Third grade boy- "You look like that actor." Me- "What actor?" Third grade boy- "He's in that movie, uh I can't remember the name of it, but he got shot. You look like him." Third grade girl- "Yeh he does." It's been a couple of months, since I've done any substitute teaching. I wasn't in the mood to teach today. The teacher didn't leave a lesson plan. I let the kids draw for a few hours, while I tried to stay awake. One girl said, "Mr. Greene, so and so said you are falling asleep." I said. "Tell her she's only imagining it." The two stared at me, and didn't respond.
I worked at Nickelodeon from 1994-2001. I did have a year in between in Seattle. I used to say Nickelodeon was a studio of has beens along with up and coming or likely to disappear types. All kinds drifted in and out the studios. One day between shows, a couple of guys were on the sound stage doing some measuring, talking about where sets would go and some other stuff that I didn't catch. I noticed that one of the guys was a grown up Malcolm Jamal Warner, of Cosby Show fame. My friend Steve R. was staring at him, and finally says, "You look so fucking familiar." Warner replied, "Maybe from the Cosby Show." Steve replies, "No, what high school did you go to?"
Another time we had some magician on the show. He was supposedly famous. I don't know. He asked for a couple of prop guys to do something. Steve and I were sent over to help. The guy was very anal, I wanted to leave. He pulls out a bunch of paper work, and asked us to sign a release. Steve R.- "What's this for?" Magician- "I want you to sign this so that you don't give away any of my secrets." Steve- (laughing) "I can't even remember what I had for breakfast."
Tonight I may run into Steve at Taste restaurant along with some of the crew from Nickelodeon. It's the scene of a fundraiser for Brian our friend, who also worked at Nickelodeon and is still hospitalized. I don't want to be overly speculative on his condition, but I'm hopeful. There are signs that seem good, he's opened both of his eyes, but still in a coma. He has slight fever too along with pneumonia. I don't know what all of this pieced together means. I feel like the assessment must be much more complicated than that.
It's nice to see the old crew, but I wish the circumstances were different.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Sunday, December 16, 2007
We've Got A Bicycle To Build
I was in Miami for twelve days, working at one of the Art Basel parallel events for a group of art dealers out of New York. I'm still trying to process the experience. I'm working on putting an art show together, probably in April. Some of the artists are people that I came into contact with in Miami.
Housing wasn't provided while I was in Miami. I stayed with my father two nights in Ft. Lauderdale, with Rat Bastard the night of the free Iggy and the Stooges show on the beach. The night before Rat played at Churchill's for free with the Stooges sax player Steve Mackay. I also stayed in a motel on Biscayne Blvd., a few blocks from Churchill's. Jane recommended it. It was cheap, spartan and maybe a little sketchy. Jane provided these disclaimer's before hand. I was looking for a place that would be unaffected by Art Basel. The first few nights, I stayed in the basic $41 a night room, yes I said $41. After staying there a couple of nights the woman at the front desk asked me if I would be interested in an upgrade, for $46 I could get a room with a king size bed. I took it. After getting my first good nights sleep in weeks, I spent a few minutes trying to get the door open. I told the woman at the front desk that they need to tighten up the door handle, she said she would send someone over at 3PM. She also suggested that I leave all my valuables in the car, just in case. "I can't vouch for the locksmith's honesty." Later that night when I tried the door, I thought it doesn't feel loose anymore. It's fixed. The next morning the door wouldn't open, after a few minutes I called the front desk and said I'm locked in the room. A crew arrived within what seemed like a minute. They were trying to pry it open, then the old Asian guy who is part of the family that runs the place yells something to me in a strong accent. I didn't understand him at first, "What?" I asked. "Mister, get away from the door!" I stepped back, the door handle came flying across the room, he'd hit it with a hammer. He still needed a pry bar to get in. I was twenty minutes late for work.
I mentioned I saw Iggy. I also saw Deerhoof, Gang Gang Dance for free, different nights. I missed Japanther. Ariel Pink played downtown for $15.
