Review of "Exile on "Mainstreet"

 

"Myths and legends die hard in America. We love them for the extra dimension they provide, the illusion of near-infinite possibility to erase the narrow confines of most men's reality. Weird heroes and mould-breaking champions exist as living proof to those who need it that the tyranny of 'the rat race' is not yet final." Hunter S Thompson, circa 1979 —The Great Shark Hunt, 1979

The Rolling Stones looked for studios in Paris and couldn’t find any they liked. They had a truck that was equipped with a studio that could be parked by any theater or empty loft.

Keith Richard's house, Nillcote, seemed to be the best choice, near lawless Marceau and Mafia Italy . Philipe Lymen could make smack runs into the lawless Marceau, or into Mafia controlled Genoa.

Mick and Bianca Jagger (who was pregnant) were living in Paris. The musicians, Charlie Watts, Bill Wyman, Mike Taylor, Bobby Keys the horn section and rhythm section were living scattered around. Mick decided they would move into Nillcote.

The Stones were exiled from the UK for tax abuse, and were shaken up by it. They missed the comfort of the Brit food they were used to and the cloistered utero feeling of the safe worlds they had created in their mansions, but not the 90% UK tax. It was impossible to live at that tax rate, the UK is strange.

They felt like true expats, alone with nothing to lose. They were in a Catch-22 situation, sink or swim.

With the positivity of their leader Mick Jagger, his constant happiness and vision, his easy-going style, his ongoing joy of the whole process, Jagger was the glue that held the creative process together.

Keith on the other-hand was muddling through a junk habit and would sleep long hours. Keith would wake-up with a hang over, have a taste, back in the halo, all the time listening to the guys working on songs in the basement.

The whole band had to be ready when Keith was up and running, witch unnerved Jagger who felt Keith would do better to adhere to some kind of a schedule.

Mick would sit in the basement jamming, fabricating, but truly missing his best friend Keith, who was at the beach.

The band would kibitz about on songs, Keith when in action was a task master, when a song was ready, a sensation or consciousness swept through the musicians, Keith would start staring at Bill Wyman, who would tilt his bass up about 15 degrees towards the heavans , THAT WAS THE SIGN! 20 takes latter towards the final cut ( which would be hashed over in the Sunset Blvd Studio latter in LA) it happened.

The bewitching open party atmosphere is a major part of putting "" Exile"" together. There was no security, cool people would walk in and out . Anita Pallenberg (Keith's wife at the time, like shooting gallery buddies), reminisces, walking into the living room and seeing a guy with a huge baggy full of smack sitting on the sofa. Of course that was a ticket to get in on the endless partying with the family, but things got dark from then on.

Bobby Keys with a southern draw, the bands sax player never mentioned seeing junk, but admitted seeing plenty of booze and ganja, all being used 24 hrs a day. .

Keith had a family whose job it was to score smack for him in Marceau. Tim Lyman would make trips between borders to supply and then use junk with Keith and Anita, Lyman's son, Nicholas could roll joints for the gang, that was his job. At the time Nicholas says the scene felt dark to him at times, but he also felt a charismatic feeling emanating.

They backed the truck/studio up a tiny alley way through untrimmed tree, and ran the wires through the ground floor of Nillcote. It was weird, everyone was so wasted. The horn section might be connected to the studio in a hall way, Bill Wyman was wired right outside of Keith's section. It just seemed like a big cluster-fuck, it was amazing anything was put together.

Keith kept a maid, Matta, who looked like a Voodoo Priestess. Jumbo Jack, the cook, who was as big as Howling Wolf, with triple size hands and wore a Top hat. He doubled as chauffeur. JUMBO COULD MAKE Freid chicken, burritos, hamburgers, fries, veggies, pizza , peel fruit, whatever the family wanted.

Matta was a gambler and loved to play dice, she would organize crap games and got rich winning money from Jagger and Richards. Jagger got the ideal for the song "Tumbling Dice" from the crap games with Matta.

Bianca Jagger was wore a white silk dress . She radiated auras, she was the sun, at the corp of Exile was Micks joy at becoming a father with the beautifully pregnant Bianca.

Aside: I AM GOING TO CUT UP WHAT I'VE WRITTEN SO FAR ON NILLCOTE,  AND DO AS MICK JAGGER DID, CUTTING UP LYRICS ON THE FINAL VERSION ON "CASINO BOOGIE

Started out jamming.

The Stones were always in debt, tax under labor was 83%. It was impossible for them to live in England. And the powers at be were threatened by the Stones.

Keith felt that they were edged out of their own country (UK).

The album was raw and edgy but the reviews were terrible. 2 years latter it was called the best rock n roll album ever. Mick felt the PRESS was very disruptive to his and Bianca's personal life.

Charlie Watts suffered culture shock at first, but remains in France today.

Keith said it was getting cold outside and winter was coming, the tape was in the truck and everyone left quickly. Even the French Government was scared of the Devils at Nillcote, the best place for artist to live in the world, scared of artist? go figure, as they say.

The stones felt like exiles and they knew they had to do this album. But nobody thought it would be as good as it still is.

There was no mention in the documentary were money was coming from and who was the money manager goes unsaid.

The stones were the center of the universe at the time, music was revolution.

