Candida en Corse.
Chez Gabby.
Karinne de Aix en Provence.
Katie 1984.
Mirabelle Le Bad.
We'll always have Paris.
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In 1994 after a month long limbo in Penang I traveled from Malaysia to Paris on Aeroflot thanks to money wired by my loving mother to the Citibank in Penang.
The Kuala Lumpur-Karachi-Dubai-Moscow-Paris flight time to Moscow totaled about 24 hours. None of them were comfortable in the flimsy chairs of the Soviet era jetliner. More like lawn chairs and a fog hung over the the celing from AC condensation. After the meal not a single member of the flight crew entered the cabin.
Disembarking at night in Moscow, I discovered that my connecting flight to Charles De Gaulle had been delayed until the following morning. A Norwegian couple with whom I had traveled from Kual Mumpur were in a similar predicament and I said, "It's 10PM. What are we going to do all night?"
"Drink wine." The husband pulled out two bottles of wine purchased at the Dubai duty-free. Their flight had also been cancelled until noon.
"I have two."
"And my wife has two."
We opened the bottles and sat on the floor surrounded by hundreds of stateless travelers trapped in the aeroport. Some looked as if they had been in this limbo for weeks, if not months. We finished the wine and a refugee from Afghanistan sold us a bottle of vodka.
"I here one month. Can no go back Kabul. No go to Paris. My brother live there. Now this my home." His name was Jameer.
The vodka was homemade. The liter lasted longer than the wine. Several other Afghans fleeing the civil war joined Jameer with other bottles. They spoke in dialects. Dari adn Pashto. After two bottles of the gut-burning samogon I spoke in tongues an finally lost consciousness from the overdose of hard spirits and lack of sleep.
I awoke.
A gray dawn.
Moscow.
"Russia.
Not Idaho.
"Your flight is now." The Norwegian husband shook me hard and yanked me to my feet.
"I don't care. I want to stay in the aeroport. Life simple here."
"You have to go." He and his wife escorted me to the plane.
"Bon Voyage." I saluted them at the door of the Airbus.
Stepping on board I rejoined civilization and I stumbled down the aisle to my seat. The expression on the other passengers' face gauged my drunkenness better than a breathalyzer. No one wanted me to sit next to them. I fell into an empty row and buckled up for take-off.
Several hours later a stewardess shook my shoulder.
"We are in Charles de Gaulle Aeroport in Paris."
"Already?" I was the last passenger on the plane.
"We've been on the ground for fifteen minutes."
"Great." I rose to my feet and trudged out into the terminal. The time was 8:30. It was Bastille Day or 'le Quartoze', another day of wine ahead.
In July of 1789 Paris seethed with anger against Louis XVI and the ancien regime of the nobility.
The prison's most infamous guest was the Marquis De Sade, who shouted from the ramparts on July 2, 1789, "They are killing the prisoners here!"
The unrepentant sodomist was transferred 'naked as a worm' to the insane asylum at Charenton, but the fire had been lit and the on July 14 hundreds of workers gathered in the neighboring Faubourg Saint-Antoine seeking to seize the gunpowder within the Bastille.
Mythically recounted in Dickens' THE TALE OF TWO CITIES a tumbril loaded with casks of wine axle an axle on the Rue de la Roquette and wine flow down the gutters to be consumed by impoverished Parisians. The shadow of the dreaded upper-class Bastille prison loomed over the narrow street and someone shouted, "A la Bastille."
The Swiss Guards within the fortress defended the battlements against the mob. Mutinous royal Bourbon troops armed with artillery. The commandant surrendered the prison an freed its seven captives.
When Louis XVI was told the news in Versailles, the king asked an aristocrat, "Is it a revolt?"
His friend replied, "Non, mon Roi. It is a revolution."
Within three years after the Storming of the Bastille Citoyen Louis was sentenced to death and guillotined in Place de la Concorde before thousands of revolutionies.
I emerged from the terminal and sped in a taxi from CDG Aeroport to Paris. Traffic was light into the City of Light. THe exit lanes were cramped with vehicles as they had been for decades carrying Paris to le Grande Vacannes ie 7/14 go 8/14.
Atop Montmatre rose Sacre-Couer.
After the 1870 Commune had been quelled the Catholic Church had erected the Temple of Repression to remind Parisians that the Church ruled the Hearts and Minds of France, not the call to the ramparts by a perverse Comte.
The new Bastille.
My friend Tristam from the Musellmen Fumants waite at his apartment.
I wasn't tired, only hung over. That afternoon we watched the military parade on the Champs-Elysees.
That night we partied with friends.
I drank to Liberte, Egalite, and Fraternitie.
Hundreds sang Le Marseilles.
I cried each time.
It was good to be out of Moscow.
People drink too much there, then again so do I.
A bas le Roi__
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In the mid-80s DJs Albert Grintuch and his partner Serge Duprat took over the Bastille nightclub, Le Balajo. Once a week our crowd of rockers filled the large dancehall.I worked the door with Jacques Negrit as security. The barmen and waitresses were the same surly staff as the other nights of the week featuring accordion bands to a rough working class clientele. None was more vraiment Le Balajo than Daniel, the bullish barman, who was a Pigalle wrestler on his off-nights.
Daniel's disagreeability was a matter of Gallic pride.
More than occasionally Jacques and I would hear a disturbance at the bar, but before we could attend to the fracas, Daniel would grab the offender by the scuff of the neck and throw him into the street.
As Albert recently explained his technique, "Quand ca chauffait Daniel le catcheur ne prenait pas la peine d ouvrir les portes vitree de l'entree pour balancer les clients un peut trop debordant, resultat, on remplacait continuelement les lourdes."