I got comps for Rat and his girlfriend Veronica for the Deerhoof show. They brought Steve Mackay with them. The show was $15 for people that weren't comped. It was a benefit for an unnamed art museum in New York. It was $200 to get in at 4PM, the price gradually went down every hour or so. At 8:30 it was down to $15. The early $200 were collectors or dealers. The $15 were mostly indie-rockers there to see Deerhoof. The lady at the door works with the museum in NYC. She couldn't find Frank Falestra a.k.a. Rat Bastard or Veronica on the list. My bosses forgot to put their names on the list. I was trying to explain as the rigid woman third degreed Rat and Veronica. Veronica then deadpans, "Have you tried looking under the name Rat Bastard?" Rigid woman didn't find any humor in this, and maybe she wasn't supposed to. Rigid woman is probably unaware of the legend of Rat Bastard. I eventually talked the woman into letting them in.
I got back to Orlando around midnight last Monday. I had barely checked my email for the past couple of weeks. Tuesday morning I went through my emails. Katie Ball sent out an email saying that a good friend, Brian Maguire had been in a motorcycle wreck and is in a coma. A couple hours later Aaron my insurance agent/friend/former and possibly future bandmate called me. He said Brian isn't expected to make it. Aaron was choked up. I started to feel the tears, I felt like I'd lost control of my vocal chords. Brian, may be the best person on the planet. I know you always hear things like that at a time like this. A little over ten years back, Brian gave me his pick up truck. Judith, his girlfriend at the time and a longtime friend of mine, said, "I can't believe you gave the truck to Pat, we could've made some money. Brian-"Hey, Pat's my friend." Judging by the crew at the hospital waiting to see him and the crew at his benefits, everyone is his friend.
I had called Brian before I went to Miami. I asked if he would be interested in working at Art Basel, he said he wanted to take it easy. We talked about building a bicycle when I returned. He said he has a bunch of bicycle parts. He's been building bikes for years. I hope we get to build that bike together someday. He opened an eye yesterday, when a nurse touched him. I suggested that she needs to touch him more. We've got a bicycle to build.
Housing wasn't provided while I was in Miami. I stayed with my father two nights in Ft. Lauderdale, with Rat Bastard the night of the free Iggy and the Stooges show on the beach. The night before Rat played at Churchill's for free with the Stooges sax player Steve Mackay. I also stayed in a motel on Biscayne Blvd., a few blocks from Churchill's. Jane recommended it. It was cheap, spartan and maybe a little sketchy. Jane provided these disclaimer's before hand. I was looking for a place that would be unaffected by Art Basel. The first few nights, I stayed in the basic $41 a night room, yes I said $41. After staying there a couple of nights the woman at the front desk asked me if I would be interested in an upgrade, for $46 I could get a room with a king size bed. I took it. After getting my first good nights sleep in weeks, I spent a few minutes trying to get the door open. I told the woman at the front desk that they need to tighten up the door handle, she said she would send someone over at 3PM. She also suggested that I leave all my valuables in the car, just in case. "I can't vouch for the locksmith's honesty." Later that night when I tried the door, I thought it doesn't feel loose anymore. It's fixed. The next morning the door wouldn't open, after a few minutes I called the front desk and said I'm locked in the room. A crew arrived within what seemed like a minute. They were trying to pry it open, then the old Asian guy who is part of the family that runs the place yells something to me in a strong accent. I didn't understand him at first, "What?" I asked. "Mister, get away from the door!" I stepped back, the door handle came flying across the room, he'd hit it with a hammer. He still needed a pry bar to get in. I was twenty minutes late for work.
I mentioned I saw Iggy. I also saw Deerhoof, Gang Gang Dance for free, different nights. I missed Japanther. Ariel Pink played downtown for $15.
I got comps for Rat and his girlfriend Veronica for the Deerhoof show. They brought Steve Mackay with them. The show was $15 for people that weren't comped. It was a benefit for an unnamed art museum in New York. It was $200 to get in at 4PM, the price gradually went down every hour or so. At 8:30 it was down to $15. The early $200 were collectors or dealers. The $15 were mostly indie-rockers there to see Deerhoof. The lady at the door works with the museum in NYC. She couldn't find Frank Falestra a.k.a. Rat Bastard or Veronica on the list. My bosses forgot to put their names on the list. I was trying to explain as the rigid woman third degreed Rat and Veronica. Veronica then deadpans, "Have you tried looking under the name Rat Bastard?" Rigid woman didn't find any humor in this, and maybe she wasn't supposed to. Rigid woman is probably unaware of the legend of Rat Bastard. I eventually talked the woman into letting them in.
