Nose Bleed Uptown
Nose Bleed Uptown
by Norman Douglas
New Museum of Contemporary Art
Box Office: 212.727.8110
"They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
With a pink hotel, a boutique
And a swinging hot spot.
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone?"
-- Joni Mitchell, "Big Yellow Taxi,"
{Ladies of the Canyon}, 1969
I always get a nosebleed above
The year, in fact, is 1984, and I've lived three years in the EVil -- twenty-five under my heels -- having landed there on the heels of Ronald Wilson "666" Reagan's inauguration. Steve Buscemi and Mark Boone are tending bar at Vazac's between regular stints at Squat Theater and Club 8BC. John Farris is hosting readings at Neither/Nor, where Miguel Pinero is mainlining speedballs in the back. Mars Bar has just opened and The Rivington Schoolboys (Gizmo, Tovey, Fa-Q (since before the internet acronym), Cowboy, Freddie the Dreamer, Parker, Ken...) shuttle between there and their scrap metal sculpture yard clubhouse at the corner of Forsyth and Rivington, next to the ancient (circa 1970) Adam Purple's Peace Garden. No Se No is having another show with Rat At Rat R and Sam and who the fuck knows who the fuck else. A junkie searches for a vein on a stoop in broad daylight and says "excuse me" as I pass her by. There are storefronts with dusty rolls of toilet paper and faded boxes of Tide in the windows selling grams of coke for twenty-five bucks from behind plexiglass partitioned counters. Lookouts on the corners holler to the smack dealers standing in front of tenement doorways on every cross street; a barker stands outside hawking the heroin by its tag: "Bullit, Bullit, Bullit! Open and smokin'! Cop and go! Cop and go!" "Spiderman!" "Black Rose!" "Roadrunner! Roadrunner!" Tony sold Roadrunner one stoop down from my basement apartment entry under 20 Clinton. We had a song for him to the tune of the Warner Brothers cartoon theme of the same name: "Roadrunner!/Bajando's after you!/Roadrunner!/If he catches you, you're through!" (Bajando}, Comin' down! was another junk spot lookout's cry, raised whenever the cops approached; not knowing Spanglish at the time, we thought it meant "The Man" -- a noun, rather than a verb.)
But the EVil in the 80s was populated by more than just future movie stars and future art stars and future rock stars and future poet stars and future OD's. There weren't just fly by night art galleries and real estate speculators. There was an attitude, there was a position, there was a theory, there was a plan. Of course, the beauty of these various aspects of the plan was that they were all loosely based on the unspoken principles of an anarchist tradition resistant to catalogues and codification; an agnostic spiritism that named everyone Creator. And like the gods of any pantheon at the genesis of every new age, we reigned in the moment, out of time, tethered by neither cosmopolis nor ego. We staged a dogged resistance to everything including our own resistance. This ultimately amounted to the manifestation of nihilism's last gasp, and the moment -- never a movement -- expired, the allure of its defiant posture paving the way for nothing more hated than the ersatz bohemian theme park that now thrives on the same turf: "a pink hotel, a boutique / And a swinging hot spot" as Joni Mitchell so perceptively lamented at the end of another decade loaded with unrealized promise.
If you had been born in 1959 like me and my peers, then you would be eighteen in 1977. In 1977, the legal drinking age was still eighteen, and Ford -- according to the Daily News -- had just told
Of course, there was an enemy. Ronald Wilson Reagan and Maggie Thatcher make George Bush and Tony Blair look like Hansel and Gretel. If you doubt that everything they did and represented made you as complacent and impotent as you are, then you are even more helpless and clueless than you think. We hated them and we blamed them for everything: from death squads in
The New Museum of Contemporary Art, temporarily housed in the Chelsea Art Museum all the way west on 22nd Street, dares to present this brief and momentous conflux of contrarians to a public no longer composed of workers, a populace of consumers accustomed to the vicarious. It's a dirty job and I'm not so sure somebody had to do it, but Dan Cameron and friends did it and so, there it is. As I slogged my way through the diminutive gallery with a couple of photographer pals -- one who spent the late eighties and early nineties in the EVil, the other who arrived in '97 (I spent the late eighties and early nineties in Paris with him) -- I regaled them with tales of the after dark revels I shared with various of the rebels on display.
The most intense moment came when I saw Lung Leg, the gorgeous EVil movie starlet, in the Sonic Youth video made by Richard Kern. I adored Lung in those days, though I doubt she ever knew it. And even though I had a reputation for making time with scores of ofay chicks, whenever I met Lung I would be reduced to the likes of a stuttering grammar school boy with a crush on his homeroom teacher. I'm not sure why she had that effect on me, nor why she was in that video -- the scenes with her looked like outtakes from another one of Kern's better films -- but it was a real heartstring tugging moment for me. I was practically in tears.
I know him, he fucked her after me. I know her, my roommate brought her back from an OD. I know him, he robbed my buddy for a bag of smack one night when there was a panic, but when he got paid for a TV script two weeks later, he paid my buddy back. That's the kind of guide I played for my buddies at the
I could list all the names of scribblers and anti-folk singers and filmmakers and drug dealers and actors and dancers and junkies and coke fiends and drunks and killers and whores and hippies and queers and punks and hustlers and jazzbos and hangers-on and bouncers and the like, but it would do them no justice. Everyone I remember should have a biography in print, and a lot of people I forget, as well. The thing that the EVil scene of the 80s had going for it was that it was an Open City, and everyone knew this and everyone said so, using those same two words, and we'd all seen the film at Theater 80 or Thalia or Film Forum. There were magazines and zines and samizdats, there were concerts and parties in the park and in empty lots and empty schools and empty everything all full of life, and sometimes you were the star and sometimes you told the stars to fuck off and sometimes you missed it and sometimes it fell right on top of you.
