6-19-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #129 (Starting Out Again. . .in the Big Apple with a new survival job at One U: Brenda Ballerina’s Big Crush)

In that world of atmosphere, the sexual tension was palpable and, well, kind of fun.  The combination of talent, wealth, fame, and animal magnetism on any given night filled the room as lingeringly as songs like “Moist Towelettes” or “Let’s Eat Breakfast!” (An ironic song to hear on the jukebox, considering many of the regulars would get up and have a boilermaker for breakfast at 5 p.m.). 

So.  Horny older guys plus cute waitresses a decade younger or more?  Lotsa flirtin’ and hurtin’ at One U.  The chips fell where they may have, but I tried to stay out of as much of the mishigas as I could ‘cause I knew my fragile psyche wasn’t as strong as my tough words.  I mostly would listen and look -- and laugh.

My co-worker, Brenda the ballerina, carried a torch for one of the regulars, “M.A.,” as did Claudia Awed-eyes.  M.A. was a manly fella, about 40 years old, with a trim & athletic physique (he looked kind of like Barbie’s Ken).  He had that ruggedly handsome face with chiseled features, a full head of carelessly coiffed dark brown hair that was neatly brushed up & back, and a penetrating hazel-eyed gaze.  M.A. was good friends with our boss, Richie, and seemed to be there so much he could have been on the payroll.

I figured he was from the Midwest or something, probably a latter-day Gatsby type.  His tight bluejeans looked so perfect they could have been ironed; his button-down shirts were always freshly laundered.  I wasn’t sure what else he did, but he sure as heck wasn’t an artist.

Although M.A. wasn’t my type and plain didn’t appeal to me, he wasn’t a jerk and he treated us “girls” just fine.  Brenda ballerina fell for him; whenever he was around, she changed from an efficient server to an excited little girl behind the swinging kitchen door: “Did you see what he just did?  Did he go off with Lisa?  Is he drinking coffee or tequila, yet?”  Brenda kept an excited monologue up in the back of the house whenever he was around during her shifts and she came to drop off a tray or pick up an order.

Objectively, I could see that he was a striking figure of a man and that most girls would find him irresistible.  I was glad that Brenda liked him and that I didn’t.  I let her carry on about M.A. and wondered if they were destined to consummate her passion.  He seemed to like everybody just about the same amount, but acted more distracted as the evening progressed. . . acted more distracted each time he ducked back into the office for a few minutes, then returned. . .

6-18-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #128 (Starting Out Again. . .in the Big Apple with a new survival job at One U: No-No Nina)

In her no-nonsense clogs, Nina Ruskin clomp-clomped with a light foot, as she weighed a scant 100 pounds.  With purpose she clomped, with her bar tray of drinks held firmly in front of her: 3 Dos Equiss (“Double-X suds”), 3 shots of Jameson’s straight up, a tall screwdriver, and a bottle of coca cola (for dad, Mickey).

Drinks delivered to her dad and a table full of raucous older artists, with the younger-generation (by 15 years, maybe) artist, Nathan Josephson, regaling them all with jokes that kicked up the hilarity a notch, Nina’s mouth tightened as she turned heel.  Back at the bar, she paused and stretched up on tippytoes to survey the scene, her perhaps 20-60 eyes squinting.

A thin, sallow girl who looked remarkably like dad, Mickey, young Nina Ruskin took her job very seriously.  She kept a baleful eye out for misbehavior in general and rarely seemed to have fun.  In days of yore, she’d have been deigned of bilious temperament.  At One U -- an outpost of outlaws and reprobates, druggies and dealers, poets and painters -- Nina felt that she needed to keep things steady, on an even keel.  I, too, thought of how this was important, but I never envied her being the one to remind people of rules.  

I mean, One U was a notably lawless place.  Many of its artist patrons ate and drank on tabs that owner Mickey Ruskin bestowed in exchange for pieces of their art.  Many fine pieces hung on the crisp white walls.  Working at One U was kind of like working a constant downtown gallery opening -- with a kitchen, a great jukebox, and a bar that was open ‘till late o’ clock.

