Notes From the Underwear

A Personal Memoir of Many Parts (A Work in Progress)

“Mr Carl Laemmle feels it would be unkind to present this picture without just a work of friendly warning………”

Prelude

As the crevices of time begin to unfold like undulating geological strata of a hidden world, beyond time, beyond space, or the delicate petals of the hydrangea in early spring unfolding and breathing their rare perfume which intoxicates the senses and showers down memories like sharp hail stones, each projectile thumping the head and releasing memories, each endowed with terrestrial demigods and dryads, my mind wanders to a room in Leete Hall, the first co-ed dormitory in University Park September 14th 1971 where I am anticipating the arrival of my new roommate. My parents have said goodbye and have departed. I am engulfed as with the pink quintessence of the first rays of dawn as I slowly unpack and set up my stereo device, which at that distant time required vinyl discs which have long since been forgotten through the alchemy of time’s circuitous windings. Plunkkk. (some Indo-European root….I think.)

Incipit Historia Mea.

PART ONE

Pompous, newly bathed Larry Nardotti came into the dorm room carrying the pewter chalice which I had bought the previous week at the Student Book Store, entering with bath towel around shoulders in sacerdotal pose and declaimed as he walked in, “Nur eine Waffe taugt!” He strides upon cold tile floor and ceremoniously sits down at his desk. I work on paper for history class on the origins of 19th century Romanticism. I feel a whack of his towel on my head. He gives me the chalice, “Oh pure Knight, thou alone art worthy to behold the Grail!” He tosses towel on the bed. This is tiring since my thesis proves that Germany provided the origins of Romantic Movement. I know this is wrong and that I’ve been too lazy to read Sir Walter Scott or the Lyrical Ballads of Wordsworth and Coleridge.

My father died two months before. Now it’s October already. Larry thinks I’m brooding and wants to be protective. I want to be left alone. Uncle Dino buying me suit at Robert Hall’s for funeral.

Nardotti, when I told him the first week compared me to Camus’ The Stranger. My recitation appearing removed. “Nur eine Waffe” He shouldn’t do the Wagner bit. I think of a comeback; “May a thousand eagles in heat lay their eggs upon your….” I can’t think of the rest. But I had better come up with new stuff soon. Party at Mike’s and Larry and I set to do Pergamese Brothers. I usually have the best lines, but I can’t keep it going as long. Bob says Playboy ranked PSU #1 Party School, so why do this paper on the origins of Romanticism? Better to keep the #1 ranking and party; everyone must do their bit for the school. The Deacon said my father could have a Church funeral. But they buried him at the end of the cemetery overlooking the highway. Suicides were buried at crossroads, I think. “Of his bones are coral made.” Their spirits wander, where did I read that?

The sixties were really over. Jimi, Janis and Jim gone. No more Satisfaction. And I try and I try. Must get John Cage. Pretty girl in English class was telling me about John Cage. I must get record so I can discuss John Cage with pretty girl in English class.

What are you working on? Larry again. “I’m Ok.”

Kris Honmeier, so they say, a nice guy from Georgia still broken by the death of Duane Allman the previous Fall carved Duane’s name and dates on freshly laid cement just outside Pattee Library and it’s still there, the Duane Allman memorial as we loosely call it, the cornerstone which the builders did not reject. Duane’s name down below the great men appearing above the building, Plato, Virgil, Newton and I forget who else. I’m still working on this paper about Romanticism, Larry at last opening the first Bud Quart. Well it’s 5:30 and Saturday and the Pergamese Brothers need to be fully prepared.
“Salutas! O Pure Knight.” Larry drinks and would be in fine form tonight. It was certain to be tough going at Mike’s competing for most laughs as the Pergamese Brothers.
Heaven this, caelum caelorum, of which I dreamed while listening to “White Rabbit” alone away along the cemetery on my way to Bishop Neumann High School when the world was young and everyone was being assassinated and the music was great and no one thought it would ever die. The Vice Principal had been a boxer before taking Holy Orders and stood at the doors on the day of the Moratorium so the students could not leave the cafeteria to protest the war. So we all refused to buy the food at the Cafeteria and as the loud speaker announced the tables which could go to purchase food, we all yelled and pounded the table tops. A radio plays, “what’s your name, who’s your daddy? He rich, is he rich like me?” I pour again into pewter chalice.

Bisquick! New From Nabisco! The Ooracular equo-horsicality of the rampant Walpurgisnacht….

SWWwwwwooosSSHHH……

Mike’s Room

Bakely drops his beer, the glass does not break but floor wet so Bakely goes to get paper Towels right close the to the immensity of the shower room right across from Mike’s room he says he will return with towels although noticing the amount of peach cobbler consumed at the dining hall and Bakely’s upsetness the paper towels may be slow in coming. Spunky Pete has just come in with the two pizzas, maybe three. I don’t notice because the cross talk mega-routine is about to begin and I’m all keyed up as the Pergamese brothers from the Jupiter Temple in old Roman Pergamum begin the insults……”May the streaming lava of Vesuvius pour its igneous waste into your underpants!” Big laugh this is my best of the night. Larry: “May a thousand Gladiators endow your girlfriend with a host of scabrous sores” Not much laughter. Mike laughs though. He is the emperor of the proceedings. The laughter of the Gods.

“May a thousand red ants devour your lower intestine!”

“May the wrath of Isis spray Pompeian lava on your priceless stamp collection!”

Bob talking about new Stone’s Exile, and why no one has heard it but instead plays Jumpin’ Jack Flash and hits all day. I didn’t hear him. I’m buying mostly Opera now. “And those three men I respect the most…they all went out for Melba toast the day the music…..” Why is he invoking The Trinity in the song? Who are they? CS&N? And I try and I try, I can’t get no.

“Hey, is there any pizza left? I’m wasted!”

I ask Bob who is a History major about my paper, and he likes my thesis, promises to read what I have so far. Bob mentions legacy of Frederick the Great who spoke French, and that the German princes were Francophiles so they did not patronize German lit very much. The Duke of Weimar, his support of Goethe, Schiller, that’s when it got off the ground. By the 1860’s the Brits were all learning Deutsch, and Sir Walter Scott was indeed interested in German Ballads. This consoles me. But then Bob mentions the influence from Gothic, ie, Ann Radcliff,(“Have you read, “The Mysteries of Udolfo?” “No, who is she?”)

My paper is going to suck.

As I awaken with hangover, I am reminded of Freshman Year. I was on the second floor with the stoners. I didn’t like the second floor, everyone doing drugs. One entire weekend people tripping but I refused to do it. The Study Hall was two floors high, linking the first and second floors so I got to know the first floor people and it was more fun since they were coherent.

I was never sure about Scott Mechanic’s water bed though. But there were lots of girls leaving his apartment. I think they wanted to be deflowered, because the same ones never returned. He was not a romantic. And then Scott Mechanic had Di Beissinger, who is a nice calligrapher, write the words to “I’m Looking for a Hard Headed Woman,” by Cat Stevens on a large piece of art paper and taped it to the door of his dorm room.

Di Beissunger however did play the piano. She fast studied all the songs for our musical “Godmother’s Revenge,” which was a takeoff on “The Godfather” which Nardotti and I concocted while searching Pattee for Rogers and Hammerstein scores and adding our own lyrics. Mike starred as the Godmother and was a big hit with the crowd. This was a competition at Warnock Hall, and we won the award. Going back to our dorm with the exultant cast, I found myself hungering for Tracey O’Shea whose short skirt had escaped my notice, but which now, flowing in the autumnal breeze as we all left the Quad, called out to me and whispered,“Come hither, O Liffey Boy!” That Irish twinkle in the eyes has always slain me and did so at present moment.

Nevertheless, “Godmother’s Revenge” convinced me that the Theater was my true vocation.

