London 1

Armed only with my guitar, & my pen -- &, of course, a couple changes of clothes -- I'd arrived. All the stories, all the biographies, all the history books I'd read had not prepared me for the wonder of Victoria Station. The trains on the platform, the people scurrying everywhere, the news stands & their barkers -- all that steel & glass high over head -- these were almost overwhelming. Not even standing in the middle of Grand Central Terminal during rush hour compares to the things I'd felt standing there taking it all in. I'm surprised no one had physically pushed me out of their way because of my gawking.

I'd wandered round, not knowing even which way it was to the street, & stumbled upon the tourist office. A very helpful old woman understood that I wasn't interested in even two-star accommodations & kindly indicated on the Underground map to a "safe" hostel near Earl's Court. I had certainly heard of this neighborhood, but was not aware that it was where most twenty-something's from all over the world tend to wind up when heading to London.

I took the Tube to a station I now forget one or two stops before Earl's Court, found & checked into the hostel -- finding I was sharing with five other fellow travelers in a room with ten beds. Each had looked up when I entered the room & promptly ignored me. I decided at that minute that I would spend no more than one night here.

I'd secured my guitar with the proprietor & took the rest of my belongings off to find a pub. Considering I was so close to Earl's Court, I chose that direction & off I went. I was very hungry & in need of a pint, so I stepped into the first pub I'd come by once on Earl's Court Road. It was a nice looking, fairly stereotypical English Pub. The people there were mostly foreign as well as a number of locals, all of the working or traveling classes. I felt immediately at ease.

The first person with whom I'd spoken was a young Welshman who'd come to London to seek work as a hotel concierge. I could only understand every third word he'd said, but we had a good time drinking & joking despite my continually having to ask him to repeat himself more slowly.

At some point he'd asked me if I was looking for a place. I told him I had little money, but that it would certainly last longer in a flat than it would at the hostel. As it turned out, he had just taken a room in the neighborhood & needed a flat-mate. We agreed upon a price & a time when I would leave, & we made plans to meet the next afternoon to go to the place.

The flat really was just a room in a flat -- a flat consisting of a room, a small bath & a sitting room & kitchenette to which we had no access. The Filipino woman renting us the room apologized that she couldn't share the sitting room & kitchenette, as they were her room, & said that she understands that we would need hot water for showering, but that my room-mate & I would have to switch off days because she refused to pay for all that electricity & water. We chose to agree with her, but each of us would wait till she would leave in the morning & then each of us would shower anyway.

Because my room-mate had a "bothersome" bladder, he wanted the bed near the door that he could easily get to the toilet at night. I certainly didn't mind taking the bed by the window witch looked out on most of the stretch of Old Brompton Road up to, & a bit past, the back entrance of Earl's Court Station. There was a row of quaint houses along there, the view was rather nice.

Each morning while he was showering, I would sit up in bed, open the window & smoke a cigarette while the suits from each of those quaint houses kissed their wives goodbye at their door & walked up the block to take the train into town. This would happen every ten or twenty minutes just before the next train was to arrive.

One morning I'd lingered a bit longer at that window than usual & noticed that after the street had become clear of these husbands a man came out of the Tube station & walked to one of those houses. I couldn't be sure, as I'd not been paying much attention, but I didn't think this was the man who had left only moments before.

Next morning at about the same time, I watched that one house. The door opened, the husband stepped out, the wife leaned out, they kissed goodbye, & he walks off to the station. After the street clears, here comes the other man from the station -- not in a suit -- & walks right up to that door, & calls something I couldn't hear out. The wife looks out the window, & a few seconds later she opens the door, kisses him & lets him in.

This went on for some weeks while I watched. I'd had a strange feeling that Old Brompton Road was important somehow. I couldn't remember ever having seen the name except on the map after arriving in London. But there was something about it.

As I was nearing the end of my London trip, I'd decided to get the address of this house because while there are countless historical & ill reputed locations in London, I was sure that this house would be discussed in one of my books still in NYC.

Then, once back in my Queens apartment, I picked up the book I knew had this address in it. It took me a little time, but there it was, staring at me & laughing. That house on Old Brompton Road was the very same house in which Aleister Crowley & his "dipsomaniac" wife Rose Kelly had lived not long before Crowley had finally decided to divorce Rose.

