Abestia

Gino got a job at The Pabst Brewery on South Orange Avenue because of his old man’s seniority status. Once there, the relatively well paying job with health care, vacation and union security, was not enough for his character and ambition.  So he ran numbers, and as far as I know, kicked back to noone.  One guy, lets call him Little Mickey, was on a bad losing streak and couldn’t pay.  Gino waited a few weeks, like bookies often hafta do.  And he listened to the stories that bookies often hafta hear from their addicted clients.

“I got an insurance check coming, gimme a few more days.”

“Tomorrow I’m gonna shy it from Nicky Boots.”

“My wife wants to send the kids to St Joes so they don’t hafta go to school with the blacks at Lincoln - Gimme another week Gino.”

Gino decides to give the guy a free bet.  “You win, you’re even.  You lose, you don’t owe me double, just what you already owe me.  But Mickey, if you lose, I want the money tomorrow.”

The guy bets the Knicks favored by 6 that night at the Garden. They lose outright to The Lakers.  Mickey shows up the next day to work and doesn’t have the money.

My friend’s dad, Al V, who also worked the brewery tells the story like this:

“I’m workin in the brew house and your uncle and Nick M. grab Little Mickey and hold him upside down over the beer vat, each holding an arm and a leg.  The beer’s boilin.  If he goes in he’s fuckin dead.”

Gino: “He paid the next day.”

Late night music and bar scene slammin on a Tuesday night.  Just took money out of an ATM, waiting for green so I can cross the street.  Chilly, hands in pockets.  A fat businessman in a black Acura with what I found out shortly has Washington state plates, is waving at me, “Hey, hey, comere!”

This guy thinks he knows me? I figure.

He parks and waits for me to cross.  Now  I figure he’s gonna ask for directions, so I prepare my response. The passenger window rolls down.  As I pass he says, “Hey man where do I find the women around here?”

“I don’t know man I’m not from around here.”  (Did he really just ask me that?)

Outside the bar, a radical, very hot cyclist, early to mid 20’s, locking her bike to a pole, really pissed off, yelling to someone through her cell phone,

“A fuckin fascist pig just pulled me over for no reason!” She continues telling the story as I re-enter the bar.

Inside everyone smokes.  The bar is old, big, neon-lit, as are many bars in Missoula, and the only non white person inside is the black guy bartending, unless you include the giant poster of Ali standing over a knocked out Sonny Liston. 

A Puerto Rican garage rock band, Davila 666, touring the U.S. from San Juan, is blaring in the packed basement. 

After a 16 ounce can of PBR, I take a piss.  As I exit the men’s room, an obviously blind girl around 12 years old is being escorted by her arm to the ladies room by what appears to be her dopey looking, older teeenage sister who has a shitty ass grinn on her face.  I think they’re high and wanna check out the bar and use her blindness to get in places that they are not allowed.  As I pass them in the crowd, the blind girl, sensing my presence says to me, “Don’t hit me I’ll fuck you up.” With a long stress on the “Uuuuup.”

I know what I heard but I can’t believe it so I look at the dopey sister who is looking back at me and giggling. The blind girl is mumbling angrily as they move through.

The hills behind Missoula begin some of the longest stretches of Natural Wilderness  in the country. Mountain lions and black bear roam within a few miles of a 60,000 plus city.  Deer jet across city streets regularly.  My friend, an EMT, told me of a man on a bicycle who broke his collar bone colliding with a black bear who had meandered down from the hills.  The bars, there are lots of them, are quite busy on a Wednesday afternoon.  The Pawn shops, there are lots of them too, are filled with equal parts of guns, rifles and guitars.  

I

In Search of Manny, Luscious Jackson’s 1992 7 track gem of a CD got 3 full plays on yesterday’s 15 hour direct drive from Dirty Jerze to the West Side of Chicago.  Every time I stumble back on that record I am once again reminded of one of the grooviest small records ever put together.  The last song “Satellite”? Madon’ a mia! you kiddin me? Timeless!

Hung out with my ex girlfriend yesterday in an Industrial neighborhood in Bushwick Brooklyn where she lives in a loft with friends.  The neighborhood was what I expected.  The hipster-fication in parts of Brooklyn looks like it should.  Her building was retrofitted with artsy fartsy steel doors and the hallways looked like a gallery.  A white guy was singing a sappy love song with an acoustic guitar in front of a row of apartment buildings… I dont think he ever worked in a warehouse.  A stinky recycling center faces her building and a concrete processing yard is a block away.  

It turns out we’ve both had recent affairs with very talented violinists.  Her violinist is world famous.  I’ll not say his name.  On his invite she went to see him perform at the Met before a packed house where he then got schmoozed relentlessly by everyone backstage.  Then he took her to his multimillion dollar penthouse at the top of Manhattan with an outdoor shower and Jacuzzi on the roof. 

My violinist friend is not world famous but could be if she wanted to be and probably will be some day if she decides to live a few more years.  So we shared violinist stories, and although I refrained from details, mine were much more exciting. 

My very smart sortof homeless friend tells me that a Category 3 hurricane might just nail New Jersey with a direct hit.  Please God make that happen. 

Barney Frank is my hero for the week.  I dont care that Michael Vick led a dogfighting ring, though I dont eat animals, and I think its weird that Plaxico Burress is going to jail.  He shot himself for chrissakes give the guy a break.

There it is.  I blog.