Thursday, January 23, 2020


The pond lake freezes over and
time tops the dredge-water flow.
The water crossing over the dam,
with its little sound of motion, 
slows nothing along its way. I
then recede into my own pale 
background : dead leaves, an
old, wooden, table, and a single
single glove someone left behind.

12,491. RUDIMENTS, pt. 940

RUDIMENTS, pt. 940
(something otherwise good)
There was once a very Jewish
comic-actress type, named Fanny
Brice. She was big when President
Harding died  -  in fact, there was 
such a national play on her story
that, once the announcement was 
made that she was going to have
a 'nose-job' to alter her famously
Jewish nose (thus jeopardizing
any future 'Jewish' roles and 
forcing a re-adjustment of her 
career), she postponed the 
operation (press coverage was 
to be important) until the hoo-hah 
over Harding's death and funeral
was over. Anyway, the headlines 
ran all the stories, and Dorothy
Parker even quipped that Brice
(real name, 'Fania Borach')
had 'Cut off her nose to spite
her race.'
Things were once so very different
that what we 'live' today is mostly
useless junk; like a paraplegic at
a foot race. Beyond any pale. I
can still walk past the old Algonquin
Club, where there's a plaque outside
that tells a little about the famed 
'Algonquin Roundtable' of those
1924-era days, where Dorothy
Parker, and Harold Ross and all
those people hung out. When 
some form of words and a modicum
of intelligence were still valued 
and counted for something. It's
all over now, and we are the far
poorer for it. Too bad.
I guess it's all about falseness and
the fakery we live by. Take a look
sometime, locally, at the frivolity
in the face of real adversity that the
'Avenel' page, using a poor example
(really poor) of what gets thrown up
(literally too) for people to be occupied
by while the place goes down the tubes.
Woodbridge and all. It's completely
pathetic, and scary too. I have absolutely
no pride, ever, in saying where I'm
from, and that's too bad.
In the 1920's everyone wanted
to 'go legit' even while there was not
any longer any ''legit' to go to. Sherman
Billingsley, with his Stork Club, was a
con and an advantageous breaker of laws,
as were half a million other business
and club proprietors, yet the whole
system went on, the great game was
played and all the 'pretend' functioned
as if real, and important. The country
was crazy. This was just before, sort of
between the wars, that the manufactured
mythology of what became the 'America'
we were taught about in schools and media.
No one knew the difference, and now
there are roomfuls of veterans and others
who stand and salute all that crap nightly.
Probably with a beer in front of them too.
Wars always used to go all high and
exalted in defining themselves : For the
cause and the purpose of....They leave
out all the chicanery and  slaughter and
carnage, and all the business and stuff
which make millions in the continuing
profit-making environment was gives.
The great 'melting pot' now has more
ingredients in it than you can count, and
no one knows the difference between
Freedom and bondage now anyway.
Right out front here, of 'Town Hall'
(they've never graduated that up yet to
'City Hall'  -  and who'd want to) there's
a (yet another) monument to the war
dead of something or other. You need
be careful in these parts so as not to
trip over these monument things  -  
seems the more the place and raped
and ruined the more the drive the 
point of a legacy and memory. Assholes.
Anyway, in 1966, right there, there was
also a Gulf station, for gasoline and
repairs. It's was right on the curve
just before the little strip of stores is
(UPS store and other junk). I used to 
pass it often enough, with my driving
friend Bill Konawalow, and there'd be
small-town kinds of guys sitting around,
watching traffic, seeing what turned
around the monument. It was fun; he
knew the guys, and we'd stop there.
None of it was much, but, in those
little building blocks that make up
 a person's personal memory and
things to be marked, it always stands
out well for me as representing a
fairly perfect encapsulation of what
once was and is no more. Not just
because of progress and time  -  no,
all that's just 'nostalgia' and 'nostaglia'
is a vacuous and vapid thing not
worth much at all. This goes way
past nostalgia. Nostalgia's very public;
this is, by contrast, a very private
situation that one remembers; like
the first time, for a guy, you slid
your hand up under a girlfriend's
dress, and got that hand inside
her coat. Gas stations of old  -  
just like the hands and coats and 
all, are guy things, I guess. An old
memory-code built into the 
standard male DNA.
Red lights and green lights and
stop signs and cars. Lines of crap 
rolling through town while no one
watches anything in particular
and it all just rolls along pacing
itself for some inaudible song.
Each person has one of those small
town places in their mind, but there
are fewer and fewer left. Klein's
Garden Shop and the old State
Theater, that gas station at the corner
and the freight tracks at the siding
where they once crossed Main.
Where those two sisters lived, in 
that little house  -  gone now for
some extended township parking,
zoned for nothing, and gone to Hell.
Like Fanny Brice, changing the
proportions of things, ladies and
gents, can sometimes affect the
outcome of the show itself, ruin
a career, and otherwise fearfully
destroy the outcome of something
otherwise good. And, oh, this ain't
nostalgia; this is real life.

