Last night Richard Hell played at CBGBs and his performance was less than extraordinary. I had to sneak by the doorperson Roxy to get in for free. Lisa the cashier waved me inside. The club was packed with assholes drawn there by good press or the Voidoids. Xcessive from the Ghosts kept shouting, “Richard is a forkhead.”
His numerous female friends yelled back at him.
His lead singer Markey joined in and we all had a good laugh.
This morning I am running late to make my job at Rector Street.
I’m always late.
I couldn’t care less.
This waiting tables for nuclear engineering executives is meaningless, especially since it pays so little.
$80 a week.
I need money fast.
More money than I can get selling blood.
Ann wasn’t home when I called this morning.
Her theater gig is eating up her time.
11am to midnight.
She isn’t getting paid.
I’ve seen a number of films about the theater.
The boyfriends and husbands wait at home.
The actresses stay out all night pretending that art is life.
I say nothing about this, because Ann is in her glory.
LATER
At work I heard another conversation about shoot-to-kill policies at the nuclear power plants in foreign countries and wondered whether the ones in the USA had the same orders in defending the plants against protestors. They never speak about atomic bombs, even though they think I’m Spanish like the rest of the waiting staff.
Our country should change its Cold War attack strategy. The USSR is huge, spanning two continents. It’s factory cities are scattered over its vastness. Any attack on the Soviet industrial capacity would have to be intense.
So where to strike.
The farmlands of the Ukraine, the steppes.
Carpet nuke their underbelly.
The factory cities will starve, but the price for the USA would certainly be the loss of Detroit and New York.
This afternoon I ran into Klaus. The gaunt German opera singer said, “I have no emotion.”
His mother’s ill-timed visit from Essen has shocked him into a state of apathy.
“I don’t care in the USSR and the USA bomb each other. Or even if I am here. I grew up in a bombed out city. Ruins everywhere.”
“Like the East Village?”
“Worst. You want to come over to my apartment and have some strudel.”
Klaus has been cooking cakes since quitting Serendipity 3. I appreciate his generosity and said, “I love your strudel.”
“I know you do.” Klaus is very German, but he fights his teutonic traits in New York. I bet they would be very strong in Essen or Berlin. Klaus doesn’t drink anymore. He has been sickly as of late and eats a special diet to regain his health.
“I hate feeling tired all the time. And more I hate watching American TV. Such schiesse.”