6 October

In the mid-1980's, I was just another skinny, scraggly haired, twenty-something, Wanna-be artist. Like the majority of the twenty-somethings in NYC, I'd had my guitar, & my pen. I would play my guitar for no one, write my poetry to impress young, unsuspecting women, & draw little cartoon characters in my notebook. Unlike the rest of the wanna-be's, I had no delusions of fame & fortune. In fact, I think I can honestly say that I never even wanted either. Sure, fortune would have been great, but having grown up in the forest, I had then -- as well as now -- valued my seclusion & liberty above all else. My only plan was to have a good time & get my ass to Europe.

But NYC was, perhaps, the best distraction I've ever known. While I had, later, had an incredible time that short summer in London, my time in NYC will unlikely ever be surpassed.

During this time, I had looked vaguely like John Lennon -- as much as any long-haired & bearded guy. Well, I don't really think I looked like John, but people will make many allowances when they think someone looks like some personality they like. But it didn't stop with John Lennon. In Beirut, among other unnamed musicians, I was frequently called that "Seals & Croft guy", or "That guy in Seals & Croft" due to -- & to this day I've no idea which one it was -- the simple fact I often wore a flat cap, as did witch ever of the two, Seals or Croft, wore a similar hat.

But as time went on, & the idea evolved, the Beirut folk came to realize that I was just a little young to be either Seals or Croft. Finally, everyone simply settled on my being in some famous guy no one could agree upon from some famous band no one could name, but for some reason I wouldn't admit to anything. The reality -- apart from the fact I was no one famous, or anyone in particular -- was that I had, for a long time, just insisted they were confusing me with some fantasy.

But being an honest man, but having a rather twisted sense of humor, I couldn't possibly lie to anyone -- but what fun was there in just being honest? The low road, perhaps, but I do love entertaining myself. I took to simple evasion of the issue. After all, no one believed my denials, people believe what they want to -- even if they're shown proof to the contrary.

So, there I am one night. A few Heinekens, & not too few of the house special watered-down vodkas deep, & some guy I've never seen sits on the empty stool next to mine. In NYC it's very easy to never come in contact with others -- one can even very successfully hide in open sight there. But, here, I'd been in Beirut nearly every night but Fridays & Saturdays ("tourist" nights) for close to a year at this point. More, I'd been in most every other bar on the Lower East Side most of those nights as well, & I know I'd never seen him before.

But, as most of these conversations in Beirut had gone, he opens with: "How ya doin'?"

I reply "S'up." This had happened at a time when the contraction "What's up?" was running through NY, burning up conversations among all the cool kids. On the other hand, the really cool kids -- like those of us who'd worked at the famed Star Magic (more on SM later) -- thought that it was such a stupid phrase, we'd condescendingly contracted it even more. Of course, we were probably not the first to do this, but those of us working in (what we thought was) the coolest shop in NYC believed we were all ahead of the curve.

"Never seen it this busy in here," he says, taking a draw from his Heineken.

I ignore this & wonder when he's going to ask. They all do.

"Can I ask you something?" he asks.

I give him a long side glance, & smiling wryly, I say "Sure".

"Well, this girl over there" pointing to some blurred silhouette against the wall talking to someone else, "says you're this famous guy, but that you won't talk about it. I say she's right, but we can't think of the band you're in."

"OK" I say.

He looks at me expectantly for a bit while I light a cigarette. And he asks, "Well, what band are you in?"

I look at him & respond: "I never said I was in a band."

He starts to say something, then stops. "Oh, I get it" he says with a smile. "You're not admitting to it, like she said. Tell you what, I don't know why you don't want to admit it -- I'm sure you have a good reason for it -- but what if I told you I'd never tell anyone? Would you tell me then?"

I look him in the eye & exhale smoke slowly for effect. Finally, I say, "If I haven't admitted to being in a band -- & I'm not doing so now -- to anyone here before, why should I trust you -- assuming you're right -- not to tell anyone?"

This goes on for what seems a long time. When I think I've got him hooked, I lean toward him motioning him to lean closer. I look at him, as if I'm about to reveal some ancient secret, & ask him: "Do you know what a hypothetical situation is?"