DELIGHTFUL FLASHBACK

It was July, in Philadelphia, sitting watching TV with my father, whose wife, that is my mom, had left him the year before. She found her own apartment and refused to speak with him. I never discovered the reason. My father is on the sofa and I am watching Masterpiece Theater and my father asks what I am watching and I say “Pere Goriot” and my father says, “That sounds like our name,” then he gets his coat and leaves. Those are the last words I hear him say. After the program I go to my mother’s apartment and it is raining a lot and three hours later my mother gets the phone and it is from the hospital saying that my father shot himself in the head and my mother goes to the hospital and calls me later to tell me that he is dead.

“And if I find my hard headed woman, I know the rest of my life will be blessed.”

But why these woeful tones? Let us tune our pipes to sounds of mirth! We are lucky. We are fortunate. We will never forget this time…..if we live through it. I had lucked out. It is junior year and I have the dorm room to myself. The school has not assigned me a roommate.

THEATER DEPARTMENT AT PENN STATE.

Junior year arrives and I am a Theater Major.

This is a time of mystery. Hushhh

Dennis Twinning is set to revolutionize the art of the Stage Management. He is so capable it is frightening. He knows everyone, everyone loves him, and he is my roommate! One day he tells me that he loves me. I am flattered and a bit confused.

Now this this summer while I act in the Nittany Drama Festival, Denny, also Stage Manager of the Gods rents a house for the following Fall semester, 123 Stone Square the beginning of my senior year, to which shall be selected as housemates those whom Dennis considers the crème de la crème of the theater department; those chosen ones destined to make it and God protect those who are not chosen. I am chosen.

Stone Square is the unofficial, fashionable center of the Senior Year Theater Department. Stone Square will make or break those, like myself, privileged to dwell within those walls.

And the new head Director of the Theatre Department is Hunt Fowler.

There are times when one takes comfort in not possessing the genius of Edgar Allen Poe. If one did have such ability then the events which I am to about to describe would have the reader screaming in frozen terror and running from the room to take comfort in a dry martini or a few chapters of The Hobbit. Yet even the great Poe only describes such innocent things as tell-tale hearts, black cats and premature burials whereas I must undertake a much darker topic namely the advent and deeds of the recently appointed head of the directing department at the Pennsylvania State University Department of Theater Arts that is to say Hunt Fowler, who in tandem with legally wedded spouse endeavor to transform a community of young actors and actresses into their own personal harem. But I am getting ahead of myself. Denny Twining allies himself with Hunt by elective affinity not physically of course since Denny’s cast iron course is set so as to avoid any messy entanglements which would interfere with Destiny.

I, meanwhile, residing two months now in Stone Square and occupying the nicest bedroom, am frantically attempting, after having seen “That’s Entertainment,” to find movie books in Pattee Library that contain photos of Eleanor Powell in “Born to Dance” Yes! Eleanor Powell, latest manifestation of The Goddess, to whom I am devoted while in the midst of overwhelming stress preparing for the role of Touchstone in the PSU theatre production of “As You Like It” directed by Hunt Fowler.

The rehearsals have been going on for two weeks now and Hunt is attempting to break me down. During rehearsals, he humiliates me and finds jolly amusement in it. So do the crew who laugh at remarks like, “What are you doing??!!! That’s early Beowulf!” referring, I imagine, to that distant time when Shakespeare’s bardic ancestors preferred beer and manly conquest to Cleopatras in drag and digging up propaganda for the Tudors. Like a deer caught in the headlights I’m hardly aware of the full extent of this abuse. It suddenly hits home however when Cathy Hadden, the actress playing Rosalind, hugs me during a break and says, “I hate to see him do that to you.” What does she mean? Yes, perhaps this is all wrong. But Dennis is close to Hunt and Dennis and Hunt know all. Back to rehearsal it occurs to me that Twining and Hunt have been discussing my personal life and possible “inner blocks” which might be preventing me from producing the hidden sparks of brilliance which they believe to be necessary to acting this role. I think, “Does this breaking down process have something to do with getting me out of a closet?” But which closet? I think, there are so many.

NO! You’re not in the light! I spoke with Del Boordts and he said that when you were in his lighting class you we’re in a fog and not listening to a word he said!!! There, now you’re in your light. No!!! Now you’re out of it again!”

Two days later I am in his office. He speaks in measured tones, almost paternal. I think he wants me to quit. I also would like to quit but I refuse to give in. Then after some scattershot pseudo-Stanislavskian verbiage which I can’t completely recall but which I’m sure included sly references to “opening myself up,” he then placed his arms around me, gave me a long hug and said…..”My father also died when I was young.” Pause. I think, “How does he know this? I never told him about my father’s suicide. The plot thickens. I leave Hunt’s office and decide I will quit. Then, as I head to the doors leading out of the Theater Building, I pass the front lobby and see George Lambert. George doesn’t notice me since he has a script in his hand and is going over blocking, hopping from point to point almost bumping his head against the box office counter. The blocking looks somewhat familiar to me. It is familiar because it is my blocking. Having been born in a trunk, it doesn’t take the old noggin too much time to realize what particular rottenness is going on in Denmark. George is preparing to take over my role after I quit.

Then and there I make my decision.

No one will take this role away from me! If anyone is going to ruin this show, it is going to be me!

My father once gave me a piece of advice. He said, “You shouldn’t play with yourself.” I took this, at first hearing, as a reference to my imaginary playmate, Brenda, who had strangely disappeared some years previous. Upon further consideration, however, I determined that his statement had something to do with discoveries by my mother while doing the laundry. But since this was the only time my father ever attempted to impart his wisdom, I had no choice but to cherish his advice and give it a much wider application. I took the words “playing with myself” as an injunction to avoid self-centeredness and never neglect the needs of others; and most especially, to see things from the other guy’s point of view. I’ve tried my best, throughout life, to do this, but there are limits.

Sam Lachhaupt, fellow resident of Stone Square decides to have a theme party; namely, a “roaring twenties” party to which the usual crème de la crème of the theater department will be invited and have, presumably the last bash of the spring semester. But here is the rub. Sam is a fanatic lover of Ethel Merman, while I am a Jolson fanatic. So, as we plan the party, it inadvertently becomes a gladiatorial combat of sorts to determine which iconic singer will most psych-up the party: Al or Ethel. I am full armed with my Jolson LPs while Sam has his Ethels (His confidence was boosted with new Dyna-groove recording of “Anything Goes.”)

So all the invitations are written and mailed. We plan the party for the following Friday and urge everyone to wear Jazz Age attire or something close to it.

Meanwhile, my dramatic mega-class, TheArt #550, is hurtling towards its final month. Taught by Meisner guru Professor Lucien Du Barry, this class is designed to provide an in depth training in every aspect of the performing arts. It is a three hour deal, and every day one hour is devoted to Dance, one to Voice Training, and the last hour to Acting with Prof Lucien Du Barry. This class is by audition only and every Spring, after the posting of the chosen ones, there is universal howling and gnashing of teeth. I myself did not get in the first year that I auditioned. When, the following year, I reveal this fact to Myra Diller, she says, “Well, if I hadn’t gotten in the class at my first audition, I would have gone to another school.” Strongly disagreeing I respond, “But I could never leave my friends here, and besides I believe in persistence…why should I run off to another college that might not have the great new facilities that exist here, also the Creamery….” I don’t believe I was convincing her, but she kept listening to me. She had sent me a nice Christmas card during rehearsals of As You Like It and I figured she fancied me a bit. Actually I liked her too. So I continue, “And besides, Myra, there are lots of tough breaks in this business; think of the shows that succeed on the road and close in NYC because of bad reviews, and consider the enormous competition, and what about the stars that are huge successes on B-Way but never get chosen for the movie versions, like Ethel Merman just to take one example.”

