6-12-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #122 (Starting Out Again. . .in the Big Apple with a new survival job at One U. . .)

Once I started at One U, the first challenge to overcome was attitude from the other waitresses. (BTW, I heard that Chris Butler, when he started his band, The Waitresses, was considering asking me to be the front person.  I must have been away, in London -- they got Patty Donahue instead.  She was, of course, brilliant -- and quite adorable.)

Anyway, one of the tasks for the 3^rd shift was for us to make the whipped cream by hand, with a kitchen whisk.  I took one look at that situation, sized it up and did what my mother’s daughter would have to do: I brought in my electric hand mixer. 

Did those other girls laugh and make fun of me!  Definitely.  But did they start asking to borrow that hand mixer a few days later, once it proved a real time and arm-saver?  Definitely, again.  Soon enough, they stopped making fun of me and grudgingly accepted me as a waitress who didn’t take their shit. . . and who had a  good work ethic and sense of humor.

In the kitchen, two of the cooks I remembered were really sweet, and funny.  Prince was a black chef from the Caribbean, and he had a calm way of doing things, very deliberate.  His beautiful speaking voice was a pleasure to hear, and the way he said things made me smile. 

The other memorable cook was named Joe.  “Joe Mama,” we called him.  He was a short, large-headed, long-haired part Chicano gay man from Texas who had a wicked sense of humor and the very milk of human kindness flowing in his veins.  All the waitresses loved Joe.  He could get away with all kinds of nasty stuff with us, like asking “What’s the matter, honey, Uncle Red in town?”  That meant, are you feeling off because you’re having your period?  Somehow, it was cute when he said that. . .

They had a few things on the menu at One U that I thought were outstandingly delicious.  One was a cold vichyssoise (potato & leek) soup; the other was lightly fried zucchini sticks with parmesan cheese and lemon.  The bread was from Zito’s bakery on Bleecker Street, and it was deliciousness to the tenth power. 

Servers brought the bread, soup, and salad to the tables; they didn’t have to put on a slip and order any of that from the cooks and so, I was in my glory.  I could sneak food to people I knew who needed it. You see, I have this need to feed people, which is nice, really, and actually vital if you’re working in a restaurant. . .

6-11-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #121 (Starting Out Again. . .in the Big Apple with a new survival job at a hip new eaterie and bar: One U)

OK.  I was making some music, but in a hobbyist sort of sense.  I needed to make money to keep going.  Sure, the rent on my apartment was under $300 at the time, but still. . . I surely had to find me one of them good ol’ “survival jobs.” 

Because I’d been waitressing in London for the best part of a year and a half, I figured it made sense to find a waitress gig.  I can’t recall how I found it -- probably my ex or some other friends suggested it -- but I came to work at a really hip restaurant/bar in the heart of the NYU-ville Greenwich Village.  Just north and east of Washington Square Park, One University Place was the address of “One U,” or Chinese Chance, as it was also called.

“One U” had three owners: Mickey Ruskin, from Max’s Kansas City; Richard Sanders (who’d served in Vietnam and suffered from Agent Orange poisoning); and a less colorful guy who was possibly the most functional, a middle-aged man named Va Hagen.  They were quite the trio.  Are three bosses better than one?  Hard to say. . .

I started out there on the bottom rung of the waitress ladder, with the worst shifts.  The 3^rd and latest shift went from 8 PM to 4 AM, the 2^nd shift from 6 PM to 2 AM, and (probably) the best shift, the first, started at 4 PM and ended at midnight.  I didn’t really care how late I stayed out because One U was only about a ten-minute walk from my apartment.  I was young and energetic -- strong enough to carry a massive 3 by 4 foot tray with six dinners stacked on it, then grab a tray stand and whomp! the tray on it, to serve those dinners. 

I’ve not seen that done in years; I doubt many who are now “servers” could do that.  It was indeed tricky, but I never dropped anything from that big tray.  We also had to carry all drinks on a serving or bar tray, and place coasters under the drinks.  There really were rules, ways to do things.

Musically, the jukebox at One U had lots of cool singles from that time.  The most played song I can remember from the time was by the Pretenders, “My City Was Gone.”  How apropos for me, really. . . because, in a way, I’d returned to a place that was a whole new city after spending 18 months in London.