I got back to Orlando around midnight last Monday. I had barely checked my email for the past couple of weeks. Tuesday morning I went through my emails. Katie Ball sent out an email saying that a good friend, Brian Maguire had been in a motorcycle wreck and is in a coma. A couple hours later Aaron my insurance agent/friend/former and possibly future bandmate called me. He said Brian isn't expected to make it. Aaron was choked up. I started to feel the tears, I felt like I'd lost control of my vocal chords. Brian, may be the best person on the planet. I know you always hear things like that at a time like this. A little over ten years back, Brian gave me his pick up truck. Judith, his girlfriend at the time and a longtime friend of mine, said, "I can't believe you gave the truck to Pat, we could've made some money. Brian-"Hey, Pat's my friend." Judging by the crew at the hospital waiting to see him and the crew at his benefits, everyone is his friend.
I had called Brian before I went to Miami. I asked if he would be interested in working at Art Basel, he said he wanted to take it easy. We talked about building a bicycle when I returned. He said he has a bunch of bicycle parts. He's been building bikes for years. I hope we get to build that bike together someday. He opened an eye yesterday, when a nurse touched him. I suggested that she needs to touch him more. We've got a bicycle to build.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Thanksgiving
When I was eleven years old we left Cleveland and my father. My mother and brother are the other two thirds of we. Last week my mother said, "you know Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday."
My father had asked my mother to wire some money to him so he could see the scandalous Oh Calcutta! in New York. I think everyone was naked in Oh Calcutta!. We knew he wasn't attending alone. We were aware that he had other women. My father had relocated us to Cleveland from Detroit, after losing his corporate job in Detroit. He was arrested for writing some ungodly amount of bad checks. I think he did about eight months in the state prison. He says the state prisons are much worse than the federal prison's.
My mother worked about three low paying jobs while my parents pretended that my father was in the Army. He was allegedly in a supply unit in Thailand, that was a support unit for another unit in Vietnam, during the Vietnam war. My brother and I remember letters from my father, read to us by my mother, about life in Thailand, the beautiful jungles, the breathtaking Watts, beatific people and other stuff that could be picked out of a Fodor's travel guide.
My mother says my father never wrote us. My father says he doesn't remember any details. He normally has a good memory.
Tension was building in our unhappy household. I learned later that I get along with my father when I don't expect anything out of him. Maybe I learned this from the Thai people.
After his release my father was reading Playboy religiously, watching Hee Haw and going to the Catholic church almost every day. I wasn't even sure if he believed in God. I think he was baptised. He also became our scout master. My brother was in the Cub Scouts. I was a Webelo, go ahead make the jokes. My father would speak to several troops in the gym of our school. He could probably speak about anything. He would talk a little about scouting. He was so charismatic and funny that people started to show up to hear him speak, people that had nothing to do with scouting.
A few years later my father explained to me that he was doing all of this for the benefit of his probation officer. He quit the scout master gig after about three speaking engagements, he was getting too much attention. He also said he hated being a scout leader.
In Cleveland my father had quit his job as the shop foreman for the rust proofing shop. He was now working at home. One day a kid at school asked me what my dad does for a living. I said. "I don't know." When I got home, I told him that a kid at school asked me what he does for a living. He said. "Tell that kid to mind his own fucking business."
We fled to Ft. Lauderdale, all we had was what we could carry. I had my entire baseball card collection, over 4,000 cards. My mother made sure I had clothes. We stayed at my paternal grandmother's house for six months. The last day of school in Cleveland my brother and I beat up a couple of school bullies during lunch. I guess we were angry. I wouldn't apologize, so I stayed after school for a couple of hours. My brother had given them an obviously insincere, "I'm sorry." He was sent home right after school. He waited for me. He told me that I was stupid for not giving in.