She had to go to a class so I give her a kiss, head towards the Creamery for my usual “Milk, Shaken not Stirred” and think about what she said. I sit for an hour at the Creamery utterly downcast, believing that Myra Diller was right and that I had wasted my entire Junior Year. “Myra is ambitious,” I think. Even Denny said, “You and and Myra WILL MAKE IT.” I dread the thought of letting Denny down by not making it. I still do.

Why do things have to be so complicated?

And “Why does love have to be so bad?” Coincidence, I am just now walking by the Duane Allman cement memorial. Layyyylaaaaaaaa!!!!

Now I go to acting class. Prof Lucien Du Barry is a nice guy but today he goes too far and tells the class that they must have a sacrifice. Immediately, I know what he’s up to; the origins of theater in ritual and blood. Then he says we must select the most pure victim. This is too much. Everyone looks instinctively at the nicest woman there. I’m really pissed with Lucien. He commands 6 guys to lift her and take her to be sacrificed. Then her boyfriend begins to cry. This is too much and I want to strangle Prof Du Barry. Anyway I leave class with a heavy heart and wonder if it’s too late switch to Computer Science. It’s too late. Besides, there’s no future in computers.

THE PARTY. R RATING.

Right now I am wishing I were homeless. Tonight is the much awaited roaring twenties party. As I take my morning shower, I imagine getting a phone call informing me that a very rich uncle has left me his entire estate including a tropical island to which I can flee by taking a convenient afternoon flight, thus missing the much awaited roaring twenties party. As I dry myself and dress, I become aware of my daydreaming and make the brave decision to face reality. This I do by taking a shot of Vodka. I see Denny come into the house. He has a box of donuts and some things for the party. Although doing his share in the preparation, Dennis has been gradually entering into a state of partial occultation. He has one foot in the present, but the other is now entering his future Destiny as letters arrive from Louisville. I receive a number of calls, all from people asking for him. One call comes from Hunt who pretends not to know me. I also pretend not to know me.

I will now attempt to recall the people who came. I still have the paper napkin from Mr. Donut upon which the guests’ names are recorded for the ages. There was Jake Barrington and his girlfriend, Nancy “Trigger” McCoy. Henry Epps, Professor of scene design and heavy drinker was also there. His kept complaining about hay fever. I was thrilled to see the Bumper twins, Viola and Sandy. They were usually the life of any party. The week before Christmas break they pulled a stunt in acting class which is now legend. Viola had gotten into #550, but Sandy was rejected. One day, Sandy came to class and did Viola’s scene from “Streetcar.” After the scene, Lucien Du Barry said, “Viola! You’re finally getting it. You have genuine moments!” Viola came the next day, did the scene and of course Lucien remarked that “she had regressed a bit.” They also came to our party wearing the same outfits. I was hoping this would lead to amusing moments later in the evening insofar as Dan Lambert was still hopelessly in love with Sandy. She had “melancholy eyes,” or something like that. For indeed, the autumnal feeling I mentioned before permeated the atmosphere. There was a palpable awareness that this would be the last opportunity for frustrated lovers to finally possess the person who had eluded them the entire year.

It’s now the first phase of the bash, so most people are crowded in the living room. I am on the living room sofa sitting with a number of people which, I have no doubt, far exceeds the safety limit prescribed for this particular sofa model. Sally Hindley, wearing a very tight dress, crashes upon my lap. I attempt to preserve my cool and reach my hand to the table for more potato chips. I wonder what idiot got onion flavored chips, then realize I myself bought them at McLanahan’s, having at that moment been preoccupied with Myra’s steely determination and wondering how soon she would be on Broadway.

Anyway, where are we? Yes, Jazz Age Party, Sally Hindley on my lap attempting to provoke reaction in quixotic delusion. It’s 11:30, I’m schmoozing with Lucien du Barry, but, alas, a lost cause. I instinctively intuited this when taking my morning shower and taking calls from Louisville Actors’ Theatre for Dennis Twining that by evening I would be too sloshed to network. Lucien says to me (he’s rather too close, invading my space with gin and tonic in hand) that I still need more sense memory.
So at this gin and tonic moment, Director James Girard enters with the cast of his cabaret show which has just finished at the Pavilion, “Gershwin is Alive!!!” cramming into humungous Stone Square house and asks Kevin McMullen for drinks. His cabaret entourage perspiring with the glow of recent applause. Doesn’t matter. Sally is still on my lap and digging down into my crouch as if prospecting for gold all the while I’m hoping she will attempt to stake her claim somewhere further down the Klondike.

For the last hour, Sam’s Ethel Merman records have been playing with no response, while everyone is networking in vain since rather than putting up the old good front, inane remarks about Clifford Odets’ involvement with the Reds are being tumbled about, while Myra meanwhile has stayed away from this party so as to consolidate carnal texture with James Hammerworth, future enfant terrible at Ashland, OR.
Merman record ends. I put on Jolson. At the first sounds of “Swanee,” graduate student and overall genius, Maxwell Higgins, shouts out, “MY PARENTS LOVED THIS!!!!” And the party, at this point reaches a veritable empyrean of joy and overall craziness. How can I describe this? I cannot.
Admit it, dearest friends, those moments we most treasure, heaped up in rolls of our precious DNA precede by millions upon millions of years the slow tedious evolution of human speech and all feeble attempts to express the unexpressible; “How I love ya’ how I love ya, myyyy dearrr ole Swaneeeee!”
Perhaps I’m wired differently that the rest of our species, but at this moment I finally experienced that overwhelming stretch of joy which would otherwise have be attained by succumbing to Sally’s gold digging. I admit it. I’m wired differently. I’m not bragging. I’ve paid for it over the centuries. Believe me.
Jolson continues, Jerry Girard introduces his wife, (Hi!!!) a few more onion flavored chips. I’m drowning in a sea of people on this sofa but can’t get up, (Hey Aqualung!), Sally Hindley goes in search of other quarry. I get up from the sofa and I walk to my bedroom where one can find my bed, my enormous record collection, the guests’ coats and……..Audrey Teicher.

Audrey Teicher is sitting upon my bed. I see her. She looks as if she is about to cry. Her boyfriend, Barrington Skye, is giving her trouble. I know this by instinct. I see her tears. I am usually very good in these situations. I am known throughout the Theater Department as the “person to turn to.” I owe this to my seeming Olympian indifference to emotion. Unfortunately I have had too much to drink and can only stare at her. She is the chief choreographer at PSU and the most decent human I know. She tries to disguise her pain, moves to my large record collection and begins to browse the LPs.

“Oh, I love these. Here!” She pulls out an LP. “Play this!” It is “The Band.” I tell her that I can’t play it because this is a theme party. This is a roaring 20’s Jazz Age Party. She really wants to hear “The Band” and suggests that “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” is thematically related to Jolson’s “Swanee.” I am almost persuaded. But I say no.

Then she sees another LP. It is a two record set containing all the early Brunswick recordings of Fred Astaire. This includes all the classic Berlin, Gershwin, and Kern songs from the classic RKO films with Fred and Ginger. This is from the Thirties but I concede.

I put on the disc. The first song is “Dancing Cheek to Cheek.” She comes alive, so do I. Her eyes are no longer moist and red. She gets up from the bed and comes over to me.

She wants to dance. Terror. I am the worst dancer in the world. Audrey is a brilliant choreographer. What to do? I dance. She is very gentle. She doesn’t expect much. But the music carries us along. “Heaven, I’m in heaven, and…..” She just wants to move and holds me. The progression from song to song exhilarates. These, I think, are the most beautiful ballads ever composed. I can tell that it is helping her. Then I am really dancing and I become the worthy partner of a choreographer. I don’t even care if it is the Vodka. Barrington Skye disappears from her mind and there remains only the sound of Irving Berlin and the movement of our bodies.