(My signed Pretenders single from Chrissie. . . Not "My City Was Gone" but a good one, despite.)

At the end of 1982, I spent New Year’s Eve alone and in tears, wondering why I had no boyfriend, no love, a crazy waitressing job, and wasn’t making music.

That was to change in February 1983.  Meanwhile, there are still tales to tell about my server stint at One U. . .

6-10-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #120 (Starting Out Again. . .in the Big Apple: love and making music)

(Well, after doing six weeks of blogging about my crazy big brother Tom -- may be rest in peace, and I’ll be working on finishing a book-length version of that story, with his writings interspersed -- I said I’d return to the original blog’s purpose: my survival jobs through the years.  Along the way, many other interesting things happened. . . like living in NYC, being part of the CBGB music scene, moving to England, visiting Paris, etc.  It’s been QUITE the life -- and it’s not even half over yet!)

So.  I returned to NYC in November 1982 with two full suitcases, my guitar, a duffelbag, bittersweet memories, and the hope that my old boyfriend was still crazy about me.  Well. . . he might have been, but he also had another girlfriend that he didn’t tell me about.  How I found out about that one?  I forget.  But, once I knew he was a liar and a cheat, I wasn’t standing for it.  It hurt like hell to be lied to and cheated on, but I was actually the third wheel, so that was even more humiliating.

Don’t know if it’s pride, ego, or self-preservation: I don’t make a habit of taking shit from anyone.  Nope. 

So, I moved on.  To hell with love -- I needed a job, and I needed to make music. 

First, as for the music: I had a not-great old Bacon tenor banjo (not a Bacon & Day or B&D banjo, but it suited my purposes).  I wanted to sing & play songs dressed up as a vintage girl country singer, and I had high heeled cowboy boots and a strange looking frilly dress in two pieces that had ruffles & lace and was bought in London.  I learned a song called “I Didn’t Know the Gun Was Loaded” and went to Folk City for a few open mics.  I was nervous as hell and wore “six shooter” cap guns strapped to my waist that I pulled out and shot off at key moments in the performance.

(below: that same banjo!)

At the time, performance art was starting to hit its stride; the likes of Lori Anderson and Karen Finley were making quite a splash and I thought, hey, maybe I can get into that whole thing.

Whatever.  I don’t remember what other gigs I had, but I wrote a few songs here and there and recorded them at home on my TEAC 4-track, which was cool.  I may not have been the best guitar/banjo/piano player and all, but the harmonies sounded good and I played lots of little parts on various instruments to flesh it out. 

Before moving to England, I bought a cute little studio piano (72 keys) and had it moved upstairs to my 5^th floor walkup. . . four guys carried it up the five flights of stairs.  The piano cost me $600 plus delivery charges, and of course I tipped the deliverymen for all that work. . . like I couldn’t have waited for my building to get an elevator (which we did in the late ‘80’s and was a great help, lugging that piano out in 2008. . .).

(House is not a home without a piano. . . my Harrington studio piano)

6-09-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #119 (Back in the NY Groove -- Kinda Sorta)

(Well, after doing six weeks of blogging about my crazy big brother Tom -- may be rest in peace, and I’ll be working on finishing a book-length version of that story, with his writings interspersed -- I said I’d return to the original blog’s purpose: my survival jobs through the years.  Along the way, many other interesting things happened. . . like living in NYC, being part of the CBGB music scene, moving to England, visiting Paris, etc.  It’s been QUITE the life -- and it’s not even half over yet!)

(photo of a photo by Stephanie Chernikowski, 1982 -- "Lauren in the world of men")

I returned to NYC in November 1982 with two full suitcases, my guitar, a duffelbag, bittersweet memories, and the remnants of my own, cute English accent.  You know the way Linda (Eastman) McCartney had a Yankee-Brit accent that some thought odd, others affected, and others thought just “natural” (having been immersed in the culture 24/7 for some time)?

