At Club 57 on St. Mark’s Lang and I heckled the performers. Several people in the audience took offense. Miss Nancy, the emcee, shrilled, “Get the fuck out of here.”
The crowd laughed and I responded saying, “Join the real world or at least the 1930s.”
We didn’t leave, but when David Dirtbomb, a comic, appeared on stage. He was stunned to see us stunned by out spotlighted as the offendersHe knew us as ruffian protecting gays, queers, and dykes on the scene. The next act came onto the stage to rescue us from embarrassment. Over thirty people were pissed at us, including my girl friend, Alice, who had earlier extolled the turmoil of the boisterous claque in 19th Century French theater.
Adele Bertel from the Contortions confronted me and I grabbed the mike to recite a country western poem.
Lucky’s Ten Strike
Woke up this morning
Broke and deserted
Mona left me long ago
She probably should have left
Longer ago___
Mona was there
The night
I rolled 300
Ten straight strikes
At Star Lanes Bowling Center
In Butte, Montana___
I should have never celebrated
By leaving with the cocktail waitress
Leaving Mona to take a taxi
Home___
Woke up this morning
Broke and deserted
Same as always
And even my belly belly
Is broke too.
This silenced the crowd. Adele said it was great. Alice glared I left her silence for another bar. Alice was not pleased. Fuck them all.