4-11-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #99 (Blushes: The Other Side of the Main Squeeze, pt. 2)

I think that people “took the piss” and put me on a lot because, A. they liked me, and B. I was pretty gullible.  But I made a few friends who were very likeable and clued me in, eventually, so I didn’t carry resentment long.

Two of my favorite people (or should we say favourite?) were Felicity and Martin.  My firend, Felicity’s, nickmame was “Billie”: a dirty blonde with short wavy hair and blue eyes, tall and lanky, very confident and funny with so much energy!  She was an absolute hoot.  She had a boyfriend (later fiancé) named Stephen but while working at Blushes, the bartender, Martin, flirted with her shamelessly and of course how could she help but flirt back?  He was a very handsome and personable guy, in his early twenties, with a smart alecky, Rhett Butler sort of thing about him. And smart?! Martin was definitely clued in and almost fox-like in his ability to be cagey.  He made great tips because he was an astute judge of human nature and smart enough to draw people out and not talk too much. He made people want to talk and “unload.”  I watched him with fascination, especially when he’d try to impress and beguile Billie. 

Billie/Felicity was also smart -- smart to know she could flirt with Martin and sort of string him along (she’d have loved to be his girlfriend but for the fact she already had a boyfriend, Stephen, whose prospects were quite good PLUS he was of a better social class. ).  Her beau, Stephen, was really a good guy, and very SOLID as far as his temperament and personality. Where Martin was brilliant and mercurial, Stephen was an anchor.  He let Felicity know he cared and loved her, and promised her security in the relationship.  Martin was a loose gun or a question mark -- intriguing, but a little dangerous.  Sort of a bad boy/good guy dynamic. . .

Billie really liked both of them, liked being around them both.  She was contagiously compelling to one and all (the word “likable” keeps coming back), a very likable English girl with a good head on her shoulders and good looks.  I feel a little bad not knowing her any more. . . maybe I’ll look for her, too, online?  Don’t remember her last name, though. . . I’m sure she married Stephen and they had a family.

I do hope she’s happy. . . and I wonder what became of Martin, too?  (As for Tim, I hope he eased up on the substances, legal and illegal. . . nice guy, really.)

4-10-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #98 (Blushes: The Other Side of the Main Squeeze)

Blushes Winebar across the street -- cattycorner, actually -- was what I’d consider the Other Side of Main Squeeze.  Its address was 52 King’s Road; the Main Squeeze, #23.  Some of the staff over at Blushes (who weren’t open as late as we were) counted as even more interesting to me than the crew of seasoned misfits over at Main Squeeze.

For one, owners Roger and Kevin would saunter in without rhyme or reason (why not? They owned both places), usually kind of tipsy from wine, their drink of choice. That happens to be mine now, too, but at the time I drank very few alcoholic bevs. I hadn’t developed a taste for it yet.  Besides, I was watching my girlish figure, you know!

All right, Roger would ask for a glass of Aligote, which I later thought to rhyme with “cuisines haute” in a song. . . I saw him do this countless times over at Blushes, where I’d sometimes go in the afternoons. I always chuckled to myself, hearing the English speak French.  They sound natural and at the same time, affected, so it appeals to my sense of humor.

Another thing (person!) that appealed to my sense of humor was a waitress named Phyllida. First of all, I’d never met anyone named “Phyllida.”  Secondly, she was a sort of large, frowsy woman, possibly in her thirties, who always seemed kind of blurry. No sharp edges on that one!

And then there was Tim, a really beautiful man in the mold of Bryan Ferry (tall, big shoulders, handsome like a young coal miner), with dreamy greenish eyes, lanky brown hair, and a smile like Ray Bolger, the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz. Am I making him sound strange?  Hope not!  The combination in him created, as I said, a very cute guy.  He wasn’t as sharp or smart as his looks, but charming and very appealing, nonetheless.  We had a flirtation that resulted in my going with him one weekend to Herefordshire (or was it Hertfordshire?).  Wherever: it was the cutest little town, with one pub and a post office.  His family’s home was a lovely place, very upscale English cottagy. 

