About Grand Avenue - A Dream & Diary

About Grand Avenue

A Dream 5/16/1989

Scandia Down was opened until midnight, and Babs and I were putting on a piece of Performance Art, although there was nothing advertised in the papers for it. It was spontaneous on our parts to throw our Performance Art work together at the last minute.

(Actually, in the dream, Babs and I were working together to spruce up her bed
display with me somehow involved instead. Instead of who? I don’t know.)

In addition to the big double bed displayed in the store, there was another smaller, and it looked like to me, a twin size bed that Babs had brought in that was frumpy and unprofessional by comparison. For her art statement; Babs and her toddler son Tommy were playing baby games on it instead of working on the display for the front window.

There was this long bed frill like the one unattached from Tommy’s baby bedset, which kept getting thrown around along with a huge set of giant 6-foot long pillows. And a big, fun pillow fight broke out between Babs and me and her twenty-month-old son, Tommy, who seemed to be keeping up with the both of us pretty good in spite of his little size. Suddenly, Babs former assistant Janet (of the fine arts Art Institute degree) showed up just in the nick of time, at midnight, in the up scale fashion neighborhood in the Near North area at this store. Janet, who was thin and slender and much more chic than Babs or I, joined in with a smile on her face, and started whipping pillows around.

Tommy, the baby, was having the time of his life. But Babs and I, were, as usual, arguing. This time it was over the finished display in the window (a crowd was forming during our midnight pillow fight).

“You should have put some sort of prop in your display, Babs,” I told her plainly, crossing my arms while saying it.

“Oh go to hell, Janie,” Babs said to me meanly. The crowd of people trying to buy something in the store thought that our fight was real.

I turned around and tried to explain to the audience that that’s just the way we talk to each other.

“I understand what you’re trying to tell me, Janie,” said Babs, still acting like her nose was out of joint.

We knew we had attracted a crowd, but we were totally unconcerned about them. They milled around the beds and upset displays, (by now little tow headed Tommy was fast asleep on the big puffed up down comforter on the big bed in the middle of the store, and further, people thought this was part of the Performance Art; the sleeping little child.) Even Janet, Babs’s ex-assistant, was impressed.

Babs and I acted like we were just doing our jobs, but then we took bows all around too.

Then, to further our piece, I was assigned to the task of doing a cotton covered bath and bed accessories display on a high, high shelf, that looked like it was outside of the building’s roof, it was so high. I had to climb a ladder that was at least 50 feet tall, and this is funny, because in real life, I’m afraid of heights. I thought, as I was up there, cleaning it off, “no one in their right minds could see or buy anything up here.” Which was okay, because it was such a tacky red and white country gingham adorned with pink bows. It was like my tacky art statement on a high shelf as compared to Babs’s art statement “designer” bed sheets that vaguely looked disturbing like Jackson Pollock’s late “action” paintings.

The store was a complete and total mess, but our performance was over, and Babs, and Janet and I all picked up the money the people were throwing at us. They threw fifty-dollar bills, twenty-dollar bills, well we thought we were practically rich. It was late when we left, and it had the feel of throwing people out the door at 4:30am in a bar, and none of us drank any of the wine, or ate any of the crackers and cheese. I think, in our desire to accomplish our artwork, we forgot.

It was dark, almost sunrise, but still very dark, (and a chilly spring night at that), and we walked to Babs or maybe it was Janet’s car, a beat up old Datson, when 3 thug like looking people came out of nowhere to mug us and started chasing us to our car. The 3 thugs were all covered in black stockings, and they had no weapons to speak of. It turned out that one of the thugs was a big black woman from Mississippi and was trying to find out how my poor mother was doing. She ripped off her black stocking, and it turned out to be the nurse who took care of my mother before she died.

“Janie,” she said to me in earnest, “how is Barbara?”