The whole gathering, family, players, technicians, cooks were a tribe.

Watts says Richards was a true Bohemian, he lived like a rasta man, from day to day and didn't worry about the small shit.

The best music comes when the band doesn't think they are being recorded.

Bobby Keys was a open minded, loving and a accepting good ol boy, odd guy, so straight, but totally in the Nillcote family groove.

Mick Taylor wasn't making any money, but was digging it all.

It was so hot in the basement at times that Mick wrote a song and sang it while playing piano "Where's our Ventilator?"

French man goes to Nillcote, to visit for a day, he is amazed, he ends up partying with the family for six months.

Ian Stewart, who was was a stride genius, who was often called the 5th Stone was never mentioned because he wasn't at Nillcote.

Keith does a interview after shooting junk. He talks intelligently but is wain.

Charlie and Mick walk into the present location of Nillcote, looking around in 2010 Mick says to Charlie on film, " their was no master plan," and "boring, old recording session, who gives a shit". Mick was the anti-christ of rock n roll those days." Alan Ginsburg crowned Mick the KING of the World Hippiedom.

Keith & Mick, can play like John Hammond in duo and they often do, even now.

The Stones like Ray Charles loved country music too. Keith saw country music and hill people to be like a hallucination in the forest clearing festooned with Tibetan Flags nomads.

Rock is a beautiful navajo blue turquoise stone on gold caldron to mix things up in…..Keith

The basement was the center of the universe, drink-in Jack, smoking ganja, coca, play as loud as they wanted. It was like recording in a sauna.

Pallenberg calls it a labor of love.

When Bianca and Mick were married it was suppose to be a secret, but didn't stay a secret.

Bobby keys could play all reed instruments and and taught charlie about time settings: 2/4 mostly, to count 2 counts to every 4 beats in a measure, 1+2+. 1 and 2 and down on the 1 & 2, up on the ands. Charlie was a quick learner, and always played as though he could crack any second, following Keith. 

Nillcote was never empty, there were few disruptions though.

Like true alcoholics they would only eat one meal a day you could drink Pernod, spring water, Jack Daniel, Fresh juice, great Champagne, Coke-Cola, whatever you wanted.

Charlie Watts says it is hell for everyone, but not for Keith.

Keith would sleep for a whole day, so when group the regular players went to bed, Keith would just work with whoever was there. Usually Jimmy Miller, who adored Keith, would stay up with him and a few others. Jimmy Miller could play drums. Affable good ol boy Bobby Keys would stay, Keys has a big heart even today.

Allot of the Stones music is all from their hearts, played with open hearts and empty minds.

Keith's people were watching TV and they were robbed, 8 guitars, some amps and stuff, there was no security at Nillote except JUMBO JACK who was cooking. It wouldn't be that way today, impossible, but the free flow love seemed to work as security.

Keith's Mum once said that Keith was born with a good ear. A utterly-amazing ear, Mrs. Richards was just being modest. Listen to "All Down the Line" Alternate Take. Keith plucks 1 note into the air and the harmony is slightly off, but it rocks you to the bone. Don Was says " They open up, "All Down The Line" Alternate take as far as you can.

Mick says "there was no control."

They split to LA. And the emotions and love they were giving out through the album drained them emotionally

Casino Boogie, the lyrics, was inspired by Burroughs cut up method, Mick would write 3 to 8 words on type paper and write 3 to 9 word phrases, write them down with a felt tip pen and cut them into pieces while smoking and sing them.

Anita Pallenberg says it was a beautiful world, she and Keith liked to go to a deserted beach, smoke ganja, Keith would jam and sit cross legged on a indian blanket.

Charlie Watts says they mixed the album constantly. Mick and Charlie designed the album cover.

They used the beat photographer Robert Frank's photos. He recommended they film stuff with Super 8.

Mick doesn't like anything you did yesterday he is interested in tomorrow, that keeps him going, CW

Keith did junk to hide from the glare of the press, it was his halo armer. He felt like the junk covered him and protected him, he was the coolest person on earth with it, the shit was like a shield for Keith, he lived in his own universe at Nillcote and still does,  in his own Beduin cushioned library. Today's Keith Richards is more of a book freak with a unreal vocabulary and not a junky. He still enjoys a smoke of ganja and snort of Rebel Yell!

_________________________________

Aside: When the album " Exile on Main Street" was released I was one of the first to buy it. I smoked ganja, drank German Beer and listened to it over and over again, wearing out the grooves. 

REFERENCES: THE FILM WORK OF STEPHEN KIJAK AND THE INTERVIEWS ON THE DOCUMENTARY BY THOSE WHO WERE THERE.

10 Minutes Today

Lyrical, a smile on his face, the fat cat, doing whatever without a care, his soul semiopaque, on display, not hidden.  

At home drinking with people big and small, downing swigs of Jamesons from a gold flaked flask with a red tongue and lips logos on it. 

Henry the dream machine flying with angels parallel to the ground, everybody eating Sunday diner on main, never-the-less, painfully excited, watching everything, wanting to dance with Molly, begging the straw-man. 

Feeling the now,  wind in his face, dancing with the devil, doing a nose dive, losing to the devil. 