I later learned that Tim called me “The American with the cute butt”. . . geez, it’s nice to be appreciated, right?!

Besides Tim and Simon, the manager (who I mentioned a while back in this blog: he was a little older than us all, very street smart and working class, excellent people skills but with a very thick working class London accent. One day I walked into Blushes and asked for a small advance against my paycheck. “Are ya skint, luv?” he kept asking.  Now I had NO IDEA what the eff he meant, but at last it dawned on me: “Are you broke?” he was saying, in the local vernacular. Nice one, Simon!).

That was just one of the many examples of people “taking the piss” out of me. . .

4-08-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #96 (Flirtin’ & Hurtin’ at the Main Squeeze?)

Probably the best reason to work in a bar/restaurant or members club in London like the Main Squeeze would be – for a writer – the amazing assemblage of colorful characters who’d frequent the premises.  Oh yes. 

I’m remembering one young man (in his early thirties – five or so years older than I was at the time) who dressed well, wore aviator glasses and a sort of dirty blond David Cassidy shag haircut.  His name was David and he had a lovely smile and was unfailingly polite.  He worked in the United States part time, so even though we’d see him regularly at the Main Squeeze (was in the neighborhood, so he was a walker), I knew he’d be in San Francisco for weeks at a time.  Jeez, that was half way around the world!  Definitely made him interesting.  David’s business was in technology and travel. . . remember, this was pre-internet but computers were on the rise.

Did I flirt?  If you know me at all in person, the answer is OF COURSE!  I do believe that being charming and sweet, using kindness and warmth even if it does seem slightly sexual (I have never been overtly sexy or the kind of girl who flaunts it – sigh).  One of the things I’ve learned over the years about flirts, though, is that they love the initial “flirtiness” but don’t usually follow through. I see no reason to not flirt, if the spirit moves me, because I’m not trying to seduce people into bed, I just want to touch their hearts and give them a little joy. . . I just like being sweet.

4-07-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #95 (What else happened at the Main Squeeze?)

Parties with celebrities, weekly discotheques for swingin’ singles with free food and a mob scene – these were actually the exceptions to what life at the Main Squeeze in fabulous Chelsea was like, as a rule.

The club was actually nearest to the Sloane Square tube station, which I’d frequent when not biking to work.  Weather permitting, I’d ride a used black bicycle (a three speed I picked up for cheap at a jumble sale or something) to the Main Squeeze and park it, outside, chained & locked up.  Something about riding the streets late at night, the romantic feeling of being all alone in a sleepy town with ancient roads and architecture, appealed to me.  Besides, it was only a few miles to my bedsitter flat on Earl’s Court Road.  I mean, the tubes cut off service before work ended, most nights, so that wasn’t practical unless I wanted to black cab it home.  And cabs were expensive! 

So much for my practical side; I suppose I’d have tried to get temp work or something in an office if I thought that was available “off the books.” But bar and restaurant work always seemed a good survival job in a pinch.

My true calling – music and writing – was still something I pursued with ferocity on the side.  But the topic of this blog is “What else happened at the Main Squeeze?” so here we go:

Generally, I’d come in around 5 o’clock, do some setting up, have a staff meal.  I’d get changed into my Main Squeeze black one-piece  zip-up catsuit, and fix my makeup. Then, with the rest of the staff, we’d stand around, polish stuff, vacuum again if the carpet needed it.  Customers would come to the restaurant side from around 6 to 9, stopping in for cocktails on the bar side (my section) either before or after dinner. Then they’d stay until closing -- which in our case as a members club was about an hour later than the pubs were permitted to remain open -- drinking.

I must say, I’d been around drinkers in New York City, but these Englishmen (and yes, the customers were mostly men) took drinking to a new level.  Not that I’m judging! Merely an observation *-)

But really, I was glad that most of the customers either walked home or cabbed it.  There were some regulars who lived in the neighborhood who’d come in for a nightcap, and others who’d bring business meetings there. I got to know a few of them. . . 

4-05-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #93 (The Reverse of Mr. Attitude Plus -- Thank Gawd!)

