10,936. BEATNIKS ON PARADE

BEATNIKS ON PARADE

One time Anatole  Broyard said 

'if it hadn't been for sex we would 

have been at the mercy of books.' 

Yeah, I guess  -  the ties that binding?

And now, yo, Daddio, didn't I

see you skimming my sister? That

horn was flat, you was groovin'

though. Anais Nin lived on 13th.

Went there too. We had to walk

up, all the way, because everybody

cheap always lived at the top. And

then used the roof, like an extra.

Her husband too, Ian Hugo, said

they did that 'because we like to

get to the light...' I always thought

she wanted to outlive her age, and

I guess she did, thought her teeth

looked false. She was 'seantic'. That

was the word I made up, for her, 

for always being as if in a seance.

10,935. RUDIMENTS, pt. 361

RUDIMENTS, pt. 361

Making Cars

One time recently I was sick.

That doesn't happen too often to

me, and I had this sort of dream,

wherein I was ten again, or it

seemed (you know how dreams

get). When I woke up, I was all

confused, like in two worlds at

once, and for a while wasn't

right sure where I was and which

of the two was the real one. And

the other funny thing about it was

that I'd been reading (still am,

in fits and starts), this book

entitled 'The Bible According

To Mark Twain,' and that had

gotten all jumbled up in there

too; back when I lived in Elmira,

right there on the Chemung

River, and right near to Mark

Twain's old place, called 'Quarry

Farm'. It was said he wrote his

Huck Finn there, and other things

too. Elmira kind of harbors him

as a native son, even though it

was just a Summer home that

the Langdon's gave to him when

he married Olivia, their daughter.

Long story there too, and I won't

get into it here. Over at the college,

where I also spent a lot of my time,

at the little pond in the center of

campus they placed his octagonal

writing retreat, meant to look

something like a Mississippi

Riverboat wheelhouse. I guess

it did, but what would I know

about that? Could'a been a

pork-curin' shed for all I knew.

No matter, my point here isn't

about that. It was always cool

though to just be able to walk

a bit, up to Woodlawn, and

be right at his grave; the whole

family, in fact. It was a nice

spot, and a decent enough bunch

of dead people too. There's lot

of others there, interesting all

around, but they were the best,

all those Langdons and Clemens,

and it was as if they were never

sure what to be calling themselves.

-

Anyway, I woke up in a daze, and

then tried recreating where I'd been,

which is always impossible. All

I could relate it to was being

me-in-place and just staying

with that. When I was growing up,

Avenel was never the sort of the

place that brought 'happiness.'

Lord knows, I tried. But there

was always just something about

the place that was always too

out-of-place, and changeable. I

never felt tied in to any location,

mainly because there really wasn't

any 'unified' one-place to cite as

a location. Right in the center of

everything was the highway, Rt.

One, which rudely cut everything

in two. You were either on one

side of it or the other. It supposedly

could get you right down to Florida,

in its southerly direction (though

most people would just give up

when it entered Philadelphia proper;

and in the other direction it was

said it could get you right up

to Maine. All I ever mostly

concerned myself with was

that, in about 17 short miles,

if you stayed to the right and

got off Rt. One, you'd be at the

Holland Tunnel, Greenwich

Village, and lower Manhattan,

which, Heaven knows, was all

fine with me. Shortcut to my

heart, for sure. I never knew

anyone who ever took it straight

up, or went to Maine, for that

matter, except my friend Sidney,

whose oddball family had cousins

there or something, in Portland.

It took them like 11 years to drive

there, but each time I got to hear

the story. One version or another.

That was all way too far out of

my personal parameters. I cared

about neither Florida nor Maine,

but maybe the road interested me.

I always figured you can't like

'everything.' You had to pick

one or three, and specialize.

-

So, in Avenel it was all always

kind of bland. Like I said, the

highway cut it through one way,

the underpass made it a shambles

in the other way, and whatever may

once have been as a 'downtown'

locale was just now a group of

boarded up, abandoned and

derelict old buildings. The Post

Office was gone (killing that was

like removing a heart), the train

station was taken down, (that

too was a lost heart). For some

god-awful reason, we were left

with this big barn-like tavern that

was a country-western haunt and

music place. Talk about fake

cowpokes and dizzy dames.

Even if you wanted to like the

place, you couldn't. Avenel even

had a synagogue, for, I guess,

equal-opportunity reasons,

because I only ever came across

two Jewish families  -  (course

I never delved too deeply,

they came to me)  -  the Belfer

family, which ran the candy

store by the school and, over

across the highway, Louis

Schlesinger and his family,

whose Dad ran the small

hardware store there. Louis

is some famous psychologist

in NYC now, and the building

is currently a dog-groomer's

place, after having been

twenty things in thirty years.

You can't even buy a postcard

around here : it's so pathetic

they don't show pictures.

-

So I woke up from this one

somnabulent nightmare  -

just like my life  -  and was

more confused by the confusion

than the reality. Like Roosevelt

said, 'We have nothing to fear

but fear itself,' that was about

where I was at. The 'fearing'

part. I liked to read books;

there weren't hardly any

around here. I never saw a

house with any sort of book

collection, or a grouping of

books or a freaking bookshelf

even. Two houses over, a

neighbor had a nice set of

Encyclopaedia Brittanica

books, the entire alphabet.

She was nice enough, Betty

was, to always let me take

one or two of them for a

few days. I always absorbed

them, and they always got

returned. They were the

coolest people around,

quiet, interesting and all.

Her and my mother were

like afternoon coffee klatch

friends for a long time. Then

it faded. I think because soon

enough everyone had their

own pool, and our yard was

then much less central. There

were other ladies too, but they

mostly ended up just pesky.