Writing flow of consciousness, 10 minutes and out poetic prose, going over-land out West,  busting words, busting broncos,  looking at it, breaking it's  mouth. Quick thrills, jolts to the body, nothing to think about,  there was nothing at all he thought. 

For Henry it was lazy writing, no more stories, nothing left, writing on nothing, about nothing.  

With a monkey and a duck on his back, coming home, cooking cocaine and opium together, loading it up, popping it. Nowhere at all, nowhere, no-place in no time. Standing alone and chanting out loud for 10 minutes today.  

john berryman is dead

john berryman transfixed by henry on the horrid day he shot
himself or took poison 1 or other to  body bronze full of
electric waves and all the whiskey in charlotte WXZT radio 
playing classic music lifting him cashing out of room 8 

yes the summer was hot in chinatown mixed up plenty too 
she bled him and feed him more booze hour by hour as he scripted
poems combing through garbage dumps dark alleys salvaging
looking for wooden ships cat eyes hypno-erotic ancient oaths

forgive-fulness golden and silver, full of gamma-rays as 
dead wallpaper peels the yellow room of the notorious
sideways motel pauperized cockroaches swarming by you
as if magnified a 1000 times in coterie of a dying brain

they stored his cremated ashes in a prince albert 
tobacco can mixed with bougainvillea flowers 
and thorns playing polka as they moved ceremoniously 
thy can of bones to wicker zoo on du-champs birthday 
placing it in gorilla cage and stomped on too

a monument to life seen and unseen thru a halo in a
fur lined cage wildly scattered on the ganges  

Shit Censored and Uncensored

Henry Lucowski living in his head (The end and the beginning of his world). The sensory police picking and choosing, an ongoing process of in and out, in and out. Henry old, bored, alone— all kinds of shit censored and uncensored made it in these days. 

There were a few stories left somewhere, Henry too lazy to dig them up, indifferent, lacking the fervency to keep it going. 

Digging up old stories was like remembering fucks from the past, some stuff slipping through the cracks. Henry unable too rally the passion of bygone fucks and other cheap thrills these days. 

His writing a dusty shadow of, an apology to whoever would listen. 

The idiom “Flow of consciousness,” not unlike the words schizophrenia, whoopee or discothèque, outdated equipment. 

Henry letting it rip, a lazy and selfish writer, out to please himself, seeking pain relief. 

The song “Bob Dylan’s Dream—“ sixties’ stuff, Dylan cracked up and saying allot to many, scribbling the ode and anthem of the malcontent. 

On “Country Pie”  Dylan is singing about his love for pie, the delight he feels eating pie and listening to music in the afternoon. How can the kooks find higher meaning here?

Henry’s work— higher meaning in your face, the kooks wouldn’t bother with it —

Henry laughing his ass off for second here, taking a break and stuffing his opium pipe full of black satin mud. Lighting it,  blowing out and bellowing  smoke through his nostrils, french inhaling like a pig. 

Leaning way back in his chair as he typed, laying and typing, listening to Rolling Stones Unplugged on You Tube. Liking it, liking it all,  junk reaching into and caressing the yawning secret places of his pain. 

His girlfriend Moon Girl brings him a drink and says—

“Henry doll you sure are lovely baby, do you like my Leopard skin coat? It sure has been a long strange trip, how do my tits look honey?”

Henry and Moon Girl alive, living in a cave like room with no windows, dark all the time, keeping everything outside out. 

Dope cut the shackles for the freaks, they could fly on it, it was a groove and a feeling, they loved it. 

Henry inspired by John Berryman’s  “Dream Songs,” surely… confessional poetry, a recantation, junked up, juiced, quick, the Rabbi in the alley under stilted light wanted out,  feeling accused and guilty of something but not knowing what it was. 

So goes life, Henry thought, keep a low profile he thought. 

Somewhere Between Axel's Bar and Vietnam

     Copyright@ November, sometime in 1982

When I was eighteen in 1969 the Army selected me to go by troop transport from Kansas City to Washington D.C. for a meeting of AUSA, the Association of the United States Army, I was in ROTC.

I had been attending military school in Missouri since the ripe age of 13. There were rules against booze and dope at the school and the ordinance was strictly enforced. Any fellow cadet or instructor could rat on you if they smelt liquor on your breath or ganja on your person. Since I was of draft age at the time getting busted meant immediate induction in the Army and trip to Viet Nam most likely. I was against the war and was scared to death of getting my nuts shot of or worse. As cadets we heard stories how guys in Hueys on their way to combat sat on their helmets to protect their family jewels from stray flack or bullets.

I was slated to go in the Army as a Second Lieutenant in the Infantry upon graduation. I would have made the worst platoon leader in Army history. I hated guns and couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with one, having little idea how the sights worked as well as no knowledge of maps or compasses. I would have been what they called 'fracked'or shot by my own soldiers in the back for sure. 

As for any interest in the war on my part, it was limited to how soldiers in combat used a M1 rifle like a bong or hooka to smoke opium and ganja, as well as a fascination with hairless Asian pussy. 

Terms such as, 'honor', 'serving ones country', and the jingoistic grap of the day meant nothing to me. And the Viet Cong where much better versed in the arts of warfare and better soldiers than us. They were true soldiers who had something to fight for. 

