10,003. RUDIMENTS pt. 88

RUDIMENTS, pt. 88

Making Cars

I look back now and I realize how

much of everything from those 1967

days was nothing but a pretense. It

was so very simple to put something

over on people, there being so little

foundational knowledge, by the common

schmuck of the level I grew up with.

In about 1968, for instance, there was

this really almost horrid, pretentious,

little musical group called 'The Incredible

String Band.' I've always disliked performed

live music in every way, so that, in my entire

adult life, I've only attended two concerts,

both quite minor. One was a Sarah Vaughn

songbook/Gershwin thing, with a live,

symphony orchestra (I was given 2 free

tickets), and the other was this String

Band Concert. It was high Hippie-dom,

beads, bangles, wispy girls in flowing

skirts, and weak-looking guys. They

played mandolins, lutes, guitars, chimes

and stuff, and sang about ducks and birds

and dreams and wishes. It was a sort of

quasi-mystical, tribal-gypsy, medieval

operation. How they named themselves

'String Band' is actually beyond me, the

only real strings being on the guitars and

other instruments. The group was British,

or Scottish or something, and they trailed

behind them clouds of incense and aromas

that lingered. I have to tell you, the only

thing that really caught my eye were the

two or three girls they had on stage, part

of the group. It was very late 60's, the

whole bunch, and I just got bored  - but

the idea was the gimmick, the entire

ethos of what was going on was the

transcendent idea of elevating oneself

into a higher, or at least taller and more

distant, mystical realm. It was all that

Hippie-nation was about, and it was a

complete, blank lie. Once, of course, the

merchandiser dweebs got hold of it, it

was completely over. On the one hand

we were left with the likes of Abbie

Hoffman, and his ilk, throwing dollars

down onto the Stock Exchange floor,

and on the other hand all the wise-guy

bagel types in their suits and ad agencies

having meetings on what to sell that was

'Hippie cool' and how to fleece the public.

It was a complete disaster and  -  yep  -

 the public bought it; just ate it up.

-

When I got to Pennsylvania, there were a

few commune-like places strewn about,

but I kept away from all that. It was the

last thing I ever wanted to see -  celebratory

music, people in fields, nudity, crops, group

baby-tending, 'the family' and all that crap.

Up by the Water Gap  -  far away from me

actually, and of no consequence at all,

there was a big one. It was run by a guy

who called himself Peter Coyote, the

 'Coyote' reference being to some

mystical mushroom-cult Central American

 religion of which the mystic 'coyote' was

a shape-shifting, fantastic creature that

wove spells and altered events. He named

himself after that. Point of fact, under that

Peter Coyote name, he actually later became

a famous actor. This commune thing he ran

was on the remnant of his once-really large

family farm. Everyone was gone, his real

family,  I mean, and he somehow he got

the place and had turned it into a really

big, functional hippie commune. It went

on for years. Portland, NJ, or maybe it's

PA. The Delaware River is the border

there, and  depending on which side

of the often washed-out bridge you

ended up, that's the state you were in.

Of course, the hippies never cared;

they were nowhere; it didn't matter.

I can hear it now, with a slow, 

patterned, drawn-out vapor-cloud 

drawl: 'State, man? What state is that? 

And what's a state? It doesn't matter,

man; it's just like where you are, now, 

that's what counts.' Yesiree Bob,' as 

my father was wont to say.

-

Whenever people just assume you're 

just like them, that's when things go 

awry, real quick. It's not, of course, like 

you can simply ask: 'Hey? Are you just

like me?' That would be totally stupid. 

It's more that it all begins to conflict 

once the wheels get turning. Much 

of the real, outside world, is like that.

I've been fortunate (and that's one 

thing beneficial for me to mention; 

ain't much else), because in the vast 

majority of my endeavors people 

have known right off that I wasn't 

particularly 'normal'to their frames 

of reference, yet it mostly always 

worked  - I got my tasks done, was

civil enough, and bothered people 

little. One time I had an uncle who 

turned on me, in that fashion, right 

in his car, driving me somewhere. 

I was supposed to be 'sponsoring' 

his kid, for confirmation or something 

(yes, actually it was confirmation, so 

I don't know why the 'or something' 

went in there). It was the kid's choice, 

not mine; I just said, 'yeah, OK, I'll do 

it.' Probably not even thinking much.

This was the rehearsal or the practice 

run, a day or two before. This uncle was

a pretty hard-assed guy, and I suppose,
thinking back on it now, (it was light-years

ago), that I in fact - (my 'presence') - 

most likely embarrassed him, among 

his friends and all, and that was the 

real root of the problem. Anyway, out 

of nowhere he just starts saying, 'What 

are you doing here? You don't fit in

here. You don't belong here'  -  it kept 

on. He was pretty mad by the time he 

was done, and I frankly can't even 

remember what transpired after that  

-  because I really don't remember ever 

actually going through with the ceremony, 

or forking a gift over to the kid. But what I

ever did to deserve the calumny, I never knew.

I was just being me, best I knew how to.

-

So, now I'm pretty old, yeah, and I still

never know what people want out of 

others. The whole wacky mess of this 

life just messes with my head. I'll take it

for what's left, but I'm kind'a done too.