10,682. RUDIMENTS, pt. 270

RUDIMENTS, pt. 270

-Maple Tree, pt. 9-

I was never one for just having

music as entertainment. Having

a fair amount of advanced musical

education behind me, it was more

an example of theory and process

at work. Funny how it goes, but

it takes a long and laborious study

of music to begin to appreciate

what otherwise sounds as hateful

music. Dissonance, abstracted

tonal leaps, disharmonious

transitions, and the rest  - yes,

including pauses and silences.

By this context, the usual bar

music, juke box or live, was

mostly laughable. The processes

of an eager third grade level

overflow into an advancement

of noise and tempo on a

three-chord grid. In addition,

putting it with couplets and

rhymes only made things worse.

But, that's what bars and cover

bands brought out. A kind of

music for people who don't

particularly want music around.

Background redundancy, and

something familiar and hummable.

We had one guest, a female with

a strong voice, who for a while

was the solo non-event night's

music  -  I forget her name, and

I'm sorry if she's here. But, as an

example  -  and she was pretty

good  -  to my mind there's nothing

worse than someone laboring over

a guitar and song thing, their own

arrangement and words or someone

else's, while in that room no one

really cares about it either way.

And, truly, it's hard to care for

what is not really music. Emoters

and whiners, that's one thing. The

screech and the faux-tenderness

gives all that weakness away

quickly. It's the lack of anything

going down that breaks it. Music

needs a progression and a development,

the secreted moments between notes

and the relished growth of sound, to

reach a point of completion or at

least a point of deliverance where

the composers stops it. Mathematics,

and storm-sense. That's music. You

don't get that in bars. In the Maple

Tree and with these biker parties,

one of the hardest things was meshing

the band with the  crowd. Bikers

have music tastes that are basically

the equivalent of mustard and

mayonaisse. One against the other,

and neither one worth much  -  except

maybe the expensive mustards, which

we didn't get. We had a few really

solid bar-bands, and one or two

individuals who shone. Solo or

not. The problem was the endless

repetition, ad nauseum. Allman

Brothers,  Lynyrd Skynyrd, all

that Biker vein tough stuff, and

then the road guys  -  Petty, etc.

Everyone did serviceable and fine

jobs with those, keeping the crowds

happy with set lists and mixing it up.

Two times I hired a real mixed-up

group of noodle-heads calling

themselves 'World Within.' They

were actually good  -  they had

some girls, some guys, two drummers,

but all they played was a strict, very

mimicy Grateful Dead set card. They

were a little big on the Deadhead

road circuit, had some credits. But

no one liked them at all. Somehow

the Avenel and area Bikers did not

fit well with the twirly-whirls and

extended jams and stuff of Deadheads.

Plus, they brought in their own

festival like crowd, well 20 or 30

people anyway, and that mix wasn't

the greatest anyway. Girls and guys.

I used them twice, had to watch

carefully for nothing breaking out,

they were more expensive than usual,

and by 45 minutes in they were

stoned out of their heads. Ok, then,

I tried. I wasn't rigid and, because

of that I was always willing to try

thing of this nature, flop or not;

live and learn. For my own tastes
here, the best were Dirty Pool,
and Counterfeit Cowboys. Their
also was a bunch of Lynyrd Skynryd
guys called 'The Whiskey Band.

-

When I said 'Avenel Biker' crowd

just before, I guess I didn't really

mean that. The whole thing was

more county-wide, Union and

Middlesex. In Avenel itself,

there were maybe 30 or 40

bike people, only three or

four really badass hardcore,

The rest of our draw was

from all over and other places.

And they're still out there, but

far-flung now, and older too.

Way older, or dead. There were

always 40 or 50 people for sure

you'd know would show up; the

rest was hit or miss  -  sometimes

depending on jail-time, parole,

or ankle bracelets. It was

nothing; after a while you learn

to talk to people, even the most

hardcore. Biker to Biker, it's

a weird respect thing, with a bit

of fear, I guess. The higher up

in these club echelons you go,

actually, the better it gets. It's the

bottom level, prospects or new

guys, who were the toughest,

nastiest, and most brutal. I guess 

trying to make their rank, their 

way in, or their name. Into the

Maple Tree they most all eventually 

dribbled  -  fantastic packs of club 

colors very occasionally. Making 

a showing, as if to say, 'Don't forget 

about us, because we're always 

watching.'  You had to be careful. 