A few songs follow. Then comes, “The Way You Look Tonight.” I have always considered this the most beautiful song ever written. I wish it were not playing on the stereo. But it’s there. We take in every note and dance. More songs and more dancing, while we laugh. This is fun.

I think an hour passed but I am not completely certain. This is the happiest hour of my life. I didn’t know it then.

Audrey Teicher died ten years later. I was told by Debby Stowe. At the time, I was working at a record store in Philadelphia. Debby called in the morning to tell me. That afternoon a guy I knew from PSU came into Sam Goody’s on Chestnut Street and told me how well Myra was doing in New York. I barely listened. I was thinking of Audrey and dancing cheek to cheek. Once I tried to find out where she was buried. But I didn’t know the people close to her. I’m not sure if there are such things as flowers of memory to honor her, but I have tried my best.

Alcohol has its own trajectory. First exhilaration, then a period of wonderful forgetfulness followed by the conviction that anything can be achieved. One is desirable, to men, women, and all creation. The ability to act upon these feelings however is somewhat impaired. I am in my bedroom sitting against the wall near the window. The window overlooks the garden. As I said, I have the nicest room in the house for sure. The party is still going on. We are resting after “Never Gonna Dance.” She then takes her coat and says she has to leave. She bends down and kisses me. I smile again and say how great it was.

I am still sitting against the wall. I looked out of the window for a moment. There was a moon. There is always a moon at times like this. I hate moons.

I think about the “connect the dots” books I had as a kid. When you put them together, the figure becomes recognizable. For three years the picture had slowly come into focus. Now I felt that I was seeing only the dots again.

I stopped the wool gathering and looked out the window. The moon was gone. I had fallen asleep with my head against the wall and no longer heard sounds of festivity. The party was over and I had not said goodbye to anyone. The entire evening was like one of those Arthurian enchantments.

THE SUMMIT

The next day Dennis called me into his room. He was behind his desk and I took a chair.

“So are you coming with me or not?” he asked.

“Where is that?”

“Ashland Shakespeare, It’s all settled. I have the job.”

“That’s great.” I’m confused. “I thought you were going to Louisville.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Uh……the phone calls, I’ve been taking the calls.”

“Oh that,” Dennis smiles and picks up a pencil. He taps it on his desk. “I’m just getting a few recommendations from there. I know the General Manager.”

“I thought it was Myra who was….”

“No, no, she’s going to New York, but she has things going on at Louisville. Pielmeister is writing a play with her in mind.”

I was very confused; a quite normal state for me. I’ll go further, confusion has always been my shield and chief means of defense against reality. A continual state of confusion usually clears up everything.

“But Myra is going to New York this fall. Anyway, do you love me?”

“I can’t really say right now.”

He stopped tapping with his pencil.

“OK, then are you coming to Ashland with me?”

“Look Dennis, it’s been a long year, well two years really. I’m exhausted….and disillusioned, let’s say…yes, disillusioned. Here is it. I don’t think that I have the talent.”

Dennis smiles. He seems relived that my objections are so puny.

“Look, there is no such thing as talent in the theatre. There is only opportunity. You get the opportunity to act consistently. You gradually get better. Eventually you become brilliant. I can give you the opportunity.”

I listen and am not sure what to say. It’s strange, but whenever you think that you’re finally having a lovely moment of fellowship with a another biped, you suddenly have a burning desire to be alone and run off to Mr. Donut where you can have 5 chocolate glazed in a row and be completely safe from humans who will always ultimately reveal themselves to be not entirely right in their heads. So it was at the present moment.

“I have to think about it.”

“Look, I understand the trauma. My father also died when I was very young.”

This was getting repetitive. It made me wonder if there were at present any fathers at all living and bestriding the earth’s crust.

“Well, Hunt said the same thing….and speaking of Hunt…..” I was getting angry.

“Forget Hunt. He’s history. A graduate committee is forming. They’ve had enough.”

“But he has tenure, and aren’t you friends, and…..?”

“I shouldn’t be telling you any of this, but I care for you deeply. They have enough on him. He should be out in one year, two at the most. In fact Skip Barnes wants you to write something about your awful experience on “As You Like It” for their dossier.”

“Wait,” I said to Denny. “This thing about talent in the theatre, I mean if talent isn’t necessary, then why get a degree? Why did I go through hell these past four years? Why did I have to be depressed for an entire year because I didn’t get into Lucien du Barry’s class, and then be depressed another year because I did?”

Dennis was happy that I was arguing. Strife is the very essence of drama, its innermost pith we might add. He went on as follows, “Well it’s always good to have credentials. I mean it looks good on paper.”

“Chaplin didn’t have a degree, neither did Gable…..or Eleanor Powell.

“Did you ever see a Chaplin film?”

“The Gold Rush.”

“Did you like it?”

“No.”

“Well? See?”

There was a pause. I felt the force of his conclusion, but wasn’t certain that I hadn’t been tricked by some logical fallacy. I mean, could Denny’s remarks be comfortably put into syllogistic form? I wasn’t sure. And besides, he didn’t address my love of Gable and Eleanor Powell. I love “Red Dust” and “The Misfits” and don’t even get me started on Eleanor Powell.

I wish it had ended there. Truly. But while I was momentarily contemplating the mysteries of the Eternal Feminine (ie, Eleanor), Denny, as was his fashion, had to bring it all crashing down to earth:

“Well there was Myra Diller who wanted you! I mean you could have gone either way!”

“What?”

I mean, isn’t that the way it is with people like you, playing for two teams?”

“It’s not intentional. I’m confused.”

“I mean your career. The Christmas party we had here. It was an intimate group. She was here. It was the only time she was here. You know that of course. Yes you do! Well why do you think she was here? Do I have to spell it out? She was here for you! And you left! You wrote some silly letter about your Uncle Joe being sick, when you don’t even have an Uncle Joe and then took a bus to Philadelphia. And at the same time you were crossing Harrisburg, I guess, Myra was here hoping to solidify your relationship so that she’d have a boyfriend to go to New York with. Of course, she would have dumped you in a few months, but Christ, by that time you would have had tons of real contacts instead of going to humiliating open calls which destroy the soul and everything else.”

Dennis finished. I got up and said, “Ok, I’ll think about it.”

I left the room and walked down the corridor. I stopped and looked at the screen door leading to the garden. The sun was shining, of course. “I have to get out of here” I think. I went to look for my denim jacket. I always keep it in my bedroom closet but lately I had been putting everything in the wrong place, so I checked the hallway closet instead. It wasn’t there, so I had to look in my bedroom closet after all. I walked into the bedroom, got the thing and put it on. As I turned, I noticed the Fred Astaire record on the turntable. I thought about the night before and dancing with Audrey.

In the movies, things always end at the right time. In life, it all just drags on and on. Life has no sense of timing. If life made a film, I wouldn’t go see it.

BUTTON GIRL #2. IPHIGENEIA LYNN AULIS

I once heard F. Scott Fitzgerald described as the “poet of failure,” so, of course, he’s my favorite author. But at present I am at the Creamery, at the half way mark in my strawberry shake, reading Franz Kafka’s “Letters to Felicia.” Yes! Franz Kafka was in love, and I hold in my hands the collected correspondence of F.K. to his girlfriend, Felicia Bauer.

But at present I am looking at the girl behind the counter. I can tell she is a student. She has that stressed out look which characterizes those about to endure finals week. She is very nice. As I plumb the final depths of my lactic beverage, making a few gurgling sounds along the way, I feel that I should address her. But what to ask? I spend five minutes thinking of a good introductory question but I am stymied. Stymied by what? Shyness? Fear of rejection? Nietzsche writes that human consciousness is a late development in human evolution, an adventitious appendage attached to the instincts. It gets in the way and is something like a cancerous tumor blocking the robust assertion of the instincts. I want to know this girl. So, taking Nietzsche into account, here I am contributing to the decline of Western Culture by not coming right out and not speaking to this girl. Quite a weight to carry.