Mostly I felt hated and despised by other young people of the time and when on leave I could see the looks of distain on the long hair's faces when they saw our military haircuts. It felt like a outcast, and all I wanted to do was to stop shaving and having to get haircuts. I wanted to  buy a van and go on a spiritual journey out west somewhere, to New Mexico or California maybe. 

Why the Army selected me to go to Washington as a representative of whatever it was they perceived me to be was a enigma. I saw the week long trip to attend military meetings as a booze, dope and fuck holiday. I had no plans to go to any of the meetings because no body really gave a shit back then and I wouldn't be missed. 

The trip on the troop transport plane would be my first and last thank God, because I never made it into the Army anyways. Thanks to the Quakers who helped me get out of the Army all together, not on moral grounds, but by helping me get a Section Eight, in that I was way too crazy to visit a country that wasn't mine and cut off body parts and set a glow it's inhabitants with a flame thrower. Proving I was nuts was no chore because I was and still am mad as piss. 

I bought some acid from a fellow cadet and took a few doses before getting on the plane to D.C. I spent the hours in flight listening to the Grateful Dead and the Doors on a tape player with batteries, tripping my brains out. 

On arrival in DC we where transported by military buses to Myer-Henderson Hall, Fort Myer. I was still tripping my brains out and didn't even know what country I was in. When we reached the barracks I was assigned a bunk. I immediately stripped off my uniform and put on some jeans and a tie-die t-shirt with a Dead Head logos of a skull with dread locks on it, still wearing my military issue combat boots, I hitched a ride to Georgetown. 

I got a ride from a couple of red neck chicks in their 40s, who thought they where hippies, but were only impersonating hippies for the day, wearing moccasins and bell bottoms with funny floppy leather hats. I offered them some acid, but they didn't want any because they were basically boozers not head. They had a ice bucket of beer in the trunk of their old Chevy station wagon and.

They proceeded to give me a tour of such hot spots as the Washington Monument, calling it huge cement phallic symbol. Then going on to the, monument, the monumental ego of
politicians in Washington.

They dropped me off in Georgetown, thank God, after we saw the big cock (Washington Monument). 

I entered the first bar I could find in G-Town, the bar was the type of place that no self respecting frat member would go to drink. It was called 'Axels'. They served up shots of cheap whiskey and beer in mugs. Peanuts, people served peanuts, shelling them, throwing the shells on the floor.

Axel's, filled with bikers, clergymen, professors and poets. The conversation something cracked up and jaded, jaded subject matter, speaking of Nietzsche as though they were in a lunatic asylum, nothing seemed to mean anything, nowhere on acid was where I was at, it fit.

Another lunatic in Axels, lost in a jungle of existential superlatives as time and realty dissapeared "Sympathy for the Devil" and "Astral Week' flowed in color out of the Juke Box in rainbow waves. 

I realized that Axels was beyond anything that I had ever experienced so I made my way back to Fort Meyers somehow, I missed the entire week of U.S. Army seminars. The education I got in Axels was something you couldn't pin down on a military map. I had plenty to take back with me to the academy and it had nothing to do with war or reality really. 

It was one of those intrinsic experiences that cant be explained or translated in words. It took me weeks to get back to earth, and the earth seemed like a new horizon full of potential. 

Years later I realized the experience could be summed up as 'when you are ready for the teacher the teacher will appear and then you will disappear for awhile'.

Indian Corn

In front of the bathroom mirror, Henry cut himself shaving, motionless, in a stupor, he let the wound bleed for a while, too lazy and not knowing for sure what to do, then tearing off a piece of tissue, placing it on the wound, much the same as he had always done.

Wrapped in a towel, out of the bathroom into his bedroom, Henry old, shedding vanity and hair, oddly shaped, avoiding mirrors at all cost, the pay off for the fabulous mental life of old age.  

At the closet, as usual chinos, no socks, no underwear, choosing the shirt of the day was the only decision to be made here. He picked a Hawaiian shirt, sky blue and white, and would wear his leather slippers that were in a pile of shoes at his door step.

On the computer  watching  a bit on You Tube about the most decorated war hero in U.S. History, Robert Howard, a country boy from Alabama. 

Mannish pluck, a soldier in Viet Nam, a Medal of Honor recipient, comments on YouTube like —Semper Fi and God bless the American hero— jingoistic raves from veterans, empty dispatches to Henry's ears. 

Henry wondering about the other-side of the coin? Wondering how many Asians Howard had killed? What suffering he caused the "enemy"? Under a different more universal system of judgement, would he be a hero or a pitiless killer?

As Henry left his apartment he checked his mail box, it had been empty a few years. Henry living in Akron, in the heart of the dead city that tires built, walking down Main-Street on a golden summer day, just walking, with a straw hat on and Ray Bans. 

Up ahead on the sidewalk, he could see May's Dinner and a newspaper stand, regular stops and conversations for Henry. Buying a newspaper from Blind Al who had lost his eyes somewhere,  asking him what he thought of the war hero Robert Howard? Blind Al saying…

"Who the fuck is he, man?"

