Clinton St. Quarterly, Vol. 2 Vol. 4 | Winter 1980 /// Issue 8 of 41 /// Master# 8 of 73



CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY SICK OF BEING MADETHE FOOL? Duane "Hawkeye" LaRue President, Future is NowEnterprises NOWYOUCANCHANGEALL THAT WITHOURNEW MORALFIBREKIT FROMFUTURE ISNOW. THEBAHAMAS Afew m o n th s ago , in th i s sp ace , I to ld you abou t a r em a rk a b le o p p o r tu n i ty , y o u r s fo r th e a sk in g , to e a rn b ig m o n ey in y o u r sp a r e t im e g row in g m o ld c u l tu r e s in y o u r own hom e . The re s p o n s e to th a t o ffer w a s so e n c o u ra g in g th a t I ’d l ik e to te l l y o u a b o u t a n o th e r o p p o r tu n i ty , one th a t w i l l m ak e y o u r s i l ly m o ld b u s in e s s seem l ik e c h i ld ’s p l a y o r w o rse . Now , I know som e of you h a v e n ’t y e t re c e iv e d y o u r Mold S t a r t e r K its . In fac t, w e ’ve ev en re c e iv e d a few in q u i r i e s , som e from p r e s t ig io u s g o v e rnm e n t a g en c ie s , a s k in g u s th in g s l ike , “W hat g iv e s ? W hat th e h e c k ’s u p ? ” Let m e a s s u r e you t h a t I am n o t a “c ro o k ” o r ev en a “c r im in a l ” as som e se l f -s ty le d in te l le c tu a l s h a v e c h o sen to p u t it. We h a v e s im p ly been so sw am p ed t h a t we h a v e n ’t been ab le to fill a l l y o u r o rd e r s as q u ic k ly a s we m ig h t like . O u r new o ffices in th e B a h am a s h a v e r e q u i r e d p a in t in g , c o n s id e ra b le s p a c k l in g and fum ig a t io n . The ch rom e fu r n i tu r e cam e la te . My R o l lod ex w a s s to len in t r a n s i t . Now we m ay ev en be r e t u r n i n g to th e U n ited S ta te s ! B u t th e s e a re no t y o u r p ro b lem s , t h e y ’re m ine . Su ffice to s a y th a t y o u r o rd e r i s on i t s w a y and sh o u ld a r r iv e w i th in th e n e x t few day s . E s p e c ia l ly if you ac t on th i s o ffe r now! I TRUSTYOU DUANE. TO HECKWITH THOSEHAY SAYERS. WHAT HAVEYOUGOT? T h a t ’s th e s p i r i t . Now le ts ge t down to b u s in e s s and face the fac ts . A m e r ic a n in f lu e n c e i s on th e w ane . R u s s i a n bom b e rs now fly r e g u l a r ly o v e r m a jo r A m e r ic a n c i t ie s , sp y in g in b a th ro om w in d ow s w i th Am e r ic an -m ad e te le s co p e s , z e ro in g in on o u r c h i ld r e n ’s c r ib s w i th h ig h ly s o p h is t ic a te d r a d a r t h a t c an p ic k up th e so u n d of a c h i ld ’s l i t t le p in k r a t t l e from 20,000 feet. And t h a t ’s j u s t th e b e g in n in g . Look a ro u n d y o u r own hom e . W hat do you see? Y ou r fam i ly , g a th e re d a ro u n d the rad io l i s te n in g to G a b r ie l H ea te r , e x c i te d ly p u l l in g S t r a ig h t A rrow In g e n u i ty C a rd s ou t of boxe s of Sh redd ed W hea t? G u e ss ag a in , Buddy. A nd w h e r e ’s th e l i t t le w om a n ? Off som ew h e re “l e a r n in g ab o u t h e r s e l f ” p e rh a p s ? A nd w h a t ab o u t y o u ? When w a s th e l a s t t im e you c am e hom e to th e a p p la u s e and faw n in g a d u la t io n y o u know you d e se rv e ? L i t t le S a l ly and E d g a r le a p in g on to y o u r c h e s t from th i r t y p a c e s . . . D o lo res g ra b b in g a t y o u r c o l la r and t e a r f u l ly k i s s in g y o u r ch eek s , w h in in g ab o u t th e c h i ld re n s p i l l in g the B isq u ic k and how a b so lu te ly s tu p id and w o r th le s s she fee ls u n t i l you come hom e in th e e v e n in g ? When w a s th e l a s t t im e you w e re ab le to p u t y o u r foo t down and s a y “N o” w i th o u t som eone in y o u r ow n f a m i l y s a y in g “W hy?” I M STARTINGTO GETTHEPICTURE. DUANE. WHATSHOULD IDO? OK. H e re ’s th e scoop . O u r new g o v e rnm e n t w o n ’t be ab le to m ak e the w o r ld th e k in d of p la c e we w a n t i t to be fo r w eek s , m ay b e even m o n th s . In the m e a n t im e , you cou ld lo se a l l of y o u r m u sc le tone , becom e e n t i r e ly e ffem in a te and in e ffec t iv e , u n a b le to p a r t i c ip a te in a s im p le go lf g am e w i th o u t t u r n in g i t in to a goddam e n c o u n te r g roup . You need gun s . A jeep . M i l i ta ry u n i fo rm s to w e a r a ro u n d the house! SOUNDSGREAT! HOWDO I GET EM. DUANE? Th a t ’s w h e re o u r MORAL FIBRE KIT com e s in. I ’l l be f ran k . We c a n ’t su p p ly th e g u n s o r th e jeep . Bu t we can h e lp you w i th th o s e m i l i t a r y u n ifo rm s . O u r MORAL FIBRE KIT p ro v id e s you w i th e v e r y th in g y ou need to — SEW SMART LOOKING BATTLE INTHEPRIVACYOF YOUROWNDEN ORRUMPUSROOM! ***04**44*4*0 T h a t ’s r ig h t! E a c h k i t c o n ta in s o v e r 20 p a t t e r n s y o u c an w ham bam to g e th e r y o u rse lf . 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CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY ■ Michael and I have been traveling for two months in Turkey now and we find ourselves in a village built on top of a Roman town by the sea. Al- SillOBmost two thousand years ago this place was a bustling city of 12,000 people and a port for the Roman colony of Asia Minor, which was most of what is called Turkey today. But the city dwindled with Rome’s loss of power, and the local population was unable to keep the port dredged or the seawalls maintained. Today much of the site is covered by encroaching sand dunes. From a ruined amphitheater, I watch the big sun ball plop into the ocean as the Taurus Mountains behind me shade through blue, lavender, grey to black. The ancient city is reborn below me — white marble sparkles in the moonlight, broken pavements are smoothed, broken walls mended with shadow. I wander into the night, the air filling with the scents of the bay and rosemary I must push aside to make my way down the narrow goat trail and back to our room. Christmas in Turkey and Other Adventures Gold teeth flash in the mirror of the madly swaying bus. Michael and 1 are thoroughly coated in fine layers of white dust and the lemon cologne that has been offered to us all afternoon by the bus boy after each hourly tea stop. Dust is continually pouring in the broken-out windows of this old, sad vehicle as we, its only passengers, are