Yup, there he was, a short guy with short dark hair, maybe around 40 years old, leaning against one of the mirrored walls, not 12 feet away from me, looking lonely.

Paul Simon.  All alone.  Probably thirsty.  Maybe he wouldn’t snub me, I hoped.  I grabbed my drinks tray and rushed over to him.

“Er, excuse me, can I get you a drink?”

“Uh, sure. Do you have a Perrier?”

“Will do.”  It took me less than a minute to get back to the bar, grab the Perrier, open it, fetch a glass with ice and a wedge of lime.  Back to his side, I offered the drink, saying, “Hey, I’m also from Queens, and I’d like to thank you for the music you’ve made because I really like it.”

Simon smiled, accepting the drink, and nodding assent.  I didn’t really expect a response other than that, and the music and talking in the background made it really too loud to chat.

But, at least HE was nice.  And toward the end of the evening, Colin Blunstone (Ex of the Zombies, another one of my favorite bands), interrupted me, washing glasses at the bar (as usual) to ask me for a stick of gum.  He seemed mildly intoxicated, and when people drank & drove, they needed something to mask their breath -- like gum.

Other than looking tipsy, ol’ Colin was nice enough, too.  So, at least a few people who made music I admired seemed to be cool.  But, at the end of the party, as the crowd thinned out, my last table of drinkers really topped the list of nice celebrities/rockstars I’ve ever met. . .

4-04-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #92 (Mr. Attitude Plus -- Maybe Just Havin’ a Bad Day?)

Art Garfunkel had a minor solo hit, “I Love You, And It’s All I Know.” Not a bad ditty, really -- but I could never listen to it without wincing after that night at the Main Squeeze. 

A big “after party” was being thrown for Simon & Garfunkel on the occasion of their opening concert of a big reunion tour in 1982.  I didn’t have connections and wasn’t at the show, but I’d always been a Simon & Garfunkel fan (had The Sounds of Silence and The Bridge Over Troubled Waters albums back in Douglaston, Queens, when I grew up and loved to sing along).

As I mentioned in the last blog, Art Garfunkel came into the room with an entourage of unhappy looking Eurotrash & London Scenester types.  They proceeded to walk to the largest, big round table in “my” section of the bar room.

Eager to do a good job, I hustled over to the table, serving tray in hand, dressed up in my Main Squeeze one piece zip up black “catsuit.” 

“May I help you?  May I get you some drinks?”  I said that several times, trying to get the attention of Mr. Garfunkel and his table.  The volume in the room was nigh punitive, and perhaps some of them were hard of hearing, but believe me, when necessary, I can make my voice P-R-E-T-T-Y   L-O-U-D. 

“Excuse me, I’m here to get your drink order. May I help you?  Please, can I get your drink order?”  I asked in vain for the 8 or so obnoxious people in Garfunkel’s party -- himself included -- to give me the courtesy of at least acknowledging that somebody was trying to communicate, in English no less!!

Frustrated, I turned heel and went back to the bar, where I complained bitterly to Greg, the bartender: “Greg, those assholes!  They didn’t even acknowledge my presence!  They didn’t order any drinks at all, and I tried!”  Greg tut-tutted, “It’s all right, darling, there’s a good girl. Stay with me and keep washing up, all right?”

I got mad at those dirty glasses and set to washing, rinsing, dunking with great energy.  After a few minutes, I looked up and saw -- no! It couldn’t be! -- a short guy with short dark hair, maybe around 40 years old, leaning against one of the mirrored walls, not 12 feet away from me, quite alone.

I knew it had to be Paul Simon.  I knew that maybe HE would want me to get a drink for him. . . 

4-02-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #90 (True Greatness Eschews Attitude)

When Michael Caine, the actor, comes to mind, what’s the first thing you think?

I always had a really good impression of him: down to earth, good sense of humor, kindhearted -- and a great actor.  Even though you believe him when he portrays a bad guy, he seems on talk shows and otherwise to be the kind of person you’d like as a friend.

Fortunately, I can tell you that, in my brief encounter with Michael Caine at the Main Squeeze in the cloakroom, that he was REALLY COOL.

