AUGUST 6, 1978 JOURNAL ENTRY - EAST VILLAGE

4 am in Times Square. Bums, crazies, and the poor camp on the sidewalk. I step over them, as if they were the dead. One wino rises his head and burbles from a flaky rotting mouth, "Gimme some change."

I drop some quarters in his hand.

Enough for two cruellers at Disco Donut on East 14th Street.

I resist asking for the coins back and pick up my pace. I still have $7 in my pocket. Enough for breakfast at Leskos for Alice and me. No sign of Hakkim.

Eric Mitchell, A B-movie star, said at Max's with this strange Apache-French accent, "The bums are colorful."

"And he was right.

BAck on the South Shore Red Tate lived in a aluminum septic tank at the town dump.

Every afternoon he traipsed through the woods to the corner store across from the church. His life was simple. He bought beer for underage kids and drank Thunderbird wine. Three bottles got him drunk. My Uncle Jack, once a Marine officer at Chosin Reservoir said Red Tate had been a hero in Korea and always gave him a buck.

Some people said bad for him.

Never us. He bought us beer.

Red Tate lies on the pavement
Helpless, flat on his back
If his mother saw him
Tears and asking, "Why?"
Red Tate drink Ripple
Sometimes he has Thunderbird
The fortified wine drowns out Korea
Soothes the shattered nerves.
Not a bum
Just someone trying to forget
A forgotten war___

AUGUST 6, 2021 NYU HOSPITAL

Joseph Cotton steals CITIZEN KANE with his performance on the New York hospital's solarium. Jed Leland is an elegant ne'er-do-well living out his last days basking in the winter sun. Even at death's door he wants a little something.

The Ultra-sound and MRI have revealed the seriousness of my condition; Hep C, Cirrohsis, growths in my liver. The attending physician entered the room with two younger doctors, who I figured for interns. The main MD explained that my body was still functioning, albeit not at top form. He put his hand on my knee and said, "Everything should be okay."

The other two said nothing and I suspeceted that the attending physician had brought them along to teach how to break bad news to a patient. I almost wanted to ask one, "What do you think?"

Not that I cared.

At least I wasn't going to die tomorrow, but I never again have a drink. Sixty years of alcohol has wasted my body and soul. I admitted depression to another doctor. "No, go right ahead. I have nothing to hide."

My first drink was in 1960. I was eight. My uncle-in-law, the head of the Boston Homicide Squad, offered a cold beer. We were at his beach cottage on Marshfield's Rexhame Beach. After a sip I put the can on the table. "I don't like it."

All the detectives laughed and one shouted, "You will, boyo, you will."

He was right.

I liked beer, wine, vodka, and gin-ginger throughout the Covid binge.

I was not wearing a silk dressing coat and foulard like Joseph Cotton in CITIZEN KANE. My ass was hanging out of a 'johnny'. I hadn't seen the sun in days and asked the nurse, if I could walk to to the solarium. It was on the same floor. She asked, "Sure, but I'll come with you to make sure you don't fall."

There was no arguing with the nurses. They were relentlessly right. I took my time and turned left before the elevators. A helicopter lifted into sight from the riverside landing pads. I sat down and pulled out Cookie Mueller's WALKING THROUGH CLEAR WATER IN A POOL PAINTED BLACK. She was three years older than me, but started the life in the early 60s with the books's first line, "I had two lovers and I wasn't ashamed."

I never saw Cookie ashamed.

They grew them tough in Baltimore.

Foto by Anthony Scibelli.

BLOOD AND MUSCLES @ CBGBs - 1978

1978
The Hell’s Angels frequented CBGBs.
A rough Bowery bar.
No one challenged their claim
To the punk rock venue.
The Angels scared off other asshole bikers
Although not every night.
The Cramps first played to a packed house
Garage rock fans and some Jersey bikers.
The Cramps
Rocking,
As if the world was diving into the sun tomorrow.
I Was a Teenage Werewolf, Strychnine, The Way I Walk.
My hillbilly girlfriend hip-shimmying
Head banging
Dear Alice
A hillbilly Alice she was
Baptized by moonshine
At a West Virginia home
Not far from the coal-mining hollows.
She as hillbilly
As it gets in New York
She loved the Cramps.
During the encore
two Jersey biker chicks jumped the stage
Obviously go-go dancers
Tramps in the best sense of the word.
James Chance, a man of danger
Joined them biker sluts
Fondling their stripper breasts.
Their boyfriends in the front row.
The saxist stuck out his tongue.
The girls thought him funny.
Not so the bikers.
They jumped onto the stage.
Chance's skin and bones versus the bikers’ motorcycle muscle.
A solid right cracked Chance's nose.
Blood spurt onto a dirty white shirt
A b-movie actor scrambled on the stage
To rescue his skinny friend.
Eric Mitchell.
The half-Cherokee stepped between the biker and Chance.
The band played another chorus of Surfing Bird.
This was CBGBs.
Alice grabbed my arm.
"Not your fight."
The biker looped a slow overhead right.
His fist loudly impacted on the actor’s nose.
A crack louder than the Surfing Bird
Blood splattered everywhere.
Merv the bouncer threw out the bikers.
They left without a struggle.
The 6-6 doorman
A punk version of the Addams Family’s Lurch.
Even the Angels feared Merv.
The next night Eric entered the bar
A black eye.
Chance sported a double badge of honor.
That night the two
Everyone’s darlings,
Because at CBGBS
There was never any shame in losing.