It was all problems.

-

Some of the clubs were crutch clubs,

meaning their best membership was

old, grizzled vets, old-timers who all

remembered older, other days. Everyone

was slow, creaky, wounded. Then there

were the newer identification clubs,

just getting started. They  were pesky 

too, because they were nothing. Blue 

Knights were cops who rode. It was

club by identification  -  Firefighters

had one, EMT's, all sorts of small

divided military groups, etc. They

maybe came off as tough, but they 

wanted comfort. They had kids and

mortgages and big cars, and wives

who wanted jewelry and vacation

destinations worth it all. Riding

was their relief valve. A lot of it

was play-acting; so I play-acted

back. I always liked just the regular,

general slob-riding friend type.

Guys I knew. No pretense, none 

of that attitude crap either. They all

knew a lot more than me about

their engine and machine stuff, and

I knew that  -  they rebuilt cars and

bikes on a weekend or two. They

built decks and dormers as easy

side projects. These guys were

gold, and friends. We had fun.

-

One time there was a guy named

Curly. I don't know his real name. 

His wife was tough as nails. He was

kind of goofy, and got really angry

when drunk. Didn't understand 

much, but was a good guy. He 

lived, they lived, just off St. George,

and on the end of Woodruff Ave., 

I guess it was. There were a few

Sunday mornings, riding out, we'd

wait for him in the lot of a Jiffy Lube

or something right there, across from 

the bank. We were usually heading 

south. Curley was always late. We

could see his 2nd floor window from

the street, and his signal to us that

he'd seen us and that they were almost 

ready, was to open the window and

moon us  -  so the big signal of the

morning was his bare ass sticking 

out the window. One time we were

at the Maple Tree, and Curly, already

a little toasted, went around the bar

inviting everyone to his 50th birthday,

in a week or two. Whatever. This

went on, and I guess in his mind 

he'd had a big party planned. All

of a sudden his wife comes over.

'You're off by a year, asshole. That's

next year. Your gonna' be 49, now

sit down and shut up!'

10,681. CAUGHT WITH NOTHING

CAUGHT WITH NOTHING

The empty sleeve that holds no arms,

the jellybean with no insides. These 

are old-school conflicts. (We cannot

challenge what we cannot see).

-

Peace and distance are the two words

we know : learned by repetition only

maybe. When I was seven, I had a

Visible Man. Like me, it was unseen,

but totally there, only after you put

its pieces all together. Before that,

I never challenged, for I

could not see.

10,680. THE BROKEN YIELD

THE BROKEN YIELD

Take that man by the collar and

throw him out. He is not my father.

Wrath is the seventh of the deadly sins.

How many gates has Heaven? Just one?

You can check in any time you like,

but you can never leave?

10,679. RUDIMENTS, pt. 271

RUDIMENTS, pt. 271

- Maple Tree, pt. 10 -

And then one day it was gone.

I can't remember the actual

day of closing, or of demolition

either. It would have been sad,

had I been there. But (here my 

own story takes a turn) I was

done. By the year 2002 I'd faced

a breakdown of my own. My 

wife kept going, Friday nights,

Saturdays, on her own. I could

no longer bear it. I stayed home,

usually listening to Sibelius CD's

(Scandinavian/Finnish classical

composer, who earned himself a 
lot of trouble over his 'Patriotic'
Finnish-national, music). His
2nd symphony seemed it was

about my while, life back then It 

carried me along. My nerves 

were shot,  I'd had real problems 

coping, people bothered me, I'd 

closed up ABATE and had to 

discontinue everything, plus the

eight thousand dollar personal 

loan I'd taken out to try and 

continue was a long-lasting
marker dogging me, to which I
answered by working in a nice
capacity for Barnes & Noble; lucky 
break at the time. Plus it helped 
me alter my world, back towards
books and intellectual/creative 
pursuits. It was the push I needed. 
The Maple Tree? I can't remember

my last time there  -  can't really 

remember a thing. I'd totally 

retreated, was unreachable; I

wasn't answering the phone.
I'd completely broken down.

People would come to visit, 

and  I'd not come out; my wife

carried the ball for me. Joey,

Gary R., Jackie R., Harry, sorry 

for all that. Those were among

the people who came knocking

and were turned away.