He seemed to wear his kindness, warmth, and magnanimousness on his sleeve -- but his cashmere overcoat needed to be fetched and I was nearest to the cloakroom in my behind-the-bar location, washing glasses as usual. 

“May I help you, sir?” my voice raised its pitch several levels as soon as I realized who I was dealing with. Michael Caine has an unmistakable face and voice, and he definitely had one of those “larger than life” presences.

“We need to find my coat, luv.”  Once he told me the kind of coat -- a long, dark blue cashmere overcoat with no particular label mentioned -- we set to rummaging through the piles of outerwear like weathered teammates.

“Thank you, luv!” Once the coat was found, Caine handed me a fiver for tip, then took off, smiling, happy, a little tipsy but no worse for wear.

As for other celebrities who surprised me with the opposite attitude, there was a certain singer, half of a legendary duo from New York, no less. . .

4-01-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #89 (No Foolin’ - It’s all TRUE!)

Being a prime party rental spot, publicists clamored to book parties at The Main Squeeze -- at least, in 1982 we had regular parties for all sorts, but mostly television and music celebrities.  There was a party for a guy named Kenny Everett, who was big there in England, but I’d never heard of him in the states.

But then, in England, a famous drag queen named Dame Edna Everage was really popular.  Everage was really a precursor for Mike Myers’ Linda Richmond character, an outspoken, lovable, middle-aged doyenne of domestic philosophy -- although much more glamorous.  Dame Edna was a “gal” who’d made it through a hard life to finally grace the stage, where she craved to belong.  The comedian who invented Dame Edna and performed in her character, Barry  Humphries, was actually an Aussie, which makes sense because in a way, Dame Edna Everage was “taking the piss” on a certain stereotype, whilst also loving what that stereotype stood for. 

Hmmm.  A lot of double-edged swords and irony in entertainment, I daresay. But that’s always been the case, especially across the pond.  Another comedian who was big in the U.K. and tried to cross over to stateside was Benny Hill, who was just so over the top and slapstick-y people either loved or despised him.  Monty Python is, of course, the King of British Comedy troupes -- but they were cerebral and sort of silly.  Hill was rude, crude, and sexist most of the time. 

Anyway, the Kenny Everett party at the Main Squeeze hosted many celebrities through our doors. I can’t say I was a big fan of Everett, a small, bearded man who seemed kind of weaselly.

However, at his party that night, one of my all time favorite English movie stars (er, actors) needed assistance in the teeny tiny extremely messy cloakroom, and I snapped to the task, gladly. . .

3-31-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #88 (“Goody Two Shoes”)

All right, back to the Main Squeeze was my new dysfunctional family, with a few more characters.  There was Sandro, the gorgeous Italian waiter who joined the waitstaff at some point in the spring.  He had the loveliest warm, light brown eyes and smile, and sandy light brown hair.  As he didn’t speak English well, but wanted to learn, I befriended him & told him I had an American nickname for him: Sandy. 

Problem was, I kind of had a crush on ol’ Sandy, and knew it would be a doomed romance, so I felt a little awkward.  I also wanted to learn Italian, so hanging out with him just got confusing -- him wanting me to practice English with, me wanting him him to teach me Italian.  I think he had a sister (or maybe a girlfriend who he called a sister so he could flirt with me more shamelessly and conveniently) in London, and needed to spend time with her.  Anyway, after a few weeks, it didn’t work out for him at The Main Squeeze and so, no more Sandro.

There was also an Australian waitress named Michelle who worked there for a bit, who had a sweet, sad face (she had lost a baby to crib death back in Australia a few years previous) and a rather relaxed manner about her.  Not remarkable looking but down-to-earth and kind of indescribably appealing, she worked at the Main Squeeze for a few months, and during that time, met and dated a celebrity who came to the club for dinners, a young pop star we knew as Adam Ant.  Mr. Ant, by the way, was a really nice guy, not at all snobby or full of airs. . . that song he sang, “Goody Two Shoes,” really made sense!!