Foto by Andrey Armyagov

BLOOD AND MUSCLES @ CBGBs – 1978

1978
CBGBs.
A rough Bowery bar.
The Hell's Angels home
Away from the clubhouse
No one challenged their claim
To the punk rock venue.
The Angels scared off other asshole bikers
Although not every night.
The Cramps
From Memphis
First show in NYC
A packed house
Garage rock fans and some Jersey bikers.
Rocking,
As if the world was diving
Into the sun tomorrow.
Rocking
I Was a Teenage Werewolf, Strychnine, The Way I Walk.
My hillbilly girlfriend hip-shimmying
Like a drunk cheerleader.
I so loved her.
A hillbilly Alice was
Baptized by moonshine
In West Virginia
Her home
Not far from the coal-mining hollows.
She was as hillbilly
As hillbilly gets in New York
She loved the Cramps.
During the encore
Two Jersey biker chicks jumped the stage
Obviously go-go dancers
James Chance, a man of danger,
Joined the two tramps
Fondling their stripper breasts.
Their boyfriends in the front row.
The saxist stuck out his tongue.
The girls thought him funny.
Not so the bikers.
They jumped onto the stage.
Chance was skin and bones
Versus
The bikers’ motrocycle muscle.
A solid right on Chance's nose.
Blood spurt onto his dirty white shirt
A B-movie actor
The star of BLANK GENERATION
Eric Mitchell.
Onto the stage
The half-Pawnee stepped between the bikers and Chance.
The band played another chorus of Surfing Bird.
Alice grabbed my arm.
"Not your fight."
The biker looped a slow overhead right.
His fist impacted on the actor’s nose.
Bone on bone.
A crack louder than Surfing Bird
Blood splattered everywhere.
Eric somehow did not go down
After all he was half-Pawnee
They left without a struggle.
The 6-6 doorman
A punk version of the Addams Family’s Lurch.
Even the Angels feared Merv.
The next night Eric entered the bar with a black eye.
Chance sported a double badge of honor.
That night the two
Everyone’s darlings,
Because at CBGBS
There was never any shame in losing.

Liar Liar

Several evenings ago a friend accused me on lying.

He was backing another friend's accusation of my misrepresenting the truth in the telling a story about skating on black ice. Both said that I had claimed to have skated up 2nd Avenue after an ice storm had glazed Manhattan with black ice. Neither had ever worn skates, yet their other friend backed up their claim. I let it go. What does anyone from Arizona know about ice?

Today I heard more of the same.

"It was just a story."

Johnny said, "It was a lie."

"A lie."

"Up to you."

"How can I trust you if you tell lies?"

"Don't trust me then."

I shrugged off the abuse, recognizing it for collective bullying.

All stories are true if interesting.

The Old Man In The Mountain

The Old Man in the Mountain was first sighted by Europeans in 1805. The craggy profile had been carved by the glaciers of the last Ice Age and sculpted by the centuries of harsh weather crossing the White Mountains. Over the years millions of visitors have viewed the natural wonder popularized by Daniel Webster's words, "The Old Man was famous largely because of statesman Daniel Webster, a New Hampshire native, who once wrote: "Men hang out their signs indicative of their respective trades; shoe makers hang out a gigantic shoe; jewelers a monster watch, and the dentist hangs out a gold tooth; but up in the Mountains of New Hampshire, God Almighty has hung out a sign to show that there He makes men."

In May of 2003 the stone formation collapsed down Cannon Mountain.

The profile is merely a memory, but has been replaced by the silhouette of Eric Mitchell, star of stage and screen.

Kudos to the new Old Man of the Mountain.

May he grace the skies forever.

Best Punch At CBGBs

Back in the 1970s CBGBs was a rough bar. The Hell's Angels frequented the Bowery bar and no one challenged their claim to the punk rock venue, since the Angels scared off other asshole bikers, although not every night.

In 1978 a packed house of garage rock fans greeted the Cramps' debut and the Akron band performed, as if the world was diving into the sun with the coming of tomorrow.

I Was a Teenage Werewolf, Sunglasses After Dark, Strychnine, and a cover of the Trashmens' Surfer Bird highlighted the show. My hillbilly girlfriend danced to every tune like her veins flowed with moonshine. Alice wasn't white trash, but her West Virginia home wasn't far from the coal-mining hollows of Appalachia.

During the encore the scrawny saxist James Chance of the Contortions climbed onto the stage to fondle two Jersey biker chicks. Their boyfriends stood in the front row. Chance had a reputation for trouble and stuck out his tongue.

The girls thought he was funny.

The biker boys didn't see the humor and jumped onto the stage.