being borne along Turkey’s southern shore. We have been on this same route now for one week, stopping each evening at some small seaside village to recover from the day’s wear and tear, rinse away the dust with a dip in the ocean or a few beers; eat, sleep, and then the next morning meet the same driver and his battered bus by the side of the road. He amuses himself daily by seeing how fast he can drive right on the edge of the cliff-hanging road while admiring his newly acquired solid gold smile. The bus boy has become our friend. He has eaten our cookies and sunflower seeds; we have shared his oranges. Our Turkish vocabulary consists of “ very good” and “ thank you.” He beams at the excellence of our speech. We stop in another dry, dusty town perched on a cliff overlooking several small islands. The water is deep blue and far, far below where we stand waiting for the bus to pick up more passengers. A few more miles down the road we are stopped — there has been an avalanche. Enormous rocks are stacked every which way down the face of the steep cliff, obliterating the road and reaching all the way down into the waves. Our driver and bus boy begin quickly handing down our baggage from the top of the bus and we try to figure out what is going on. Feeling terribly dwarfed and unsafe just standing so close to the slide, I look up to see a tiny, ancient woman being helped over the topmost rock by a young man. Soon others appear and make their way down the rocks toward us. They must be coming from a bus on the other side. Once the slide is clear of people, it is our turn to climb. I take a deep breath and decide not to follow too closely the people up ahead. The whole pile feels as if it could go again at any moment, and 1 am in thongs with a too- heavy pack. The great ocean view is suddenly very undesirable; the heat makes me dizzy. I make it to the top where, below us, 1 can see the other bus, its driver impatiently honking the horn for us to hurry. A Journal By Mary Wiseman The coast flattens into low, rolling hills and, to our relief, we reach the end of the gravel road. I have seen pictures in a tourist brochure of Roman ruins near the main highway, and we visit them. The Turkish fishing village built from the old baths and temples has become a popular summer beach resort for Ankara’s wealthy. But it is now late September and we are the only tourists. We take a room in a small, deserted pansiyon on the main street. There is a shop directly across from our hotel whose door is always open. Its windows display ornate silver belts and bracelets studded with coral, traditionally printed scarves trimmed with hand-crocheted flowers, and gleaming copper bowls. We are tempted inside, where we meet the owner, Recep, a smiling mustachioed man in jeans and a cowboy shirt. He speaks a little English as he shows us the flat woven rugs, called kilims, which are stacked against the inner walls of his shop. Late the next evening the lights in Recep’s shop are still on, so 1venture in and meet a group of strangers Illustration hs Steven Sandstrom 5

CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY drinking wine. The oldest woman especially attracts me. She is dressed in the faded elegance of old velvets and brooches, and the tiniest pair of silver-threaded slippers grace her feet. Her English is American; her smile, Munchkin. Her name is Tommy and she invites me to come to her house anytime for coffee. The next day, Michael and I awake to the realization that we should stay in this place, that some things here are reaching out to us, and it seems only right to hurry over to Tommy’s to ask for her help in finding us a place to rent for the winter. We have never been to visit her before, so part of the morning is spent meeting her cats, admiring her accumulation of oddities collected from around the world, eating crispy nut biscuits and drinking rare and expensive imported Nescafe. Friends have smuggled in the coffee as an extra-special gift for Tommy, and she urges us to have more. As we chat, we learn how this 70-year-old woman came to spend the past 11 years in this particular place. Between working for newspapers and embassies, she had been in China on the eve of Mao’s takeover, in Paris during the Algerian riots, and in a British compound in Egypt under daily fire during the 1950s Suez Canal strife. Seeking a quieter life, she began coming to Turkey on vacations, and one time she never went back. With a happy coffee buzz on, the three of us tour up and down the village’s dirt streets as Tommy haltingly inquires about vacancies. She says that she has a mental block against speaking Turkish and this embarrasses her, although she seems to understand the language very well. Tommy remembers a house which belongs to friends who are going to Paris for the winter. By that afternoon we have made the arrangements and committed ourselves to taking charge of their home for three months. We are staying for the winter! Eagerly we rush to Recep’s shop, hoping he is there among his carpets and copper. The door is open and he joins in our celebration. Beer appears, and soon the chai boy is at the door, too, bearing a round silver tray loaded with dainty tulip glasses of tea on square saucers. Recep seems very glad that we have decided to stay in his village. We plan wood-gathering expeditions to the forest, mushroom hunts, maybe a trip together into the hills to the more remote villages to buy kilims and copper. His ignorance of our language, and ours of his, are no impediments to sharing dreams. From the first day Michael and I wandered into Recep’s shop just to have a look, acceptance and trust were established between us. We were fascinated by the beautiful weavings he had collected from all over Turkey, and in his slow, self-taught English, he explained to us about their colors, patterns and origins. Sharing words with Recep, we slowly, slowly begin to hear the sounds of Turkish become words and phrases we could understand. We begin to drop by daily to have tea and biscuits, or sometimes breakfast together on bread, cheese and olives in the sunshine behind his shop. Our presence gave him a chance to “ westernize” himself more, which he wanted very much. We, in our turn, were looking to understand and maybe incorporate into our own lives the ways of a simpler society. Out of this sharing grew respect and love. The autumn progresses and Michael and I settle into our house Night Travels to Tibet #3 There is no plastic in Tibet. I trade long rolls of plastic sandwich bags for frankincense and myrrh . A bag for every use: to store chillis, aspirins, leaves and twigs. Suddenly everyone wants one. I do not have enough to go around . Three lamas explain they could keep rain water, powdered gold and spirit cookies in bags. 1write home, "Need more bags." A shipment is airlifted from Delhi but comes apart in the air. Thousands of plastic bags parachute to earth . The people go crazy catching them with butterfly nets. Marilyn Stablein and the village routine. 