Rug Man

September 19, 2004

Brian and I met briefly for dinner last night before he had to run off to some kind of spiritual shenanigans at a meditation center with his Belgian guru. When he got out, he called me on my cell, and we regrouped. "Are you up for seeing a band?" he asked.

"Sure."

"I figured you'd say yes."

"What band?" I asked. "And where?" Not that it mattered.

It was the usual "friend-of-a-friend's band" situation, which I used to view as a crap shoot, but these days expect nothing less than a guaranteed headache. But we had nothing else to do.

On the way to the Lower East Side club, we passed the corner of Avenue B and East 2nd Street. It was buzzing with life: Fancy bars and expensive restaurants. "I remember when this corner was like the heroin capital of New York," said Brian. "Dealers on every corner, and shooting galleries all over the place. It's fucking amazing how much everything has changed."

“People still come here to buy drugs,” I said, pointing to the bright white florescent sign belonging to the huge Duane Reade pharmacy. “Now they buy the ones that are advertized on television.”

The crowd at the club was insufferable, and the opening act that was onstage when we arrived was as shitty as they come.

"What the fuck?" said Brian. "They're like a bad 80's band. Like a high school Spandau Ballet cover band."

"That's what the kids are listening to these days," I explained.

"Man, I am so out of the loop."

"Lucky you."

When Brian's friend's friend's band came on, we shuffled up toward the front of the stage to see if they had anything more to offer. I don't know how to describe them exactly. Like Danzig with more elaborate facial hair. The front man had a handlebar mustache, and something resembling a pompadour. He closed his eyes and struck Las Vegas Elvis era poses while the rest of the band bluffed their way through the typical assortment rock and roll claptrap.

"That singer is excellent" said Brian.

I was less enthused. "I'm gonna stand further back," I told him. "I don;t see any point in wasting what's left of my hearing on this stuff."

After the third song Brian squeezed through the crowd to join me. "These guys aren't very good." he said.

"I was waiting for you to notice."

We agreed there was no point in staying any longer, and walked over to a bar run by another one of Brian’s friends. When we got there, a gorgeous young Russian bar tender idressed in a schoolgirl skirt seemed to be standing on a platform behind the bar.

"Oh, it's the rug man," said Brian.

"Huh?"

"The bar tender--she's standing on a guy behind the bar. He calls himself the "rug man." It's his performance art."

Sure enough, when I peered over the bar, I saw a rather fat thirty-something dude sprawled on the floor while the Russian schoolgirl wore a footpath on his dirty T-shirt with her platform boots.

"The last time I was here," said Brian, "The guy was on this side of the bar, rolled up in a rug. we were all standing on him."

"I wish he were on this side of the bar right now," I said. "I want to stand on him. I want to stand right on his head."

Brian laughed and with one loud clap of his hands declared: "Let's go." And out we went.