Friday, March 25, 2016


3. Mesoamerica
It wasn't so much that in Morristown
you weren't anywhere special, just
more that if felt like you were nowhere
at all yet so close to everything. Before
development, there was a simple Starbucks;
after development it was there again, but no
longer as a simple outpost along a row of
old stores. Instead it was built into the fabric
of the new row of condo fronts or whatever
they're called, which up-class people were
purchasing and moving into in lieu of their
place in the w70's and 80's, or even Soho
and Chelsea. The money translated here,
differently, bought more space and amenities,
in fact, bought 'new'. A pretty simple idea,
yes, but  -  think about it  -  it takes only a
certain sort of person to find those things
more important than a citified, robust life
heavy with the ghosts and traditions of
hundreds of years of characters and
movement and, dare I say, intellectual
fame and accomplishment. Essentially,
in whatever capacity  -  professional,
worker, in a relationship, of whatever
sort  -  these people had calculatedly
balanced the rigors of Manhattan urbanity
against a new place such as this here,
(Morristown's new growth), and opted
for that. It takes a certain kind. Balanced
up against New York City for me, for
instance, all that sagged-out, leaky-faucet
with stains glory that NYC brought would
far outweigh the 'newitude' of Morristown.
There's just no comparable backstory 
attached to the place. That's what makes 
Manhattan, and even old Newark, a far 
more lively panache, one that speaks 
to me. Newark, where Dutch Schultz 
died after being shot at a steakhouse 
table and rushed to a nearby hospital  -  
only to linger yet a few days spouting 
his incoherent (but so very strange)
poetry. Someone was there to get it 
all down -  it reads in an earnestly 
strange and imaginary way. You can 
probably find it if you look it up. 
Newark was also once the jazz capital
of expatriate blacks and NYC rejects,
the unpatterned crowd of New Jersey 
horn anarchy  -  jazz clubs and venues
up and down Broad and Market. Ah, 
but once and a long time ago.
That Starbucks I mentioned, filled with
glamor-girls and professional boys. The
sports and movie crowd. There's a wicked,
weird place near to it, about block away, called
'Jersey Boy Bagels', more the needed, plebeian
style. Crummy coffee, really rank ambience,
but whatever  -  it's one of those places that
plays loud, bad, NJ radio and/or sports TV,
overlapping, and offers no respite or other
place to hide. Least-common-denominator
bullshit. Not much hope. Morristown, right
there in its center, and not far from my cemetery
mention in section 1, has a heritage park, not 
very large, no, but it takes up the square four 
blocks there. Ringed with traffic, lights at 
weird-turn angles, lanes marked for this 
and that, and almost murder to try and cross 
as a pedestrian. It's got some George 
Washington stuff, statuary and sculpture 
of the revolutionary war days, old
colonial stuff. It's passable  - seating 
varies; people walk their dogs, old people 
stagger by. The problem with Morristown 
now, if not right there in its center as on 
all the other four ends, is Mexicans  -  
Hispanics, Central-Americans, and the
rest. I'm grouping, because I'm like that. 
These people, about 25 years ago, just 
began swarming. Packs and hordes, living 
cheek-by-jowl along the streets and 
roadways entering and leaving the
city-center. I have nothing against 
Mexicans, I'll be frank, I just don't like 
that we imported a race of slave workers, 
ignorant people too, to do the bidding 
of white people who insist on dining and
having their idiot yards landscaped by 
laughing fools. I detest anyone who
'volcanoes' a tree (that soil pile-up 
of dark, black dirt that's piled up high
at the base of tree trunks). The more 
moronic the Mexican doing it, the 
higher the pile, it seems. Landscapers 
love it, because they can charge for
the soil the asshole homeowner knows 
nothing about (if he or he did, they 
wouldn't allow one of these creep 
outfits on their property). The Mexicans
don't care, they don't know the difference. 
They destroy and cut, to make everything 
look like their own cactus wonderland. 
They destroy America for us, and have 
six kids each, to boot, living off
our government dollar, probably 
illegally, and all those base-illiterate 
kids will need homes and housing in
twenty years. We're doomed. We've 
given away our own country, shooting 
ourselves in the butt wile doing it.
Morristown, for a long time now, has 
been the Morris County center of all 
this; a hotbed of chubby little, corn-fed, 
Mexican mamas pushing three kids in 
strollers, yakking the entire time in 
