Educational Experience

Chapter Twelve

The Educational Experience soundtrack is here:

http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL8aXxdSi9kurEdSlp-nexGySMXNDg1f8T

12.

 

We brought Fourth Ave. to a complete halt dancing down the two blocks from The Fun House to Joie Di Vivre. A colorful crew we were, too. All these giggly college girls and gawking tourists grabbed their cells—mad clicks and videos going straight to Facebook and YouTube and Twitter.

Of course, some tourists also grabbed the hands of their kids, like they thought we might run off with a few of them or something. They come to stand next to the fire—like Jimi Hendrix sang back in the day. But not too close.

A lot of the locals had actually been waiting for us to dance by, hoping to fall in line and maybe even make it into the club. But they had a snowball’s chance in Tucson, to mangle an old cliché. The carnival after party was always private. If you weren’t on the guest list, the hairy “bears” and muscled up leather dudes who did security at Joie’s club would give you the boot.

Luckily, they were always nice to Joie’s friends and regulars--you haven’t lived ‘til a big, bearded, lumberjack lookin’ guy smooches or winks at you and goes, “Hey, cutie pie.” I told one of ‘em to kiss my ass once—I was joking, of course—and the fool bent down and did it. You shoulda heard the others squeal and carry on. Still “squirrels” under all that leather and “fur.”

But they can handle their bidness when the time comes. They’ve got skills, those guys. They have guns, too. No lie--some bad mamma jammas, Joie’s bouncer boys. They have to be.

Even though the party was private, the club was jam packed even before we got there this time. That’s because this particular party was being attended by more than just those of us who’d worked the carnival. It was a special night for Joie. And she had a shit load of friends, straight and gay, who would have damned near committed hara kiri if they weren’t invited.

That included a whole lot of big wheels in the “community,” too. I think a lot of people in the “social set” felt being accepted in our circle gave them license to act all “hipper than thou” in their own. It reminds me of how a lot of white people used to go to black clubs ‘way back at the beginning of jazz and all that, right? That standing next to the fire thing again.

But they could leave Harlem later, in their chauffeured sedans. Like the rich folks and tourists left us. Yeah, I’m rich and I can leave. But I don’t. I won’t—can’t, maybe. It’s too much a part of me, I guess. The people on that street and a lot of the ones around it are the ones who kept me alive back when I was growing up out there on my own. Not just physically—remember, it’s a neighborhood full of creative people. People who make music and other art. And they fed me little pieces of that, too.

I think that’s what got me ready for JJ. Hanging out with crazy people hammering big hunks of what most people would call junk into something art people could read like messages—I loved that. Didn’t understand it half the time, but it taught me that anything could be art. We’re all art, in a way. Works of art, walking.

Okay, what the hell, right? I’ve wandered off again. I’d love to call that art, too, but sometimes I think it’s a sign of early onset Alzheimer's, I swear. 

They were bumping Digital Witness, the St. Vincent song Mike and I love to dance to when we walked in. Mike came bopping back to put on a show with me while we were still outside waiting for the grand entrance to begin. That got everybody laughing and carrying on so they didn’t get restless waiting for big moment.