Wednesday, January 22, 2020

12,490. RUDIMENTS, pt. 939

(get away now, my sons and daughters)
It always seemed to me
that evidences of 'outside
sourcing,' let's call it, for
human existence, abounded.
First off, immediately, any
thing that can 'change substance'
immediately rings the bell for
outside participation in its
initiation. First off, the entire
concept is far too ghastly
and deep for simple evolution
and natural occurrences and all
that. The very conceit of it is
beyond Humankind's perception.
It requires a far-distant view
of what's happening and of
what's underway. Secondly,
to a human it would not have
any utilitarian point, for they
could not see it. Humans, as
it goes, see but ONE thing
at a time. The idea of water
turning to ice turning into
vapor turning to steam turning
back to water, gas to liquid to
solid, etc., is far too much.
The same goes for gas to
fire to liquid; the same goes
for distillation, and a hundred
other things. It's just NOT a
human thing. A human will
'believe' a million things if they
are guised as 'divine,' but nothing
of common sense. Common sense,
in its most simple presence, will
tell you there's more here than
you see.
I sensed that something was
afoot  - and what that conclusion
came to was that the world is a
conspiracy of silence, or, if not
of silence, than a more simple
conspiracy of false information
proclaimed and forced upon others.
That was why, as I walked 12th
street and saw the repair- shops
and small storefronts for the
shoe-repair and shoe-seller
shops, the trinket guys, the
small meat and cheese places,
even those famed sandal shops
along Bleecker, I'd see the crafts
guys with their heads down, busy,
and intent with their work. And
I'd know, right off, what made
them content was their removal
from the gruff misrepresentations
of more ordinary life. They were
having none of it, and they were
proud of the 'space' their work
gave them to stay away in. It was
a fine, New York style, allegiance
to a separate place, detached and
removed, as I said, from the
gyrating wheel of falsehood the
world threw at them. I'm still
sorry to have to say that, at base,
in this world, there is NO foundation
to anything, everything is concocted,
meanings are fabricated, and the
onus of life is a total falsehood, as
we are set in the midst of something
that never should have been  - 
having chosen our own slavish
enslavements to concepts that
are not except by Man's design.
Get away now, my sons and
daughters. Flee.
I always like to buttress my
points here with real information.
A point about life and the stories
you see here, and the Authorities and
bullshit, goes as follows, and this
is fact: "Lucky Luciano's mob 
and union connections served him 
well during WWII when the US 
Government asked him to provide 
Mafia assistance in preventing
enemy infiltration of the US
waterfronts and through Albert
Anastasia, who controlled the
docks, guaranteeing that no 
dockworker strikes would occur
to impede the shipment of
men and materiel to the front.
Clearly, despite his being a 
convicted felon and the head
of the country's largest crime
organization, the American
government put scruples aside
and turned to Luciano when
they felt he had something they
needed: Because of his close
connections to the Mafia, in
Sicily as well as throughout the
rest of Italy, he provided
connections that furnished
intelligence for the US forces
that invaded that country in 1943.
Both during and after the war,
the US military and intelligence 
agencies also used his influence
to root out suspected Communist
influence in labor groups [you
still think Joe McCarthy was a
fluke?]. In return, Luciano was
allowed to run his crime empire
from his jail cell, and after the
war ended he was paroled. (He
continued to run the 'Family' from
the Clinton Correctional Facility
in Dannemora, NY, through Vito
Genovese, and then Frank Costello.
Luciano was treated very well in
prison, with special meals prepared 
for him in a private kitchen. [Who
says crime and turning tips for
the Government doesn't pay?].
There was ONE major string 
attached to all this  -  he had to
agree, upon parole, to LEAVE 
America and return to Sicily
because the last thing the
government wanted was for the
deal between the U.S. and the
Mafia to become public knowledge.
(He instead 'secretly' moved to
pre-Casro, corrupt Cuba and ran 
several dirty casinos there with the
cooperation of US Dictator Batista
(who received 10% of the take)."