After the divorce was finalized, we were living in Winter Park, FL. My father was doing 15 months for mortgage fraud, in a federal prison.
My father had asked my mother to wire some money to him so he could see the scandalous Oh Calcutta! in New York. I think everyone was naked in Oh Calcutta!. We knew he wasn't attending alone. We were aware that he had other women. My father had relocated us to Cleveland from Detroit, after losing his corporate job in Detroit. He was arrested for writing some ungodly amount of bad checks. I think he did about eight months in the state prison. He says the state prisons are much worse than the federal prison's.
My mother worked about three low paying jobs while my parents pretended that my father was in the Army. He was allegedly in a supply unit in Thailand, that was a support unit for another unit in Vietnam, during the Vietnam war. My brother and I remember letters from my father, read to us by my mother, about life in Thailand, the beautiful jungles, the breathtaking Watts, beatific people and other stuff that could be picked out of a Fodor's travel guide.
My mother says my father never wrote us. My father says he doesn't remember any details. He normally has a good memory.
Tension was building in our unhappy household. I learned later that I get along with my father when I don't expect anything out of him. Maybe I learned this from the Thai people.
After his release my father was reading Playboy religiously, watching Hee Haw and going to the Catholic church almost every day. I wasn't even sure if he believed in God. I think he was baptised. He also became our scout master. My brother was in the Cub Scouts. I was a Webelo, go ahead make the jokes. My father would speak to several troops in the gym of our school. He could probably speak about anything. He would talk a little about scouting. He was so charismatic and funny that people started to show up to hear him speak, people that had nothing to do with scouting.
A few years later my father explained to me that he was doing all of this for the benefit of his probation officer. He quit the scout master gig after about three speaking engagements, he was getting too much attention. He also said he hated being a scout leader.
In Cleveland my father had quit his job as the shop foreman for the rust proofing shop. He was now working at home. One day a kid at school asked me what my dad does for a living. I said. "I don't know." When I got home, I told him that a kid at school asked me what he does for a living. He said. "Tell that kid to mind his own fucking business."
We fled to Ft. Lauderdale, all we had was what we could carry. I had my entire baseball card collection, over 4,000 cards. My mother made sure I had clothes. We stayed at my paternal grandmother's house for six months. The last day of school in Cleveland my brother and I beat up a couple of school bullies during lunch. I guess we were angry. I wouldn't apologize, so I stayed after school for a couple of hours. My brother had given them an obviously insincere, "I'm sorry." He was sent home right after school. He waited for me. He told me that I was stupid for not giving in.
After the divorce was finalized, we were living in Winter Park, FL. My father was doing 15 months for mortgage fraud, in a federal prison.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Oswald The Rabbit
One of my first memories is of my mother watching tv while ironing my father's shirts, listening to the updates regarding the JFK assassination. I was five years old. I remember thinking everyone wants to be president someday. I asked my mother why anyone would shoot the president, she said something like, I don't know, it doesn't make any sense.
Thanksgiving falls on the anniversary of the JFK assassination this year. I read something of note recently, especially if you live in Orlando. Walt Disney flew over Orlando looking for land several times, the first was the day Kennedy was assassinated. I'm not suggesting anything more than a coincidence. Something else that is funny though, Lee Harvey Oswald shot Kennedy. Disney had a hit cartoon Oswald The Rabbit.
Thanksgiving falls on the anniversary of the JFK assassination this year. I read something of note recently, especially if you live in Orlando. Walt Disney flew over Orlando looking for land several times, the first was the day Kennedy was assassinated. I'm not suggesting anything more than a coincidence. Something else that is funny though, Lee Harvey Oswald shot Kennedy. Disney had a hit cartoon Oswald The Rabbit.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
The 53rd Hostage
We sat in the back of a deuce and a half (two and a half ton truck), dressed for battle, M-16's, M-60's, hand grenades and other weapons were loaded up. It was full alert. In a few weeks I was scheduled to get my discharge from active duty. My Army contract stipulated that I had three more years of inactive duty. I didn't take that very seriously until we went on full alert.
