56 A little bleary, worse for wear and tear

Hold that thought. Headed for Toledo. I have to jump out of sequence here. Something happened in the summer of 1978 that just crawls up out of nowhere.

By that time I had moved out of New York three times but ended up back in the cesspool each time. This is the day that made it final.

Before we get to it, I'd like to say it was always with the turntable, receiver, speakers, albums and maybe one frying pan. Well, after the first time. I claimed that stuff when I got back. Each time I moved though it seemed as though I lost some albums and eventually the stereo. The one real regret was leaving "The Transformed Man" in a bedroom in Colorado.

Back in the hellhole. As soon as I got back I was wondering what the hell I was doing. But stuff happens and there's no changing it.

There was one thing that made New York OK. Artsy shit and music. I was still going into Manhattan for those things. Every other weekend or so maybe? Sometimes every weekend? I had to live too, so I had to take care of that. I wasn't going to be an unhealthy soul just wandering the streets. There's been a lot of stuff between now and then. Some scenes stay there and some get cut.

I didn't take this picture of Lou Reed. I never met him.

I don't remember specifically where I was before all this happened. I remember it was a Sunday. A hot, dirty New York Sunday afternoon. I was going to leave and I was heading through Central Park. I've written about the park before. All the people that hung out. Laying down. Talking. Smoking. Smooching. I can't write the description of what New York was like. I've said this before. Check out the visuals and the movies.

I hated disco. Rock n' roll was taking a hit. Too much stuff you heard had to have that beat. People started dispersing. Gone to other states. Or absorbed by it. I had good friends that were going to those stupid clubs. The places where I had gone to see live music were turned into disco nightmares. Why do I even bring that up? In the park people were still pretty much listening to better music on their radios. There was still a segment that rebelled against what was being pushed down their throats.

I'm tired. I'm hot. I'll admit I remember being thirsty. I was wearing super tight white pants. Jesus. In that filth. Let me tell you it's always been jeans for me. Every day of my life, but not that day. I was starting to feel crappy. I was having that tunnel vision realization that everything around me completely sucked.

Dragging myself through a field. People were laying on their blankets. Radios were on loud. I hear "The Girl With The Faraway Eyes." I don't know about where you lived, but The Stones were on the airwaves a lot in NY. They got copies of albums and 45's probably before anyone else. It wasn't digital then, you know.

Probably my least favorite song of theirs ever. I know he meant well, or maybe not, but that accent. Mick, no good. Now it will go down in history as possibly my least favorite song ever. I associate it with that day. The view of the grime I had and New Yorkers listening to this song. No thanks. I was almost falling over. Well, here's what did it. You ladies will empathize. I suddenly and unexpectedly got my period. In my very tight white pants. I know nowadays people let all kinds of things hang out and what not, but many people were still somewhat embarrassed to buy tampons at that time. Our older sisters. Just to let you where peoples heads were at. This kind of personal bodily function wasn't plastered all over advertisements on TV quite yet. So I'm walking through Central Park feeling shitty with nicely sized red stains in my crotch.

It wasn't like Amazon could deliver tampons or a change of clothing. This was my fate till I got home. And that's what I was doing. I wasn't spending anymore time in the city. It wouldn't have helped to go into Tiffany's to ask for a "napkin." I would have been escorted out. I suppose I could have looked for something. A shirt to tie around my waist or something. But maybe I didn't have much money with me. No credit cards except for the fancy people.

I head down the stairs to the subway. Get on my train. The shitty dirty train with creeps on it. Punks.

If they were cool punks maybe there could have been mutual respect. But these were punky punks. Giving me a time. You know the verbal harassment stuff you've seen. Kind of sniffing around. I knew better than to show fear. That makes it worse. No eye contact, but not I didn't hold my head in a submissive downward tilt. Just kind of normal. The whole time I'm thinking "just get me out of this. I'll never live like this again. Ever."

Maybe they were intimidated. A lot of the cave people (I love real cavemen. I just don't know how to describe them without calling them dumb and ignorant) were grossed out by that stuff then. You know, a dirty woman. Eventually went through enough stops that people got on and they got off. I got home and it was just I'm outta here after that. I know I wasn't physically abused, but it was enough of a psychological nightmare it did my relationship with New York in. It's all cumulative.