Another mob guy, used by the
Government was Meyer Lansky  -  
whose connections and gang
were used by the US Government
as part of a secret Mafia/US Gov.
partnership to keep saboteurs out
of the country and the vulnerable
shipping industry, and was also 
used, with his 'gang' by the Govt.
to break up several Nazi rallies
in Yorkville (German community,
upper eastside). At his death at
age 80, with that cooperation and
the knowledge of the US Govt., he
left behind more than $300 million,
in hidden bank accounts, which
money has 'never been found' since
that death, in 198. Hmmm? Curious.
Want to buy a bridge? Call me.
I guess what I'm saying is 'look
three times before you sit.' None of
those chairs are stable, or even real.
The same Government that promulgates
the laws and the platitudes is the same
Government which advances the
illogic and deceit by which it's all
destroyed. A constant undertaking, and
the smaller things are the easier it is
to see it. Municipal, local government
being a prime example. I saw it in
New York City each time I passed
the old Tweed Courthouse. Each
time I passed between Camden and
Philadelphia. Each time I stopped
at Penn Treaty Park at the Delaware,
or any of the de facto stupidities of
any of Manhattan's 'historic' sites.
Locally, here, right where I live now,
is the worst example of the corrupt
peddling of influence, contracts and
money. Midget council-people who
straight-faced lie. A moronic Mayor
who cant speak a proper, truthful
sentence. Rows lackeys and losers
lined up at the trough, a respect for
a 'Nature' that is but a word; the
using of children (abusing of them,
actually) for the advancing of this
crime and corruption. Spotlighting
references to a 'History' that never
existed, and ignoring that which did.
Shining false apples. Cleaning up
false sights. The largest criminal
enterprise we have to deal with 
is the Government itself.
Much like a 'good' abstract painting,
one that works, it seems inevitable:
The standing pieces remain in 
place - Mayors, creeps, evildoers
and pants-poopers  -  yet they go
around rearranging life for everyone
else and thinking nothing of it.
What alternatives exist? Have you
ever wondered? Running the next
little fire-wagon car you see off the
road and into a ditch? Is that really
even good enough? There's not any 
Authority to turn to, because   as
I just showed  -  the corruption is
all built in and endemic. In addition,
as need be, they all know how to
cover for one another while fleecing
the public till with their insatiable
porno-money-lust and complete lack
of brains or quality. Furious irony?
Not here; there's no one enlightened
enough about anything to even carry
that game. They build gay theaters
for show tunes and ribald torch-dramas
actually thinking they're advancing the
common-weal while bringing down the
house (in an 'ironical' way  -  but they're
too stupid to see that). If any one of those
creeps were my Father, I'd surely puke,
and I hope they get their comeuppance.
Top-tails and raccoons. Oversized
eyeball helmets. Ain't life so fun?
Speaking of which, one last note on
this weird subject of life-quality:
They put a place called Radioactive
Park in place, at the end of my street,
for the overflow Indo-dweebs who
roll out of the back, far-left, always
open gate, at Station Village. It had
previously always been closed off,
with access only from Avenel Street.
But that gate there is now always
open, and the little swamis and things
filter in with their baby-strollers all
the time. Anyway, in that park, each
day now, for the last 5 or 6 mornings,
and during school hours I'm talking,
there's been a girl, maybe 14, maybe 
15. She sullenly sits on  a swing,
or sadly walks around. Backpack.
ear things, maybe a phone. I
always figure she's skipping school,
from somewhere. Evidently no one
cares about that. I, along with my
dog, always stay far away from
her  -  any accusation of anything,
these days, could be lethal, and no
one, certainly, would believe my
story over hers. Just yesterday, I
did get a 'hi' out of her, but still
stayed away. But, if it ever comes
to any more than that  -  I would
congratulate her for what she's
doing, and I'd support her stance.
This society, this place, offers her
absolutely nothing: my message?
'Get away now, my sons and
daughters; get away now, before
you too are ruined.'

Tuesday, January 21, 2020

12,489. IN THE QUESTION OF.....

In the question of how to get 
through life, the answer is 'don't 
do it.' It isn't worth the strife. The 
television magnet will get you
in the end, as you have it : cars
and menopause, heartburn and
family woes, sex and murder too.
Clowns and devils. Then the green
lawn keeps growing, and you'll
never make it to the green room
either, just the jokes and wisecracks
from the fools who have. The little
children, buttoned and fed, will
seek to learn about dominoes and
trumpets. Who will the them then?