In a few weeks the impetus for the alert, the Iran Hostage crisis would be over. The last 52 hostages would be set free. I believe they were released on Reagan's inauguration day, January 20th, 1981. It was also the day that I was released from the tyranny of the military.
I'm not sure how long our alert status lasted. It seemed like a week or so. Many of us waited in between breaks of smoking hash. Hash was ubiquitous in the military in Germany at the time. I was telling my friend David about my experiences in Ludwigsburg, dealing hash, selling black market cigarettes and whisky. He said you should watch Buffalo Soldier with Joaquin Phoenix, it sounds like a similar experience. I did watch it. I think it failed to capture the humor, but it captured some of the detached behavior. I was never so pissed off at humanity in my life as I was in the Army, but I also laughed a lot. I made two trips to rehab, the first for alcohol, the second for heroin. For the first one I poured a beer on a lieutenant's dress black shoes, while he was wearing them. I said I didn't really remember the incident, that helped me avoid a court martial, the alcohol made me less accountable. A few months later I tested positive for opiates, heroin. I wasn't addicted. I probably snorted and smoked it about 50 times in two years, but never shot it up. I wasn't addicted to anything in particular. I liked to get high.
Being on alert waiting, and maybe going to war, I always thought of myself as a pacifist, but at 22, high on drugs, just waiting for any new episode in life, I thought maybe, I need to go to war, as a rite of passage. Even then I was aware of how self absorbed that sounds. There is no way that I can really place myself in that reality vicariously. I wanted to write a novel, I thought I have to experience everything. If I had gone to battle, I may have ran.
I was in a military intelligence unit. We did have a few bright lights of humanity. Most of them were regularly disciplined. There was one guy, William, he was a little older around 25. He had been a high school English teacher. He joined, because he couldn't figure out the next step in life. He had a huge book collection, and more books were constantly coming to him in the mail. He was the professor to a few of us, from the San Francisco area, he directed me to several transgressive writers. I guess that fit. I remember reading a Henry Miller book, I think it was Tropic of Cancer. I came across the word weltschmerz. I thought that it was interesting that a German word was in his story, then I realized the word is also in the English dictionary. It translates into world pain, welt-world, schmerz-pain, suffering. When a local would come up to me and ask wie gietz? (How are you?), I would respond Ich habe weltschmerz (I have world pain). It was a great ice breaker.
I thought I might see the hostages at the airport in Frankfurt. They were transiting through Germany. I didn't see them.
I can't remember exactly where the bus ride started, but we were headed for Ft. Jackson near Columbia, SC, to finish processing out of the Army. I hadn't been in the states in over two years, billboards everywhere, everything looked ugly to me. I wanted to go back to Europe.
My family and friends met me at the airport in Orlando. I was happy to see them. My brother said, "The 53rd hostage is home."
In a few weeks the impetus for the alert, the Iran Hostage crisis would be over. The last 52 hostages would be set free. I believe they were released on Reagan's inauguration day, January 20th, 1981. It was also the day that I was released from the tyranny of the military.
I'm not sure how long our alert status lasted. It seemed like a week or so. Many of us waited in between breaks of smoking hash. Hash was ubiquitous in the military in Germany at the time. I was telling my friend David about my experiences in Ludwigsburg, dealing hash, selling black market cigarettes and whisky. He said you should watch Buffalo Soldier with Joaquin Phoenix, it sounds like a similar experience. I did watch it. I think it failed to capture the humor, but it captured some of the detached behavior. I was never so pissed off at humanity in my life as I was in the Army, but I also laughed a lot. I made two trips to rehab, the first for alcohol, the second for heroin. For the first one I poured a beer on a lieutenant's dress black shoes, while he was wearing them. I said I didn't really remember the incident, that helped me avoid a court martial, the alcohol made me less accountable. A few months later I tested positive for opiates, heroin. I wasn't addicted. I probably snorted and smoked it about 50 times in two years, but never shot it up. I wasn't addicted to anything in particular. I liked to get high.
