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.