1awaken each dawn to the song of the prayer caller from the mosque near the house, and soon 1 can sing the chants with the caller. The house is small, only two usable rooms, but I am happy for the privacy and sense of home. We spend a good portion of each day walking the beaches to gather driftwood to burn in the tiny wood stove which our neighbors have given us. Every afternoon at sunset 1walk down the rutted lane to get milk and yogurt from another neighbor, who keeps her cow and calf in a little lean-to adjoining her stone house. She likes me, I can tell, and teaches me new words each time I visit so I can talk with her. Our village has only 350 people or so, and the shops are very small. Therefore, to buy what food we need, Michael and I must do as the neighbors do and go to “ town” on market day twice a week. The seven-mile trip each way is made in a collective taxi. My Turkish improves from trying to follow the conversations around me and answer questions from other shoppers while we are squeezed tightly together in the mini-bus. Food selection is sometimes very limited and I must shop at many different stalls. The butchers are totally unreliable, and when they do appear, our choice is usually only goat, freshly killed that morning with all the rituals still observed. Chicken is a luxury, gourmet eating, - and we haven’t had any in months. At first I am overwhelmed by all the people who come from the mountains, the colors, displays and smells, but 1soon look forward to each Monday and Thursday along with the rest of our village. One cold, windy morning, Tommy seeks warmth in our small, sunny courtyard and a cup of tea. We have been spending a lot of hours together, and I realize how lonely she is. We pass Time back and forth, and she gives us an almost daily condensation of the BBC World News. Her personal life seems in almost as much chaos as the world’s situation. She married a Turkish man from Istanbul two years ago. It was her first marriage, and they managed to live together for six months before he ran off, taking her camera and owing everybody in the village money. Now she has no idea if she is still married to him or not. Michael, she and I sit on our steps and share more tea, discussing the severe lack of petrol in our area and what to do about Christmas. We are all feeling far from home, even though Tommy hasn’t been back to the U.S. in 30 years. She suggests a dinner at her house for the three of us. “ Are there turkeys in Turkey?” We think so, but trying to talk a butcher into getting us one on the right day may be beyond our skills. Recep has just purchased some kilims from two traders who have come from near Lake Van in eastern Turkey. Tommy gets the news and hurries over to tell us to meet her at his shop. By the time we arrive, Tommy is trying to decide whether to buy the long one with the funny pink color in it or the big one, chocolate colored, that costs more. All of us sit around on various piles of rugs, drinking Tuborg beer and eating pistachio nuts from a big copper tray, while Recep and Tommy discuss a “ friendly price.” The conversation wanders on to turkeys and Christmas. Maybe a goose will be easier to find, Tommy suggests. Michael looks up “ goose” in Recep’s dictionary. “Kaz — we want a kaz, Recep.” About one week later we are riding down the bumpy Mediterranean coastal highway in the back seat of Recep’s little red car. Recep and Tommy, up front, discuss the delicious details of the lunch we’ve just eaten, while I wish Recep wouldn’t drive so fast. Suddenly Recep’s gold tooth flashes in the rearview mirror as he points to a flock of big white birds gathered by the side of the road and slams on the brakes. We zoom furiously in reverse and then we are off the road and down by the side of a pond. So it’s a kaz. Or looks like it’s about to be, maybe. But it is only the middle of November. We introduced the idea of our wanting a goose too soon to Recep, who is sometimes quick to act. Tommy, Michael and I realize our mistake too late. The three of us get out of the car and huddle in a timid group, while Recep waves his arms in the direction of the geese, who are moving out onto the pond. He seems to be trying to conjure up the owner of the flock, nd the magic works, for a man with a shotgun nestled on one arm, and a small boy, appear. The Turks huddle in their huddle while we stay in ours, Recep turning at times to gesture at us, then to the geese. It may be too late for us to get out of this if the actual bargaining has begun. 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CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY still a month and a half away. Michael and I join the Turks and, sure enough, a price is being discussed. Tommy, being a timid bargainer and wishing to put an end to this whole uncomfortable situation, at this moment declares that she’ll pay the outrageous price being asked. Recep, Michael and I all turn to her in dismay, while the farmer runs out into the pond gleefully, still clutching his shotgun. The boy follows, and the ridiculous sight of those two sloshing around the pond chasing the flying geese helps us restore our high regard for one another. The conversation wanders on to turkeys and Christmas. Maybe a goose will be easier to find, Tommy suggests. Michael looks up goose in Recep’s dictionary. “Kaz — we want a kaz, Recep.” The geese disappear behind some houses, followed by the dripping chasers. Michael, Tommy and I heave sighs of relief, for it will be absolutely impossible for those crafty geese to be caught now. Shouts are heard, and here comes the small boy holding a madly honking, enormous flapping bird. The farmer waits to be paid. As Tommy pays, 1 look on, amazed by our new acquisition. The boy transfers the goose to Michael since nobody else seems willing to take it. Goose and Michael ride in the back of the car with me. The car is in an uproar with three of us laughing while the goose honks and batters Michael with its strong wings. I struggle to put a plastic bag under the goose, who is busily decorating Michael’s jeans. Recep turns around from his driving and says, “ Michael, the kaz gives you a present.’’ Since Tommy has seven cats and a tiny yard, Michael and I caretake the bird. Rather than clip its wing, we decide to tether it to one of the orange trees in our orchard. Michael ties the rope so that it will not bind the goose’s leg, while I hold the struggling bird, careful not to let it bite me. The next morning when 1 come out to check on our kaz, it is waddling very slowly in the far corner of the orchard with a wisp of rope dangling from its leg. It has chewed through the soft fibers but does not seem to realize that it is free. 1can see us running through the village’s streets chasing the goose, so I rush to find Michael. I find him and grab our broom, and we come crashing into the orchard in a panic. The bird takes off flying at our approach, clears the low rock wall, and begins grazing in the next yard. Next door to our orchard is an open-air tavern which is closed for the winter season. In typically trusting Turkish fashion, all the tables and chairs have been left outdoors, and goose is wandering among these, pecking at last year’s crumbs. Michael takes the left way over the wall, and I clamber over nearer to our bird. We slowly close in — Michael waving the broom — until it is trapped underneath a chair, and 1can grab it from behind. This time we clip one of the goose’s wings and fasten it securely to its tether with a light piece of chain. Night Travels to Tibet #4 I am a census taker assigned to Tibet. My airfare is paid by a government grant. The pilot skims over glaciers and rock gorges, then tells me to jump: no a irpo rts in Tibet. On landing, my teeth rattle and I spit them out like chunks of glass. Lizards scramble for them. I follow a yak herder into a tent. He feeds me. The coffee has yarn and a weak pigeon in it. 1 compliment him on his good taste. He asks me, “Where is Tibet?" Marilyn Stablein Since Michael is going to be executioner and he feels he will form an attachment to the animal if he is caring for it daily, I am the goose feeder. I have never raised my own meat before and find myself liking such responsibility. At the end of each market day, 1glean vegetable scraps from the vendors who, by now, know where I live, how long I’m staying in Turkey, how much rent I pay, and that I’m raising a goose. But the kaz seems to mostly peck at the greens from boredom and prefers to waddle into the tall grasses and rake insects from them. Since there is no cracked, dried corn in town, I sit each afternoon and crack whole kernels with a Tiammer for a few minutes. Often I peel and finely chop a few fresh chestnuts to add to the grain. The goose continues to grow. Two days before Christmas, Michael and 1 make a special trip into town with the ax. We go to the stall of our favorite vegetable man and ask him where we can have a new handle put on and get the head oiled and sharpened. He takes the ax from us, and at first we don’t understand that he is saying that he will get it all done for us, not to worry, and that it will be ready tomorrow. Tomorrow comes, and the ax is actually ready when we go to get it. As soon as we get home, the goose goes on the stump, and Michael beheads it while 1 hold. 1am surprised how long I have to keep holding onto the body, for I have never seen an animal die before. 1say a small prayer of thanks to the goose. It ’s Christmas Eve and my fingers are sore from plucking the bird’s feathers. I am at Tommy’s house, stuffing the kaz with herbs which we picked on an earlier walk through the ruins. Tommy found a green hollylike plant with nice red berries and we made a wreath to hang on her door. Night is falling now, and as it does, the wind begins to blow in gusts. Rain is coming. The power flashes off and on as the lines sway and blow down. Now rain is falling steadily, which means trouble for us. In the past months Tommy has complained often of her leaking kitchen ceiling, and Michael and I have tried to help her readjust tiles so that the drips stop. But the cats like to play on the roof and are always knocking tiles awry. Quickly Tommy gets out every empty pot and pan and spreads them out on the floor and counter as the drips begin. Our kitchen work is slowed more and more by tripping over pans when groping for matches with flour-covered hands in the dark or trying to remember where we put our wine glasses. Finally pies are made and the goose is sewn together again, ready for slow-cooking in the morning. Tommy and I dump the water from the pans one more time and retire to concentrate on our wine by the fire. Pies and goose are baking. The house is full of people who seem to have come from all over Turkey, magically drawn together by the fragrance of Christmas. Christmas Day is a blur of activity. The rain is over and everything looks especially clean and sparkling as I hurry back and forth between Tommy’s house and mine. Michael is chopping wood for a big fire. Pies and goose are baking. We are almost ready to begin our meal when there are knocks on the door. Tommy opens it and her house is suddenly full of people who seem to have come from all over Turkey, magically drawn together by the fragrance of Christmas. They have all chosen to come to the coast today, hoping to find good weather and see their friend Tommy. One man is from Sweden and has been living in Turkey for six months while he studies horsecart painting and makes a film. His friend is a German woman who is interested in Turkish music and has been collecting tapes of Istanbul musicians. Three Americans are with them. One has spent a year planning his trip, including studying Turkish for two terms in school. He looks Turkish because he is dressed in a 1940s Western suit of Ataturk’s time, which is still so popular with Turkish men. After introductions are made, we find extra plates and carry food out of the kitchen. With a little urging, our unexpected guests agree to join the feast. Then Recep and his wife arrive bearing wine. We are happy that they have come to celebrate our holiday with us, especially since Recep’s wife rarely leaves her home and children. Everyone there speaks at least some Turkish and likes pumpkin pie. As for the Christmas goose, there’s soon nothing left but the bones.■ NOW SERVING LUNCH AND DINNER 7