At Mays ordering waffles and tea, siting at the counter reading the Akron Beacon Journal, talking with May, wearing an apron on a flower dress,  white hair up in braids. Henry could see the outline of her hairy push through the thin material of her dress.  Henry asked her what she thought the war hero Robert Howard and the Viet Nam war? May quick to say…

"Why Henry you know I was against that war and all wars, I believe in peace and the inner light of love, staying focused on it, simply, without much fuss, avoiding churches and institutions of any kind"

"Does someone like a Robert Howard have an inner light May?" 

Henry asked

" Henry we all have the light shining in us, but some of us just choose to ignore it and take the deadly path, sweetie."

"May, when a  person's inner light is shinning inside will they kill?"

"Oh no Henry, they would be protected and shielded from darkness, joined together in radiance with others, in the high pine darling, avoiding violence and loud talk, flying in the clouds, hero angels, invisible, brimming over.

Henry ordering a second waffle and a raisin donut, more tea, thinking he could walk off the extra servings. Having a plan, to walk south out of Akron till he reached the Indian cornfield 12 kilometers out of town, believing a few ears of dried Indian corn could ward away ghost and evil spirits, cleanse his apartment, keep his inner light shining.

Once out of town, Henry ducked into an old barn with a Redman chewing tobacco logo painted on the side, he loved the smell of hay, flopping down on the hay, lighting a joint, careful not to set the barn on fire. 

Laying in the hay, in reverie some, thankful for the moment of serendipity, thinking he would like to fuck May in the hay, May's inner light sending signal to Henry, he, thinking about her tits, the zaftig, corn-fed rounded shape, imagining her sizable brown nipples, flaccid on an oval patch of skin, surging to the touch. Thinking of her long legs thrusted upwards towards the clouds, Henry's cock pounding out a rhythm inside her, wondering if she would keep things at a low moan and progress to a high pitched, repetitive scream?

After day dreaming in the old barn for an hour or so, Henry walked outside, going down the road, reaching the Indian Corn field and walking down the rows of corn, getting lost some, feeling the stuff that nature was made of through and through. Finally, picking two ears of Indian corn, pappy, new born, it would have to dry some before the cleansing power could be released.

The walk back never seems to take as long as the walk there, but it is more of a struggle. Henry walked back to his apartment on the back roads of Cuyahoga County, ten miles maybe. He thought of the character, Travis, in the film "Paris, Texas," played by Harry Dean Stanton, wondering aimlessly, walking for days at a time through the Chihuahuan Desert. Wanting to forget something, haunted by love gone wrong, or the tragic death of someone he loved. Sleeping in patches of fury bush, lighting mesquite at night to keep warm, his soul detached from his body, oblivious to the harshness of the desert.

Erotic fantasies of May in the hay, exhorting him, Henry calls May around 5 PM, asking her if she had supper yet? May says…

"Why no Henry doll I haven't eaten yet, are you asking me out? Are you feeling aroused baby?" 

Henry choking on the biscuit, goaded by May, lying throw his teeth…

"Oh not ah… not at all May… why I just would enjoy your company over a good bottle of red wine and a steak at the Emerald City Grill"

"Why Henry darling wouldn't that be sweet?  We can meet at 8:30 baby." 

(The Emerald City Grill was in the center of downtown  Akron,  under a freeway overpass that urban development had passed by, walking distance for booth Henry and May) 

Henry shaving again after a long hot shower, doing the stuff that men do to make themselves attractive to women —male birds fanning out their feathers, boy lizards turning orange, blushing red, aroused, sending signal— virility moon-struck by lady hummingbirds, glands engendering the fetching scent of honey. The yin & the yang of passing the message of life on, love and sex.

Henry sat in a booth at the Emerald City Grill, talking to his friend Teddy, the owner, waiting for May to show. The Grill was famous for steaks, where they bought the meat a protected secret. The interior hadn't changed in 60 years, retro, run-down, once gentrified, light green banded wallpaper, fumes of cigarettes smoked past still permeating the now of the no smoking place. Teddy like a Chinaman, waiting for the property to appreciate, not spending a penny to renovate. The prosaic and aloof decor saying....  "fuck you and who cares."

Eddy had one arm, Henry once asked Eddy how he lost his arm?

"Oh, somebody hacked if off with a meat cleaver by mistake" 

Eddy never one for giving straight answers, enjoying diversion, he had nicknames for everyone, he called his brother Honda, my brother Patrick was Patta, a waitress, Stephanie was Rodney, a Greek friend Nick, Cudots and so on and so forth. 

Eddy the restauranteur, who loved to play, prudent, never grim, not as gone as Travis wondering the desert, but gone as much as he wanted to be. Hilarious, full of stories with odd twist of humor and fate, a character himself and a lover of characters. He made thousands of dollars a night at the Emerald City Grill, not caring really, spending allot on cocaine, calling it toot, to be snorted at after-bar parties. 

May arrived at the Emerald City Grill a half hour late, Henry half in the bag already, drinking M 16s  and snorting some toot in the boys room with Eddy. Henry happy to see May, she was grand, fabulous, palatial everywhere and on the spot. Ultra hip, wearing a red Chinese dress, slit at the leg, with a high buttoned collar, fuck me pumps, fish net hose, guys in the restaurant rubber-necking her, eye-balls popping.