“Well, it’s finals week. How the time flies!”

She turns, looks at me and replies, “Oh yeah, I have two tomorrow.”

“What’s your major?”

“French Language and Lit. I get outta here at 5:00. Then it’s break the books time.”

“And you?”

“I’m in the Theatre Department.”

“Oh wow.”

Now being the nominal male, and having mastered all of Joni Mitchell, I don’t want it to be “all about me” so I ask her a question.

“I’d like to ask you…well I really like the legends of King Arthur…and I’ve always wanted to know the correct way to pronounce “Chrétien de Troyes.”

She smiles and pronounces it with a beautiful French accent. I repeat it, forcing myself to be a bit clumsy.

“Thank you! I have a collection, in….ah, English and Chrétien de Troyes, as I’m sure you know, composed the first tale of Percival. I’m really into the Grail myth.”

She stops drying the glasses. We are now going to have a real conversation.

“I had a few weeks of medieval French. But it was part of a survey course. Medieval French is tough. I mean it’s beautiful, but it was work. Really. Hey my name is Lynn.”

“I’m Frank. Hi!”

I am now in present time. I am taking a break from the “Eternal Feminine” and conversing with an actual incarnate representative of this ideal.

“Do you want another shake? What are you reading?”

“Oh it’s the letters which Franz Kafka wrote to his fiancée, Felicia Bauer. They never married. It’s didn’t work out. Quite sad.

“He wrote the story about the guy who wakes up as a bug,”

“…..yes. ‘The Metamorphosis’.”

Now her name being “Lynn” brings up a memory. My very first semester at PSU, there was a girl in my English class, also named Lynn, who saw that my shirt was missing a button. The next class, she presented me with a small piece of cardboard around which was white thread and a needle. I couldn’t believe she had noticed. This was so kind. We spoke for a short while but I didn’t follow it up. I seem to recall that she had a boyfriend. But I may have imagined this as an excuse to forgive myself for not following it up. For three years, I thought of her as “The Button Girl.” I kept the cardboard with the thread. It was a treasure. In fact, after my father died I went right into the basement in my Philly home and looked at it. I was determined to find her when I got back to PSU. Having been immersed in Jungian lore, I was convinced that SHE WAS THE ONE. What would Joseph Campbell say? He would interpret the thread as having represented the string that enabled Jason to escape the labyrinth of the Minotaur. This girl was thus Ariadne, a mythic archetype and therefore one whom I should have asked out. I didn’t ask her though. I had missed my moment.

But here was another Lynn! The second chance which Parsifal was granted.

“Yes, please.”

“Strawberry?”

“Sure!”

While she was making the shake I attempted to channel my inner Louis Jordan. She was Leslie Caron. If I could just have one date, this entire four year crash course in misery would be redeemed.

I was the only customer in the Creamery. Ergo, if I made an idiot of myself only she, I, and Franz Kafka would know about it.

She placed the shake on the counter and said, “Wait….I saw you in a play. Yes! It was “Fiddler on the Roof.”

“Wow, yes. I was Motel.”

“The part where you were so happy to see your new sewing machine. It was SO cute.”

Cute. This is not good. Nietzsche’s instinctual man is not cute. But there is hope. I continue.

I wake up the next day. As I emerge from sleep I think that it’s Tuesday, but it’s actually Wednesday. At least I’m close. Once I thought it was Saturday and then realized it was Monday. That was terrifying, something I never want to live through again. I have one remaining final exam, GeoSci, a requirement which I had put off for years. My door is locked. I am determined to spend this morning in reflection. I had finally made my decision: no Oregon. I didn’t want to travel that far, I didn’t want to be with Dennis Twinning, and most importantly, I did not want to appear in plastic Shakespeare plays in the boondocks which perpetuated the mistaken notion that The Bard was anything other than a drunken pedophile and overall creep. (Read Twelfth Night and see what I mean.) Give me the Unities and Racine!

Lynn Aulis, the girl I met at the Creamery, said she would meet me at the Rathskeller after her exams. This was just the first date so I was purely interested in deep conversation. This in spite of the fact that post-exam exhaustion usually provides the perfect aphrodisiac. But my intentions were honorable. How else could it be when a relationship begins with a discussion of King Arthur? I recalled the end of previous academic terms. Last Spring, I had to fulfill one more credit in Tech and that meant striking a set. Striking a set, for me, is the highest form of Drama Criticism. Just writing a review, for example, is completely tepid compared to the joyful tearing apart every remnant of a play that you didn’t like. It embodies the difference between theory and action. Or as my old pal Che Guevara once said, “Striking a set is theatre criticism as guerilla war.”

A knock on the door. It’s Sam wanting to return my Jolson albums. I say I’m still asleep and he leaves.

I suspect he wants to pick my brain in regard to yesterday’s talk with Denny. But my lips are sealed. Discretion is always wise, considerate and also keeps your dorsal area free of knife wounds. It took four years but I learned. Speaking of which, people always say, “I learned the hard way,” but is there any other way? I’ve never heard anyone say, “I learned the easy way,” except perhaps for people on Berlitz commercials.

Such are my reflections. I know. It’s not Sartre.

(First Date with Lynn and Invocation.)

CATALOGUE OF THE BEERS

It is 7:30 and I am at the Rathskeller. Lynn Aulis soon arrives. I wave to her and pull out a chair. She is lovely. But for the moment I must turn my tale to bolder themes and then declare:

SING GODESS! HEAVENLY MUSE! For Thou alone can name of the Brews of Yore,

We mortals who perish cannot recall the names, but Thou, Divine One, O Parnassian!

Can number every one and recall heroic times! For behold I hear the sounds of Strife,

Of those with hearts of iron who over the mead of Demeter would clash in ceaseless roar

Regarding strength of Teams! Their Stats! The Players! We see their like no more.

Of Joseph Schlitz, the first we sing, Famed of Milwaukee, whose nectar bears Thy name, thy amber beverage, Favorite of the Gods! Wisconsin’s boast, long nights along Lake Michigan,

Thy drink refreshed and blitzed us!

And rival fierce from stern Wisconsin comes Frederick Pabst, whose mighty brew drew forth Blue Ribbons! Remembered ever! Titanic Colt the 45th in his line whose power moves the whirlwind and rivals the thunderbolt of Zeus! And Schmidt, the Locrian, who wields the bow, less than Colt but greater than the men who draw breath today! May their deeds be never unrecorded!

From Rochester next, Genny Cream Ale, fierce Huntress! Strides with immortal step, her sandaled feet which barely touch the growing corn! Great Amazon, thy arrows take away the breath of men!

Brooklyn Piels with his companions, Bert and Harry, who wield the leather chariot straps and guide the steeds, immortal progeny of Zeus! For such horses men will shed much blood in hasty combat.

A sight for Olympus which makes glad the heart of blood soaked Ares!

Finally the King of Beers himself strides forth, encased in Bronze, Adolphus Busch whose mighty Clydesdales snort fire before his path, from Mainz he hails along the Rhine bringing Bud the Greater and the younger son, Bud Lite, both in filtered an in draft. May I never face their wrath!

THE LAST DATE.

“So, Lynn, how were your exams?” I ask.

“I think I aced them,” she replies. I’m exhausted. Great to see you again! Ok, let’s order.”

Waiter comes. I know him from the “My Oh My.” That’s the gay bar. He sees me with a girl and pretends not to know me. Not necessary, “Hi Jason!”

“Hey Frankie!”

I love it when people call me “Frankie.” I feel like Sinatra without having any right to the claim. But who cares? We’re all strangers in the night!

“What’ll yah have?”