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CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY cis much fun o s you con heme in public Dec. Sundays Mondays Tuesdays 18-20 Thurs.-Sat. 24-25 Wed.-Thurs. 26-27 Fri.-Sat. 31 Wednesday Jan. Sundays Mondays 2-3 Fri.-Sat. 6 Tuesday 7-10 Wed.-Sat. 13-14 Tues.-Wed. 15-17 Thurs.-Sat. 18 Sunday 20 Tuesday 21-24 Wed.-Sat. 27-28 Tues.-Wed. 29-30 Thurs.-Fri. Feb. Sundays Mondays 3 Tuesday 4-7 Wed.-Sat. 10 Tuesday 11-14 Wed.-Sat. 17 Tuesday 18-21 Wed.-Sat. 24 Tuesday S low tra in Paul DeLay Band The Bill Feldmann Band Johnny and the D istractions Closed — M e rry Christmas The Odds The Sleezy Pieces — New Year's Eve Party S low tra in specials SUNDAYS A l l w in e tw o fo r one THE SINGLE WOMAN IN PERU Last night I heard a young woman screaming in the street several houses down. "No Poncho, no Poncho . . .!" Her voice rose to a desperate wail. "No Poncho, please wait a little for me, esperame zm ratito, Pon- chooo . . . 1" I listened to his retreating heels on the sidewalk. She sobbed. Then I heard her slam the ragged gate into her courtyard . Lynn Darroch Paul DeLay Band The Sleezy Pieces The Bill Feldmann Band Trigger 's Revenge The Ma lch icks Johnny and the D istractions to be a rranged The Bill Feldmann Band Upepo w i th special guests The Balloons The Ma lch icks The Hots S low tra in Paul DeLay Band The Bill Feldmann Band S low tra in D r iv ing Sideways The Sleezy Pieces D r iv ing Sideways The Bill Feldmann Band The Bill Feldmann Band MONDAYS A l l tap bee r tw o fo r one TUESDAYS Free pool, f re e foosba ll, f re e p inba ll MONDAY-FRIDAY 4-6 pm Happy Hour 2 for 1 on all refreshments and free pool SOME THOUGHTS ON THE EXERTIONS OF TRAVEL SACKS FRONT AVENUE, SW FRONT AND YAMHILL By Martha G ies “The Passport Office welcomes photographs which depict the applicant as a relaxed and smiling person. ” U.S. Government form DSP-111068 Th is vaguely poignant invitation suggests that there is some strain which is showing up in our passport photos. How many hundreds of thousands, of American faces were examined before the Passport Office concluded we are a worried people and, given that bureaucracies are typically characterized by indifference, how did this tender concern develop? How did it become official policy? Som e travelers invariably spot celebrities, or think they’ve seen a famous fugitive. When Patty Hearst was missing and, as a citizenry, we were all presumed to be keeping an eye out for her, Zephyrus Image Press issued a handy wallet-size card designed to simplify the chore. It carried a standard wire service photograph of Patty, over which a number of tabs could be folded which reconstructed her face under an assortment of disguises. By referring to this card, one could avoid the embarrassment of fingering the innocent — the ticket taker at Marineland, or the Dartmouth student on an interminable holiday stopover at O’Hare. Ch r istophe r Isherwood once pointed out that the American is far more romantic than the European: he can live in a concrete block motel room and his imagination will supply all of the texture and detail, while the European needs the physical reassurance of beautiful or interesting architecture. The Holiday Inns and Howard Johnsons are wonderful institutions in this respect. They allow one to subordinate the fac t of being in Atlanta, say, to the idea of being in Atlanta, a practice favored by all true romantics. Am ong people who travel frequently, there may be a handful who make a point of arriving at the airport an hour before'flight time as the airlines recommend, but most seem to take amusement in playing the game of seeing how close they can cut it without missing the flight. This becomes a personal style, an important part of one’s self-image, and minor rituals (e.g., packing so as to avoid baggage check, or the skid-in-and-ditch system of returning the Budget car) are developed around it. The game culminates in a dizzying race down concourse D, where it is necessary to squeeze ahead of entire families invariably clogging the weapons detector, in order to make it, just make it, to gate 57, breathless and drunk with pride. T h e word traveler suggests adventure and activity, both of which are missing from the word tourist. These are proper etymological legacies. Travel comes from the French travail, to labor, hence, the exertions of recognition, imagination and acceleration are appropriate to the art. Tour comes, through both Anglo Saxon and French, from the latin tornare, to turn in a lathe, and connotes the brevity of the spell, the finitude of the circle, the inconstancy of the turn. We’d rather be taken for travelers than tourists. 10 Illustration by Dana Hoyle

CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY International Hipsters By Lynn Darroch Alan Costley’s Cobblers Bench 816 sw 10 portland 222 2577 There must be international hipsters in Lima somewhere,” I complained after we’d been here for several weeks. All I’d seen on the streets were a few middle-class Peruvian kids with jeans and long hair. Beards are fashionable for all but the military anyway. There are international travelers, of course, but they’re just passing through. No one seemed to belong to that select group of artists, bohemians and expatriates that I’d imagined holed up somewhere in a cozy corner of Lima, meeting in bars and restaurants, wise to the world . . . 1 really didn’t know what an international hipster would be like in 1979, yet in coming to Lima, I ’d thought for sure I would find some. Given the opportunity, who knows? maybe I’d even be one myself. But weeks passed and there was still no sign. 1hadn’t met a single person who didn’t work all day for a living. Then one day in late December I was taken to El Cordano, a cavernous restaurant with three dining rooms and an immense bar. It’s located across the street from the train station, near the Central Post Office, and a few doors down from the reputed hipster hotel, La Europa. “ You w an ted in te rn a t io n a l hipsters,” Susan said after we were seated. “Well, there they are.” She laughed. Just a few steps away, close enough to touch, were two tables of them, both men and women with earrings, unkempt hair, and unwashed. The men dressed in faded jeans or loose Indian pants with shirts open to the waist, the women with bare midriffs, halter-tops, and hoops of gold around their wrists. Most of them conversed in fluent Spanish, and they looked more European than North American. All had bright and tired eyes. A few of the women were barefoot, too — ay caray!! barefoot in Lima’s filth — with unshaven legs and armpits. The middle-aged Peruvian women in the restaurant stared at them with contempt, but the international hipsters didn’t pay them any mind. They were loudly involved among themselves, smoking cheap cigarettes, drinking and calling on the waiter with familiarity. One woman sang snatches of an old criollo song, “ . . . the King of Spain is dead . . . ” They wore Indian coca pouches. Bony noses and light skin surrounded the dark circles under their eyes. A woman entered like an apparition and joined them. She had uncombed hair that formed a halo over her emaciated face, arms and legs like sticks, and needle marks right out there in the open for anyone to see. “ I was hoping for something else,” I said ruefully. But Lima, at the close of the Year of Austerity, with civil liberties suspended for thirty days to bring in the New Year, was no place for an international hipster, nor for artists nor bohemians of any kind. The only hipsters left are those for the cocaine and cheap marijuana, the ones with tired, bright eyes. Many days later, at the Clinica Anglo-Americana, with stomach trouble, I saw the thin woman from El Cordano again. She was walking down the corridor barefooted, accompanying a stretcher on which another international hipster was laid out, his arm attached to a vial and a look of grateful surrender on his face. As they passed from the Emergency Room, the woman walked so tranquilly along on bare feet that I wondered if she’d done this before. Maybe she was only drugged. “ How can they get by in Peru, looking like that?” I asked Susan. “ They pay their way, too, I guess,” she replied.■ Maine Moes by Chris Craft red, navy, green, yellow, brown, taupe, wine, $25. Unique g i f t items under f ive do lla rs Custom Scenting 60 scents to choose from : • Massage oils • Lotions for all skin types • Bubble baths & bath oils Tues-Sat 10-5:30 727 N.W. 21st Ave. Portland, Oregon 9720 CULTURAL IMPERIALISM I am eating cojinova encebollada in El Estribo on Avenida Larco in Miraflores, Lima, Peru. Darkness is falling. Radio America is turned up loud: an programa presentada por "Foxy Lady," lo mejor en vestidos. They play Lou Rawls, the Eagles' "Hotel California" and some disco tunes. Everytime I come here I listen To "Disco Inferno" ("Burnin', bu rn in '"). Kids drive by and drop firecrackers. It's Saturday night. D runks piss against lamp posts and guys walk down the sidewalks with their dates. Upper-class girls have taken to referring to their boyfriends as "mi Travolta. Lynn Darroch Z 2 7- +760 11

CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY WALT CURTIS Don’t Bamoa In the morning, we take a taxi directly to Raul's family home. With a surprised look on his face, he greets us, shakes hands, and introduces us to his family. They give us total hospitality. Soon I will feel like a member of the family. I play with Javier, the grandson. Strumming a nonexistent guitar, the boy wants to IVI y dad died from cancer, wasting away quite painfully and heroically. I had been closely involved with his dying. It was messy, depressing, and quite exhausting. It didn’t seem quite fair! I wanted to make sense of it and stretch my own life, its dimensions, outwardly. Also, my friendship with Raul was one of the sweetest and most tender things I had going for me. I really had loved him and wanted to see him in his village in Mexico. His love sustained me through a very trying time. His love gave me the courage to make the journey essentially alone. conditioning is stifling; it doesn't work. You are shut away from the ordinary people, and entombed with bourgeois types. Train fares are cheap by Amtrak standards. first-class! The air I caught the train in Mexicali. There are two railway lines which parallel each other. The rails are fixed, permanent. The train might derail, but a head-on collision is unlikely. You can walk around. The conductor sells beer and soda pop. The windows open in second-class. Steve, a friend from L.A., and myself arrived at Campomento Wilson, a small company town near the tracks. Ten thirty at night. There is no hotel, no taxi, no telephone. It’s too late to bother Raul or his family. A kindly lady and her son, after much discussion, allow us to sleep on the floor of an abandoned house. "Would we want to sleep at the jail?” they asked us helpfully. “ No thanks.” In the mysterious dark, we bed down listening to pigs grunting, roosters crowing. Z^fter the death of my father in S ep tem b e r of 1977, I went to Mexico to make a pilgrimage to the mummies of Guanajuato, and to visit a Mexican boy, Raul, whom I had met at the w ino g ro c e ry store where I work. He had told me about the family farm called la Abundan- cia, located near the railway station of Bamoa, a village about 700 miles south of the border. 12 Photo by Eric Edwards Layout and Illustration by Eric Edwards

CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY be a singer, a clown, a'nd entertainer. He can’t say my name Walt, so he calls me “ Juan” and then “ Guante.” It’s a strangely Freudian epithet, meaning “ glove,” which fits me perfectly. Only recently, after several years’ absence, Raul has returned from the United States. He is trying to adjust to his own culture. He tells me, in several months, he will leave for Mexicali and the border. He isn’t free here in Bamoa. It’s difficult even to smoke dope. His mother asks me to explain why Raul hasn’t written her for two whole years. “ That’s the way young people are,” I tell her. She shakes her head in mock despair. After breakfast, Raul takes Steve and I to the river to show us his grass plants, small and hidden. We use newspaper or tablet paper in order to roll joints, because the government doesn’t allow ciga papers to be sold. The Sinaloa River runs through the flat dry countryside. On its gravelly bottom, the trucks and local bus cross, driving through the shallow water. The square spire of the red-and-white cathedral sticks up above the plain. “ It’s more than 425 years old,” Raul’s friends, the local cowboys tell me as we drink brandy and smoke dope. “ Pancho Villa rode here. We still fight the government, over marijuana,” they say. The buzzards circle in the blue sky. The dry clear air. Dusty earth. The local cemetery. Irrigation ditches. Flowers decorating the graves are wrapped in plastic. I ask Raul, “ Where is my tomb? I want one painted red, with red roses.” He and his friends laugh. “ Don’t worry, you’ ll have a pretty one.” Da ily Life Can I really be at Raul’s home in Mexico? The small but functional hacienda is almost perfectly shaped. White-washed house, flowers in front, dusty yard, corral, well with a bucket, outhouse and shower house, and wash shed, and a single palm tree like a banner in the front yard — all fit neatly. The chickens roost in a tree. A pig is tied to a post. Rabbits are penned and hop loose. Life is everywhere underfoot. A golden rooster struts like Raul. The family awakes at dawn. The father and mother yell at Raul and his brother to get up and milk the cows. Chico, Raul’s brother, a real charro, will take the cattle a kilometer or two, to pasture by the river. It is impossible for a guest to sleep in the morning. I might as well fold my cot and get up with the rest of them. I feel guilty just watching. Warm milk is to be sold to the neighbors. A chicken will be caught and killed. The pig fed. The horse needs to be saddled and the cattle led out on the road. Mama, a large contented loud-voiced woman, fixes breakfast and makes tortillas. Rosa, Raul’s sister, helps her. The father, El Jefe, mounts his bicycle and peddles energetically up the road, after he has conferred with his none-too-eager sons about what work needs to be done. The old man startled me. I don’t think he knew how much I was in love with his son. He kept a pistol under his pillow, and often got up in the night, to see if there was a coyote to shoot. One night when he drank too much he shouted in his sleep, “ Chinga su madre!” Guasave Raul, Sergio his best friend, and I go to Guasave, 15 miles away. It’s a city of 30,000 with banks, buildings, department stores, a supermarket. I buy gifts for Feliz Navidad, and cash travelers checks. El Presidente brandy. We sample shrimp, cama- rones, at Marisopa Restaurant. Tecate beer. The queer owner likes me, and asks Raul questions. Bald- headed, with a slight lisp, he calls himself “ a senorito.” All of the customers laugh at him. He jokes back, in total control. The country is full of life, humanity. Bare-assed babies, dogs, donkeys, too many kids, cattle, horses, dust. They come from the clay and go back to the clay. Building houses out of clay and straw, their skin is the color of earth and sun. Crosses next to the road mark automobile deaths. In my folly, at first I thought they buried the victims beside the road. What a joke! Full of ruts and wash-outs, the road follows the river to Bamoa. Soldiers, half-asleep, young and stupid-looking, in khaki with automatic weapons, waited at the dusty crossroads. Near the main highway. Waiting for something violent and crazy to happen. Then they’d open fire. When we see the red-and-white tower of the cathedral, and cross the river, we’ re close to home. On Saturday morning, Raul tells me it ’s his turn to take the cattle to pasture and stay all day. He’ ll see me in the evening, Christmas eve. But his two brothers, Salvador and Chico, want me to return to Guasave and buy drinks! The older one, Salvador, is a real lush. And somewhat shy Chico, the cowboy with brown hair and beautiful eyes, drinks a lot also. Salvador says, “ Chico is a pure animal. Borracho.” He treats his horse, named “ Ice Cream Cone,” harshly, whipping it from side to side. The horse reluctantly dances. Borracho We go back to Marisopa, “ seasoup,” whose letters could be rearranged to form Mariposa, or butterfly. The Spanish word for homosexual. The owner of the restaurant is glad to see me. Salvador tries to set me up for an xmas party. With a straight face, the man asks me if I’d like to stay overnight. I say, "No. I will be with the family.” He’s very persistent. Like a sticky fly. The brothers love to pistear. Drink. Get drunk. They brag about it. Maybe they are trying to escape the boredom of life on the farm. Maybe there is more despair here than I think. There is a lot of repression. Where are the whores, the women? Mainly there are Catholic girls and married women, and a lot of horny boys and young men. No wonder I am sitting in a gay bar, cracking jokes about screwing the fairies, with drunken Mexican cowboys. How ironic! When will they find out the truth and turn on me? We carry a couple of bottles of hard stuff back to the farm. For tonight and tomorrow. I get to meet more relatives. There will be a dinner of rooster stew. Many drinks and toasts, at another house. The family wants me to bless the babies. A set of twins! They are very proud. I fear I might give the kids my flu germs, and they could die! As all this goes on, I ask myself, Where is Raul? He’s staying out-of-sight, with his friends. About Raul I never want to leave here. I want to be one of Raul’s brothers, friends in this village. I wish to spend my life with sleepy Raul. In the morning light, he ropes the ankles of a cow, brings a calf in close, shoving the nipples in its mouth to make the milk flow. He milks the rest into a bucket, then loosens the rope, slaps the cow on the ass, and goes for another one. Ten or fifteen are handled in this way. Thin, getting tan, using a rope, Raul is muscular but vulnerable. With a frown or quizzical look on his blonde face, he tosses a stick at a chicken or throws rocks at birds eating the seed in the fields. In a t-shirt, one pant’s leg slightly rolled up, shoes with no socks, he wears a serious expression on his face. I love this slender boy in the sun, or on horseback. I would almost die Photos by Walt Curtis 13

