8650. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #179

179. DON'T GET 

ME STARTED

When I was about 10, the first

time I saw Newark I nearly

jumped out of my skin,

needed a diaper again,

couldn't be contained. We

were driving to my Aunt's

house in Rutherford or

Lyndhurst or whatever

it was. My father came

down off the Rt. 21 ramp,

for McCarter Highway to

Broad Street, and when

I saw that I was a goner.

I was just a long, broad

street (really!) and it

seemed crowned at one

end, whatever year this

was, by the Prudential

Building  -  a big, tall

building in Newark terms.

It was white, kind of

windowless, about 15

stories. It wasn't in

any way traditional, nor

did it, in reality, add

anything 'nice' to

Newark, architecturally.

More it was bunker-like.

But it represented the

modern day, the entire

new 'Kennedy' thing

washing over the

otherwise tired old

world. Whatever it

was, it sort of now

defined the street,

realigned the eye and

such. Around it were all

the usual and far more

traditional old-style

masonry and brick

buildings, shopping

emporiums, those more

massive sorts of store

fronts there used to be.

The Prudential Building

just sort of re-defined all

that, saying sort of that

Newark could stand up

to the modern day if

and when it wanted to.

A broad thoroughfare, it,

along with Market Street

where they crossed, was still

sort of hungover from the

heydey of the 1940's when

Newark right there was the

black person's jazz capital  -

club after club, theaters

and recital halls, all the

big names. WBGO, a jazz

powerhouse radio station

-  still around, but a ghost,

just not a white ghost. The

Robert Treat Hotel, and some

other, famous, black people's

hotel way down the other end.

I forget the name right now.

Segregated stuff, but almost

yet by choice too. Leave it to

Prudential to erect a white

travertine marble facade,

as if attempting to break up,

right there, a dying black

culture with some 'Whitey

Insurance Company' gibberish.

That hotel I couldn't remember

just came to me - Riviera Hotel.

Still there, about 90 bucks a

night now, really a legacy too.

They don't mention the old

days too much around there,

mainly because there are no

old-timers still around. The

young kids doing things

there now don't know

a savage sunspot about

any of it.

-

Broad and Market, man,

once upon a time that was

state-of-the art hip stuff :

Beats and coolcats. Artists

and junkies, all rolled up.

A passel of big, famous

stores, and that gilded,

gold-domed city hall.

Hugh Addonizio, one of

those eternal 'crooked

mayors of the world club'

guys, he's forever engrained

in my mind from these 1960's

years. He probably sat on the

toilet and shit payoff money

-  there was so much of it.

The chemical companies,

the insurance rackets, the

brewery people, the leather

and glove-makers people,

(Newark was once the

thriving capital of those two

industries), all those people

tearing down all that old

stuff and rebuilding, getting

rich on the transformation.

Now there's a surface rail

line, all those rights-of-way

that had to be bought off.

Largess. Bribery. Money.

The modern day, still floating

on that decrepit sea of the past.

-

I found it was all about a 

sense of place -  it didn't 

really matter where that 

was, but if one could grab 

an idea of 'place' from 

somewhere, and make

it ones's own, that's all

it took. Avenel never really

had that -  that just wasn't 

there. Any 'sense' of anything

present was only of something

I'd given it, made up, or attached

to it myself. In Newark, and 

New York, in both instances, 

all became much different for 

me. They definitely had 

'place' and I adapted to 

each, quickly; making 

them my own as best I 

could. Actually, it could 

be anywhere  - if you're

from Dubuque, or, say, 

Elmira, the sense of 'place' 

which they represent 

can beckon and grab 

you. I bet even 

Laramie can do

that. It doesn't even

then have to be 'place'

by real terms. Just 'place'

in some virtual world of 

the mind, like computer

stuff today sometimes is;

virtually.

-

Old Newark was quickly

disappearing, yes. What else

was new; around these parts

everything was getting gobbled 

up. Knocked down. Everyone 

wanted 'new'  -  that cleaner,

highway style of the 1960's,

flat slabs, little decoration, 

no glass, or lots of glass. 

No longer were there 

decorative cornices or

swirling motifs and finely 

detailed windows and

doorways. Everything was 

a flat plane, interlocking

boredom. In  Paramus, they

erected, in some shopping

center, some gigantic affront,

a Macy's or an Alexander's or

something, and upon the big

facade they plastered some

hideous, abstract splotch of

what they called 'Art'  - as if

a shopping place, of junk, 

had any claim to be claiming 

'Art', and they called it the 

'world's largest mural.' As if 

it was some Green or Roman 

masterpiece. New Jersey 

schlubs are such stupid 

freaks. Like those Bergen 

County girls with the big 

earrings who talk with 

that funny flat accent 

and are always staring

at their 'freshly done' 

nails. Ever so slowly, 

they manage to transform 

everything, soon enough, 

into nothing at all. Like a 

new, modern-day alchemy.

and with people to 

defend it all too.

-

Newark they just let become

a black ghetto. Self-destruct.

Jersey City, in much the 

same way, was allowed to 

fester and  crumble, with 

South Asians and Hispanics 

fighting it out. Paterson too.

By 1980, all three of those

places had hit rock bottom,

taking everything else down
with them. And all of that was
only North Jersey, I'm leaving
out, so far, Trenton and Camden
 and New Brunswick too. No real
showplaces, any of them either.
Epidemics, fatherless homes and
abandoned babies and pregnancies,
crack cocaine, AIDS, and a hundred
other versions of living deaths.

You don't need me to line it all

out, there are a hundred books

on these subjects to tell you

about all these towns and 

personalities who let all this

happen. I've already mentioned 

a few; here are two more: Peter 

Rodino, and Kevin Gibson.

Don't get me started.