Drinks in those days were as fancy as a screwdriver or a margarita; a tequila sunrise, maybe some kirs (white wine with cassis) and kir royales (champagne with cassis) were served.  Martinis weren’t very popular.  Of course, mimosas were consumed along with bloody marys in the morning, but who got up early enough for such things?  Maybe the people who slept all day and got up at dark, the cocaine vampires. . . I for one could not understand how anybody could function at all, let alone for lengthy periods of time, high on anything, esp. coke (cocaine). 

I started working there in December of 1982, and by February of ’83 I knew what was going on in the back office, roughly. . . they weren’t exactly hawkin’ vichyssoise in bulk, or anything remotely calorific. . .  but very, very hush hush. . . dangerous.  Did Nina or Victoria, her little sister, know what was being cooked up in the back?  I really doubt it on one hand, but on the other hand I wonder how they couldn’t have known. . .

Even if not exactly likable, I thought Nina was so brave and strong and I admired her ability to keep her head in that zoo that her dad built.  She knew that few people liked her, but stuck to her guns and worked really hard -- probably with blinders on. 

6-17-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #127 (Starting Out Again. . .in the Big Apple with a new survival job at One U: And now, Father’s Day with Mickey Ruskin & My Dad)

(Well now, you know that saying that nobody’s perfect -- and that parents are people, after all.  Of course it’s true.  Many of you are now parents, and you finally realize that it’s a heavy job but that you’re human -- just like your own parents.  And on account of that, you forgave them, if possible, for any hurt you suffered at their neglect.  Right?  Moving on, right?  After all these years. . . you’re finally grown up enough to recognize that flaws are part of life and that you are flawed, your kids are flawed, your parents are flawed. . . but in spite and on top of it all, there is love.)

How are Mickey Ruskin and my dad similar?  They’re both:  dark haired men, who are dead.  They were both dyed-in-the-wool New Yorkers; both beloved by many, both mysterious men.  They probably did stuff that they weren’t totally proud of. . . but still, their kids loved and still love them.

Two pictures worth 1,000 words each?  This is one LONG blog post!  Happy Father’s Day to all applicable, with love.  

Mickey Ruskin by G. Malanga, 1982

Bernard F. Agnelli, circa mid 1950s

I still miss you, daddy. . .

6-16-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #126 (Starting Out Again. . .in the Big Apple with a new survival job at One U: And now, some history on our Grand High Poobah, Mickey Ruskin)

As interesting as were my co-workers at One U, the bosses were certainly megastars in the firmament of the NYC bar/restaurant scene, and their stock-in-trade was a hip clientele.

Most of this was no doubt on account of the legendary Mickey Ruskin, whose bio I will recount here with some help from the internet (and Wikipedia -- though there is no one entry for Mickey Ruskin per se, which is a crime, I tell ya!).

Originally a lawyer for a brief spell (attended Cornell Law School), Mickey Ruskin started his restaurant career in the early ‘60’s.  He opened The Tenth Street Coffeehouse in the Village, which featured nightly poetry readings.  Then on East Ninth Street, he opens Les Deux Magots.  That led to a bar called the Ninth Circle Steak House on West Tenth Street; it became a hangout for artists and musicians.  Then Mickey hits his stride in 1965 by opening a place called Max’s Kansas City, on Park Avenue South near 17^th Street. 