CJ , M * ^ N ST. QUARTERLY for him. He wishes I would — die! And go away. It’s not altogether true, but he made me wonder if I should really be there. I asked him outright, "Am I complicating your life?” He replied, “ No.” I began to understand a few things about Raul; His skin is fair, almost white, and his eyes are gray or gray-green. Of course, he feels ashamed. In comparison with the others, he doesn’t look like a Mexican. Also, he is the youngest in his family. He must take orders from the other brothers and his father. He will never inherit the farm. The land isn’t big enough to support that many children. All Raul can do is get a job in town, hard work at low wages. In contrast, he can pass for a gringo in a border town. In fact that might be a thing of status — that he looks like he’s of the other side. He looks like an American. Christmas Day On Christmas day, we feast and feast. The father says the farm is rich, not in money, but in food. It’s true. They love to eat. Homemade tostados. Lettuce, tomatoes, hard corn shells, hot sauce, a sweet salted meat they call “ buffalo.” Bean, tortillas, milk. Cucumbers. The special dinner of peppery chicken stew. All the relatives show up, all the brothers with their families. Raul has at least four brothers. Daniel, the oldest, is powerful, huge, curious about me. We play volleyball. He tries to get me drunk on strong tequila with hot sauce and V-8 juice. It burns my gut. Daniel jokes with me about coming to work in Oregon, like Raul. He realizes how little Raul has to show for two years of time spent in the U.S. He senses Raul goes there to escape work. I take pictures with my camera of all the kids, the relatives. I'll send them the developed photos. They are pleased, clown, give me the v sign, hold up bottles of booze. What a wonderful family! Everyone seems happy and contented, as we say good-bye, and the golden light of sunset fades, from behind the cathedral to the west. The question is, Will Raul go with me on my travels to other parts of Mexico? Two Men Can 't Love Each O th e r I beg. I plead. To make a long story short, he won’t travel with me. I tell him I have plenty of money. Sergio can come along. He won’t do it. We squat in the dust near the railroad tracks. The family has sent Raul along as my baggage boy. Little do they know! I want to put my arm around him, hug him, before I leave. I try to explain in barely fluent Spanish what he means to me. I try to joke with him. I pick up a pebble and ask him if he loves me that much. “ No,” he says. I pick up a tinier piece of earth and say, “ Do you love me this much?” He blurts out, “ Nada.” Nothing. And my brain flashes to a couple of complicated conversations we had at the farm. He told me, “ Two men can't love each other. We can only be friends.” I’m upset. In the last five days, I’ve barely had a chance to touch him or be close. We’ re always surrounded by the others. Even now, his brother is watching us. As I get ready to board the train, Raul and I do an elaborate Chicano handshake. His last words, though, are straight from the heart. “ Nos vemos.” We’ll see each other. Swaying and rattling on the tracks, the train is swallowed in the darkness of the flat Mexican countryside. Mysterious and sad. Almost in penance, I am squatting on the floor, next to my suitcase, trying to blank out everything and go to sleep. When? The Trip Seeing Mexico was exhilarating and illuminating. I soon quit worrying about Raul! The emptiness, expanse and wildness, just slightly inhabited nature of the landscape is spectacular! I am intoxicated. Mexico is huge, with spacious airy vistas. Purple mountains, winding green rivers, and dry forests. It would be freedom to take a horse and rifle and travel across it. Guadalajara is wonderful. Shrubs are shaped by gardeners into animal forms. This flat city contains monuments, cathedrals, plazas, a two- level bus station, many parks, the largest public market in Mexico with candy, leather, silver jewelry, herbal potions, you name it. Smog was in the air from hundreds of buses. The food was mouth-wateringly delicious. Go there for “ pelatas,” popsicles of natural fruit flavors, coconut, strawberry, guayaba, exotic flavors. Long thin loaves of bread taste better than real French. Near the Street of Mdriachis I bought tortas, beef or pork sandwiches with a spicy sauce, for ten pesos. I sank my teeth into the food and washed it down with cold Dos Equis beer. I love Mexican beer! On the bus ride to Guanajuato we passed colonial towns, with ornate cathedrals and elegant graveyards. The road should have been a freeway, but it wasn’t. It looked like it was perpetually being worked on, with backed up traffic, dust and bulldozers. This part of Mexico is developing fast. New factories and housing developments crowd the old towns. Nuevo Leon, a new city, is populous, nondescript, without architectural character. I ask myself, How are all these people going to be given housing and jobs? Guanajuato is “ the city of poets.” El Grito! The cry 6f Mexican independence from Spain occurred here, in 1824. It's enchanting, European, like nothing I've seen so far. Antique and colonial — theaters, university, cathedrals, parks, buildings of pinkish sandstone, stone streets, monuments, and an underground stone highway are crammed into the green valley. The market building with cupola and spire reminded me of the Crystal Palace in London. I buy souvenirs and presents for Raul, his family, and my friends. Dirty clay fingers and toes on key chains. Skulls with rolling eyes. Indian embroidered blouses. Tiny ceramic cups. A clay coffin with body on which a Mexican boy inscribes your name and how you died. “ Walt Remembrance of Guanajuato died of poetry.” Theologically I am opposed to Catholicism, but the esthetics and OPEN Weekdays 11-6 Saturday 1-6 AVALON ANTIQUES VINTAGE CLOTHES 318 SW 9th 224-7156 4