Guilty, I was.  But as I didn’t record my voice at the time, I couldn’t tell what I sounded like.  Some people remarked, “What’s that British accent you’re putting on?  Pu-leeze!”  At any rate, I was quite delighted to be rid of my Queens accent, a sort of low-class way of talking that I’d always been ashamed of -- or shunned.

However I sounded when I talked, that didn’t matter to me as much as how I sounded when I was making music.  Although scared, I was ready to get back in the NY groove and start playing guitar and singing again.  So why not do a performance art type thing, and get a “busking” gig at a hip club and just kind of be there, play with an open guitar case, and pretend I was in a London tube station?

Oddly enough, Steve Maas, “Doctor Mudd” from the Mudd Club, thought it was an all right idea.  So I played one of the floors of the Mudd Club in the winter of ’82, dressed in my London clothes with my Guild F-30 guitar and my mix of classic country and twisted original songs. 

Here’s a photo that my friend, music photographer Stephanie Chernikowski, took of me one of those nights. . .

6-08-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #118 (There’ll Always Be an England. . .)

(Well, after doing six weeks of blogging about my crazy big brother Tom -- may be rest in peace, and I’ll be working on finishing a book-length version of that story, with his writings interspersed -- I said I’d return to the original blog’s purpose: my survival jobs through the years.  Along the way, many other interesting things happened. . . like living in NYC, being part of the CBGB music scene, moving to England, visiting Paris, etc.  It’s been QUITE the life -- and it’s not even half over yet!)

This point is inarguable: Alan Rickman possesses the all-time greatest speaking voice.  And to think, when in drama school, his teacher told him he’d better work on his voice -- that it was one of his detriments!  Will the mundane ironies in this world ever cease?

Actually, there is nothing mundane about realizing, in hindsight, that Alan Rickman’s drama teacher was just so, so wrong.  That gives me such hope: that anybody who told somebody else they’re misguided or some sort of “loser” might well be so, so wrong.

How about Einstein?  He was rumored to have been called a stupid kid. . . and I’m sure there are so many other examples. . . so all right, you can laugh at me for thinking I’m going to write books and songs of greater consequence . . .  but I’ll just remember Einstein and Rickman. . .

But I digress.  In this blog, I thank my fates for taking me to London and living amongst the English where I learned firsthand their ways and culture.  The pub lifestyle, the unspoken class system, the humor, humanity, and keen minds that could knife through a situation with panache and grace (and neat sounding accents).

Basically, I was ready with a deeper understanding of those limeys and their ways when “Absolutely Fabulous” came out.  And when the Harry Potter series exploded on the page and on the screen?  Yup.  ‘Twas I who realized that Harry’s nemesis, Draco Malfoy, was at times putting on a lower-class accent so as to mitigate his ruling class upbringing. . .

“Slumming,” as it were.

Sigh.  There’ll always be an England. . . in the coney island of the mind.

6-07-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #117 (Reasons to leave England: One, Two, Three!)

(Well, after doing six weeks of blogging about my crazy big brother Tom -- may be rest in peace, and I’ll be working on finishing a book-length version of that story, with his writings interspersed -- I said I’d return to the original blog’s purpose: my survival jobs through the years.  Along the way, many other interesting things happened. . . like living in NYC, being part of the CBGB music scene, moving to England, visiting Paris, etc.  It’s been QUITE the life -- and it’s not even half over yet!)

. . . As much as I wanted to stay in London, I didn’t really know why I was there other than sheer mulishness and an inability to admit perhaps I was misguided and it was time to move on. . . . but nothing was clicking monetarily, creatively, or romantically.  It was probably time for a change -- albeit an only begrudgingly accepted change, one taken whilst I was being figuratively dragged kicking and screaming.

An air letter came one day to my basement flat at 87 Earl’s Court Road from my Soho, NY apartment’s subletter, Diana (remember, this was in the days before cheap overseas phone calls and emailing).  She was a music scene fringe-hanger, the ex girlfriend of a guitar player I knew from one of the many CBGB’s bands.  Diana made good money being a court stenographer, but she also had an artistic side and wanted to open a little bakery.  She had a kitty cat so I knew she wouldn’t mind my little terror-kitty, Clawdette, who she was kind enough to “foster” while I was gone. 