Lynn, with the assurance of one who has spent the day in examination mode replies, “Rolling Rock.”

I ask for the same.

“You got it!”

Jason smiles and turns away. It’s a busy night. The bar is filled with exhausted souls who desire relief from the echoing strains of “all of the above,” or “none of the above,” which has constituted their existence this day, May 22, 1975. It’s not too loud thank heavens.

“So, it must be great to be creative.”

“What?”

“The Theatre. I said it must be great to be creative.”

“Oh sure”

“I had so much work this term. Didn’t get to see you in anything this year. Sorry!”

She looks exhausted from the exams. It adds to her beauty. Like Scarlett O’ Hara after having fled the burning of Atlanta.

I reply, “No problem. Actually, you didn’t miss much.”

“No plays?”

“Well….” I reply.

I just notice how intensely blue her eyes are.

“I did a few plays. But they were quite experimental. Theatre of Cruelty you might say.”

“Artaud?”

You see I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name….it’s good to get out of the rain.

I hate this song.

“Yeah.”

“So tell me about the exams.”

“Worse than I expected. But I got it. I knew he would have stuff from Racine and I spent most of my time on ‘Phedre,” and “Berenice,” but there was a huge passage from “Andromaque.” But I got the whole friggin’ thing, you bet!”

Her self-assurance was formidable. She is strong. Nothing will stop her. She overcomes all obstacles……And I am in love.

I want to say the perfect thing, and I do!

“That’s nice.”

She has blonde hair, blue eyes, and curses. Just like Carole Lombard.

Our beers arrive.

“Thanks, Jason! How’s Computer Science?”

“What?”

“How’s computer Science?”

“Great! Enjoy!” He’s overworked. How much does he make here?

We discuss a variety of topics: her hours at the Creamery, where’s she’s from (Johnstown) and the nature of the concept love in Marcel Proust and the pros and cons of the “transposition” theory, since Marcel’s Albertine is really Alfred Agostinelli etc. She’s finishes the beer in a minute. Jason comes with two more.

“Oh Mandy, Well you came and you gave without taking
But I sent you away, oh Mandy
And you kissed me and stopped me from shaking
And I need you today, oh Mandy….”

Ugh.

The beers arrive, and she seems happy.

“Well I want to teach. I love teaching. I began French in High School and I love it. I love teaching.’

There is a purity here that astonishes me. For Lynn Aulis is discussing her future as a teacher in a secondary school in Johnstown, or Wilkes Barre. She has no desire to be famous.

So what was your other exam?

Lynn continues, “It was “Continental Philosophy,” lots of Hegel and Sartre. I hated it. So frigging boring! (again…Carol Lombard).

I try to respond to her like an intellectual. “Well there seems in existentialism, I mean…ah…a capacity to appropriate ideation…”

She interrupts. “Where’s your dorm?”

“I live in an house off of Stone Square…”

She finishes the second Rolling Rock. Neck upturned to get the last drop. “Great!”

I continue. “Yes…and I think that ‘Being and Nothingness’ represents a negation of Platonist….”

Jason comes to our table. “Another round?”

Lynn says “Pleash!”

After the last swig of Demeter’s gold, Ms. Aulis states,

“Let’s go to your place.”

To Lynn, I say the perfect thing!

“Ok!”

So we head on back as I say to myself: “Oh Pentacula! O Frisbee Gliding Across Beaver Stadium! Gimme Shelter!”

The Roman Forum has disappointed many people who are attempting to find the immensity of a power which overtook the Mediterranean and those fabled lands over which it ruled; one asks and looks with shivered yearning for a definite spot; a place of repose where one can say with any sense of assurance, “Ah, here it is! From this point we see the diamond like arising that created marble from lowly brick, how amazing it all is! Especially with the sudden chill that, in late autumn, awakens memories jabbing into our souls like newly sharpened silverware. Well, then where is this immensity to be located? Is it the Lapis Niger? Or in the many times since restored and ruined Senate House? And what of the Capitoline to which Evander led his herds and looked in wonder in search of the great spirit that would mold the world into a culture zone that still calls to us with words we will never comprehend?”

Only with such reflections can one seek to understand what it was like to have Lynn Aulis in my arms in the northwesterly bedroom at 123 Stone Square at a time when the Penn State Creamery still lay within the jagged structure of Borland Lab. At that moment in 1975, in this beautiful morning to which we awaken there is still a brisk five minute walk from North Halls to The Creamery. Without that brief distance, Lynn Aulis of Runkle Hall would have never taken that position at the Creamery and hence….

All gone now. But then we lived like the gods, for a brief eternity as we two seal ourselves and toss the double ply sheets in an immortality we thought was authentic and might endure with the fastness of the Temple of Vesta or the Circus Maximus as a thousand gladiators lift their swords in tribute to Caesar and shout as with one voice: “Why must I be a teenager in love!”

“You have a large record collection,” she says.

“What?”

“You have a large record collection.”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

“Don’t be silly. Hey, how many people live here?”

“Four, including myself.” She was still going through the records.

“Hey, I’m gonna play this!”

It was “The Band.” Well, as I’ve remarked before, you just can’t fight destiny. No, you can’t. Fate takes the lead and Richmond would fall once again. A night I remember oh so well!

“Hey, Lynn. I have decided to move to New York this Fall. Let’s get a place together.”

She turned to me and said, “I’ll think about it.”

The Big Apple

Well it took a little longer than expected, but by Nov 1st, Lynn and I had a place on St. Marks Place just off Avenue A. Yes indeed, I’m living in the fabled East Village with my blue eyed button girl #2 of the lowlands, who’s taking a graduate degree in French at NYU, while I’m auditioning for anything I see in Back Stage. Every day we go to Gem Spa to get the Times and the Voice when it appears on Wednesdays. We circle the concerts in the East Village and see legendary bands. It was actually quite tough at CBGB’s. One night (The Ramones were playing) I wore a colored scarf. As I went to the restroom someone kicked me downstairs and shouted, “phony Beatlemania!”

After that I wore black.

(Flashback)

I can’t help it. My mind returns to 1973 and cold floors under feet icy with thoughts of morning English Class where I hope to discuss John Cage with Button Girl #1, that is; Lynn Droeger. Cold floors of Leete Hall. Seriously I miss you so much with bathrobe falling off and refitting lest someone from the outer wing meet me with complimentary engendered body colliding towards those very things that produce our children’s children’s children. But never comes the day! I get safely to the first floor Leete shower room, and choose a stall without meeting a person whose name might be Christie.

Another boring Hawthorn story.

Another missed opportunity with Button Girl One.

Another guaranteed B.

“Next time, Guido!”

I remember the icy Leete tiles as I enter the St Marks Bar and Grill on 1st Avenue which is the place to be because the beers are cheep and it’s the secret hideout for the hippest punk people. People who know everyone from The Factory and are waiting for their man on Sunday Morning soon after all Tomorrow’s Parties.

“Hi Allen!”

He’s a poet.

And yes, you’re all thinking, how is it that I wind up in these places? Like 123 Stone Square, it is the In-Place where everyone wants to be who is anybody or aspires to be such. Is it my magnetism? My charisma? Then why am I so miserable? This is also Lynn’s favorite place to go after winding down from classes and there are no french students here with whom to chat which calms my jealousy, because all the french students in the grad dept are at the the Bleeker Street Cinema watching Alphaville for the 10th time.

Being young is a stupid idea. You get all these concepts and impressions of life that will completely reverse themselves in the years to come. Take Show Business. The whole thing is a joke. But every five years or so the idiocy of it all takes on a new dimension. Indeed, each of life’s moments is moronically and meaninglessly constructed. Like a snowflake rejoicing in the knowledge that it will soon melt.

“But does Nina really love me? Of course she does. One day she will come to her senses. This doctor fellow is simply a passing fancy.”