Max’s became a hangout for the Andy Warhol Factory people, as well as a large following of The New York School sculptors and artists, poets, musicians, and celebrities -- including John Chamberlain, Robert Rauschenberg and Larry Rivers, whose presence attracted hip celebrities and the jet set.[1] Neil Williams, Larry Zox, Forrest (Frosty) Myers, Larry Poons, Brice Marden, Bob Neuwirth, Dan Christensen, Ronnie Landfield, Peter Reginato, Carl Andre, Dan Graham, Lawrence Weiner, Robert Smithson, Joseph Kosuth, Brigid Berlin, David R. Prentice, Roy Lichtenstein, Peter Forakis, Peter Young, Mark di Suvero, Larry Bell, Donald Judd, Dan Flavin, Richard Serra, Lee Lozano, Robert (Tex) Wray, Carlos Villa, Jack Whitten, Philip Glass, Max Neuhaus, Ray Johnson, Malcolm Morley, Marjorie Strider, Edward Avedisian, Carolee Schneemann, Dorothea Rockburne, David Budd, Norman Bluhm, Kenneth Showell, Tiger Morse, Colette Justine, Lenore Jaffee, William S. Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, and Marisol were just a few of the artists seen regularly at Max's. Willem de Kooning, Barnett Newman, art critics Lucy Lippard, Robert Hughes, Clement Greenberg, and Harold Rosenberg, art dealers Leo Castelli. . . .

Before opening the bar/restaurant Chinese Chance (a.k.a. One U) roundabouts 1980, in the late seventies Ruskin own and ran a club on Chambers street long before Tribeca was at all hip, called The Lower Manhattan Ocean Club. Many cool, avant garde musicians performed there while other cool people played and drank: John Cale, Talking Heads, Patti Smith, Dwight Twilley -- even jazz legends like Lester Young and David Murray.  (The rock press enjoyed the ambiance too, of course -- Trixie A. Balm and her friends enjoyed frequenting the Ocean Club.) Many of those same luminaries followed, eventually, to One U -- Mickey’s last earthly watering hole. 

6-15-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #125 (Starting Out Again. . .in the Big Apple with a new survival job at One U: The hands behind bar who rocked the cocktails)

(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!)

Although the serving staff tended to change with the four winds, the bartenders remained pretty much the same three easygoing, cleancut guys: nice heterosexual fellas who were both men’s men and happily flirtatious when it came to women.

Jimmy was the king: a tall, loose-boned guy about thirty-five years old, with a wiry frame and med-long curly dark hair.  He seemed to bounce on his feet and his features were kind of rubbery, His dark eyes sparkled with merriment.  He had a quick comeback when shuttling jokes and comments like ping pong balls back and forth with customers and waitresses alike.  He was into word play.  Jimmy was quick, steady, funny, and just a wee bit superficial.  I believe he’s still working behind a quieter bar this very day, in Soho. 

Greg had sandy, short hair and was quieter, but also steady.  He seemed to be around 30 years old.  Of average height and weight, he didn’t cut an imposing figure but commended and gave respect to one and all.  Greg’s smile was sincere, and he didn’t “flap his gums” incessantly: you could hear yourself think when Greg ran the bar.  I appreciated that. . . so much other noise went on all around, especially in that wild scene.  Greg turned out to be the most decent one there and was my favorite, ultimately.

The last guy, Mark, was another likable young man, around his late 20’s or maybe thirty.  He was built like a football player: tall and thick bodied.  Mark had those blue eyed, med. brown haired good looks of an Irish American firefighter or something -- you could just imagine him doing something other than slinging drinks down the bar to this one or that one.  He didn’t talk as much as Jimmy and his voice was a bit deeper and softer than Greg’s.  When there was trouble, you kind of had the feeling you wouldn’t want to deal with the brawn of a big guy like Mark.

As for whether they also drank up profits, I don’t recall.  Best thing about these bartenders: they looked out for each other and for the waitresses. . .

6-14-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #124 (Starting Out Again. . .in the Big Apple with a new survival job at One U: the good, the bad, and the super bitchy)

My co-workers at One U fell into a few categories.  Other than one older (around 40!), big boned earth momma type named Mary, there was another, even sweeter, waitress named Brenda.  In her twenties, Brenda was a ballet dancer: thin, kind of (enviably, to me) flat-chested, with beautiful thick, long, brown hair.  She was kindhearted and a little bit naïve, but nice to work with.  Brenda was from Ohio.