Other celebrities came and went through the doors of that subterranean den of sin. . . they regularly had parties that were run by Carol, a P.R. person who had a charmingly annoying nasally accent and was quite funny (cheeky!) so of course I liked her. 

Every week, a jazz band played a regular residency at the club, and set up on a postage stamp sized wooden dance floor (well, maybe actually about 10’ by 10’).  The drummer in that jazz band: Mitch Mitchell, who hailed from the Jimi Hendrix Experience.  Not a shabby claim to fame, nosiree!!

And many others came through those doors when there were parties. . .

3-28-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #85 (“Main Squeeze” -- more)

Come 1982, in England, I was in a pretty good place, emotionally.  I was able to move out of the flatshare with nutty Nora, and she had just introduced me to one of my all time favorite people, Patrick Marvin -- whose wit, sweetness, charm, and practicality won my heart in friendship.

More on Patrick, anon.  But physically, in 1982, I was feeling very run down and wrecked.  I’d take daily naps (just before dinnertime) in order to function and work -- because I did have to go to work at the Main Squeeze about five nights per week, from 6 o’clock until 1 AM. 

The Main Squeeze was my new dysfunctional family, with characters who made you sigh, cry, and get so angry you could die (er, murder!).  Hazel was the first person people met at the bottom of the stairs at the club’s entrance in a box office type box: a feisty Northern Irish lass, slight in size (about 5’5”, weighing 8.5 stone -- around 100 lbs.).  Hazel must have been in her mid 30’s.  She’d taken an instant dislike to me, “the Yank,” and was always carping away at me to do this and do that again and “Do it right, darlin’ -- and pull yer socks up!”  She meant that as “Watch it!” and I got paranoid and nervous around her, always.

A nicer person was Hazel’s pal, Greg, who worked as one of the bartenders.  Swarthy, wiry, a small man, only about 5’ 7”, with dark stubble where he shaved his head, sporting a Freddy Mercury mustache, Greg was as gay as the day is long on a Midsummer’s Night.  He had masses of dark hair, almost like fur, on his arms and chest (Greg would wear tight lowcut tee shirts that showed off his hirsute hairsuit).  You could barely see his eyes because he wore aviator-shaped tinted glasses -- but when I could, I saw he had lovely, long, curved-up dark eyelashes. In his mid 30’s, Greg was also an American expatriate who loved being around the English.  Happily, he approved of me and we were friends of a sort. Unhappily, I heard he’d died of AIDS in the ‘80’s. . .

The other bartender, John, was a tall, slender, blond, blue eyed, blandly good-looking man around 30 years of age.  He had a sort of modified Dutch boy haircut, an outgoing personality, and liked to flirt with the ladies (heterosexual?  Yes).  He had a resonant voice and maybe something of a drinking problem -- I wasn’t sure.  Then again, Greg also liked to drink, but because these guys were responsible workers behind the bar, they’d pace themselves and when they did get blasted it was infrequent and seldom seen.

The cuisine at Main Squeeze, in the restaurant area, was award-winning continental, some tasty oasis between Italian and French cooking.  Of the chefs, there were two I recall: one was Italian, robust and round, a mostly happy guy named Maurizio, I think.  The other and most memorable chef, Don, was a guy from Devon.  He was tall, average build, had mousy brown hair that was dead straight and lanky and a bushy mustache.  His pale blue eyes had sleepy lids, and he was a pretty good cook, as I recall.  Don was also something of a nutritionist.  He’d cook staff meals with meat, which I refused to eat “Because I’m a vegetarian!” I proudly boasted. 

Don noticed I was run down and probably anemic. “But darling, you really MUST eat some meat -- that’s why you’re all run down.  You need red blood food!”  At this point I was desperate to feel good again, so I slowly started off eating a few bites of burger, or lambchop (ugh -- I don’t like lamb), along with a hard boiled egg that I always made him cook for me. 

Weirdly enough, after a week or two, I DID feel better.  Guilt filled my guts with the dead meat it digested, but the rest of my muscles, skin, and bones said THANK YOU!  By just adding a little red meat to my diet each week, the gains to my well-being were considerable.

