10,101. RUDIMENTS, pt.118

RUDIMENTS, pt.118

Making Cars

I've often had these little relationships

with words. 'Contingent' was one of them;

for instance, 'your acceptance into our

fraternity order is contingent on you

first passing a selective assortment of

local tests.' Contingent? Meaning you'll

accept me only if I can prove that my

personal assortment of strange talents

embraces and meets your code? Or,

'your acceptance into our organization

is contingent upon documentation that

you have first read all 72 volumes of

the 'Great Works of Modern Man,' and

visible evidence that you can speak on

the subject of any of them.' OK, sure,

can do.' Words are funny subjects, and

the subjects of funny words are too.

-

For about 10 years, a little more, my basic

day job (and night too) consisted of some

sort of weird commitment to the world of

motorcycling. I'd quit all my other jobs 

over this one, and took possession of a

700 square feet office at 719 Main Street,

in Metuchen, from which perch, if you've

been reading along, I was picked in late 

1997 for that Metuchen Mayoral run, which,

as I've previously related, became a quick

rush-through of crash and burn politics. 

During this same period, I was able to

pretty come and go as I wanted, fulfilling

all of my legislative and publishing duties.

I also became a stringer for the Star-Ledger,

NJ's pre-eminent newspaper, out of Newark,

for which I covered town meetings, Bd. of

Ed meetings, zoning and variance meetings,

varied special events and confabs. In addition,

I acted as writer, photographer, editor and 

publisher of a monthly newspaper for the

world of 'motorcycling, which entailed way

too much statewide organizational stuff,

meetings, runs, events, and parties too.

Fund-raising (this job was self-sustaining).

All off this, on its best days, was fun, while

on its worst days (most were) if merely

involved infighting, myopic competitive

drives between bikers and pinheads who 

wished they were, people who thought their

motorcycling entitled them to automatic

attitude and membership in the big-balls

club. I worked hard for those years, but

both it, and the fit, weren't wise. I spent lots

of time at hearings and testimonies at the

State House in Trenton, on all sorts of

issues pertaining to motorcycling, Bikers,

laws, enforcement, violations, and the

rest. Some of those guys I ended up

speaking for were jailbirds, thugs, and

one or two killers as well  -  and, at the

other extreme, there were just as many

farm-boy dweebs, cigar-chomping

dentists and doctors who'd just bought 

a brand-new Harley to impress and their

new, fourth, wife, her fake tits, hers and

his fancy leathers, brew-boy chums and

new cell-phones.  It was always my personal
feeling that when the big-money men started
hitting the world of 'Motorcycling' and 
the word 'Biker' was then considered 
impolitic and out of bounds, and when
these guys started buying their little
girlfriends motorcycles to ride too,
 and when 'we' started training them 
to do so, it was over. (By 'we' I mean 
the part of this organization called
 'Rider Education'  -  which was a certificate 
school purporting to 'teach' people to ride 
motorcycles in what they called the proper 
and safe way)."Bandannas on backwards, 

boys, we're going riding." V-room. The

best of it all were the stockbroker-riders

who only wanted fun for their riches, 

'and bitches'  -  as they'd like to put it.

-

'Your acceptance into our code of being

a Biker is contingent on your staying

upright on two-rubber wheels, not being

a complete asshole, never going faster 

that your headlights will illumine, and

maintaining some sort of ethical composure

after 9 beers. And get your hands off

that girl.' We used to tattoo that on

everyone's back. 

-

As you can tell, I'm not bitter and it was

all too much fun. For one thing, for 560

bucks a week, straight, (unfortunately, 

the week was about an 70 hour week, or

more), the largest arguments I had were

with my 'Bd. of Directors,' as it went,

who'd be insistent on making certain I

got medical insurance. That would cost 

like another 125 dollars almost, every 

two weeks, and since the only salary 

I'd get came out of the same paltry 

budget I needed for the job and the 

organization to survive, the newspaper

to continue, advertising to be sold, 

bills paid, and gasoline bought I kept

rejecting it and not paying it. Thus, in

all honesty, for 12 years I survived

quite well, with alcohol and fast-riding

too, without health insurance, which

always seemed like a scam to me anyway.

I'd heard a thousand lame stories about

health and medical things, the medical

industry and profession, and it was all

bunko. I was always a spiritualist, 

believed in consciousness alone being

able to shape and form all things, and lift

the spirit to the heights needed, to maintain

health, safety, wisdom, and creativity too.

The only thing wasting money on the

health industry was good for was to 

waste money on negative energy, and 

negative people, which all then just 

creates the negative scenario being 

sought. So, as I was saying, in the

midst of all this, the biggest arguments

I ever had were my own crew, who

found it incredible that I could be so 

dense and obtuse about such an issue. I

was quite often on the road  -  14 chapters, 

statewide, to whose monthly meetings 

I was most often due, and it was most

often dreary, dense and dull too. ('I will

attend your meetings contingent on

them not being abusive, long-winded,

foul, and self-obsessed, by each of you').

I was quite-enough often with politicians,

as the token 'motorcyle guy' to show how

hip they were in acceding to represent my

community of road-hacks. I had lunches

and dinners with Christie Todd Whitman,

State Senator Kosco, more state assembly

people and bureaucrats than you'd think

existed, had to fend off the kisses of Jim

MvGreevey (really), and had various ex-

Governors and such come to our meetings

to speak, dawdle, and dabble. It was all

pretty cool, like a party at a morque, but

cool anyway. In addition, for over 6 years 

I wrote a weekly column, called 'Oft Told

Tales' that went into about 6 local, town

weekly newspaper and covered 'historical' 

topics of my choosing, reflected upon

in light of the present day and in my 

own inimitable, and sometimes snarky,

fashion. On the column-weeks when I

was good, hitting on all cylinders, you

should have heard the local incumbents here

and there start howling. (Isn't that right,

Stu Eisenstein, wherever ye be now).

-

You see, I was always out for a good chase  - 

truth and fun together, while those guys were

always out for playing the voter angles, the

'right' things to say so as to say nothing.

My own training within, and then my

motorcycle training, had taught me how to

play rough, find the target, focus and then

shoot. No one much was too comfortable 

with that. ('We'll read your crazy columns, 

contingent on the idea that you stop 

upsetting the apple card, quit your

truth-telling and get with the program'). 

Nah. By this time I was already 45 years

old, and just wanted to keep stretching

along, beating the bums, if I could, at

their own game. (I ain't changed much).