8584. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #162

162. LET'S EAT

I was never untrammelled

or disjointed. Odd words,

right? I tried walking straight,

even when the woe of the

roads was all crooked. Some

things I'd just notice, and

they'd strike me funny, or

as a pose, or they'd stay

with me. It sill happens:

like Tom Wolfe noting,

'It was said that a British

Gentleman could steal your

underwear, your smalls and

skivvies and knickers, and

leave you staring straight

at him asking if he didn't

think it had turned rather

chilly all of a sudden.' See

what I mean  -  a general

tone of nonsense and

nothing, but something is

actually there as well.

You do get the picture.'

Like some old Laurel and
Hardy routine in my head:

And oh how I used to dislike

those guys; I could never

find anything funny in their

humor, and that skinny guy,

Laurel, I guess, the with long

look and that wretched face

and expression, things always

going wrong  -  helplessness,

neediness. No way funny. It

used to drive me up the wall,

much as did the chubby guy's

smug superiority and triumph

and slow burns. Ugh. At ten

years old, I'd be going to see,

like, 'Rocket To Mars' or some

other movie, and I'd have to

sit through, first, one or two

shorts by those two monkeys.

Enough to rip up the seat in

the dark. I'd be wrankled :

'Everything you don't want

to be; dumb, stupid, etc.' I

had to look that up, thinking

maybe I'd coined it or something,

but evidently the word exists.

-

When I got to Pennsylvania,

the entire world was different.

Number one was the fact that

there, in PA, everyone looked

at you, or in this case everyone

looked at me, not you. I'd never

been in a place where, as in a

dog-pack or among wolves, the

interloper, the new face, was

immediately under suspicion

and scrutiny. It was, yes,

annoying and awkward at

first, but then I realized that it

was, actually, great, just what

I'd want. Like the mob guys,

always out front guarding the

clubhouse on Mulberry or

Sullivan Street in the city,

nothing got past. Of course,

all I had to do was work my

way in, among these people,

and I did that, starting right off.

First night I got there, I arrived

with my car about to blow up

and running on a bare three

cylinders. I went right to work,

asking about, and got a neighbor

guy of mine as a preferred

reference for quick-repair 
mechanical work on the car, and
right there out of his home

garage too. I just knocked on

his back door, said 'Willard

Brown sent me over,' (he was

the guy I had bought the

house from and who had

told me to go 'see Kenny'),

and hit it off with this guy,

and his rather nicely tawdry,

very dry-witted, wife. They

were like, maybe 39 or 40,

to my 24, say, but it hardly

mattered. She was still

'hot' and playful, as they

say, and the guy Ken, he

was an amazingly astute

mechanical wiz, with a

gift for just homing onto

the task at hand. Had me

all fixed up in some three

hours, mostly which had

been spent breaking the ice

and mentally moving in among

them, to be part. I knew my

stuff and what I had to do to

get packed in  -  play a little

dumb here, a little worldly

and wise there, a bit nasty,

a bit nice. It was all falsity,

but I knew what was up. I

was passing muster, and I

guess I did; two days later,

everybody around was cool

with me. That meant, first, I

could be left alone as needed,

but, second, no one would

really hesitate to come my

way either  -  I'd get offers

of help with this or that,

trade tasks. I started hanging

around Warren's barn, learned

all about Ken's family and kin

(they too were mostly all still

around there, in the hideaway

spaces, houses way back

somewhere, ekeing it out).

Warren was great too, about

everything  -  neighboring

farmer, etc. Use the tractor,

take the truck, whatever. I

started playing a real good

L'il Abner, and no one

laughed me off again,

New Jersey/New York

City or not. That might

have been cool, but it

was all important too.

The less to chance, the

better. It was only to

my imaginings maybe,

but I figured still that

at any minute some

'federale' or FBI guy or

 State Police could be

pulling onto my dirt

road in his dusty black

car with some paperwork

in hand to take me back

with him. Now I had a

frontline defense, at least

- or so my paranoia-thought

went. Yeah, a little too

much drama there, but

I wasn't about to be

going with no one.

-

Uncle Remus, Song of the

South, all that. Everything

began to be represented in

my outlook. I was in new

land. There was so much

richness and so little of it

was taken in by those who

lived there. I go back there

now, sad to say, and at the

top of what once had been

'my' hill  -  wasn't of course,

but it all ended at my dirt

road   -  was a small, fenced

cemetery, from Civil War

days and before. It had been

unused and sort of closed

off long ago by a nice,

spiked, iron fence.  However,

right there now  -   much to my
surprise  -  it's been re-opened,

widened, even, and put back

to use  -  and all these guys

I'm talking about are in there.

Buried. First time I saw it, I

near-abouts wanted to cry.

And I did some, at least

teared-up. Names, wives,

and some sons and daughters

too. Newer style stones, some

even with the crazy, modern

graphics on them  -  etchings

of sun-rays onto barns and

onto tractors. Pretty crazy;

but they're there; including

Kenny, the wrench-wizard

guy I just wrote of.

-

These people all ate well too,

there was a big, mid-day meal

everyday, plus breakfast and

some evening meal when they

could get to it. Farm-chores are

on a schedule all their own,

and sort of can't be altered or

pushed off. If the cows aren't

properly milked, two times

a day, like 6 am and 6pm,

roughly, there can be real

consequences. They can

develop mastitis, which

can be deadly. They need

to be milked because they're

always producing milk and if

the udders are not drained it

all backs up, hardens, the

mammary gland, bag, bloats,

and some real sickness occurs.

Miserable, sad, leaky cows,

wailing in pain. So, food

and the regular idea of

food-time for people

takes second place. The

big meal is in the center

of the day, like 1pm,

because that's the time

between chores, when

there's a tiny space

for something. Big meals

were never anything I

cared about; still don't. 

I'd rather eat in tidbits, 

whenever, or not. One 

thing I learned from

the streets is how 

engrained by habit

eating is. It's really 

not needed  -  to the

great, bullshit, extent 

it's pushed now, I mean.

Whoever started that 

'three square-meals a

day' stuff is full of shit 

(literally too). I think

they just heard it all 

wrong and, like idiots,

carried through on it 

all under wrong impressions 

and erroneous information. 

Because of it? Just look 

around you  -  everybody's 

way over done, chubby 

and fat all together, pasty,

and always prowling about

nervously for more food.

Instead of 'three' meals a 

day', it's really more like  -  

and I speak from experience  -  

every three days. That's 

pretty much it. With some 

training and mental discipline, 

you can bring yourself  -  

anyone  -  down to that. Eat 

something every third day, 

you'll be fine, and happier 

and lighter for it, and thinking 

more clearly too. Trust me. 

I've done it, and still try to 

now, but mostly don't. It's all 

mental  -  you can train your

body to live on anything , 

and draw nutrition from it. 

Everything is in everything  -  

all that dietary stuff is crap. 

Again, it's all mental. All life 

is.  Get over your attitudes 

about it, and live. All this 

eating just taxes your system,

way overworks organs and

things, becomes expensive, 

and turns into style and 

pride anyway. Every five 

months it's some new, 

stupid chef, some trendy

new food or 'diet' (anything

but), or some super-saturated

crap supposedly ancient and

great for you. Don't be stupid,

just shut your pie-hole, don't 

eat, don't fill with toxins and

factory chemicals, don't be a

fool and, for God's sake, get

away from sugar, in all its

evil, corporate-food forms.

You really ought to eat like

a cow (learned that on the 

farm)  -  masticate, slowly,

standing in one place, like

it's a big, boring chore, staring

straight out, and make it last.

(Learned that on the farm too).