Being on alert waiting, and maybe going to war, I always thought of myself as a pacifist, but at 22, high on drugs, just waiting for any new episode in life, I thought maybe, I need to go to war, as a rite of passage. Even then I was aware of how self absorbed that sounds. There is no way that I can really place myself in that reality vicariously. I wanted to write a novel, I thought I have to experience everything. If I had gone to battle, I may have ran.
I was in a military intelligence unit. We did have a few bright lights of humanity. Most of them were regularly disciplined. There was one guy, William, he was a little older around 25. He had been a high school English teacher. He joined, because he couldn't figure out the next step in life. He had a huge book collection, and more books were constantly coming to him in the mail. He was the professor to a few of us, from the San Francisco area, he directed me to several transgressive writers. I guess that fit. I remember reading a Henry Miller book, I think it was Tropic of Cancer. I came across the word weltschmerz. I thought that it was interesting that a German word was in his story, then I realized the word is also in the English dictionary. It translates into world pain, welt-world, schmerz-pain, suffering. When a local would come up to me and ask wie gietz? (How are you?), I would respond Ich habe weltschmerz (I have world pain). It was a great ice breaker.
I thought I might see the hostages at the airport in Frankfurt. They were transiting through Germany. I didn't see them.
I can't remember exactly where the bus ride started, but we were headed for Ft. Jackson near Columbia, SC, to finish processing out of the Army. I hadn't been in the states in over two years, billboards everywhere, everything looked ugly to me. I wanted to go back to Europe.
My family and friends met me at the airport in Orlando. I was happy to see them. My brother said, "The 53rd hostage is home."
Monday, November 12, 2007
The Heir
My friend Ken lived in the student ghetto in Gainesville. We would lift weights on his porch. Our workout was a fifteen minute workout dragged out to about two hours. We smoked pot, nursed beers, listened to records, talked about books, movies, women etc.. I was a recent arrival in town. I had noticed this guy walking around. He looked to be in his 40's, disheveled, wearing a dusty denim shirt. It looked like he might be living on the streets, except he was built like a body builder. Maybe he had just become homeless, I thought. I saw him near Ken's apartment, then I realized he was Ken's neighbor. Behind Ken's place was a two story tenement. I saw the mystery man coming in and out of there. Homemade weights were on the cement slab near the outside staircase, metal poles with industrial sized cement filled tomato cans attached to both ends. There were plastic gallon milk jugs filled with cement too.
One day while having our relaxed workout, the guy yells from the top of the stairs to us. "Hey. I'll be right over. I'm going to work out with you guys." This was the first time we had heard him speak. His voice raspy, sounded like years of booze and cigarettes. A few minutes later he came down. Our workout went from smoking pot and listening to the Clash, to "Come on motherfucker, you can fuckin' lift that, don't be a fuckin' pussy."
He introduced himself to us. He said his name was Billy Soul. I kept thinking of Billy Jack, an awful part reactionary, part hippie movie. I have to admit, I liked the movie when I was a kid.
We continued to workout with Billy. Our workouts became intense. He was part Vince Lombardi, part Charles Manson. We were terrified of him. He was humorless. He would stare into your eyes and yell, "Come on you fuck, lift that." One time I was doing a military press. I had lifted the weights from the ground up to my chest. Billy closed in on me. His face was about two feet from mine. His eyes aimed at mine. He turned towards Ken and said. "Look into this motherfucker's eyes. He's immortal." I started to laugh. I lost control of the weights and dropped them. "How the fuck did you drop that? Fuck!" We were afraid to laugh around him. Life was not a joke to Billy Soul.
Billy Soul was one of those infamous university town types. He was banned from the Plaza Of The America's on the University of Florida campus. He used to bring his weights there and workout. He hassled the Christian street preacher's. He hassled the Hari Krishna's, all political organizations, fraternities, sororities and everyone else. He used to eat the Hari Krishna free lunch and then yell to them, "You're a bunch of dumb motherfucker's for feeding me."
We heard stories that Billy's family was wealthy. I didn't believe it at first, but it was confirmed soon. Billy asked Ken to pick up a check from his father in Winter Park. Ken told me about the mansion that his professorial father lived in. According to legend, Billy's dad had been a physics professor at the University of Florida. While conducting some experiments, he developed something that would change the world, the weenie heater. You know the thing that rotates hot dogs at the 7-11 and keeps them warm. He had become very wealthy from the weenie heater.