To be fair, you can read a bunch of the writers' interviews of artists of all media in the catalog. Even then, I can't help wondering why Calvin Reid's art was absent from the walls; why Marguerite van Cook has neither writing nor art anywhere. \footnote{1}
Here's a story that will never be told: A bunch of poets picked me to be the only poet outside CBGB's when the organizers of the Jello Biafra anti-censorship benefit said there was no room for so many poets and when I read my poem, Stefan, leader of the aptly-named punk band False Prophets, jumped on stage and censored me. I know it was not because I single-handedly booed False Prophets offstage the night they opened for Butthole Surfers at the World a year or so earlier (although it struck me as rather canny that Wishnia responded in his mike to my heckling with "Sounds like somebody who went to Brown," the school I attended at the same time as him before leaving for SFAI). The fact that Stefan thought my poem was too sexist (Nigger -- I mean, black man -- reading about cutting up women? Not in my EVil!) was odd, punk lyrics being full of not-so-innuendo. The audience, comprised primarily of women, rallied to my side. "You're just afraid he's telling the truth about how you think." What a hoot! Where the fuck was Jello when I needed him? There was a reason we hated
A real
So, this same night I'm starting this text -- around Thanksgiving Christmas '04 -- I'm at a restaurant in the valley with the same photographer I saw the EVil show with, and who should stroll up to us at the bar but Mark? I'm like, "Jesus, I haven't thought about you in twenty fucking years and I think about you this morning and your ass shows up!"
He's like, "So, you hear about William B.? He's in jail for murder. It's all circumstantial. Hear about Heidi? She's dead. Heard about Richard? He's on his last legs." All this is in his usual stage whisper as he leans too close to me, interrupting my practiced genteel routine while annoying my friend and hers. He stands back a moment and then leans in for an even louder stage whisper than before. "Man, I went way down on smack after I last saw you. And now I'm clean for three years."
"Really? I thought you were already way down when I split for
"No," he confides to the bar in that not-so-undertone of his, "I was just a baby then. Not like you." He grins, congratulating himself.
"Well, good for you," I congratulate him, too, always partial to a real, live, happy ending.
"So," he says -- and I'm waiting for this: "what happened to you? I heard you spun all the way down."
"That's right," I retort in the Imperious Voice, "I died, but I had the good fortune to experience The Resurrection first-hand."
He stands back and nods, grinning, "Yeah," chuckles, "Me, too."
"So," I says, "It's been like twenty years since I seen you. Must be a reason." I expect he'll get the hint, extract himself from my presence, hit the road; but he goes the other way.
"Yeah. I guess we're supposed to meet."
I roll my eyes and give him my number after punching his into my phone. At least, I'll know it's him when he calls. I can always switch the ringer to Silent Mode, let AUDEX take a message. Once again, the universe has conspired to remind me that you can't go back, and why I don't live in the city.
The joy with which New Yorkers complain and delight in the bearing of bad news is mind-boggling. Nothing like seeing someone else go down to get yourself up on your tin pedestal. With all the shops and boutiques and coffee houses and hot new fashions to spruce up your birthday suit, new New Yorkers are still arch at the art of the bitch and moan. In the end, my recollections of the EVil are like staging a car wreck so I can charge rubberneckers admission. You weren't there, I'm not there. The Party's Over. Bigtime.
Up here, in the land of double rainbows, silver-lined clouds, and rain pushing up the daisies, it's a regular hotbed of holistic health and happiness. And if you get lonely for The City, there's always a newcomer with a standard bellyache, a well-reasoned gripe...
Okay. You're right. I'm a fucking nobody. It's a hundred years later and I'm in my rocking chair on my porch in the valley telling all the little kiddies stories of the bad old days and qualifying each one with the moral: "I know you kids won't be crazy like me. Go on, be a doctor, a lawyer, an Indian chief, a rocket scientist. Shop at Home Depot, buy Wal-Mart. See the endlessly self-renovated
I could say that Dan Cameron should have hung the
Never mind about the government. It's always
Okay, I can't help listing. Here goes: me and Kevin Johnson crashed Joe Coleman's geek show at Milky Way with a leaf blower and toilet paper; Joel Rose published Between C & D, a computer printout quarterly in a big baggie (like the drugs C & D, coke and dope -- or the Avenues C & D, between which Rose lived with Catherine Texier in a squat turned co-op -- or, again, the Avenues C & D, between which most of the drugs were sold) which included Patrick McGrath, Kathy Acker, Darius James, Emily Carter, John Farris (who hosted these writers and more at Neither/Nor on E. 6th between C&D), and more (not me, I refused to be in it); Kurt Hollander and Arthur Nersesian did The Portable Lower East Side, a small format paperback quarterly full of an even broader spectrum of LES writers. (I last saw Kurt the night he opened a billiard parlor in