12,488. RUDIMENTS, pt. 938

RUDIMENTS, pt. 938
(just close the deal, ok?)
Selling magazines was no big deal,
an idiot's Winter's work. It probably
ran from say November thru that
February. It saw the little ad for the
easy money in the Perth Amboy
Evening News, (local paper, then),
and had my mother drive me there  -
to Perth Amboy, right in the middle
of town. There used to be a small
synagogue there, right across the
street, and this 2nd floor office
faced it  -  even though the office
itself was about a mess of nothing
but paper and samples. I forget the
guy, he was maybe 40. This other
kid, Melton, from Avenel  - I'd
known him a little growing up  - 
he too was there, just by chance.
We both got 'hired' and the guy
told us where to meet him. I didn't
know beans about selling magazines,
but it beat the alternative jobs my
mother kept throwing up at me. She
was a real stickler that I should not
have idle time and should immediately
find a way of making some coin, so 
I just went along. It always seemed
that I was always doing things to
get out of the house. It wasn't so
bad, but they never seemed to want
me, as the oldest, weird, kid, to stick
round either. After the seminary those
last months were brutal. Once I finished
that last of senior year locally, in the
shitshack they called high school, I
was gone anyway. It seemed they
never wanted me there either  - the
school people  -  they were always
throwing me out or sending me home
over dumb-ass infractions. About
clothes, or boots or shoes or too
much hair. 1967 was a damned mess,
and the local school sucked. Hell,
Avenel sucked. Doing anything to
get out of there was better than
anything else.
He'd pick us up (we learned as we
went along) and then drop us off.
The places we went to were cheap
projects or two-family or more, homes.
Elizabeth was filled with old housing
stock that once had been large single
family homes which then were broken
up into the usual Puerto Rican 1960
hovels with four or more crazy 
families jamming all the space, and 
umpteen kids too. Seemed like all 
they must have done was fornicate 
(the parents), because the kids were 
dropped everywhere like flies.
That whole ethnic thing (my own
parents had five kids) was buttressed
a lot by demanding a large family,
something connected with pride,
boasting, and, probably, insecurity
too. The pleasure part of it, I don't
know about  -   for that seemed to
go away early on.  I never knew
what people were up to. 
The thing with me was, there
were a few levels going on. Ghetto
neighborhoods were always pretty
cool  -  the cooking smells and the
hallways, I mentioned already. The
mothers were always cooking, but
they'd come to the door, barely
understanding me, or pretending to,
or not too  -  lots of nods, smiles,
and interest. In something. I
often enough would get someone,
three or four people a night, to
sign on, initial the card, etc.
Then, back to the car-guy and
he'd act as the 'closer' and go
and re-visit the people, to get a
formal subscription blank going
and get some money. He eventually
got angered with me, because he
could never 'close' my deals. Losing
the sale bugged him; bad for the 
numbers. The thing was a lot of
times I could get these women
wrapped around my finger  -  with
a sales pitch cuteness they fell for,
even if they had no budget, or
money. Heck, to them I was an
entertainment. Only he was the 
Grinch. By three or four months 
later, the whole gig, for me, had 
fallen  apart, and I just stopped 
going. The cool thing for me
was how inevitably, on these
walks of mine through the
different streets and such, I'd
usually get a small group of
kids  -  girls and toddlers, maybe
the girls would be 12 or 14 years
old. They thought it was all cool
what I was doing and stayed around
like I was their entertainment, and,
I admit, I had fun with it to. All
that Perth Amboy, and Elizabeth,
housing stuff was real interesting
to me. I never saw too much of
any Dads around, but I guess they
were still at work, but there were
doorways and kids and halls and
neat spots and places to see.
Probably a more normal guy
would have had some great 
advantages here about getting 
a squeeze, finding some lonely 
house-mouse wife looking for 
some action  - all those cool
cliches you used to read about
in the smut mags, back when
that was all there was. There 
was always a tale or three 
about the door-to-door guy 
boffing a lonely housewife, 
and getting a sale too, and 
even a 'Please come back again!'
Not for me; not even with a 
daughter. Drat all that, and 
a Drake's Cake to the winner. 
The mind is a funny companion 
to be alone with.
These sorts of ignorant immigrant
neighborhoods used to astound
me. Native American lands, solid 
and storied, and not a one of these
quirky, teeming, hordes had a clue.
They just swarmed in and took.
I used to figure, for each of those
houses, built for one family, now
there were probably 6 or more,
with a rapacious, grinning landlord
somewhere who had thrown in a
few extra bathrooms and kitchens,
jammed in where they could fit
by the plumbing, cheaply, and a
few extra cheesy walls, some 
doorbells, partitions, etc., and they
were probably getting 15 times 
the monthly value out of the
house and doing very little or 
nothing to keep or maintain it.
They had turned our dear American
turf into a story of greed and the
over-riding love of a buck. Dirty
as all get-out. And, heck, that
was 50 plus years ago! All those
wives and kids inside, and running
the streets, to them it was just place
and chore  -  a home to cook in
and a place to raise the brat kids,
who would then themselves do
the same thing and multiply it
all again tenfold in another 15
years. It just goes on, and the
world gets destroyed, let alone the
country. It's called 'exponential'
growth, the rate that takes off,
5 kids, have 5 kids each, making a
sudden 25, and then each of those
have 5 kids, making, thirty years 
later, 125, who then do it again.
They all have to go somewhere!
And, I guess the thinking used
to be, they'll all need magazine
subscriptions  -  if the darned
guy could just close the deal.