Chance was skin and bones and the biker had mechanic muscle.

It was more a beating than a fight.

A solid right caught Chance on the nose and blood poured onto his dirty white shirt.

Eric Mitchell, b-movie actor extraordinaire, scrambled on stage to rescue his skinny friend. The part-Cherokee warned the biker to stop.

The band kept playing Surfing Bird.

Alice grabbed my arm to stop my joining them. I stayed with her. This wasn't my fight.

The biker looped a slow overhead right and his fist loudly impacted on Eric's nose. More blood splattered everywhere.

Merv the bouncer threw out the bikers.

They went without a struggle.

The 6-3 doorman looked like an Addams family member.

Even the Angels respected Merv. The former discus thrower was a tall man.

The next night Eric entered the bar with a black eye.

Both of Chance's eyes sported the same badge of dishonor.

That night the two were everyone's darlings, because at CBGB's there was never any shame about losing.

The Old Man In The Mountain

The Old Man in the Mountain was first sighted by Europeans in 1805. The craggy profile had been carved by the glaciers of the last Ice Age and sculpted by the centuries of harsh weather crossing the White Mountains. Over the years millions of visitors have traveled up to Profile Lake to view the natural wonder popularized by Daniel Webster's words, "The Old Man was famous largely because of statesman Daniel Webster, a New Hampshire native, who once wrote: "Men hang out their signs indicative of their respective trades; shoe makers hang out a gigantic shoe; jewelers a monster watch, and the dentist hangs out a gold tooth; but up in the Mountains of New Hampshire, God Almighty has hung out a sign to show that there He makes men."

In May of 2003 the stone formation collapsed down Cannon Mountain.

The profile is merely a memory, but has been replaced by the silhouette of Eric Mitchell, star of stage and screen.

Kudos to the new Old Man of the Mountain.

May he grace the skies forever.

Now?

The other evening I was at a party for the painter Jonathan Gent. The UK native's work covered the apartment walls of a Wall Street banker, who had been gracious enough to support a live artist. His patron was a basketball player. They always have cred with me. The mini-paintings sold fast and Jonathan was in a good mood. I was too. There was plenty of rose wine, the evening was warm, and conversation was easy. Later in the evening the great B Movie actor Eric Mitchell showed up. We spoke about publishing a collection of my short stories. I have hundreds of them. Eric and I traded stories from the 70s and Jonathan joined us, as I recounted a tale of Eric defending James White, the sax player from the Contortionists, at CBGBs. "It had to be 1978. A biker busted James' nose and you protected him." "By getting my nose smashed." "The hardest punch I ever saw thrown in CBGBs." Jonathan has gone to school in Edinburgh. The Scottish capitol is renowned for its toughness. Somehow Eric challenged Jonathan to a duel. Jonathan whipped off his jacket and said, "Right. Outside." He was ready for a knuckle dust-up. It wasn't my fight and the wine was having too much an effect, but Eric was my boy. We went back in time and I took a couple of steps closer. "I was joking." "We never joke about that." Jonathan picked up his jacket with a left hand. No one should joke about fighting around fighting men. It always goes bad when they don't get the punch line.

Best Punch At CBGBs

CBGBs was a rough bar. The Hell's Angels used it for away play and no one questioned their right to act like they owned the place,since they scared off most other asshole bikers, although not every night.

The night of the Cramps' first show at the Bowery club was packed with affectionados on garage trash music and the Cramps played, as if tomorrow the world was diving into the sun.

I Was a Teenage Werewolf, Sunglasses After Dark, Strychnine, and a cover of the Trashmens' Surfer Bird highlighted the show.

During the encore the scrawny saxist James Chance of the Contortions took the stage.

Not to perform, but to fondle two biker chicks from Jersey.

Their boyfriends were in the front row.

James stuck out his tongue.

The girls thought it was funny.

One of the biker boys had no sense of humor and jumped onto the stage.

It wasn't much of a fight. Chance was skin and bones, The biker had a body of of mechanic muscle. A solid right to Chance's nose sent the sax player into the drum set. Blood poured onto James' dirty white shirt.

Eric Mitchell, film actor extraordinaire, scrambled onto the stage to rescue his skinny friend. The actor was part-Cherokee and warned the biker to stop.

The band kept playing Surfing Bird.

The audience watched the show.

The biker looped a slow overhead right and his fist impacted on Eric's nose louder than the band. Blood splattered everywhere. Merv the bouncer threw out the bikers. He was 6-6 and looked like a family member of the Addams family. Even the Angels respected Merv.

The next night Eric entered the club with a black eye.

James was wearing the same badge of dishonor only for both eyes.

That night the two were everyone's darlings.

For that night and beyond for a bar filled with losers.

An Elegant Biker - 2010

Eric Mitchell rode a bike to an art opening in Red Hook. He wore a white shirt and black jacket. All his shirts are white. The cotton was dry. It's a long hump from the East Village to the Gowanus Canal. Eric is part Cherokee. He doesn't sweat. I'm slightly surprised that Eric is not in Wikpedia, then again he is very underground.