The club was packed. An all-ages mix from gray heads to the early 20’s. Early in the night a young couple hesitated and paid the cover—the young lady scoped out who was in the club and giggled, “Kind of an old crowd… we’ll be the youngest ones in there.” I said, “There’s a few youngins in the crowd… assuming the old people haven’t killed and eaten them already.” It didn’t take long before the average age of customers dropped considerably. Spring break was the explanation, which I suppose could be true. One group of the young included two Asian guys with cameras (I almost threw them out for reinforcing the stereotype) who were taking photos of the band. A young woman wearing vintage bohemian was carrying around a City Lights Pocket edition of Alan Ginsberg’s infamous Howl and Other Poems, from which she read to a couple of friends:
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in
the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the
suffering of America's naked mind for love into
an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone
Her friends were nonplussed. Fortunately I’ve learned impulse control over the years, or I would have abandoned the door and told her that I once introduced Ginsberg who read at a poetry reading of mine and several poet friends. And how after the reading at the bar, I needed to lean in close to hear a rapid-fire, mumbled compliment of one of my poems and how his beard smelled of tobacco smoke. I’m guessing her nonplussed reaction would have reminded me that I’m just the doorman.
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