.....okay, normally I wouldn't fax while you're on vacation in El Salvador and run risk of depleting your paper, but this wouldn't wait......

Remember how we went to see Arthur Lee at Tramps last year and loved it? Remember how we were going to go again in July, when he was playing at the Bottom Line, but we had already been talked into going to Pennsylvania to see Jefferson Steppenprocol? Well, anyway, lo and behold here's an ad, about three weeks ago, sayin' he's at the Bottom Line AGAIN on Saturday 8/26. That's odd, we thought, but we leaped at the chance. Seven of us. The same small angry mob that went to Pennsylvania, plus Wayne. So we figured that, to sit together as The Magnificent Seven in such a place as Alan Pepper's House Of Sardines, we'd have to get there beaucoup early. Remember also, there's no longer a no-smoking section down front so the vast majority of people who would normally smoke in the back will be competing with us healthier types for the tables down front. How come all the smokers haven't died yet? The doctors keep telling us they'll all die. When?? So, anyway, doors open at 6, we figure 6:30 is okay.

This was a big production--we had Wayne's ticket and he was working at some Polygram in-store thing at J&R that day, so he took the bus into NYC that morning and promised to meet us outside at 6:30. Wendy & I are both working, but luckily we both finagle to get out early enough to race home, collide, and drive to Bill's in Hackensack. Bill, by this time, will have driven to Union City or West New York or wherever Susie lives, (South of Edgewater I never quite know what town I'm in) and brought her back to Hackensack. We will roll up, drop our car and go with Bill. Mike Frankel and the other Susie will, meanwhile, have driven up from Interlaken (near Asbury Park) and we'll all bump heads at the corner of West 4th and Mercer. Napoleon could not have assembled a better campaign, but of course he would have had one hand jammed in his jacket so it would have been harder for him to write it down. OK, I'll start over--Field Marshal Rommel could not have assembled a better campaign, but all seven of us would not have fit in one Duneswagen. 'Kay, you get the idea. Anyway, before I forget, I should discuss the surnames of the two Susies--Susie #1 (Bill's one) is from Argentina. You've met her. Her last name, and remember she's from Argentina, is "Reintgen." We have not discussed her genealogy but she does not wear an armband and that's a good sign. Perhaps more to the point, I note that her name is only one letter away from being the same word as the scientific unit for the measure of tissue-absorbed radiation. I don't know anyone else that I can say that about, which is why I bring it up.

Susie #2 (Mike's Susie, and the #2 has only to do with the order we met them in and implies nothing further--why would you assume such a thing?) has a surname worth noting as well--"Wooley." That wouldn't be noteworthy either except for the fact that, when we sent them an Xmas card last year, Wendy addressed the card to "The Frankel-Wooley Family." When I saw that, I could not help but conjure up a mental image of "The Wooley Family, by Beatrix Potter." Can't you just picture 'em? Waving? Papa Wooley in his overalls and Mama Wooley in her apron? No? Well, never mind.

So, anyway, as Bill's Duesenberg, or whatever it is, rolls into the Mercer St. Garage (yeah, he parks in a garage--proto-yuppie) it's a lovely evening as the four of us amble out onto the street. There's a small crowd milling about outside the B.L., and there's Wayne, waiting for us, with a suitably pained look on his face. "It's cancelled," he says. Meanwhile, some poor Pepperland employee is standing in front of the door, waylaying people before they go in, with the thankless task of telling people that Arthur Lee will not be appearing tonight, and that the line for refunds starts over here, but that the opening act WILL be appearing, and if you'd like to hang onto your $15 ticket you can see this other band for only $10. That would mean, of course, a five-dollar rebate, or perhaps Alan would instead spot you to half a beer--or maybe even just a glass with some ice cubes in it.

We were having none of this, of course; and swallowing our disappointment, we install Wendy and Bill on the refund line. As it turns out, we had intended to patronize the box-office anyway this evening, to get our tickets for the 9/15 show of what I am henceforth referring to as the Lues Project--yes, you're worth an entire letter.

Meanwhile, I'm catching snippets of conversation between the Door Guy and disgruntled patrons. One fellow asks what happened to Arthur, and the guy says, shaking his head, "He....missed.....his....plane." Another fellow asks if the show will be re-scheduled, and someone hisses from inside the door, "No......it.....will......NOT." What's this, I think?

So anyway we turned in our A. Lee ducats ($15) on two sets worth of Lues Project ducats ($17.50, and you may recall that the actual Blues Project, last time, was $20. Apparently Steve Katz MINUS Jimmy Vivino equals two dollars and fifty cents, and make a note of that on your Organ Donor Card.)

We would, of course, have gone both nights except we are going to go see the REST of the band the following evening. We may be able to bring a couple of people with us, not sure yet.

By the way, not sure if I mentioned it, I WANNA PLAY!

So, we're standing outside, waiting for Mike and Sue, and in the ensuing twenty minutes we have to watch the Tableau Of Disbelieving Disappointment replay itself over and over again, as various and sundry hopeful concertgoers have their dreams dashed on the sidewalk, by this poor Door Guy. As we're standing there, I recall that this is the SECOND time this has happened to us at this place. Back in the late 80's, Wendy had a Hospital Incident involving an issue of deep disappointment to both of us, and much bed-rest at home afterwards. She was out of work for two months, and literally her first time out of the house was to be an Al Kooper show at this same f***ing Bottom Boil theatre, and we were really looking forward to it--and it was cancelled at literally the last minute because Al had a kidney stone, or something, (that YOU must have wished on him, I now realize.) They were still in fact advertising the show as we headed out there in the car, my poor bride limping all the way. We got there and the place was dark. That was really awful.

This Arthur Lee thing was of course considerably less awful but still awful. We were both coming off a rather awful week at work and were really looking forward to it. So watching the crestfallen looks on the other patrons' faces, one by one, wasn't making me feel any better--though other people's misery IS kind of a neat hobby.

So, during a lull, as we wait for Mike and Sue, I sidle up to the Door Guy and ask, "Hey--he had a date here in July; he didn't miss that one too, did he?" And the door guy says, tight-lipped, "Yes...he....did."

So I reckon they won't be giving Mr. Lee a third chance, which is a damned shame as far as I'm concerned--why do I have such a difficult time getting you Sixties Icons to take my f***ing MONEY anymore?

Oh well, so Mike and Sue finally get there. We drop the sad news on them. Mike laughs it off but Sue looks destroyed. Meanwhile, who was it who talked EVERY SINGLE ONE of these people into making this delicately-balanced pilgrimage here tonight, ME, thank you very much, and I'm feeling like a jerk on top of everything else. Luckily no one is blaming me--why should they, after all, but that's just the way I think. How it ends is that we all elect to go have dinner at the Peculier Pub [sic] on Bleecker Street, a neat little place right across from something called, honest, the "Cafe a-Go-Go" [sic again, musta drank way too much] which is NOT, Bill and Mike determine, in the same building as the Cafe AU Go Go was, but up the road a piece. I myself couldn't help out with that one, as I had never seen the place. Bill saw quite an interesting show there, of course--the very first BS&T gig when you opened for Moby Grape. Gee, that must've sucked. Glad I missed it.

So anyway I had a burger with bacon and bleu cheese and a bottle of Old Growler and I think it cost about three hundred dollars. And all the way home my fingers smelled like Wino Vomit from the bleu cheese. If you're lucky then you have no idea what I'm talking about--and let it be, if you know what's good for you.