"Of course", & to prove it, he actually defines it for me.

Covering the fact laughter is about to explode from me at any moment, I take the time to put out my cigarette, take another drink from my beer, & light another cigarette. I know I can tell this guy anything. I could probably have told him that I was the long dead JS Bach, & having found some magic potion, had taken to moving from one band to another throughout the ages, spurring each one on to fame.

Instead, I went with a simpler plan. I leaned toward him again & told him, "Let's say there's this band -- hypothetically speaking -- & in this band is one member -- & I'm not saying that I'm this band member..."

Oh, right, right. I'm with you" he says, believing I'm telling him something I wouldn't tell any of the people with whom I'd drunk on many occasions in Beirut.

"Now, this hypothetical band member has a habit of picking up girls by telling them he's in this..." I move my fingers indicating quotes, "famous band."

"OK. Yeah...?"

"So, one of the rodies of this famous band & I...or, rather this hypothetical band member, right?"

"Uh-huh," & he winks.

"Anyway, this roadie bets this band member he can't go one year without admitting he's in this band -- except, of course, radio stations, magazines, & management types don't count -- because this roadie doesn't think the band member can get laid without using this line."

"Yeah", says this guy. I get it now. But what do you get?

"Oh, not me -- the hypothetical band member."

"Oh, sure. Sure. Not you."

"Well, bets made when drinking are not necessarily the best of bets. This winner gets a year's pay from the other. Naturally, since the band member makes a lot more money than the roadie, the hypothetical band member really doesn't want to lose. Does this make any sense to you?"

"Yeah. I can see that. You're secret's safe with me, man." He shakes my hand & walks away.

I snicker to myself, finish my beer & leave to find more interesting things to do in East Village.

The next night, I'd left work hungry, but I wasn't in the mood for Polish that night, as I often was. That night, I'd stopped at my favorite falafel house, got dinner & walked the block to Beirut. As it was early, there were only a few of the neighborhood kids talking near the jukebox. I sat at the end of the bar near the door, took my dinner out of the bag as the girl working the bar came over. She takes my order & goes off to get it, as I start eating. When she returns, she leans over & asks, "So, Angus, are the rumors true, after all?"

I"m sure my laughter could be heard as far as Mid-Town & Wall Street.

In the beginning

Mid-1980's. This is NYC where one could find little refuge from the power-hungry, cocaine-frenzied traders, the big-haired girls of Bensonhurst, or the life-destroying effects of the gentrification plan of one fascist mayor. The sights of junkies & homeless, & the smells of urine & fermenting garbage of the city were often too disgusting to describe, but this was my home -- for what seemed a very long time.

Downtown Beirut -- no, not the war-torn capitol of Lebanon. Downtown Beirut bar from the outside was little more than a graphiti-strewn store-front painted, originally, black -- the little, plate sheets of glass covered in years of soot, tobacco tar, beer & a multitunde of alien substances allowed one to see only ghostly, blurred images within. With the door closed, one could only just hear, over the sounds of the First Avenue traffic, music coming from within. Uninviting, yes. This was only the scene from outside.

Stepping inside the door, which would slam shut behind you with a crash that jarred over the sound of the juke box, you would be immediately assulted by the loud music, the darkness interrupted only by flashing xmas tree lights, the closeness of the graphiti-strewn walls accentuated by the closeness of the people inside. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer & sweat. The people, a mix of neighborhood artists, freaks, & skin-heads.

When I'd first found Downtown Beirut, it had a very dangerous reputation causing the suits & the Bridge & Tunnel people -- those who lived in the outer boros, Jersey & Long Island -- to tread past quickly in fear. Bad drug deals, wallet-snatching girls & skin-head beatings were the experiences of most who'd come here, but these people came only once. I had, in time, become a near-nightly fixture.

It was here where I would meet some of the most incredible characters who've passed through my life. And it was here where I would experience some of my more bizarre & intense memories. Some of these experiences had involved hallucinogens or over-indulgence in cheap beer or wattered-down vodka, but most were when I was completely sober.

Of all the places where I have lived, I believe I'd lived more in that cesspool NYC, than I had in all the years, in all the other places, combined.

But wait....