9049. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, Pt. 291

291. BRINGING 

THINGS DOWN

Sometimes the only

reasonable way to

bring things down

is to just bring them

down. But that's only

good if you want the

flight to end. I never

reached that point, so,

true to form, I always

had all sorts of things

flying, in the air, up

and around me,

unfinished. Once

in a while I'd

stand back and try

looking at everything

'objectively,' thinking

maybe to give it up,

or some part of it. I

remained pretty

much engaged with

everything around

me  - sponge-like, I

collected and sapped

up whatever was

circulating. You have

to understand  -  I used

the most boring and

ordinary of young-guy 

pursuits as useful 

stepping stones. An 

example is the 

young-person's 

real joy I found 

in going to Philadelphia. 

Every so often, some 

legal-docket issue 

and its printing had 

to be delivered to 

Philadelphia. For 

these trips I got to 

use the owner, 

Ron's, new Ford 

Galaxie. Pretty 

cool  -  plus, that 

secretary girl from 

Newark I wrote 

of, Marlene, she 

had a new Mustang. 

Once or twice she 

let me use that as 

well, instead of 

the Galaxie,  In 

any case, using the 

NJ Turnpike, I got 

where I was headed 

in good fashion. 

I was a naive as 

a potato, in love 

with being, or the 

sense of being anyway, 

and footloose and 

fancy free in Philadelphia, 

expenses paid. I'd park 

in some safe and secure 

location, all paid up, 

grab my box or two 

of stuff, and head 

over to the Philadelphia 

City Hall. If you've 

never seen this place, 

you owe it to yourself. 

Topped by an  

enormous statue of 

William Penn, it 

centers the actual 

street geometry 

of Center City 

Philadelphia, which

is what they call

their downtown.  

Broad and Market, 

and the rest, they all 

spin out from it. 

Back then (it's since 

been changed) the 

law was the no 

building in the 

city could be taller 

than the statue of 

William Penn; no 

higher. That was, 

maybe 15 or 20 

stories high, so the 

city, back then had 

only the most traditional 

and nicely staid sort of 

skylines. Reserved. 

Proud. Stately. Serene. 

Stone. Now it's all 

different  -  height 

restrictions were removed, 

by the 90's maybe, and

the City Hall and the 

statue atop it are now 

dwarfed, and all around 

it are fairly gross, or 

innocuous, glass, 

geometric, skyscrapers  -  

like anywhere. Could be 

St. Louis, could be Dallas. 

I'd go up into the tower 

of the City Hall  -  just 

a nasty, rabbit's warren 

of plain, small clerk's 

offices, one after 

another, down crummy 

hallways, with groups 

of boring people 

milling about. I'd 

file my papers, docket 

the booklets, briefs 

and printing. Then I 

was done! The rest 

of the afternoon, 

within reason, 

travel time, etc., 

beckoned. I knew,

yes, that I needed to 

be back with THEIR 

cars, after all; but I 

dawdled as long as

 I could, always 

blaming traffic. 

Along the grassy 

expanses of City Hall 

(these are gone now 

too, just a small 

monument remains 

of the famed 'outdoor 

book-market' stalls of 

Center City Philadelphia),

 there was an endless 

array of dark green, 

wooden sheds, and 

stalls, and tables, 

heaped and filed 

with used books.

I'd browse forever. 

It was amazing, as 

if the entire area of 

Philadelphia and its 

environs had given 

over its 200-year 

supply of old books. 

Estate and mansion 

libraries; private 

collections. Things 

were everywhere, 

for sale, at fractions 

of a dollar, and 

three dollars was 

a fortune, a rich-man's 

gold price for a book. 

Every conceivable 

thing  -  subject, 

format, size. Forty 

cent books galore. 

I was hooked. Plus, 

along Broad Street 

there, a number of 

well-established art 

schools and museum 

links proliferated. 

The Philadelphia 

Academy of Fine 

Arts being the 

largest one. I had 

a million plans 

afoot, in my head : 

move there, go to 

that art school, 

hang out at book 

stalls for the 

remainder of 

my day, live like 

Gauguin or someone 

on the fringes of 

my imaginary 

personal Paris.

-

 I'd get back in 

time for work 

'dismissal,' (much 

like school), and 

realize I was back 

once more in the 

'real' world. 

Woodbridge again. 

Only far in the 

back of my head 

did some place 

remain, exotic, 

imaginary, like 

where I had just 

again been. Distant, 

but so near. I, for 

sure, marked it 

on my calendar, 

be sure of that. 

There was the 

most vast difference 

in the world between 

New York City, 

and Philadelphia  -  

yet they both 

represented the 

self same thing 

to me. History. 

Art. Intelligence 

and Learning. 

Fidelity to Self. 

One was 

in-your-face 

murderous about 

its ways and means 

(NYC), and the 

other served tea 

and pastries with 

real gentility and 

reserve, while 

speaking softly 

and kissing you. 

I had mixed feelings,

 but I did find myself 

really liking the kisses. 

It's was one of those 

monumental life-divides, 

choosing one location 

over the other. The 

same thing occurred 

with San Francisco, 

that one time, actually, 

in the late '70's Same 

sort of deal, but the 

distances were far 

greater and it was 

easier to just say 

no and break away

for a return.

