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RUDIMENTS 1143.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,143
(the dirt and the gristle are gone)
I don't know if it was the
late 60's or not, but I can
recall house parties  -  my
parents' and my in-laws,
later, having silly little
house parties with neighbors
and friends, where the big
drink of the night was called
a 'Harvey Wallbanger.' I never
knew what  it was, except that
it sounded so totally stupid. It
was supposed to be a real
wipe-out drink, especially
one to get ladies to drink. In
such a world as they were all
living in, getting 'whoozy' was
a big thing. Getting dumb and
sloppy was the next step, and,
a few times I can recall, retreating
to a bedroom and passing out on
a friend's bed was considered
acceptable Harvey Wallbanger
behavior. Why the heck did
people life like that? It was as
if some white-man TV serial
cocktail party California-set
behavior was being mimicked,
except by Avenel sluggos down
on their uninteresting luck.
-
I can remember one time, as a
kid, I guess 10 or 11, going across
the street to a friend's house. He
said his father drank 'vodka.' That
too I'd never heard of, but we found
the bottle and tried it. And tried it
again. We sent the rest of that
afternoon in a some sort of daze,
listening over and over to two
45's on the early 'stereo' they had.
'North To Alaska,' was one; and
the other song was some crazy song
about the Battle of New Orleans.
I think it was by Johnny Horton.
'In 1814 we took  a little trip, down
the Gulf of Mexico on the mighty
Mississip...' The rest was about
firing their guns and rebels kept
a'comin.' I could never get it. Was
it rebels? Really? I honestly forget.
War of 1812? Not the Civil War,
I didn't think, not with 1814, but
rebels? I was all confused, and
tasting vodka didn't help.
-
So, back to Harvey Wallbanger...
Whatever that was, it made me
conscious of mixed drinks, I
guess they're called, as real
strange things. All that Bartender
School stuff, too, is weird. I
never figured that to be something
that took 'schooling,' and maybe
that's just a modern thing. It
always seemed to me that a
bartender would just learn that
stuff on the fly. Having a school
to teach all that to you seems
weird. There's one here, in
Woodbridge, I see, that oddly
enough posts TWO signs,
one on the door and on one
the window, with their store
name, that 'No alcoholic
beverages are used in this
location. What you see are
colored waters.' Now that's
weird!
-
But more than that, what really
affected me was to see ineffective
adults sloshing around. I couldn't
fathom how a person could remain
happy in those circumstances. It
was, in a bit of a way, an enforced
jollity that came off as just plain
stupid. I never took to that well.
My friend Jim Tomberg, he was
a cool NY drinker that knew his
business  -  he worked, as well,
fairly steadily, at one of those
Bleecker and McDougal Street
places, back in the hip-high '60's,
where the night crowd blazed and
frolicked to all hours. I can close 
my eyes and yet go there : a
hundred people at a time, 
outdoor tables crowding the
street and a hundred tongues
yapping; and then indoors, add
the music and the crazy atmosphere
and smoky blue air of a crowded
speakeasy atmosphere. It was
pretty incredible, and then the
music acts would come on,
maybe about 10pm and the night
was set. Jim was a big guy, bulky
and tall, and he'd be standing at
the outdoor corner, between tables
and buildings  -  in his long apron,
and holding a serving tray. When
anyone raised a hand or called
out, the drinks and orders were 
brought. He was good at it, and
could handle like, sometimes,
6 mugs at a time, and deftly. I'd
sometimes go there, sitting, just
for the free food I'd end up getting.
Jim would usually have a spot for
me where I could just plop down a
folding chair and get the best of
both worlds  -  the indoor scene 
and the outdoor. The whole street,
both of them at that corner, was like
that; Cafe this and Cafe that  -  Figaro,
Bizarre, and other names. You
go there now, it's death. Remnants
maybe, of old signs, idea and
images of the old days. They linger
in the soiled air, but even that air's
not the same. The dirt and the
gristle are gone.
-
It may be that all that stuff was a
big heap of nothing, but to me
it was amazing life. I miss that
stuff like I miss the little thing
in the middle of a turntable; the
little nib onto which you plopped
the record, the LP record, as it
turned and turned and turned.
(To every thing, there is a season).


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