The second and last week of O’Neill’s “Strange Interlude” is playing at a dingy loft on Church Street called “The Theater Cove.” At this time in NYC, anyone could rent a loft rather cheaply and do any play which suited the director’s fancy, with no view at all to the possibility of getting an audience to see it. I was playing Marsden, the old guy who finally gets the girl when they’re both 85 years old. The play is about 5 hours longs, and the director had decided not to make any cuts. I desperately hope that Lynn will not see the play. In fact I explicitly communicate my wishes by telling her over our penultimate Rolling Rock at the St Marks Bar and Grill, “Lynn, do not come to this play. If you do, you will feel regret for the rest of your natural life.”

The play would drag on from 8pm to 1am. The experience was like taking the A train. The short scenes were the local stops and the monologues were the express stops where you waited and hoped to switch to another train. Usually there were three or four people in the audience. Many saw the light in the loft from the street and would walk upstairs, thinking it was a new club. For me it was so depressing after acting on the vast sets at PSU and wearing costumes which the designer would carefully sketch out in pastel and show you weeks before the opening night.

It’s now Saturday at “The Theatre Cove,” and the director, Hedley Shadlow, has decided to make cuts. We mark them down and get to leave early. A few are headed to the “Cupping Room” on Lispenard which is parallel Church St along Canal. I decide to walk home alone and wend my way up Green Street towards home. I pass by a club, “Todd’s,” and find out that Iggy Pop is there trying out new material. I wander in. He has three people backing him. There are about 20 people here and Iggy is going full steam. I nestle by the bar and order a beer. Now this is what happened and I swear it wasn’t the alcohol flooding my veins but rather something that Iggy Pop did in the middle of the song. He stopped and, with his guys still backing him, began slowly to intone “to be or not to be…” and as he did the entire monologue during the jamming, a sudden feeling of transcendence came over me and, well, really when you have a moment like this all powers of reflection stop and a beatific wonderment takes hold during which your brain is somewhere far from the time, a million years ago, when human beings were still unable to articulate (and thereby ruin) the pure magic of a moment which pointed towards eternity. But, you see, it’s all in the game. As the pathetic ideations which we arrogantly call “thinking” began to reemerge within me, I began to disentangle primordial sensations and ruminated the following, “Ok, this is it. Whatever was going on when Hamlet was first performed at The Globe Theatre, it was like this. Like this!!! Not Hunt Fowler and his gimmicks or the Oregonian audience getting their High Culture injected like B Complex…..but rather pure ecstasy. And Iggy Pop was doing it.

But it never lasts, this feeling of complete transcendence, does it? You can only get so far, and then comes the crash. Ugh. Many have pondered this angle through the ages, Socrates in “The Symposium” describes the Platonic Ascent from material things to institutions to abstract concepts and finally ultimately reaching THAT WHICH IS. Something which the Middle Platonists knocked about for a few centuries, coming to final rest in the work of Plotinus and the 7th chapter of St Augustine’s Confessions. I even began to think that Shakespeare wasn’t a crazy pedophile. And as I rose higher and higher, I knew in my depths, as abyss calls to abyss, that all authentic art creates the same effect. I mean it. It’s what we all want. It’s what makes life worth living. And we’d all die to get it.

It was 3 AM, I was on my third beer and switched to wine, hoping to recapture that delicious feeling I had felt at 123 Stone Square when I opened the window from the outside one April evening, after listening to “My Yellow Jacket Girl” by Jean Schwartz on Victor B-12971 March 1913, and while reposing on the Pennsylvanian grass, feeling the light April breeze, watched the stars as I contemplated being a chosen member of yet another lost generation.

Lynn was busy with classes, and for a few months we’d eat together and all that stuff. I loved her in every way possible. Now at this period, much a NYC jazz station played Louis Armstrong all through the 4th of July Weekend. I had a speaker hooked up to the bedroom. It’s 2AM and I’m still awake. Lynn begins, in her sleep to hold me tighter and tighter as if I would fly away. Something is wrong with her. I’ve seen this happening for a while now, like when we had brunch at the Odessa diner on Avenue A and she began to cry for no reason. What’s the matter? Nothing, she says.

I desperately want to make her happy. So I decided to have a party for her. We’d wait for the Fall Semester when everyone came back and I’d invite my Theater friends and Lynn’s NYU pals. And I would find the perfect mix. Don’t forget, I had lots of practice from 123 Stone Square. And there would be all the right people. And I don’t mean the most talented or the most intelligent or the most attractive. Just The Best.

Well, September come she will, and I called everyone. St Marks Place was a big draw and I knew that no one who was anyone would miss out on this opportunity. One of Lynn’s friends knew Jean Luc Godard which would bring in my Thespians, and I knew Debby Harry which brought in everyone else. I felt so good about this, that returning from my day job selling TV Guide at Campaign Communications Inc, I took my Bix and Tram LP and must have played, “I’m Coming Virginia” a hundred times.

O Sancta Sanctorum……

The Apartment is filled with people. When did this happen? I am surprised by the number of people that showed up. There are times when one is wrested from one’s private agonies to discover that you are actually liked. This is what having a “mystique” is all about. From the vantage point of the centuries as I look back upon those days I can see, and all but wonder, how attractive and desirable the tormented personality is to most people. Monty Cliff had it. James Dean had it. I had it. But the whole point is not to articulate it. Be tormented and silent and the world is yours! But there’s a catch (isn’t there always?) If you are genuinely tormented, there is no possible way you can enjoy the love, attention and interest which you generate by virtue of your self-tormenting mystique. Liz Taylor loved Monty Cliff. It didn’t matter. Ann Margaret loved Elvis. Didn’t matter. As you go to your doom, the most beautiful souls surround you and want to know you. You could have sex with them, but that would break the spell. The most beautiful girls who know that they are the most beautiful girls know that if they make love to you that they will destroy the mystique. They know from the depths of that feminine intuition which Goethe celebrated in the final lines of his immortal poem that once you have sex with them, you will no longer be tormented, your mystique will vanish, and you will become reduced to a pathetic, boring human being, of no use to anyone. Thus, maintaining the expectation of one’s own personal Ragnarok is an ongoing task that must be nurtured, cultivated and seen by the Beautiful Souls of this World. A shooting star possesses an astonishing beauty. “Better to burn out than fade away…hey hey my my.”

“This is Antoine, he’s doing his Masters’ Thesis on Proust.”

Lynn is like this. She knows I love Proust. She wants to make me happy. Always.

“Hi, great apartment! I love the East Village. So you know Debbie Harry?”

“Well, yes, I was at a concert and the next day saw her shopping at Fast Buy on the Bowery and we had a nice conversation which led to ….I invited her but…Sooo, when did you get into Proust?”

Antoine begins. “At the Sorbonne. I met Yves Tandis and he asked me to do some textual research…..”

It is too noisy for any intellectual discussion. I am distracted by the music, and a bit tipsy. All I want is for Lynn to have a good time.

Marie Costanza came over and eyed Antoine. Lynn had wandered off. Antoine and Costanza began to chat. I have no idea what they were saying. I was listening to “I’m Coming Virginia” and looking forward to the Hot Five disks soon to come. Marie commented briefly on Proust’s novel, “I’ve only read Proust in English and I love his profound examination of jealousy but could never quite understand why Marcel wouldn’t just take a cab to the Trocadero, find Albertine, give her a slap, and ask, ‘Are you a Sapphic?’ I mean, it might have spared us another 1,000 pages of hideous anguish.” Lynn had told me that Antoine lived in the Latin Quarter, which I had hoped to visit some day. Consequently, I had no intention of offending him.

Even still, I wanted to escape.