Thanks, Chef Don -- it was a little thing you did, but had a tremendous impact on this little Yank who needed to pull ‘er socks up!!

3-24-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #81 (“What”)

Although not tall, gorgeous, rich, or powerful, the natural energy and strength of Eleanora Russell, a Yugoslavian expat living in London, was a formidable force.   Her head seemed a little large for her muscular, hardworking body, but her long shaggy hair and beautiful, dark, almond-shaped eyes were her best features.  Her reactions were quick, generous, witty, and always very caring.  Nora didn’t actually do a whole lot of thinking on her feet, just reacting.  Sharp as panther claws were her animal instincts; she was loyal, protective, and not always smart when it came time to make sensible decisions or when judging people or situations.

Nora had such a good heart, though, and worked hard.  She was also kindness incarnate.  Her deep, sexy voice really did speak the way that I quote her (lots of “dahlings!” and exclamation points). A major league character, of course Nora became a fast friend.  We met at the Main Squeeze, where she was doing the scut work, washing dishes and anything else.  Because of her unpredictable ways, the management tried to keep her off the floor, although she did love to waitress, flirt with customers, and give her emphatic, uncensored opinions on just about everything.

Oh, did I mention: Nora was a major pothead -- or hashhead.  One of her best friends was a drug dealer (just pot & hash -- nothing hard) from Greece, who was a really nice guy, too.  Nora also loved getting blitzed on champagne cocktails (Bucksfizz) and vodka drinks.  She also didn’t have the ability to “filter” thoughts for public consumption -- and in a place like England, one really needs to use discretion.

“Nora, dahling -- call me Nora!”  From the moment she extended her hand and gave mine a good, strong squeeze and a warm shake, I knew I was in the presence of an exceptional human.  About five years my senior, Eleanora Russell was more experienced in the ways of the world and, especially, London.

IN a place where I was the new girl and outsider (the Main Squeeze), the garrulous and protective mother hen, Nora (also an outsider), befriended me in more ways than one. For a start, I needed a place to live because Gervaise was due back from her three-month sojourn in America, and I would no longer be welcome as a flatsitter or flatmate.  Really, there was no room -- and she had no obligation to help me further.

“Dahling!  Stay with me!  I’d be so happy to have you share my flat!”  Here I hardly knew this woman, but she so kindly offered and my back was against the wall, so to speak, so I agreed to come and see her flat -- in lovely Knightsbridge, just a tube stop or two distant. . .  

3-23-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #80 (“I Don’t Want to Go to Chelsea”)

The owners of Blushes and The Main Squeeze, Kevin & Roger (“Kev” and “Rog,” of course), were together when I met them.  They sat at a table in the bar area. . .

At the Main Squeeze, you walked down a flight of steps to arrive at a landing, where a little booth with a ticket taker’s window greeted incomers.  To the right was a doorway that led into a bar and cocktail area, with an assortment of little tables dotting a long room (about 40 feet long). Against the wall on the far side, a long bar dominated.  At the far end of the bar to the left, the kitchen door beckoned.

To the left of the kitchen door, a wall separating the bar and the formal dining area kept the drinking and eating activities segregated somewhat -- though of course you could order plainer fare at the bar.  The dining room contained about eight white-tableclothed, very formally set tables.  The Main Squeeze featured “silver service” dining, whereby the waiters (half of whom didn’t bathe often, spoke little English, and scowled when not smiling at customers) wore white gloves and served meat, potatoes, rolls and veggies with forks and spoons held just so in the hand.  I tried it, and thought the mechanics behind silver service similar to using chopsticks. . .

Anyway, here was the underground domain of the fancier members club where Kev & Rog conducted their evening business.  Rog started with the interview questions.

“Have you worked a bar before, love?”

“Yes, of course -- in New York.  City.  Downtown.  Soho?”

“And how do you look in a catsuit?”

“Er, not sure -- what’s a catsuit?”

Kev and Rog chuckled and I think Roger rolled his eyes.  “Well, love, it’s a one-piece zip up thingie that the waitresses wear who work at the Main Squeeze.” Kev explained in his smooth, dolorous voice.