There was Claudia, a short blonde with thick, long hair and large, nearsighted eyes, who was at first suspicious of people, but when she relaxed and got to know them, her pupils dilated when she talked, she acted kind of in awe, and she spoke with a drawl.  Just adorable.  Claudia was from Texas; she was an actress.

Douglass was one of two “cool” bitchy girls.  She was very pretty, with green eyes and long straight blonde hair that she curled into glamour girl styles.  Of medium height, she had a tantalizing walk and usually wore a mild sneer on her face.  She was an actress/artist.

The other “cool bitch” was a tall, dirty blonde girl with short, straight, spikey punk hair named Nicole.  She also had that “je ne sais quoi” fuck-you attitude that some customers couldn’t get enough of.  I’m not sure what she did, but I’m sure she did it really cool, with flair.

I figured a fair amount of masochists inhabited the backrooms of One U and the art scene in general -- and not all customers craved or even required nice treatment.  Richard Sanders was quite perspicacious to realize that his staff needed to be memorable and extreme in all different ways.  The place gave new meaning to “performance” at work.

In this world of atmosphere, I reckon I had the rep of a nice waitress. . . playing a bitch wasn’t a natural for me, though for short bursts I’m sure I did & still can. . . 

One other character, a busboy named Jimmy (also an electric guitar player), worked there at One U.  He was dating Patty Donahue (of the Waitresses!) and was a very handsome, sweet guy.  He needed somewhere to crash for a few months, so I invited him to stay in my back room, an 8 by 9 foot space with a small window that looked out on an airshaft.  Claustrophobic wasn’t the half of it. . .

And I already mentioned Nina and Victoria Ruskin. . . next blog, I’ll try to describe the bartenders. . .

6-13-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #123 (Starting Out Again. . .in the Big Apple with a new survival job at One U: one crazy place)

(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!)

One of my fave things about the survival job at One U was how they handled the waitstaff.  We were a young, good looking bunch, all between 20 and 40 years old.  Girls only served; guys were either bartenders, kitchen staff, or busboys.  Mickey Ruskin’s two daughters, Victoria and Nina, worked as waitresses.  They were both very good at their jobs, and Nina especially took it seriously.  She was a thin, sallow girl who looked remarkably like her dad -- his baleful eyes, his lanky dark hair, his big teeth.  Nina didn’t have the best moods, in general, and she was head waitress for a while.  That meant, she knew more, had been around longer, and got to boss people around if she so chose.

Nina walked with purpose and she rarely smiled. She was the responsible sister.

Her sister, Victoria, was younger, curvier, and more cheerful.  Her dark hair was long and wavy, and she had a sweet face.  Mickey’s girls were, of course, off limits to the customers & staff.  No foolin’ around with those chickies, nosiree.

The rest of us “girls” were called to a waitresses’ meeting one day by bossman Richard “Richie” Sanders.  Skinny, dark, intense, with big eyes and nose and a haunted look about him. . . Richard was invariably kind and funny, or one gruff, tough asshole.  He was a Pisces (if that means anything to you).  Richie didn’t walk so much as “roll ‘n’ stroll” with this strange kind of loping, limping gait.  I figured it happened in Vietnam: war wound.  He had a tendency to self-medicate, if you catch my drift.

At any rate, he says at this waitress meeting, in his street-tough New York accent: “Okay, girls?  We don’t want any of this in-between shit from our staff, with customers getting all namby-pamby service that’s just okay, okay?  So girls, either be really really nice or be a real bitch, Okay?  Okay?”  Richard was a crazy, lopsided-smiling mess; his nose had perpetual sniffles; his body kept in constant, jangly motion, smoking cigarettes, drinking, never sitting still.  Still in all, he was charming and he seemed to genuinely like us -- for whatever that was worth.