... everything is permitted
Jim Carroll
A Catholic Boy and a great American poet.
When we first met Jim Carroll (JC) in Santa Fe New Mexico, he excused himself to take a call. We waited among the flickering gas lamps, crusty-rimmed bottles of Cholula Hot Sauce and a fish tank full of poisonous sand snakes. The Honduran bartender mentioned that Jim ("Jeem") was getting a lot of calls these days just as Jim returned and took a seat. He was noticeably pale, bronze or golden and haggard. After an intellectual discourse on the merits of Ciudad Jaurez basement-tequila and green chili tacos, JC held forth on the past two decades of stardom and addiction.
Then he busted a move ...
When he finally let up and stopped kickin' the footboard, we all tumbled off our chairs and out into the night; warm, comfortable and with a star-scape flatter than the Salton Sea. Carroll showed up with a gross of Black Cat Bottle Rockets, a 4 liter jug of Carlo Rossi Burgundy and a dozen Roman Candles taped haphazardly around the neck of an old Dobro single cone resonator guitar. I had never seen such a thing nor felt so much danger, concentrated as it was, right there.
A call went out for matches and after the obligatory "we ain't got no stinkin' badges" jokes, a modern matchbook was produced. The matches were damp. They wouldn't light. Just enough action to produce a phospheros smear on that little patch of sandpaper below the staple, but no fire. Indie Filmmaker Jim Jarmusch was no help. He went for coffee and came back a little while later with a sack of organic-orange peel flavored scones from Balducci's upper west side location. The one where Richard Hell works.
Unforetunately, the rest of this story is subject to © copyright and can't be reprinted in full without permission.
Contact Doug P. Teever
A Catholic Boy and a great American poet.
When we first met Jim Carroll (JC) in Santa Fe New Mexico, he excused himself to take a call. We waited among the flickering gas lamps, crusty-rimmed bottles of Cholula Hot Sauce and a fish tank full of poisonous sand snakes. The Honduran bartender mentioned that Jim ("Jeem") was getting a lot of calls these days just as Jim returned and took a seat. He was noticeably pale, bronze or golden and haggard. After an intellectual discourse on the merits of Ciudad Jaurez basement-tequila and green chili tacos, JC held forth on the past two decades of stardom and addiction.
Then he busted a move ...
When he finally let up and stopped kickin' the footboard, we all tumbled off our chairs and out into the night; warm, comfortable and with a star-scape flatter than the Salton Sea. Carroll showed up with a gross of Black Cat Bottle Rockets, a 4 liter jug of Carlo Rossi Burgundy and a dozen Roman Candles taped haphazardly around the neck of an old Dobro single cone resonator guitar. I had never seen such a thing nor felt so much danger, concentrated as it was, right there.
Unforetunately, the rest of this story is subject to © copyright and can't be reprinted in full without permission.
Contact Doug P. Teever
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