Mexican, their big, fat corn-fed asses 
too waddling along. The guy who did 
all this to them is out somewhere  -  cutting
trees, or cooking some American-poison
restaurant meal for some idiot American 
who really does want to die, or putting a 
roof on someone's house. It's truly a
disaster. In Morristown, the areas where 
they congregate have every sort of swine 
food, corner fast-food joint, dollar store
after dollar store in some competitive 
hype row, and they, the little people, just 
hang out. New Brunswick is the same way.
French Street has an old clock monument 
center square that, in good weather, is 
draped with Mexicans and other homeless 
losers. The clock tower long ago lost any 
meaning or reason for being there. In a
shameful abandonment, it just sits, while 
beneath it derelicts parade and rest. 
Sombreros and big guitars, on little men 
in boots who cannot, apparently, find 
pants that fit. Everything is ever too large.
row after row of cheap Hispanic home 
goods, and people everywhere spitting 
in the gutter. Same as Morristown. The 
world's a disaster hereabouts. Too bad 
for the moon, and too bad for me.
I shouldn't talk. I too am an interloper; 
don't belong here. But I dislike America, 
and make no qualms about it. If I had 
the means, I'd surely find some other 
manner of living. I do not, however, 
destroy the land I am on. I do not poison 
and destroy, befoul and pollute. I do not
lessen and detract from the social fabric 
I am in. It's funny how so soon we make 
use of everything, and then want to 
move on ahead, for a next bunch of
everything, we leave the crud all behind 
us and just go. The moving bands of native 
Americans, did they do this too? I've never 
exactly been able to find out. I know that,
seasonally, in all the places of New York 
City's early fisheries and harbors, there 
were left great  -  enormous  -  piles of clam
shells, middens, I believe they are called,
shell piles of all the oysters consumed by
the natives. I guess that too could be 
considered trash; garbage left. I just
do not know.
I don't know why I have to be this way.
I suppose I could just let all things go by,
without note and without comment. But
what else then do I live for except the
continuity of the 'change' that I've 
witnessed over so many years? When
I was young, 'Morristown' was more a
concept than a place. It was a very serious,
business locus  -  corporate headquarters,
deals and contracts, lawyers and the rest.
I guess each county had their county seat,
where the county courts and clerks were 
and all that  -  again Newark and New 
Brunswick both come to mind; but 
these were dark and serious places. 
Now they've all turned into run-down 
zoos with tribal artifacts and roving
bands. I have a right to speak up, I
figure : our schools have turned to 
garbage, curricula of complete crap,
teachers mouthing platitudes and just
playing contractual wait-games until they
can cash in on their tax-funded contracts.
The entire systems gone down. I have
nothing against the entire Mesoamerican
thing, and I guess it could be argued that
they're rightful in their ownership and stuff.
maybe, although I'd disagree vehemently.
It just ain't me, ain't my way, and does not
bear any scrutiny at all. Ignorant people
taking over an ignorant land. Too bad.
DUTCH SCHULTZ' final words: "(Sergeant Conlon questioned Schultz again) - Who shot you?
A.- I don't know. I didn't even get a look. I don't know who can have done it. Anybody. Kindly take my shoes off. (He was told that they were off.) No. There is a handcuff on them. The Baron says these things. I know what I am doing here with my collection of papers. It isn't worth a nickel to two guys like you or me but to a collector it is worth a fortune. It is priceless. I am going to turn it over to... Turn you back to me, please Henry. I am so sick now. The police are getting many complaints. Look out. I want that G-note. Look out for Jimmy Valentine for he is an old pal of mine. Come on, come on, Jim. Ok, ok, I am all through. Can't do another thing. Look out mamma, look out for her. You can't beat him. Police, mamma, Helen, mother, please take me out. I will settle the indictment. Come on, open the soap duckets. The chimney sweeps. Talk to the sword. Shut up, you got a big mouth! Please help me up, Henry. Max, come over here. French-Canadian bean soup. I want to pay. Let them leave me alone.

Schultz sank into unconsciousness then. It was 6:40 P.M. He died less than two hours later, without saying anything else. Some say this is everything from the ravings of someone on the brink of death to poetry to secrets of the mob world. You be the judge.

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