A couple years back I read that Dr. Sewell, Billy's father had passed away. I thought about how terrifying it was to workout with Billy. I thought about the time when my then girlfriend Leah came by Ken's. As soon as she left, Billy asked is she Spanish or Italian?" I said her grandmother is Italian." "I bet she would fuck all of us." "She's my girlfriend." "I know. I like her."
We used to jog through the student ghetto. Billy would jump fences and chase dogs with the beware of dog sign on the fence.
I wonder what he would do with a fortune? I kind of miss those days in Gainesville. I was going to be a bunch of things some day. I remember listening to the Clash, I'm So Bored With The USA. I felt like something was happening in the world.
One day while having our relaxed workout, the guy yells from the top of the stairs to us. "Hey. I'll be right over. I'm going to work out with you guys." This was the first time we had heard him speak. His voice raspy, sounded like years of booze and cigarettes. A few minutes later he came down. Our workout went from smoking pot and listening to the Clash, to "Come on motherfucker, you can fuckin' lift that, don't be a fuckin' pussy."
He introduced himself to us. He said his name was Billy Soul. I kept thinking of Billy Jack, an awful part reactionary, part hippie movie. I have to admit, I liked the movie when I was a kid.
We continued to workout with Billy. Our workouts became intense. He was part Vince Lombardi, part Charles Manson. We were terrified of him. He was humorless. He would stare into your eyes and yell, "Come on you fuck, lift that." One time I was doing a military press. I had lifted the weights from the ground up to my chest. Billy closed in on me. His face was about two feet from mine. His eyes aimed at mine. He turned towards Ken and said. "Look into this motherfucker's eyes. He's immortal." I started to laugh. I lost control of the weights and dropped them. "How the fuck did you drop that? Fuck!" We were afraid to laugh around him. Life was not a joke to Billy Soul.
Billy Soul was one of those infamous university town types. He was banned from the Plaza Of The America's on the University of Florida campus. He used to bring his weights there and workout. He hassled the Christian street preacher's. He hassled the Hari Krishna's, all political organizations, fraternities, sororities and everyone else. He used to eat the Hari Krishna free lunch and then yell to them, "You're a bunch of dumb motherfucker's for feeding me."
We heard stories that Billy's family was wealthy. I didn't believe it at first, but it was confirmed soon. Billy asked Ken to pick up a check from his father in Winter Park. Ken told me about the mansion that his professorial father lived in. According to legend, Billy's dad had been a physics professor at the University of Florida. While conducting some experiments, he developed something that would change the world, the weenie heater. You know the thing that rotates hot dogs at the 7-11 and keeps them warm. He had become very wealthy from the weenie heater.
A couple years back I read that Dr. Sewell, Billy's father had passed away. I thought about how terrifying it was to workout with Billy. I thought about the time when my then girlfriend Leah came by Ken's. As soon as she left, Billy asked is she Spanish or Italian?" I said her grandmother is Italian." "I bet she would fuck all of us." "She's my girlfriend." "I know. I like her."
We used to jog through the student ghetto. Billy would jump fences and chase dogs with the beware of dog sign on the fence.
I wonder what he would do with a fortune? I kind of miss those days in Gainesville. I was going to be a bunch of things some day. I remember listening to the Clash, I'm So Bored With The USA. I felt like something was happening in the world.
Drinking Buddies
Chris Garlington of Death By Children fame mentioned Harry Crews' latest book, An American Family: The Baby With The Curious Markings. It was published by the small press Blood And Guts in LA. Chris spoke of the myth of Harry Crews. Crews hangs out with Sean Penn. Thurston Moore wrote the blurb on the cover of his latest book, and there was the short lived band by the name of Harry Crews with Thurston's wife Kim Gordon, Lydia Lunch and Sadie Mae. I told Chris my story about Harry Crews.