-

One day Harry came by, and spoke 

to my wife on the porch  -  full of

condolences, offering help of any sort

as needed. She didn't understand. The

word was, evidently, that I'd cracked

up, gone nuts, and was dead. She

stayed non-committal, more in

the shock of the story than in

anything else. This is all true; I

make none of it up. It took me 

a good 5 years to get back  -  by

that time working still at B&N

in Clark. And occasionally, still

reluctantly, people would now 

and then come around for hello

or talk. Then I moved out of there,

in 2007, to Princeton, and started

everything anew. No one knew a 

thing. I was a different person.

-

You come back from something 

like this scarred for life, burned 

by a holy ember, like Moses at 

some stupid mountaintop coming 

back down and everyone's around 

the bar worshiping some golden calf.

At least if they still made Ballantine 

beer, you could say they were 

worshiping Ba'al. If someone 

were to ask me, I'd have to say, 

really, NO, I hadn't survived. I killed 

that person; I buried myself and 

those fiery embers, and walked. 

First off, if I had half of the money 

back that I laid down and pissed 

away on bars over those years, I'd 

have a ton of needed money. 

Second, maybe I did screech it 

all to halt in time to salvage my 

gooseneck life. I moved on, 

decided what I really wanted, 

and went steady at it, ever 

since and screw the rest. I 

surely could have died. One 

time, a Hell's Angel prospect 

friend, Frank, and his girlfriend 

were visiting for some reason 

or another. I think it was an 

Englishtown Swap Meet and 

Bike Race day  -  by the end 

of the long day I was toasted 

and so was he. And her. He 

asked for the way out, back 

to the Parkway and Tunnel to 

the city. I said I'd take him. 

I was so piss-drunk I could 

hardly think, and he and I 

saddled up and took off. I 

stayed with them, along the 

Parkway up to Union and the 

Rt. 22 turn, and then stayed 

with them, and then stayed 

with them. (That's a deliberate
repeat). My brain had locked 

(it used to happen), alcohol on 

two wheels had taken over. Frank 

was usually a hard-ass, wildman  

rider, but I amazed even him. And 

her. In a total booze-haze, I'd left 

them in the dust. He said he 

watched me, saw me, maybe 

kept me with a quarter mile if 

he could. In a fairly-packed, 

Sunday Summertime north 

flow of traffic, between cars, 

in and out of cars, around cars, 

I was doing 90. On a 4-speed, 

shitted-up first-year 1984 Softail, 

that was a lot. Pushing a hundred 

was beyond control. I don't know 

how I did it. I don't know where 

or why no state troopers or cops 

bagged me. Frank was ready 

to shoot me when we got to 

our extended good-bye point. 

He just shook his head. His 

girlfriend was in shock. She

mumbled that it was 'quite

arousing.' And I still had to 

ride all the way back yet, alone. 

I felt like Hunter Thompson on

one of his gonzo-journalism trips.

That was the last I saw of Frank, 

until one day, some time later, 

he was out front of Third Street 

posted as watchman for the 

H.A. bikes out front. I rode 

back, slightly more sober, 

and made it OK. It was 

my miracle. 

-

There are a lot more stories 

I can tell; real-life stuff, not

stories. I lived all this shit and

got nothing for it but the telling.

No drop-bag of money ever came

with a bagman my way. Just dead

people (they started dropping like

flies, for a while). Wakes brought

me out again, but I kept being afraid

of getting bumped off or beaten

by someone for something. Now

I'm old enough not to f'n care a

whit. Let the bastards have me,

it'll be a fair fight. You want

more stories; you pay me, OK?

-

Somewhere in that time, I honestly

don't know when, the Maple Tree

closed up and was torn down. What's

there now is a level, flat field upon

which has been erected some generic

sort of senior-housing tower. Not 

worth much, not even to look at. If 

those people only knew. The town

has put up some half-assed excuse

for a plaque about the old days. I'm

not even sure what they're trying

to say, and those lying sack-o-shit

bastards would never own up to the

truth of old Avenel anyway.

10,678. FIGHTING TENACIOUS ' THE BLACK & WHITE TURKISH TAFFY GIRL

FIGHTING TENACIOUS -

'THE BLACK & WHITE 

TURKISH TAFFY GIRL'

If you had anything then, you had a nickel.