"Why May what a surprise sweetie, I have never seen you without an apron on or out from behind the counter of your cafe babe" Henry says

"Oh you will Henry trust me, you will, be patient darling, you will see allot of things in the future baby" May winking at Henry

Henry very turned on sitting across from May in the booth, turgid, sliding his foot out of his leather slipper and running it up Mays leg toward her crotch, May ordered a Flaming Mexican Flag, apropos. Henry gave May a small vile of cocaine to snort in the ladies room.

May back at the booth, after snorting, stars in her eyes, feeling fabulous, ordering Lobster, Henry ordering a T-Bone the meal toothsome, succulent, drinking Mescal Flame Throwers, on fire, blue-flame rising from goblets, going outside into the parking lot to snort, Mays inner light scintillating, consuming Henry, the moment boiling hot. 

It was a highly charged summer night in Akron, Henry borrowed Eddy's Cadillac Convertible parked in the back lot of the Emerald City Grill, taking May for a ride to the Indian cornfield. Henry put the canvas top down, May leaning back and looking at the moon, her hair blowing about, she put her legs up on the dash, satisfied. 

At the Indian cornfield, Henry parked on the road, it was dark and there were no streetlights, the moon lit things up some. "Sure Enough I Do" by Elmore James was playing on the Radio. 

May and Henry took their shoes off, not caring much, wasted, running into the dim field, down the rows of corn, falling at times, laughing out loud, forgetting allot, falling on each other, striping down, balling, the two realizing they had been in love forever and for the moment, that was enough.

Bukowski had the Stuff

Henry waking from a dream, a dream of essence, bad and Godless essence. Not believing in God but realising God or the pure light of reason was the source of it all. 

On Sunday morning Henry would stuff as much cocaine in his nose as he could and wash it down with tequila, happy as a pig in shit— happy  he didn’t have to go to church— not missing the  rooms full of phoneys that even God avoided like the plague, God preferring the real stuff of the world, the mensch, the short-bread, the down and dirty.    

Henry would walk alone in nature sucking up and exhaling the deep cool air, quick gulps again and again,  enjoying the smell and feel of it, the wet leaf smell, the smell of clean air, the smell of old rotting bark and wild animal musk.  It was all good he thought and this was his church, nature… getting the nod from Whitman long gone.

Henry had done it all, he didn’t need anymore, it was hard for him to write, no encouragement or feedback good or bad, he hadn’t sold one book. He felt his work was part of the tradition of hip writers, very different from the boring and unoriginal writing of the day, so he kept at it. 

He started writing late in life and he was born to write, he didn’t need to take any courses or classes, he simply wrote. Early in life he had read the Beats… all the cutting edge and hip stuff out there, starting with Henry Miller, Lawrence Durrell and  so on,  he knew what he wanted and ultimately it made little difference what others thought about his work, it was as though it had to be done. 

More than anything he regretted not being a part of a scene of writers, most his pals were retired cons who had never read a book by a beatnik, who if they did read, read the cheesy spy novels and thrillers of the day. Henry feeling like Sylvia Plath must have felt, hip in a square world. 

Henry back at it again, after two weeks of mind fucking himself over and over, hard pressed to find a reason to write.  

The night before while watching Bukowski read poetry on You Tube, he wondered what this man had? Buk’s stuff simple and straightforward, resolute, irreverent, solitary and rare. 

If nothing else Buk kept at it because it was all he had, Buk way out there on the edge looking in at it all, spying on the Jackals and laying them to waste, a foray, spraying bullets at the predatory and thirsting dunderheads late at night, listening to Brahms and as always drinking more and more by the minute, this was his fuel alright.   

Henry needed some of that, what the Buk had, so now you see it, Henry back at it, writing in a vacuum God knows why? Henry a lazy writer, writing to himself out of habit,  it was sad and lamentable all right.     

South Milwaukee Outcast

Life, Christ almighty, like Frank Sinatra singing "That's Life, sometimes you're up and sometimes your down." Jesus pure spirited, the king of the world, he liked to party, drink wine. The Evangelous have no ideal what Jesus is about unless they take psychedelic drugs and open up, then Jesus will truly open up......

Wednesday was a grind for Frank Brickhousky at the Riverside Leather and Dye Company. A Nasty smelling place on the Milwaukee River that processed dyed cow and cattle skin sent smack  from the killing floors and slaughter houses all over the Midwest, Milwaukee, Kansas City, Chicago, Omaha. All kinds of skin, Hereford, Brahman, Texas Long Horn, Holsteins, Jersey Reds.

The leather plant was in the middle of town, you couldn't miss it, the die and chemicals running into the Milwaukee River gave off a precise oder, a certain smell, a mix of  cowshit, cement, oil paint, and sulfur.

 On Wednesdays Frank's job was dying the skins that arrived on semi-trucks, all Holstein skins, cows who stopped giving milk, used for dog food and to make leather accessories. Holsteins were a particular bitch for Frank to dye, neutralising the black and white color to make lighter pastels skins used in ladies wear. Dying black skin for bikers chaps and jackets was no problem. To make the pastel colors Frank would drop the black and white Holstein skins into a alkaline and acid mix, fading the skin color, then running them through a large spinning barrow like a cement mixer with sand in it fading the colors further.