“Er, sure, I guess.  Can I see one?”

Roger went back to the kitchen and summoned “Nora!”

A true female force of nature burst through the kitchen door. “Roger! What do you vant?  Can’t you see I’m working here, dahling?”  This five-foot-two red brunette with long shaggy hair in a ponytail and beautiful, dark, almond-shaped eyes boomed in a laughing, 80-decibel voice.  She was wearing a black one-piece cotton kind of boilersuit, not unshapely but not tight or form-fitting, that zipped up the front, with long sleeves that she rolled up to her elbows and pants legs that she cuffed up a little to show her white crew socks and plimsolls (sneakers).

The Main Squeeze logo, with a sexy looking saxophone and accents of red and gold, was adhered just above her left breast.

Kev coughed and said, “That, love, is a catsuit. Oh, and this is Eleanora Russell, who works here as a waitress and kitchen staff.”

“Nora, dahling -- call me Nora!”  She extended her hand and gave mine a good, strong squeeze and a warm shake. . . .

3-22-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #79 (“I Don’t Want to Go to Chelsea”)

After a dismal night pulling pints in a pub, I was wandering ‘round the King’s Road in an effort to find “better fit” employment under the table in 1981 (had to support myself as well as find somewhere to “belong” so I could save my sinking psyche), I walked into a winebar called Blushes.  It looked nice, the menu was good, and the ambiance was one of controlled gentility, perfect for social-climbers and arrivistes alike. 

A recent review of the place (still going in 2012!) says, “During the day, Blushes Cafe is a cool cafe bar boasting a comfortable, relaxed atmosphere and tasty cuisine of all types from around the world. However, the atmosphere changes after dark at Blushes and it transforms into a vibrant, upbeat wine bar with a fantastic selection of cocktails, champagne and wines to get you in the mood for a night out on the town.”

Ah yes, all about the nightlife!  That’s where the inhibitions recede and there’s money to be made!  Every restaurateur knows that. . . as do the waitstaff, who make much better tips on the larger checks created by booze intake.  Yeah!

So I had a feeling about the place, and they had a feeling about me, so they sent me over to their “members club” establishment, across the road and down the stairs.  Voila!  The subterranean home of Main Squeeze -- a “members club” where membership afforded better and longer hours for alcohol selling and consumption than the laws that governed pubs and publicans.  Members could bring guests, so in that way more customers were billed and the Main Squeeze remained in the black.

So, the Blushes manager sent me over to speak with one of the owners, Kevin or Roger (“Kev” and “Rog,” of course).  They were usually together.  Kevin, the taller one, had a soft, caressing voice, soft brown eyes, a full head of med-short, curly salt and pepper hair and a sweet, almost lugubrious manner.  He could have been a kindly undertaker but for his clothing -- middle-aged, upper-middle income, not flashy and casual. Roger, the shorter owner, had sharper features, a sharper voice, a brasher personality.  His electric blue eyes didn’t miss a thing; he wore dark suits, usually navy blue; and his full head of brown, curly hair was probably a vain spot.  Like Kev, Rog enjoyed a drink; the two of them -- most times I saw them -- seemed kind of blurry and woozy from drink, though I could have been mistaken. . . I was a little puritanical and down on boozers and drank very little, personally. 

At any rate, these guys were to be my bosses for the better part of a year, when I joined the Main Squeeze staff.

3-21-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #78 (Pulling Pints in the Pub)

November 5, 1981: Guy Fawkes Day in London.  Bonfires at night and “A Penny for the Guy.”  Kind of like trick-or-treating, but not as sweet -- that is, it’s not a candy holiday like in the U.S.  It’s just a remembrance of civil disobedience where kids ask for small change and burn “the Guy” in effigy annually (his eternal reward for trying to blow up The House of Lords).  So English!!

Ahh, so.  My first non-music job in London was “pulling pints” at a pub on the King’s Road in Chelsea.  I was right chuffed (quite pleased) at getting a job so easily (relatively) and quite relieved to not have penury be the wolf at the door.