-

You know how 

it was the Beatles 

who sang, something 

like, 'there are people 

I remember, all my 

life, though some 

have changed, and 

these places loose 

their meaning....' 

whatever it was, 

people, places, I 

forget. But I used 

it for places  -  to 

hell with people. 

It all meant the 

same thing for me. 

Diamonds in the 

rough, some locations 

rang perfectly, the 

vibration of my brain, 

while others remained 

totally removed and 

foreign to me. I 

couldn't have cared 

less. I found myself 

easily detecting that 

which I hated. There 

was a certain sort 

of Woodbridge and 

Avenel person, for 

instance, that I 

abhorred. The 

head-down clerk, 

the checklister, 

the bureaucrat in 

arms, the lady, 

endlessly dragging 

through her garden 

row of radishes. 

There were back 

parts of Woodbridge, 

out by Fulton Street, 

that were neighborhoods 

of these tired, old 

Hungarians and Poles  

-  tiny, old homes, 

dogpatch gardens 

with small metal 

fences, groomed to

death yards, everything 

planted in rows, no trees, 

no bushes. Everything 

was always clinically 

pristine. That wasn't 

any good for me; I 

needed the turmoil 

and the mess of an

activity, a flinging 

around of ideas and 

things, the thrash 

of a fury, the fires 

of a skirmish. All 

these other folks 

were just too 

quiet, too fixed, 

too sedate.

-

One time, in the 

height of early 

hippie times, for 

adults, not for kids  

-  adults ran a little 

later, men started 

growing sideburns 

and mustaches, 

guys in their forties  

-  these two people came 

in trying to be ultra 

hip; some activist 

newsletter or 

something. This 

was in the old 

bank building; 

anti-war stuff, 

Johnson was still 

in office, the country 

was in turmoil, and  

-  as I said  -  all of 

a sudden everyone 

wanted to be hip 

and cool. Sammy 

Davis, Jr. and 

Frank Sinatra, 

for pity's sake, 

were all of a 

sudden Smothers 

Brothers hipsters. 

(A hipster's like 

when you know 

all the categories, 

all the ways of 

being, but your 

own personal 

sense of worth, 

and irony, has 

overtaken all good 

sense and you 

somehow become 

a parody of yourself  

-  shades, and smokes, 

and clothes and talk. 

You're, you tend to 

claim, 'beyond' 

category, and 

post-meaning. 

It's kind of creepy 

and just wrong, but 

young-middle aged

people fall into it 

all the time. Go 

see Brooklyn, 

if you don't 

believe me)....

this man and woman 

come in, all cool. 

I don't remember 

the guy one bit, 

but the woman, 

maybe 38. maybe 

40. slightly 

overweighted, 

just slightly, she 

starts talking right 

at me at the counter, 

going over the order, 

what they needed, 

and all that. Problem 

was, she had on 

a sheer, see-through 

black top, I mean 

sheer, with nothing 

but breasts under it. 

See-through I'm talking. 

Them babies were 

talking too, right at 

me. I hardly heard a 

thing she said, but 

every word those 

hipster tits spoke, 

I was listening. 

Jeepers, what was 

I do to, how had 

the freaking sundown 

world come to this? 

Pretend? 'No ma'am, 

I haven't seen a thing.' 

Continue gaping, a 

stupid man-boy's stare? 

Say. 'Oh gee, how nice!' 

I wasn't made for that 

stuff, sorry. Kind of 

all it did was piss 

me off  - that the 

world had dragged 

itself down to that, 

these two stupid, 

fluorescent creeps 

parading around 

like that (the people,

not the breasts). 

For this, people 

double parked, 

over-ran their 

ticket times, 

complained about 

the fines? I made 

sure, when they 

came back to pick 

up their finished crap, 

that it wasn't me who 

took care of them. 

(Anyway, Bill 

Konowalow wanted 

to see. I always 

thought he was 

banging Marlene 

as it was  -  figured 

one more wouldn't 

hurt him none. 

Big boy  -  but I

don't know what 

she wore on the 

return trip. He 

never said. 
-
The world
to me was pretty 
nuts. What I could see
was all I saw, and it
was't much to my liking.
I was young enough, just
 then, and say, 'why even
bother, this is all such a
waste.' So I never got on
that treadmill to 'success'
 and money that most 
everyone else was already 
scenting after. One time, Ron,
the owner of this little NJ
Appellate company, and 
I were standing out front. 
One of his brothers had 
pulled up with a gigantic,
brand new, drive-yourself
travel campers one of those
Winnebago things or whatever
they were. Enormous. Huge.
White. He had been having
marital problems we all knew
about (the family stuff was
pretty common currency
within the company). I looked
at Ron, as if to say, 'what's 
this?' His brother came out, 
all proud,  with his alienated 
wife still remaining in the 
front seat. She, once again, 
didn't seem happy about 
anything. He showed us the 
vehicle, inside and out  -  sink, 
style, bathroom, bed, the whole 
bit. They left. It must have cost,
back then, sixty grand, 
which was a veritable fortune.
After he was gone, Ron just
looked at me and, shrugging,
said, 'What are you gonna'
do, it's just my brother, trying
to save his marriage.'
Huh?