The letter was dated September 22, the day after my sister, Carrie’s, birthday.  “Lauren,” she wrote, “How are things there?  Hope you’re having a good time.  I heard from my sister in Fresno (California), and she says there’s an opportunity here for me and her to open our own little bake shop and tea room.  So, I’m moving to California!  I’ll be needing to move out of your apartment November 1^st, so please let me know what you’d like to do about our sublet arrangement.  Sincerely, Diane   P.S. - As I’ve been feeding your cat these past 16 months, I’d like to take her with me.  Or you can reimburse me for her food. . .”

 (I tell you, that Claw-dette was NO Captain Kitty, nosiree!)

Damn!  Not only was I losing a reliable subletter from a thousand miles away, I was losing my kitty cat!!  What terrible luck.  Well, that Claw-dette never was a very nice cat; she scowled at me from the highest bookshelves in the apartment and batted off all sorts of breakable things with her paw.  This all the while I’d yell at her, “NO!  No, Clawdette, bad kitty, don’t do it!”  I was pretty broke, too, and couldn’t really pay for 18 months worth of kitty food.  So, I had to let that little calico cat go to California.

Around this same time, two other coincidences occurred to me in London: 1. My visa extension was denied, and I was told I’d have to leave the U.K. by October 31, and 2. My Earl’s Court Road landlord had just sold the building and was buying out the tenants.  Although the offer wasn’t good money by a long shot (maybe like $250?), it was something for nothing, basically.  I’d take it.

I mean, I had to move, anyway, return to NY, reclaim my little Soho apartment, see if my former boyfriend still loved me, see if I could still make music and write songs and, well, continue being my creative -- albeit older and wiser -- self.

6-05-12 Pictures of Tommy - a memoirist’s blog #37

(Right now, I’m focusing on my memoirist work that I’ll call, simply, “Pictures of Tommy” -- mostly about my psychotic brother and his legacy.  It touches on my personal fears, too. . . .)

LETTERS TO THE DEAD

One really useful function of writing is how it can transform something awful into its opposite, something healing and cathartic.  In some ways, I’d call it a trick o’ the trade, but that sort of cheapens the magic, doesn’t it?  Anyway, my life was saved by being a creative writing major.  I am sure this technique was one of our writing exercises.  Anyway:

Here’s a letter I wrote to Tommy a few months after he passed away.  It’s still a work in progress, but every time I work on it, it brings me closer to him in a strange way. . .

(Brother Tom circa 1990, around the time of Carrie & Dan's wedding)

Hi Tom,

I suggested to Carrie to write you a letter -- it’d help her feel better about you and your death.  Writing about you is helpful -- therapeutic -- to me, but writing to you is also nice.  I am sure on some level you can hear these words, etched out in my notebook or even typed out on my computer.

Time to come clean: I live with knowing that I’ve thought of you dying the past year or two.  Every time we’ve spoken I’ve been sad, sensing you wouldn’t be around for too much longer.  Not that I was actively hoping for your death -- or wishing any harm to you.  I just knew you were sick and upset and struggling so.  I feel guilty admitting that I also thought that a few dollars from your estate would be an absolute lifesaver for me at this time if you did die, though.  So, in one way, I feel horrible for my thoughts: partly presentiments and hunches mingled in with a vague greed.

I just had a feeling you were going to die soon.  So it came as little surprise, partial relief, and certain guilt when we heard you passed away on Friday, July 29^th.  I was tremendously sad for you, but also glad you no longer had to live in that tortured mind and body. 

I hope you’ll forgive me for having those precognitions about you and not saying something. How can a person say such things?  Too weird.  You might have gotten really upset if I did.  There were times you wanted to die, I do know.  . . and every now and then, even a death wish is granted.

It wasn’t my wish for you.  I wish you peace, I wish you love.  I hope you find understanding -- which I’m sure you will, in the heaven you prayed for all those years on earth.

So thank you, Tommy, and rest in peace. I really mean it.  By the way, I forgive you for hurting me.  I won’t forget, but I will forgive and try to understand.  Sorry if I hurt you, too.  

Love, Laurie  (PS - I’ll always be your sister)