7959. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #3

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.