Frank Brickhousky was brought up on the South-side of Milwaukee. His old man, Stan, a polish house painter and drinker told Frank the fumes from the oil paint caused him to drink. They would buy Schlitz and Pabst beer by the cases, wooden cases in those days, straight from the brewers, returned with the bottles and replaced with more terrible Milwaukee Beer. 

Milwaukee had a church and a bar on every block in those days and still might today, everyone was working back then. Working men, factory workers could afford to go north to the Dells in the summer, go deer hunting,  fishing. Jobs were past on from father to son,  the women were housewives, playing stupid but aware, laughing at everything, bee-hive hair-dos, making donuts all the time, Paczki.

Frank's best friend was Crazy Kurt, he was a greaser, with long sideburns , acne scares, a brillant mechanic, a misfit. He worked at Harley-Davidson and would ride his Harleys all year long, putting chain-spikes on the wheels when it snowed. Kurt was a machinist at Harley, the go to guy. Kurt had 3 Harleys, all Road Kings. He was married to them, walking into his living room, you had to be careful not to trip over Kurt's broken down bike, totally broken down, to the piston springs.

Some nights Crazy Kurt and Frank would drink with their friends. They would drink boiler makers, a shot of whiskey dropped in a large stein of beer, eat pickled eggs, stored in gallon containers on the selves, smoke filter-less Lucky Strikes and Camels. The Tuxedo, home for gonzo bowlers, non compos mantis, tough south side working class Polish dudes that didn't give a shit about n, allot of the guys were World War II veterans. Crazy Kurt was a demolition specialist during the big one, his motto... 

" Point it out and I will blow it to bits  "

 The regular guys at the Tuxedo were all bowlers, and guys from other bars bowled too,  they had teams with names like...

"The Ballbusters",

 "Piston Fuckers"

 "12 Inches of Joy"

 " The Bozos"

 " The Dip Shits"

Saturday night was the bowling league finals, it was " The Dip Shits" vs "The Bozos"

Crazy Kurt and Frank played for the Dip Shits, The Bozo's were no clowns, and were favoured,  the Dip Shits needed Crazy Kurt  to win, he was a psycho bowler.  The tournament began after the playing of  the "Polish Nation Anthem" followed by "Louie, Louie."

Frank and  the Dip Shits had to start without Crazy Kurt, he was late, way late, they were behind by 350 points in the 10th frame of the last round. Out of nowhere you could hear the clear-cut sound of Harley pipes in the bowling alley, it was Crazy Kurt, wasted, he wheeled his Road King around on the carpet and on the lanes, bringing it to a stop and parking it behind the tournament area,  revving the pipes to show he meant business.  Crazy Kurt took one look at the score, seeing the Dip Shits were losing bad,  pulled a hand grenade out of his saddle bag, pulling the pin and throwing the grenade at the upright pins blowing them to bits, a loud noise echoing through the halls, saying to the Bozos….

"Well clowns, who wins?"

Crazy Kurt and Frank would go up north to the Dells in the summer time, Kurt was absolutely mad, he would lay home-made land mind type bombs underground to hunt deer, getting a kick out of blowing the creatures to bits, when they went fishing Kurt would throw a hand grenade in the water,  collecting all the dead garp and bass that floated to the surface.

On the way home Kurt and Frank stopped at the infamous Ed Gein's house, the serial killer from La Crosse who would murder and skin his victims, they busted the door down and it smelt like death inside. There was a meat hook on the wall,  Kurt took it down, taking it as a souvenir to remember his vacation up north. The friends pulled out a bottle of schnapps, sitting down at Ed Gein's nasty kitchen table, a dark wooden table, drinking shot after shot on the very table Gein had feasted on: grilled human flesh and giblets, the two laughing, wondering how Gein seasoned the meat, if he needed tenderiser, salt, pepper, steak sauce?Kurt telling Frank he was going to hang him on the meat hook, skin him alive and make a pair of bowling shoes out his skin.

Living in the winter climate of the north, on hot summer nights you felt extra horny,  a hooker in a bee-hive with a chop-stick in the doo, walked in the bar wearing a asian style dress and striper pumps. Kurt, Frank, Frank's old man Stan and the rest of the Dip Shits were falling all over themselves. She was ready to take them all on, Chico the bartender locked the  front door, the hooker, Cherry, pulling their chains hustling them, she was a pro, lubing herself with Vaseline first and passing out condoms saying...

" Come on you maggots lets see what you can do?"

Intimidating them to get the upper hand, saying while taking them...

"Have you cum yet? Yawn"

" Is that all the meat you got?"

" Is this your first piece of ass?"

What could have been an ugly gang bang turned into a big nothing, Cherry taking the wind out of the Dip Shit's sails, only Kurt got off, the rest freaked. Cherry walked out of the Tuxedo with a grand, feeling nothing much, in good shape.

Crazy Kurt took a short road trip to the dog track on the Wisconsin-Illinois border on his Harley. He won big time, just luck he didn't know shit about greyhounds, he spent his winnings on a machine gun.

The Dip Shits were having a barbecue at Polaski park on the south-side, it was memorial day, potato salad, brats, coleslaw, a keg of Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer, at 9 pm it was getting dark,  Mexican teenagers,in leather coats, approached the Dip Shit picnic, menacingly,  waving zip guns, twirling knifes, Crazy Kurt cooly walked to the trunk of his car, not giving a shit, calmly opening the trunk, pulling a grenade out and his newly purchased AK 47, walking towards the latin rebels, holding his machine gun in one hand and a grenade in the others, he says...

