259. FORMED BY HAND,
FIRED BY HEART
When I was young, before
anything else started
happening to me, the
engrained 'culture' which
was then prevalent was
already being drilled into
my head, as well as
everyone else's. It was
the result of being born
into a time of severe
cultural shift - things
were underway, though
still in shadows and under
covers, which would
eventually alter
everything. It began
small: (I always liked
that Werner Herzog
film title 'Even
Dwarfs Started
Small'). The steadiness
of the imponderable
constant. It started
easily enough -
with us as captive
kids. What recourse
had we? There was
nothing we could
do, just as no reason
was ever presented
to as to make us
'balk' : 77 Sunset
Strip, Bourbon Street
Beat, Paladin, Route
66, and more. Piled
on, one after the other,
was all this televised
madness by which
we were supposed
to begin seeing life.
Or whatever all that
was. The world was
so different then, and
all these adults
entertained it,
even at the poorer
economic levels of
my house and Inman
Avenue : those TV
people were always
cool and suave, and
everything worked
for them. If you went
to the end of Inman
Avenue, there were
a few nasty junkyards
- all sorts of broken,
dumped and disabled
things, just left there,
grass growing around
them, we kids traipsing
around constantly.
The 'myth' of 'beware
the junkyard's vicious
dogs' - of which we
never saw a one.
Didn't exist. More
fiction. Basically,
no one cared about
anything. On TV,
especially in these
fancier L. A. and
California show,
even the junkyards
were theatrical -
had fences and
ordered rows,
barking dogs and
guards. Any people
interested were
let in and were escorted
around or through.
All it ever did was
advance the fake TV
plots amidst a
complete buffoonery
of make-believe.
Completely foreign
to my real-life
experience, or
any of my crazy,
myopic friends as
well. This life was
a steady-pulse
continuum, ours,
I mean, and it all
bore nothing
relatable to the
others. They were
fantasy-brains trying
to replace ours. it
probably worked -
look at the world
today. If you
extrapolate that
out for the 'future'
of today's kids,
there's no fair
result to be
expected except
ire death and
destruction.
Glad I'll
be gone.
-
If you carry any
of this through,
you'll see where
I'm ending up -
to final career
moves of nothing
at all. Shrinking
violet accountants
or clerks, or thieves
and politicos on the
take. We were
presented nothing
else - outside of
that realm of the
fascinating humanity
which TV gave to us.
No wonder, I always
figured, that in some
ten years all that
fantasy programming '
took off. We had
been primed, as
kids, to go
elsewhere in
our minds -
even to less
depressing places!
Perhaps it as all
to the good, in
that sense. Be
all that as it
may.
-
Over time, I think
we each find our
line, and then we
have to decide whether
to cross it, or not. I
crossed mine. After
a few false starts, I
ended up where I'd
wished to be. One
day, on Eighth Street,
I turned to Jim Tomberg
and simply said, 'Jim,
I can't believe I did
it but I am here!'
He grinned and just
said 'It's called the
wonder of all the
ages, my friend, a
wonder in every way.'
Then we both laughed.
We were on our way
to his job and his shift,
at Cafe Wha, or Cafe
Bizzarro, or Zorro,
or whatever they w
ere called. He'd
bounced to a few
of them. Jim liked
to walk the three
blocks over with
his apron on. It
looked funny, but
it gave him the
look of a big,
bear-like lug working
the beer halls and
shot joints while
pooling money with
no one. Jim was
that kind of guy.
He could look a fish
in the eye and make
it drown. Had that
effect. For me, it
was a carnival -
beer all night, on
Jim; he'd just keep
bringing me mugs
- I only later found
out that often enough
they were just the
cold and leftover
pourings of what
others had left. I
probably wouldn't
have cared at the
price. None. Zero.
I never touched
anything else -
all those mixed
drinks and hard
drinks and all. I
just kept to the
un-named and
certainly un-refined
beers which came
my way. By 10:30
at night, for sure, Jim
was sloshed already,
as was I, pretty good.
He'd become louder
and more boisterous
as the night drew a
long, and it did.
Every time. Pretty
girls and not-so-pretty
ladies, they all came
his way, to my table.
Sitting there, told to
wait or cool their heels.
And then, if I was
still around, by night's
end I'd walk them, Jim
and whomever he'd
'selected' for the night
or that weekend, to
the room beneath the
Studio School, or his
sculpture-studio area.
I'd make sure they
were still both conscious
and aware of each other.
God knows what went
on. The next morning,
it was always a sight.
Some bare ass somewhere
sticking up. Alcohol didn't
really agree with them,
ever, but he always kept
going back. Like Andy
Bonamo, on 11th street,
with all that free drug-money
and change laying around;
here Jim always kept me
supplied with change and
small bills, when needed.
His tips and other takes
seemed good, all that
time. I don't know if
he ever payed these
girls or ladies for
anything, or just
booted them out the
next morning. No one
ever complained. But
there mostly were
never any repeat
performers either.
Hard to get to know
a female who is
only seen, indirectly,
once and then never
again. Besides, once
they had their clothes
on anyway I'd have
nothing to go by
to ID them.
-
Jim Tomberg was a
good enough guy -
blunt and proud and
loud and lewd too.
Welder. Throwing
steel around. Plaster,
all that stuff. Formed
by hand, fired by heart.
Jim Tomberg and his
ladies. Sorry I lost
touch with him.
No comments:
Post a Comment