It seemed a little peculiar to be talking about my dead mother to someone who once knew her, and Babs, and Tommy, in Babs’s arms, and Janet stopped dead in their tracks, listening to this conversation. The light from the dawn started to break in from the east.

“She died, Betty,” I told her, miraculously remembering this lady’s name.
I pulled something off my neck. It was a Christmas tree ornament made in the shape of a Christmas Sterling Silver cross. “Here, Betty, she wanted you to have this,” and I solemnly handed her the cross that was a piece of blood red satin ribbon. Both her guys, (who looked to be her sons), stood there looking at their mother for some direction; completely confused now that they were no longer going to mug us.

Betty wanted to know what else I had, and stangely enough, I had all these other necklaces around my neck. It looked like I had stolen a whole stand from an antique fair, but it was only things from my mother or her family. I also had a piece of black onyx in a silver setting on a long hand hammered silver chain around my neck. I took it off and handed that to Betty. She had been a great nurse to my mother!

Janet and Babs and little sleeping Tommy just stood there in the background, in total awe of how much control I had over the situation. Nobody asked any questions when we finally went back to the car.


About Grand Avenue
Janie’s new apartment:

July 1, 1989
Dear Diary,
Yes sirree, this apartment is 100 % better. That woman who lived downstairs at the last location was an atrocious horrible person with a little squeaky high-pitched voice;
Just about as hateful and venomous as could exist. What a perfect bitch. But we will reside here now – when everything is moved in.

This summer has been very nice weather-wise.

Actually, as I was cleaning up the other day, it accured to me how much this place reminds me of 3706 North Kenmore in Wrigleyville 9 years ago. The kitchen in particular. Have been writing some. A little, worked at everyday. The single only drawback is that the stupid bus only runs down this street twice an hour, and in order to get to Babs’s, or even Ramone’s, I have to do some serious walking. I cannot forget the last time with Ramone, “up there”. He fucked me while he played the Birds. Or was it the Yardbirds? It was suppose to remind me of the old days, but it didn’t remind me of anything in particular.

One Year and One Month Later . . .July 30, 1990
Dear Diary,

Now, I am firmly resolved to move away from Berwyn forever. Yes, it is cheap in this town, but I have horrible neighbors here too. I want to move closer to Ramone, and possibly, maybe even Babs. It would be so expensive to move out of here. Tres dear. Something tells me it will happen anyhow, but this diary warns me that even with proper reality selection, REALITY, LIFE, still rears it’s ugly head to remind you of all the cosmic lessons you have still to learn.

It is well past midnight, and those dumbfuck kids are downstairs blasting the TV I hate Berwyn! I’ve been having it out with myself all weekend. Sometimes I am so horny, I feel like doing a little nude dance for that big, dumb guy downstairs just to see if he would think about fucking me. I don’t see Ramone enough to get off enough. So, sometimes, I just get a bottle of wine for myself down the street at the 7-eleven, and come home and just think about, either Ramone, or else that big, dumb, mean guy downstairs, and what he would do if I got naked for him. And I play with myself, rolling all over drunk in the bed, spreading my legs for only the ceiling to see. You know, I think he would fuck me. And I need to get fucked, so bad. But I refuse to go to that Beaver Lounge bar a couple of doors down from here. (There’s a dancing, drunk beaver holding a martini on the outside of the bar.) I just don’t trust what kind of trash might pick me up. Sex with Ramone is trashy enough.

This life is breaking my spirit, and so is everything else.
Committed to writing that first novel, and making it work.
Writing is my heart & soul & I have to make it work somehow.

August 7, 1990, “Up Here”


Dear Diary,

Visiting Ramone for a change. It’s early in the morning (8:40am), Ramone is “sleeping”, and the Black Crows are playing. A band from Alabama who sound like and/or are influenced by the Faces. This singer’s voice is so close to Steve Marriot’s, it’s unbelievable. Naturally, Ramone loves them to pieces.