Splitting the splat of the Turkish Taffy flat,

the point I guess was sharing. The girl's

voice was like iron, something metallic

that grated. Didn't come off right; and 

her friend, the Dennis the Menace type,

needed a swipe to the head. It was all like

that then  -  malicious bicycles and evil

deeds done in the name of good. The 

spinning orb above us high, later, was a

distant land's satellite flying. We looked

up and watched : some dribble in a 1957

deep, dark sky, while industry rolled and

everything fell. There wasn't any sense to

cartwheels after that. And Fred Flintstone

and Barney Rubble hadn't yet arrived.

10,677. IN THE HANDS OF AN INSTANT

IN THE HANDS 

OF AN INSTANT

I've got the drainpipe to hang onto,

along Bedford and Barrow Streets.

-

A few drunk carousers, old Chumley's

like it was still alive. Anne Adams, 

and me. Rolling along. carefree.

-

Too bad she was a hundred years old

already when I knew her. Well, not

really. But eighty for sure. A pity.

-

A pithy pity really, and a

pithy one at that.

10,676. BUTTERFIELD 8

BUTTERFIELD 8

That's John O'Hara, for those not in

the know. He's buried in Princeton too,

with the rest. They made a film of this;

one of those sexpot, dame things they

used to do in black and white. His house

was in the woods on Fakler Lane. Cocktails

at three each day, the whole bit. He had

a Rolls Royce he drove around town, 

maybe 1956. You get stuff like that when 

your name makes it big  -  the lucky break, 

the right talent, the need. I never had that 

stuff myself : the goings-on of my own 

life owed more to bread and butter needs,

the nasty slog of getting on. And then again, 

I never needed cocktails at three, either. And 

He was dead at 65, and for me, as it is,

I'm still alive.

10,675. NEW ENDS, OLD MEANS

NEW ENDS, OLD MEANS

It's a mighty long way down. 

Having had a Sherpa guide for 

the long climb up, should I have 

another for this climb back down? 

Tenzig Norkay, where are you now?

10,674. RUDMENTS, pt. 269

RUDIMENTS, pt. 269

- Maple Tree, pt. 8 -

Sometimes, when the task ahead

seems overwhelming, or too

daunting, I've found that the best

way, or most effective, or satisfying,

is to go forward, doing just what

must be done  -  getting the necessary

out of the way and leaving the frills

and extras alone. Most of all the

pressure is in your head anyway,

and self-imposed. Like Franklin

Roosevelt meant, when he said,

'All we have to fear is fear itself.'

He may not have known it in exactly

the same way as I'm putting it here,

but that's the essence. You begin

reacting to the horrors that MIGHT

be, and not to the situation presenting

itself. The Depression and WWII

wasn't a party for anyone; no. But

two parts of the same machinery,

once faced off, solved each other's

problem. The War ended the Depression

(goes to show the engrained power of

the Military); and the Depression, in

turn, had empowered the War, by

weakening people, beating them

down, and making them pliable

and weary. I always liked to think

that the Maple Tree came out of that

war, was a cultural result of it.

-

Certain things, in their way, about

the Maple Tree, and any of the other

5,000 bars of that era, that worked me

down into an almost hatred of things,

was the atmosphere in the places. All

of them: Mid-1990's, large TV's suddenly

everywhere, no place to be alone, the

visuals always running (only very seldom

was there any TV sound heard over the

din). Endless crap, and everyone buying

into it unwittingly. I always sought to

live very privately. The last thing I

wanted was to have to be force-fed

television, which I've managed to

keep out of my life, thank you. Yet,

in the Maple Tree and everywhere

else, it was ever-present : Somehow

over the years the dark, silent presence

of a tavern had been replaced by the

loud, useless give-and-take of a

gymnasium, with alcohol. Besides

every freaking Led Zepplin song in

the world being over-played on the

jukebox, along with AC/DC, Eagles

and The Band, I had to sit through

forty different lectures on Jon Bonham's

'always just behind the beat' drumming.

I used to think to myself, 'how can he

be behind the beat, when he IS the beat

for the rest of the band?' Thrills. In

reality though, hey, that's a pretty

deep question.

-

Certainly there was no thrill involved 

in this, yet I couldn't communicate my

dislike. Super Bowl? Winter Olympics?

Summer Olympics? Yankee baseball?

O.J. Simpson, trolling around in a white

Bronco? I had to be endlessly subjected

to this junk while people bought beer and

talked tortured talk about everything.

