2-11-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #39 (Spring Break 1975 -- Remembering Lester Bangs)

Before taking off for a life in London, England in 1981 -- a foreign county where they “sort of “ spoke recognizable English -- Canada was the first “foreign” country I visited. To be specific, I visited Canada with a handsome escort. Well, maybe not the Canada of one’s dreams, like Lake Louise or the Canadian Rockies or the gardens of Vancouver Island -- but Windsor is still Canada, even if it’s not a visual treat for the eyes. And maybe not a classically handsome but goofy-handsome companion who talked a good spiel escorted me.

All right, so how’s this: a day trip to Windsor, Ontario, Canada -- with my then-editor, Creem’s own Lester Bangs? It happened one spring afternoon in 1975, when we were at the offices of Boy Howdy’s keepers, Creem Magazine.

Lester looked up from what he was doing, a plan hatching in his ever-active cranium: “Trixie, ever been to Canada?”

“Nah, not really. I mean, not yet.”

“Let’s go have a beer in Canada -- Windsor’s just over the border.”

Oh, goody, I thought: an adventure! And if Lester Bangs wanted to drive to Canada just for a beer with me in tow, I was SO ready to go. I’d somehow finagled a ride from somebody to Birmingham, Michigan, with Lester Bangs putting me up in his house. He had a really nice girlfriend whose name was Nancy, and she was a dark-featured, Greco-American beauty. They were both great hosts for the young, bubbly Trixie A. Balm who felt she needed to make a pilgrimage to the offices of Creem Magazine, the coolest place to write about music & pop culture for back in the seventies. (Georgia Christgau drove back to NYC with me in tow -- that much I do remember, even if who drove or how I got there originally escapes me.)

Lester had a loping step, a large, shambling frame with a plus-sized head (size-wise) to match, and the look of a loopy second cousin to the Frito Bandito. His longish, wavy, dark hair and bushy dark mustache would have been well complemented by a Mexican sombrero -- but then, I’m being a little silly and irreverent. How apropos! Lester and the whole Creem gang was, in principle, irreverent, silly, and even loopy.

I also remember, somewhere on his large head, a bulbous knob or a cyst that stuck out. At least, I was very aware of it. Appearances aside, I thought he was kindhearted, sweet, humorous, possibly bipolar, and insecure. Intelligence? That’s a given! Manipulative? Not with me. . . to this day, I’ll never know why he was so nice to lil’ ol’ me (just a writerly chick from Queens who changed her name and felt like having fun in print, along with the other misfits and brilliant wordsmiths at Creem).

For those of you unfamiliar with Lester Bangs and his work, he is known as the “America’s Greatest Rock Critic” (J. Derogatis). His writing was a combination of gonzo and erudite, both highfalutin’ and raunchy. He did the kind of writing that feels like he was staring at the stars from the vomit-strewn gutters, Rabelaisian in extremis. He died an untimely death, overdosing accidentally on a combination of Darvon, Valium, and Nyquil at the age of 33, in 1982.

So, that day in Windsor, Lester drove us to a bar he knew and liked, and ordered a Molson’s. He expected me to order beer, too, but I asked for a water. I was terrified of consuming beverages with caloric content, and didn’t like the taste of beer and so, I fear, I was a disappointment to him, but hey: thanks anyway, Lester, for treating me with respect and giving me the work I needed to keep going as a young writer.

R.I.P., dear Lester B!!

1-15-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Forward to 2012 and how the Times have Changed – New and Improved Survival Job # 1001: Abby’s Place

Well, except for doing music sofar in this life, I’ve been appreciated for writing. Mazel Tov, right?

And so now, in the name of making a living, I have to say that something else, new and sweet, is happening in my 2012 world of survival jobs.

There’s a little place, down in Essex by the Marina. Used to be called The Crow’s Nest, and it was definitely a dive – not clean, didn’t smell good, food wasn’t too edible. All that has changed, including the interior, which is totally unrecognizable. Other than looking great, it smells clean and good. It’s at 37 Pratt Street and everybody should start flockin’ to this sweet new (Aug. 2011) Essex restaurant, Abby’s Place.

Prices are reasonable, all meals are served Thursday – Saturday. Other than that, breakfast and lunch are served with bells on (closed Mondays). The kitchen staff is talented, funny: they have a good time, and food made in those conditions tends to smile, too. Lucky customers have heard mirthful imitations of South Park episodes wafting from the kitchen along with tempting aromas of coffee, cinnamon, bacon, and a clam chowder that’s unrivaled.

Again, welcome to Abby’s Place. They welcomed me with open arms and a jovial, kindhearted attitude. I was having a coffee with Joell Jacob after a walk one day, and the place was packed (a Thursday lunch in late December).

“Uh, do you need any help?” On the way out, I inquired of the bespectacled twenty-something man who’d been waiting on us, cooking, and keeping down the fort in general.

“Do you have experience?” I nodded, the memory of a lifetime spent in and out of jobs working at bar/restaurants (The Spring Street Bar, Chinese Chance in NYC), members clubs (The Main Squeeze in London, England), upscale martini bars (Lupo’s), and family places with ketchup on the tables (the Pattaconk). I recently worked a little for The Villager, so my food service industry know-how had also had a recent update.

This young guy, Brian, introduced himself as the General Manager, who said they’d just cleaned house. I just needed to meet Abby. A few minutes later, a tall, thin, serious looking, dark haired woman with a ponytail and black horn-rimmed glasses – an ageless person – appeared from the kitchen. She was in a hurry, but after about 5 seconds, Abby said, “I’d like to talk with you. Can we exchange numbers and talk tomorrow?”

“Sure.” Long story no longer, I saw they needed help, I offered it, and they accepted! I started to wait tables there, part time. They gave me the best shifts, appreciated my work with increasing praise and fed me lavishly (the food is REAL good). What a lovely change – er, improvement!

I mean, what a lovely change from so many previous jobs, where I wound up feeling like shit. Cool change.

Sometimes, the right survival jobs just come along. I admit, I’m always workin’ it. . . but when a hunch really pans out, and the pushing seems to pay off, whew! Sweet relief.

Also, having a bunch of freelance stuff to work on (INK, Shore Line Times, Coastal Homes), a new album by Amalgamated Muck to finish planning. . . and a few other interesting things going on. . . I’m getting ready to hit another stride.

I’m feelin’ pretty good right now – the family’s all fine, too. But don’t worry, I’ll get right back to other times, other places, other early jobs with Trixie, “the Rex,” even the Washington Squares – next blogs.

Thank you, Abby Miner. And thanks to all who are reading and following my “survival jobs” blog.