarmac.. Later this week Actuel will celebrate the tenth anniversery of French publication's existence. I met them through their New York Corespondent, Bernard Zekri, who is thriving for the first time in this city. He has discovered Rap and Break Dancing, traveling up to the Bronx and Harlem and Brooklyn. I've never accompanied him to the distant boroughs of the city, since I'm working at the Jefferson after-hours. My old girlfriend Karine had introduced us. While she has gone back to France, Bernard has become a good friend. I would love to go to Paris and France, although Bernard has said that the City of Light has become more bourgeois losing the edge described in Orwell's DOWN AND OUT IN PARIS AND LONDON. The vicious cops corralled the street whores and addicts obey the orders of the haute-class.

"The clubs suck."

Bernard has proposed that I come to Paris in June.

Jean Francois, the publisher, will be opening a club on the Grand Boulevard.

If the offer comes, I would leave here tomorrow.

Only ghosts keep me here.

Bridges and Typewriters 2014

In Jan. 1982 a french magazine ACTUEL hired me to work the work at their Paris nightclub, Le Rex. I bid good-bye to New York and flew from JFK to Heathrow with one bag of my best clothing and an Olivetti typewriter.

After a brief visit with friends in London, I boarded a train at Waterloo Station for Dover and caught a night ferry to Calais. The immigration officials stamped my passport with a six-month visa and I passed through customs without any of the smoking officials casting an eye in my direction. It was cold outside and I walked to the Calais train station.

My Olivetti Lettera 22 typewriter weighed a little over four kilograms. Nine pounds isn't much, but as I walked to the the Calais train station on a June evening, the weight grew heavier in my hand and crossing a bridge over the Calais canal I contemplated ditching it. The tide was out and the river bottom was thick with mud. The world didn't need another writer or another doorman at a nightclub, then again this world doesn't need much, so I trudged into the terminal with the Olivetti and bought a one-way ticket to Paris.

Gare Du Nord.

For me and my typewriter.

I have no idea where it is now, but me I'm in New York and my typing is as bad as ever.

TETE DE NAZI

SNATCH-MAG.COM asked French Music Mogul Bernard Zekri how he got into music. Comment êtes-vous arrivé à intégrer ce milieu ? J’avais un copain qui s’appelait Peter Smith, un écrivain irlandais avec une tête de nazi. Genre une tête carrée, les cheveux plaqués en arrière et les yeux bleus. Il avait un manteau en cuir noir ; il me faisait beaucoup marrer. Quand j’étais avec lui, je rentrais partout. Il a été une des premières clés pour que j’accède à ce monde. Tu prends ça dans la gueule quand tu es français, parce qu’à la même époque, Paris, c’était vraiment tristoune. Il n’y avait pas vraiment d’endroits pour écouter de la musique. Et en province, n’en parlons pas. Dans l’East Village, il y avait une jeunesse qui avait envie de brûler sa vie jusqu’au petit matin. Le temps était comme suspendu. La vie était plus facile, on n’était pas en train de penser à ce qui allait se passer dans cinq ans. Les gens n’avaient pas envie d’être stars, ils avaient juste envie d’être de grands artistes.

I love the last line.

These people didn't want to be stars. They wanted to be great artists.

Thanks for that line, Bernard.

I'm not so so sure about the 'tete de nazi', but a young poetress was over last night and said, "You were one scary motherfucker back then."

"And now?" Irene's last boyfriend thought I was not to be trusted.

"Oh you're a little princess."

A Nazi or a princess?

And nothing in between.