Marty and Andrea Kosac from The Tisch School began to approach Antoine like two birds of prey. I had to see this. I stayed at a safe distance of course but remained close enough to overhear. I was certain that Antoine had not met any metropolitan thespians of the female sex. I wanted to protect him. Marty and Susie introduced themselves to Antoine. After the usual 27 seconds it began:

“I was just telling Susie that you can’t really know a person unless you have sex with them.”

Antoine took a sip of wine and nodded faintly.

Susie ran with the ball. “So what do you think?”

I confess I had to leave. Antoine was a big boy and could handle this himself. I couldn’t bear anymore. “This man is a french intellectual,” I thought. “In a world of existential despair, his one certainty is a firm belief in the Mystery of Woman. Soon to be shattered. Alas.”

Lynn caught me at the fridge. She had tears in her eyes.

“Thank you so so much! I’m not leaving New York. People really like me and say such nice things about me. What made you think of inviting Cheri and Antoine, Beth and….oh, just about all the people in my Baudelaire Seminar….? I feel that I belong. This is my home!”

The refrigerator banged against us as Chuck Metzger was getting ice. I hugged Lynn Aulis. It was a magical moment. I love magical moments, don’t you? They always lasts about 25 seconds and then it’s time for more Brandy and Soda.

It was about this time that I began my epic poem “Bonjour Houston Street.” It’s difficult to recall the beginnings but there are traces in my mind, so as to attempt a reconstruction of, let us say, an Ur-Bonjour Houston Street. I believe it is possible.

You recall Victor Herbert’s famous song, so likewise with Penn State, University Park, “once you pass its portals you can never return again.” And I knew that it was true; that I could never return. Sure, I could take the bus for five hours, yet it wouldn’t be the same. I had been kicked out. The Garden and Paradise were gone.

I was reading lots of Lord Byron at this time. I gasped at the realization of what we had in common: 1) nobility 2) insatiable sexual appetite, 3)compassion for the oppressed so as to die for a noble cause.

So I had left Proust far behind and entered upon the world stage with what I hoped would be a poetical piece in the style of Shelley’s “Prometheus Unbound.”

I was now fully Maoist and ready to compose an Epic Work in three parts: A trilogy. But what to call it? My first idea was “Norma Shearer on Mars.” Norma would be invited by Martians to speak at a festival of her films, each of which she would introduce. As she spoke of her late husband Irving Thalberg and MGM in the 1920’s, the play would gradually, after a survey of the Pale of Settlement, which released the talents of Jewish artists in the creation of UFA, Universal, and George Gershwin, proceed to assert the Hegelian urge to create Paradise Now. This would complete the first part. All, needless to say, would be composed with adherence to a rigid and unyielding dialectic. I intended no compromise.

The remaining two plays were designed to show the collapse of the workers’ paradise through the corruption of Soviet Revisionism and US Imperialism.

The entire Trilogy of plays would be presented as:

Norma Shearer on Mars: A Song of the Earth

Part One: Norma Begins. He Who Gets Slapped! The 20’s, Collectivism and Flappers.

Part Two: Gershwin Dies. Fascism Triumphant and Big Bands.

(Betty Hutton: A Pastoral Interlude.)

Part Three: Ritorno Universale! This is The End My Friend.

As you can see, I had a lot on my plate. And indeed I had already set to work on the first part of the Trilogy. It was roughly about 10:23 PM and I was sitting on my yellow sofa when Lynn came in very horny and insisted that we should have sex. I told her I was working on scene #4, which details the death of Lon Chaney, but with Lynn you just can’t say “No” so before I knew it we were on the futon going through the usual preliminaries known to all. I went down on her but this time I wanted, for the first time, to actually gaze upon her pudenda. Luckily we had left the lights on.

Listen. Although receiving a well earned A in Biology, I had never really thought much of female anatomy. For the first time ever, I wanted to examine in situ, what I had studied, so very long ago, in my Bishop Neumann AP biology text book.

“What are you doing?”

I looked and said to myself, “Ah these must be the outer labia, just as Mr. LaMaistro taught! And here are the inner labia. But where is the clitoris? Hey Lynn, I’m curious. Where is your clitoris?”

“What the hell! Please, I’m dying here.”

“Just point it out. Please.”

“Why? I never asked you to point out your dick.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

She pointed to her clitoris with her finger. This was very kind of her. She was always like this, kind I mean. And Mr. La Maistro was right. Everything was just as it should be.

At this very moment, when having finally understood where the clitoris was placed, I realized that “The Norma Trilogy” was untenable. The whole thing was bourgeois. I was going into the past. I needed to focus on the present. That meant one thing.
Return to “Bonjour Houston Street!”

Indeed. Gazing upon The Origin of the World makes you realize that the present moment is all. This was definitely not the way to deal with US Imperialism and Soviet Revisionism. I needed to go directly to the working classes. This was the moment. Strike now! So after our love making I dispensed with “Norma Shearer on Mars,” and resumed “Bonjour Houston Street.”

I didn’t drink for a week in preparation and on thee same plastic yellow sofa I began with the opening chorus.

Place: The Bowery. Tine: 11:00PM

Chorus of Bums

(The bums are seated on the curb. They begin.)

We are the bums of the Bowery

Look at us. Look at us.

It may not be easy.

We look at you. We look at you.

In our hearts. we long.

(Enter Alan. Having recently come to the Bowery in despair for love of Florinda, Queen of the Bowery.)

Alan

I see the east, I see the west.

I touch the sky. It touches back.

Yet through the clouds, a spark I see

A lonesome ray intoning sweetly

and whispering to my rumpled cloak,

That east or west, sun or rain,

There is hope that some day soon

I shall be eating Peanut Butter.

I brought this to Hedley at the “Theatre Cove,” and he loved it. He had wanted to do a Brecht play, and here was an original piece. I wasn’t in the cast. I was there as resident playwright, casting, attending rehearsals and doing re-writes. Opening night was a success. We had a good notice in the Daily News and were soon sold out. I was especially singled out for praise.

With each performance I became more and more abstracted. I was hearing my lines and watching actors create the parts I had written. But I felt a great absence. I couldn’t quite recall writing it. The closing night there was a party. I did not go to it. I went home instead. I passed Theater 80 on First Avenue and noticed that Hitchcock’s “The Wrong Man” was playing there.

I entered the apartment and made a cup of camomille tea. I was exhausted and wondered what I would write next. I had a few ideas and wrote them down in my notebook. By 1:00 AM, it seemed very quiet and I began to wonder where Lynn was. I went to the bedroom to see if she was asleep. She wasn’t there and neither were her things. Did she move out? I didn’t know what to think. I made another cup of tea and sat on the yellow plastic sofa. I wanted to go back to college and get a Master’s in English. I hadn’t considered it before because my grades at Penn State were mediocre. I didn’t think I’d get into a good Graduate Department. I took from the shelf my Complete Shakespeare and turned to “Twelfth Night.” The play seemed better than I recalled. I received a B in my PSU Shakespeare class. I felt a sudden urgency about this. I was certain that the professor had given me a B. To make sure, I searched for an official transcript. I turned to Spring 1973 and saw that I was mistaken. There was an A. I then began to read Twelfth Night Act II. I took another sip of tea and again picked up the official transcript. The name at the top wasn’t my name. At least I didn’t think so. But perhaps it was correct. I checked my driver’s license to be sure. Yes, this was my name, Nedelina. I went into the bedroom again and flopped onto the futon. I thought for an hour. There was no Lynn. That class came into my mind again. We were doing “Antony and Cleopatra” and I wasn’t concentrating very well. I noticed a girl in the row to my left. She had a plaid skirt and was wearing brown boots. I noticed her every class. I wanted to speak with her but never did. It seemed strange.

Then I understood.

I was the girl.

I was Nedeline, a musican. Brown boots, brown wool skirt and and…. confused

I was able to go back.

So I went.