I got there for work and squeezed into a space behind a bar that took some maneuvering, even for a size two person (me at the time).  And as it was Guy Fawkes night, even though just a Thursday, the place was VERY packed.  It seemed to get busier and busier, and the place filled up with boisterous, no, make that obstreperous young people, mostly the kind of obnoxious type. 

Worst of all:  I could NOT understand what about 80 percent of the customers were saying!  It was like I was underwater and in the land of big fish, making weird indecipherable noises like “Mmpph!!  Errrrgh!  Roff-roff-ROARFF -- roight NOWWWW!” 

Welcome to true culture shock.  When faced with a crowd of yobbos who had very thick and diverse British accents (Geordies, Mancunians, guys from the Humberside, Liverpuddlians, Cockneys, you name it!), I was a fish out of water and then some.  They wound up barking at me and lobbing insults; I kept going, “Eh?  Pardon.  Eh?  Pardon. . . “ But I just couldn’t get it.  I was also unfamiliar with the many types of beer because I really don’t drink it.

Once the shift was done, I don’t recall if I quit or was fired.  (Just for the record, I generally try to quit before I’m fired, as a rule.)  But it was most definitely NOT the job for me.  Besides, the Brits don’t tip much at the pub and the money was disgraceful. . .

A few days later, I returned to the King’s Road to find employment at a place that might be a better fit.  I walked into a winebar called Blushes, and spoke to the manager there, another nigh-incomprehensible speaker of the mother tongue but a sharp guy, perceptive enough to see I’d be a good worker in the right environment.

“Look, luv, we have a member’s club across the way and if you go there now, you could speak to Roger or Kevin. . . “

3-20-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #77 (Back to London, 1981)

Bshzoop!  Back to London, 1981.  Well, it was the best of times and the worst of times.  (Thank you, Charles Dickens -- a Londoner.)  Temporarily, I was catsitting and staying at the flat of the petite powerhouse of photography and networking, fellow expat Gervaise Souerouge, near Tottenham Court Road.  I was a fan and devotee of the invaluable street guide, London A-Z, part of the “knowledge” of those amazing London cab drivers.

Believe me, without a London A-Z, you couldn’t really get around the town very well.  In fact, I still have it here and look forward to (maybe) visiting ol’ London towne again.  But then again, I tend to shun big cities these days. . . I dig the boondocks, the quiet, the occasional people & plentiful nature. . .

Anyhoo, in 1981, London was starting to gear up from being a sleepy town to something TOO big, fast, crowded, and cosmopolitan.  But, being a New Yorker (from Manhattan), London was quite manageable at the time for me, thank you.

The unmanageable in my life was my physical and mental health.  I’d been a vegetarian (no red meat, very little chicken, mostly fish, cheese, eggs) since the age of 15, and it was starting to wear on me.  I was also plunging into a sadness I couldn’t shake off. . . I think we (at least I) take it for granted when surrounded by loving family & friends. . . even though they may seem like a hassle every now and then when sharing our space, they really do help to keep us together.

So. . . I’d get to crying often for little reason, feeling very tired & taking naps every day, invariably. . . my appetite was OK, but I felt scared and lonely and tired of life.  Every time I thought I’d scored a victory in life, something dire or dismal (like having Mickie Most tell me I didn’t have a career in music!) would happen to SMASH me and my mood down again.

I even tried taking up tap dancing (how can you be depressed tapping?), but that didn’t really work out (your foot reflexes need to be quite keen, you know -- and being in my mid twenties was a tad late to start if I couldn’t commit hours to practice). 

I knew I needed to work -- for my pocketbook, peace of mind, and sanity -- but how and where to get “clean” work off the books? 

During one of my weekend visits (or “haunts”) down the King’s Road in Chelsea (take the tube to Sloan Square and start walking!), I started to think about the many bars and eateries there. 

I inquired in a few places, then bingo!  One of them -- a trendy pub in the middle of the King’s Road -- took me on to be “pulling pints” that very night (Guy Fawkes night, Nov. 5^th).  Cool, I thought. . . just the thing to bring up spirits and replenish the pocketbook. . .