Read “Howl” (by Allan Ginsberg) yesterday for the first time. Good thing I read Literay Outlaw before reading it. It meant so much more to me. Couldn’t believe it showed up in my American Literature Book after all. Mr. Ginsberg. Truth to tell, I probably know Ginsberg best from Edie, an American Biography from poet Gregory Corso and then from Jim Carroll’s account in Forced Entries.

August 8, 1990
Dear Diary,

Yesterday’s entry was a little eschewed from the moisture factor on Ramone’s outside table, (where I was writing). Yesterday was a very pleasant day, and I will not even write the most pleasant event of the day in here, but it had to do with a lot of heavy breathing on Ramone’s part. He’s such a dumbfuck, he avoids me, and avoids me, and then when we’re together, he won’t kiss even, but then, when we fuck, it’s totally divine, I totally come all over him, and he comes all over me. Can someone please tell me what’s up here?

Right now, I just played “Chemical Warfare” by the Dead Kennedy’s, and Joe, the guy I sometimes wait tables for, called me up, and I swear to God, asked me if I wanted to go to a motel room with him (he’s married). He told me he’s been hot after me ever since I picked up my paycheck wearing a halter top where you could easily see the outline of my nipples, and pair of tight shorts that showed the crack between my legs that is my cunt. They were also really short, and it was hot that day, and Joe was just looking at my body. So being asked if I wanted to fuck him comes as no surprise. I’ve often thought he might be a lot of fun. But, too bad for Joe, I haven’t had it in a long time, but finally Ramone got down and dirty with me. And not once, but twice, yesterday, so I felt a little used up. And, besides, I’m not in to fucking married old men. It’s bad enough fucking old men.

On top of it all, (which is my favorite, classic position), Ramone gave me some smoke it’s a very fun Moon in Pisces, yes it has, all day.

Typed up The Dance Studio today. A memory piece from 10 years ago in New Town. I was only 19, and Ramone had taken a temporary powder out of my life. I am so glad my life has improved immeasurably since then.

October 9, 1990
Dear Diary,

Met up with Babs on Friday at her studio. That would be the one on Bell Street now. Saw the amazing table for the first time. We had lunch and tried to inspire one another. And Babs gave me some smoke.

Ramone came over at the end of my shift and we went to Jewels. What a couple of friendly friends.

October 25, 1990

Dear Diary,

Babs is having flare up troubles with that Irish guy who is Tommy’s father. Tommy, age 2 7/8’s informed his “father” that he thought Ramone was his daddy instead.

Because Ramone is around Babs all the time (doing heaven knows what). Well, but what a blow to Dennison’s ego! But, it’s Tommy’s way of saying, ‘you neglect me, because you are so wrapped up in yourself’. Good lord, does Tommy hit the heart of the matter, or what? That phase was probably worst than Babs hitting Dennison for accusing her of sleeping with Ramone. Dear Ramone. The backdoor man. Only Dennison’s wrong there. Babs have anything to do with Ramone? How little Dennison understands his girlfriend. It’s very painful for me to watch this. Yet, something, who knows what, ties Babs and Dennison together. Who knows what. Probably the same unknown factor X that ties Ramone and me together.

November 18, 1990
Dear Diary,

Thanksgiving is this week and I am thankful for:
My friends. Although Ramone has been neglecting me something awful lately. Babs and I did lunch this week, and she’s at her wit’s end over money, but she has had some small business offers. Her relationship to her baby’s father is as bad as ever. She’ll never let him go until complete and total disaster force her hand. Then, even then, she’ll probably stay.

It is new moon and the first day of my period.

December 4, 1990

Dear Diary,
Ramone finally came for a visit on Thursday, but I had to do some heavy duty pleading and begging to get him over here. I even started crying on the phone. He goes to see Babs more often than me. Then, as usual, he’s happy to have my company. Ramone, can you imagine? To be with anyone else would be insane. Ramone is my sworn friend.

“If not to reel
in the end,
then no end
can be met,
my loving friend . . .”