"OK you wanna fuck? Let's go dudes, bring it on,"

Crazy Kurt the bad of the bad, rebels, teenage wimps, eyes like rabbits caught in head-lights, just getting the fuck out and going somewhere else.

Later that Summer at the Tuxedo, Cherry showed up again looking hot, she wasn't there to hook, she was hot for Kurt. They sat at the bar and drank for a long time, both outcast, they had strong feelings for each other, Kurt took Cherry home on his Road King.

A month later Cherry and Kurt had the wildest Polish wedding in the history of South-Side Milwaukee at Polski Hall, the Dip Shits were the best men. Shots of schnapps lined up on a long table with a paper table clothe, 10 year olds kids under the table, sneaking shots, nobody gave a shit, kids and adults wasted. 

Cherry and Kurt lived together the rest of their lives, they had 5 kids, feral little freaks who they never layed a hand on, untamable, wild in the streets, Kurt and Cherry not carrying if they to grew up to be wild child's like their parents, as long as they had fun.

Van Morrison Knocked up Half the Town

               

Flora and Ted Delmar lived in Bolinas, California population sixteen hundred, a artist community that people from San Francisco visited on weekends, with famous residents Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Van Morrison who owned a ranch outside of town. Bolinas looked like the old run down town in the western "Three Bullets for Ringo". The Delmars lived in a small old wooden house, weathered and sky blue color. They were AWOL, Absent Without Leave from society and the rat race, opting out when Nixon was elected.

Flora had a trust fund from a eccentric rich uncle who lived in the East. It wasn't allot, but the Delmars could afford to live simply and past the time painting, writting, drinking, listening to music and smoking pot. Flora painted her dreams using house paint instead of expensive Rembrant paint. She would glue old newspapers and sand from the beach on the thin canvass to thicken and give it texture. Ted had a old Olympia typewriter he used to write stories with, both were moderately successful and could care less about making it. Flora had a few exhibitions in San Franciso and Ted published a book of short stories entitled ' Mescaline Sombero' on Black Sparrow Press.

One night their neighbors, Dennis and Lola Weaver, came to the Delmar house for a visit. They owned the health food store in Bolinas and were heavy drinkers like the Delmars. After eating some falafel and couscous they began to drink bourbon and spring water, passing a joint of high breed Humboldt County pot around.

Lola Weaver knew that Flora had wanted to get pregnant, bored and feeling horney, like she was in heat she said, " Oh Flora good lord what is wrong with Teddy's sperm? Try this dear, put raw oysters,  earthworms, seaweed and pumpkin yogurt in a blender then give it to Ted before you make love." Flora says " Oh fuck off Lola we all know that Dennis's sperm isn't any better than Ted's, and that your son Moonboy was fathered by Van Morrison", Lola countered by saying " Well dear my darling Moonboy has the DNA of a genius and will be a world famous musician someday,". "Sure" says Flora in reply reminding Lola that, " Van the mans DNA also carries the lousy genes of a sexed out doper, booze hound, rogue cowboy and bald fat man". Roaring out loud spontaneously the pair laughed so hard that their eyes teared.

Meanwhile Dennis and Ted were in the backyard, peering through a telescope at the night sky as they passed a joint back and forth. It was a fresh and crisp night and you could smell the ocean. The sky looked like a dark blue tarp draped over the horizon as though someone had pricked the tarp a zillion times with a needle allowing the light source from beyond to shine through the tiny holes. Ted got serious for a moment saying to Dennis " One night broh, I was looking at the sky, like we are tonight and I saw a tiny star like blue ray of light that was moving up and down, hovering near the moon for fifteen minutes, then bingo the blue ray shoots up into space and vanishes."  Dennis was skeptical and didn't believe in UFOs saying " You are not going to tell me it was a UFO, maybe it was a star that just flickered out." Ted thought for a few seconds and said, " Well it sure as shit wasn't your momma's booty"! The two good friends wrestled each other to the ground laughing.

Later that evening Flora decided she wanted to walk down the hill and go skinny dipping in Bolinas Lagoon. She wanted to bath in moon beams, asking the Weavers to come along. After splashing about and chicken fighting the couples went to their perspective Mexican blankets, exhausted, full of joy, necking a bit and passed out. Life was good for the Delmars and Weavers, whom in their different ways had escaped the rat race of the city and found simple joy in country living, living off the grid, opting for a spiritually creative life instead. Aware beings, choosing to generate the smallest carbon footprint possible, using green energy to power their houses. Not wanting to leave behind allot of plastic shit that would end up in the rubbish, more carbon based toxins taking a big dump on the precious environment, perpetuating the cycle of sedate planetary suicide.

One Christmas night Flora and Ted got magnificently wasted on Mescal. They finished putting the colored lights on their tree, which was not a pine but a huge home grown cannabis bush in a painted pot. For them Christmas night symbolized the birth of earthly innocence that was eroding, going down to the low lands as the centuries progressed. 

Flora got up and changed the channel on the old TV, they only had two channels. It was Christmas at the Nixon White House,