In English simply put Daniel chucked out the client without opening the glass doors, which required their replacement with thicker glass door.
Those were the days.
Guess which one in the photo was Daniel?"
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Another sweltering summer day with temperatures rising along with the tempers. No one remembers how cold the winter was. No one is talking about anything about other than the hot. At the Tompkins Square basketball court we are drowning our innards with water and juices and sweating out it as fast as we drink.
I am sticking with lemonade and watermelon, avoiding beers and Vodka-tonics since resuming the rewrite of NORTH NORTH HOLLYWOOD. The book is rolling along fine, although I can't find the first twenty pages of the screenplay. I have to being losing my mind. I lose everything else.
Always thinking about my toy boat.
Left behind in Maine.
Like Chaney.
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revised 12/27/2027
A dream
I'm trying to get into my old room at home in Boston. Some of my things are still there. Behind me the door opens and a young man with a shotgun comes to me. Then he stands before the door and hands over the gun. I twirl it over my head and then I'm on my moped next to a broken down car someplace on a highway. Several moments later the moped is dead and falls apart
Poem
Lena and me
On the A train to Times Square
Sliding my thigh between yours
Denim on denim
Skin beneath the denim
The A train rocks on the track
We stand
At the end of the car
Only a few passengers
We don't care if they look
We are lost
In this act
Your hand on my crotch
My cock underneath the denim
The train shutters into Times Square
Stops
We don't stop
Lena bites her lip
As we dry hump
Doors open
All the passengers off
Doors shut
No passengers on
Only us
The A train
Screeches out of Times Square.
Lena shuts her eyes
Moan
Stutters a moan
Lena and me
On the A train__
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Hung over from a night drinking at CBGBs. The English band Wire headline the the show. Another great set with their hit, I AM THE FLY IN THE OINTMENT. The front row loaded with young teenage girls in love with Richard Hell, who was in the audience. He gets all the girls. Bill Yusk offer me some grass. I turned him down. I haven't smoked anything in in the last two weeks when I was in West Virginia. I've never really liked marijuana and while many of my high school and townie friends in their 60s huff weed. I didn't smoke until I graduated from high school. My friends and I were my 1967 VW Beetle. The sunroof open. Coming back from Nantasket Beach. A beautiful day in the Atlantic. Tommy Jordan hit up a joint, and I said, "Let me have some of that."
After a few pops the world changed, slowed down, the clock stopped ticking. The Chambers Brothers TIME was on the radio. We stopped at the red light on Beale Street n Hingham, where Route 3A turns from the harbor. A horn honked from behind us. The light had changed. Maybe once maybe twice maybe three times. The song was over. I shifted into first and we drove away. For the next year I smoked almost every day trying to relive that high.
LATER
I lie in the bed of my SRO room on 11th Street. It's a small bed. Too small for two people. Alice is dead asleep. At CBGBs she had been drinking Jack Daniels. Three glasses knocked her out. Her feelings were hurt because no one flirted with her. I flirted with no one. Klaus was with his girlfriend, Claudia. A starkly beautiful dominatrix. She wants nothing to do with me. Klaus is the opposite. We talked to a leather bound redhead, who was passing from consciousness to Oblivion. I make out with her. Alice is too drunk to see. Klaus was caressing me, very friendly after our last tirade at Kiev when I called out Samo, for recording me with a tape recorder. He was very angry about that.
Afterwards I ignored everyone. Only interested in drinking and playing pinball.
LATER
Last night after CBs Alice wanted to make sex. She had a hard time taking her clothes and I let her fall asleep unmolested. My hangover is brutal an this my head feels as if I have two barbell stuck in my skull.
I get up and shower in the hallway bath room. It is relatively clean for once . And everyone has gone to work. I take my time and come back to bed extremely clean. Alice is still in a shambles with her plastic skirt down to her knees and your bra around her neck. We've been together for the last two weeks twenty-four hours a day. I love to get a real place soon so that we can escape from one another to another room instead of this one room.
She looks over her bare shoulder, "Please fuck me. Maybe cumming will help my hangover."
I do
LATER
Jimmy Carter's in Berlin. I hear it on the radio. A Berliner asks, "When will Berlin be united?"
"Ah wish ah knew, but ah don't." It was an honest answer, but the American people can't stand him. They blame him for the week of economics and are defeat in Vietnam can we have a 12% inflation rate it shows no signs of stopping.
LATER
CBGBs as I said was fun. Kyle serve me plenty of vodka tonics. She has a vicious crush on Richard Lloyd from Television, who her sister Kim says is crazy. Kim loves Greg from the Revlons. Serena is pissed at Sean, who inherited $300,000. At the bar he gave Serena and me shit about not having any money.
"We don't need money. We get drinks for free."
But Serena is hurt about the money, because he never told her. She found out from his father at Film House when she was taking care of the wife, old money bags. I don't care. if he has money. And no one really bothers me, but I do like Sean he's smart and he's funny you're probably smarter than me fro money. I certainly aren't no smart after as much as I drink last night .
LATER
My hangover is gone. And I'm drinking a beer at Dojos. The bartender loves me. The owner always waves for her to give me one. I don't know why, but I sort of vaguely remember saving him from some thugs trying to rob the place. I spent the afternoon wandering through the village and Soho. Allison with Kim did you see the Three Stooges Festival. Three hours of Mo, Larry, cheese. I had enough when I was a kid. They are still Our Heroes.
Drinking is destroying my libido. This morning and I was fucking and I couldn't come. Faked an orgasm again with Alice on top of me. Afterwards we have each other. Your body naked feels like flesh tailored from me alone.
PHOTO BY EUGENE MERINOV
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