I lived in Gainesville, FL during 83-84. I was working at a restaurant downtown. I bartended, waited tables, was a maitre' d, prep cook or whatever they needed. It was one of the nicer places in town. Our manager was kind of a pain in the ass. He was patronizing, but had moments of sensitivety. He always arrived for the evening shift with a copy of the New York Times. I read the Times most days, but he would explain how well rounded you can become by reading the Times daily. This was a little annoying, but he also would give us chores that he was supposed to do, he was very flirtatious with most of the women that worked there, he was a good looking guy, but very cheesy. He was disliked by most of the workers, not hated, just disliked.
Harry Crews frequented the place for dinner, usually staying after to drink a little. A young woman or two normally tagged along. Our manager worshipped Harry. He was constantly trying to give him some new beer that came in or whatever. Harry didn't give him the time of day, unless a snarl or a grunt counts. Many of us found this unrequited relationship amusing.
The restaurant closed every night at 11PM. Sometimes after closing time the owners or the manager would lock the doors, and have a private party with a select few. I was never interested in hanging out. One night while Harry was at one of his favorite drinking spots, Lillian's Music Store, he ran into the crew from our restaurant. I guess Lillian's had closed, so our manager got his big chance to impress Harry. He brought him and a few others back to the restaurant and opened up the bar to them.
The next evening I came into work for the dinner shift. The manager was grumbling, "Fucking Harry Crews. That motherfucker, who does he think he is?" He repeated this several times. I asked. "What's up? I thought you loved Harry Crews." The chef had walked out to get something to drink. He despised the manager. The manager glared at us. "You want to know what's up? Come with me." We followed him out to the street. It was nearly dusk. He pointed to the building next door. It was being remodeled. Drywall sheets were covering the window frames. There was a very large hole in the sheet of drywall next to the front door. "You see that? Harry fucking threw me through the drywall. He's fucked up. He's got mental problems. He's a drunk." We laughed a little. The manager stormed back inside. He was about six feet tall, 180 pounds. It was quite a toss.
About an hour later. Harry Crews came strolling in. He looked up at the manager for a moment. "Hey sorry about last night." He kept walking and sat down.
I lived in Gainesville, FL during 83-84. I was working at a restaurant downtown. I bartended, waited tables, was a maitre' d, prep cook or whatever they needed. It was one of the nicer places in town. Our manager was kind of a pain in the ass. He was patronizing, but had moments of sensitivety. He always arrived for the evening shift with a copy of the New York Times. I read the Times most days, but he would explain how well rounded you can become by reading the Times daily. This was a little annoying, but he also would give us chores that he was supposed to do, he was very flirtatious with most of the women that worked there, he was a good looking guy, but very cheesy. He was disliked by most of the workers, not hated, just disliked.
Harry Crews frequented the place for dinner, usually staying after to drink a little. A young woman or two normally tagged along. Our manager worshipped Harry. He was constantly trying to give him some new beer that came in or whatever. Harry didn't give him the time of day, unless a snarl or a grunt counts. Many of us found this unrequited relationship amusing.
The restaurant closed every night at 11PM. Sometimes after closing time the owners or the manager would lock the doors, and have a private party with a select few. I was never interested in hanging out. One night while Harry was at one of his favorite drinking spots, Lillian's Music Store, he ran into the crew from our restaurant. I guess Lillian's had closed, so our manager got his big chance to impress Harry. He brought him and a few others back to the restaurant and opened up the bar to them.
The next evening I came into work for the dinner shift. The manager was grumbling, "Fucking Harry Crews. That motherfucker, who does he think he is?" He repeated this several times. I asked. "What's up? I thought you loved Harry Crews." The chef had walked out to get something to drink. He despised the manager. The manager glared at us. "You want to know what's up? Come with me." We followed him out to the street. It was nearly dusk. He pointed to the building next door. It was being remodeled. Drywall sheets were covering the window frames. There was a very large hole in the sheet of drywall next to the front door. "You see that? Harry fucking threw me through the drywall. He's fucked up. He's got mental problems. He's a drunk." We laughed a little. The manager stormed back inside. He was about six feet tall, 180 pounds. It was quite a toss.
About an hour later. Harry Crews came strolling in. He looked up at the manager for a moment. "Hey sorry about last night." He kept walking and sat down.
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