Clinton. Clinton and Monica. Clinton

and Hilary. Clinton's daughter. Jail, Sex.

The Press. Impeachment. Stock Market.

Techno crash. Market bottoms. Talk

show hosts. It was all deadly, and the

later at night any of it got, the more

wasted I'd be, forced to be subject to

drivel. Who wanted any of this, and 

how did it get mixed in with being

some sort of badass, imagistic Biker?

When the scenarios here were lad out,

I don't think anyone was paying 

attention. Also, Hazel was as religious

as they come. Our Lady this, and Holy

Father that. St. Andrew's Church drew

here second allegiance, after the bar.

Strange stuff. She'd go on  retreats, 

and church sponsored big-deal trips,

and come back telling about them,

while right behind her or next to us

someone else is railing on about,

'Who the fuck took my money off the

bar and where are my god-damned 

cigarettes?' Not any exact quote, no,

but the idea is the idea of the mixing 

of all these weird cultures. Cussing

was part of the territory, so I'm not

apologizing here for that, but in the 

same vein no one ever apologized to

me for having to be subjected to all

of this 3rd grade, cartwheel level

crap at every turn. 

-

I wasn't a good mixer, but I played at

being one, and apparently I did a fairly

good job. Not Oscar material  -  or, if

so, more like Oscar Madison, that slob 

guy from the Odd Couple. One thing

we did every year, for at least 6 or 8

years  -  incredibly without any

mishaps, deaths, scarrings or real

fiascos  -  was put 16 or 20 motorcycles

in the Woodbridge St. Patrick's Day

Parade. It was a stupid, slow crawl,

really horrid on clutches, people

got impatient waiting. The problem 

was the staging area. We'd be told to 

be fully accounted for by something

like 12:30, in our section, which was

away from everyone, down at the rear

of Woodbridge High School, right at

the football field. Which was good, 

and was bad. It was good, because

there were heated rest rooms underneath

the stands. And it was bad because

all we did, for two hours waiting, was

booze it up, work on bikes, hang

around, grumpy and complaining, 

drink (did I mention that?) make 

fun of wives and girlfriends present.

Once the slow route of the parade got

going, it was antics, loud behavior,

even burn-outs occasionally, here

and there. One year, problematically,

we got placed just behind some

drill and marching team  -  girls

in tights and skin-clothes, bands

noise, etc. It was a battle, and we

disrupted things, especially as a

few well-lubricated guys wouldn't

leave the cheerleaders alone. The 

next year like a bunch of idiots, we

were placed near the end, just before

some dumb-ass Woodbridge Go-Kart

Club, whose fool members kept

trying to show us up and nose into 

our motorcycle spaces. Bad news. 

After that we were always placed

before or after the fire department 

trucks. Steaming through Woodbridge,

drunk out of our minds, supposedly

showing up for prim and proper

motorcycle rights, wasn't a cool

idea, 'for the cause', let's say. It

was more like the Acoholic

Anonymous Drop-Outs Riding

Club. We'd end up at the Maple

Tree anyway, where Hazel and the

house crowd and a band ('Dirty Pool,

and Tony, you out there') was at

the ready with (yep!) more beer, 

ten tons of corned beef and

boiled potatoes, and a party-time

atmosphere, set to roll. It just

usually grew from there. One time

we actually got the trophy for

'Best Mobile Unit.' Which of 

course, as Emcee and presenter,

I quickly altered to Best Mobile

Eunuchs. Always fun.

-

No matter what was ever going on,

we drew people. They'd come out,

for us  -  a small contingent of locals,

a group of sweet-enough girls drawn

to our antics; the locals who'd be

drinking there anyway; people

suddenly 'interested' in motorcycles.

We were antic clowns, free-booters

and leaders too. The same went for 

Halloween  -  a huge, yearly (mostly

indoor) costume party, this one of

grunge, make-believe, taunting,

music and weird revelry. Emcee'd,

again, and as usual, by me. Always 

throwing the 'stupid-pepper' in

someone's eyes. One Halloween,

one of our regular cuties from those
days showed up as 'Pocahantas.' Up 
at the mike, getting a prize or  ribbon 
for Best Costume, she was quickly
re-dubbed. in good-nature, to be

'Poke-er-Heinie.' Cue the crowd 

laugh, and cue it loud. A
regular damned riot, Alice.