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of a tavern had been replaced by the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.