I didn't know what it was

about Avenel, but it seemed

knowledge didn't have much

of a currency here. It's worse

now  -  everyone babbling 

and shouting on phones, 

while they do other things,

crew-cut lawns and about

ten trees left in the whole

town. Every little house 

looks like a pastry, baking 

in the hot sun.

-

There never much were ways of

fun here; you couldn't just bait 

a string and try and catch a river

fish. There was pond or two, a

nice one at the Maple Tree, with

some fish, but soon enough it was

slimed and covered over too, and

then built upon  -  a small factory,

some die-casting place. The

prison-farm got taken away;

that for sure was the one, singular

saving grace of the whole town.

Even if people disdained it,

and some did, the prison gave

the place some spine. The 

swamps and the muck down at

Homestead and Blair and all

that, that too was great stuff.

Junkyards, waste lumber, old

trucks broken down in the woods

and just left. People lived down

there who were unearthly. In

old run-down homes  -  Native

America Indians, some Hawaii

people, or Filipino's or

something, a couple of strange

old east-European families.

Open campfires; trash burning.

Wild dogs. It's all long gone now,

buried like a family scandal or

your cousin's rape story at an

Easter family-gathering. Nothing

now but cheap-shit apartments 

and beleaguered immigrants

swatting shifts at any one of

the four or five Amazon 

warehouses in place. Even 

the mud there now is slimy 

and disgraceful. Everyone's 

dead and the stories are gone.
Once memories are ruined, it's
like that dream, or nightmare;
waking up from something you
can surely taste but can't feel.
Down the other end of town,
just the same, there was some
wild lands and a thing they
were at least proud enough
about to call 'Avenel Park.'
That's all gone now too  -  the
reeds and water and paths and
tracks, ponds and trees too.
It's all apartments now, endless
schmuck crap, and they re-named
the park after some Mayor whose
term was supposedly cut short by
death from natural causes, leavng
us the name-slinging maniac
fool we have now, parading as
something only he dreams of.
-
Man, I hate it when even the
dreaming brings on the willies.
The more they debase the place,
the deeper they get playing with
the whole fake 'History' aspect of 
it. It's like the 'Frazee House'
now getting screwed with too
in Fanwood or Rahway, or 
wherever that is. They've torn
it all to shreds for some bogus
rebuild, after it was a small zoo
for thirty years and then vacant for
twenty more. Every time you get
near the place, some geek starts
with the fake-history story of the
colonial lady who refused to bake
bread for the marauding British
troops who'd demanded her cattle
and services. Her 'patriotic' backbone,
standing up to them, drive them off,
and saved the entire area,
(Avenel included) for the
future, which is our now!

10,934. GUNK THAT UP

GUNK THAT UP

You may have the dry-heaves at

Mendelsohn's corner; you may feel

sick when you visit Hartmann's Garden

Center; but none of that will stop us

from getting across the border. I'm

intent on visiting Kentucky. And

maybe Indiana too. Never in my

life was I really aware that they're

sort of all bunched together here at

the bottom left of Ohio. Remember

Birch Bayh? He was a sort of liberal

Senator asshole back in the 70's,

from Indiana too, I remember. Boy,

the world was different then. Now

it's like a John Kasich dartboard,

by comparison. We've gotten

ourselves drowned in bad : bad

water and music and reasons and

feelings and beliefs. Do for the

least, and yo do for me. That

really gunks this world up.

10,933. RUDIMENTS pt. 360

RUDIMENTS, pt. 360

Making Cars

Being as it's midnight

again, I'm determined to

state my point : My mother

was my most indeterminate

factor. I never got to

understand the role of a

mother in a boy-kid's life.

I heard a hundred different

versions of this or that.

They all began the same  -

with all that 'don't be a

Mama's boy' crap, and

then they ran the gamut

from hate your Mother to

love your Mother to you

really desire your Mother

but you hate your father

because he has the love

from your Mother that you

want. All that Oedipal and

kill your father stuff too.

It was enough to make

one puke. I never believed

a word of it, from the old

Greek crap to Freud himself.

What a bunch of jerks. I

really just always figured my

Mother was a sorrowful character,

and that made me sad, and even

moreso as I began to realize I was

just like her  -  way more that

I was ever like my father. Man,

did that ever seem like a not

so good dead-end trap. For me,

not her. She didn't know the

difference anyway. My father

would likely rip the legs off a

horse and then demand that

it go faster, and farther. Yeah,

that dumb. My mother, on

the other hand, would just

start crying and bemoaning

the poor horse's fate, all that

blood it was losing, and the

stain the blood was leaving,

and then she'd parlay the horse

with some meek, 'Well, what

are you going to do now for

the rest of your days?' She was

a pretty good saleslady for

suicide, I always thought.

-

But, on the whole it was

always unfair, because she

often blamed me, outright,

for things I had no control

over and were completely

made up of weird-thinking

too. [Writer's note : This

is the spot where you need

to get tangible with something

specific to show your case;

otherwise it's just blather]

(SO, here goes:) One time,

it must have been the first day

of Fifth, maybe Sixth, Grade,

but I think Fifth, because of

where in my memory the

classroom was. My mother

ironed a lot, afternoon stuff,

in front of the TV  - really

dumb; stupid format, a thin,

metal ironing board, a bunch

of afternoon clothes, and that

music show on the TV. The

old one, from Philadelpha, where

Dick Clark would have a fake

live act, Bobby Rydell or

Paul Anka or any other geek

back in those days before

'pop' music had supposedly

caused a head revolution and

changed society. She'd watch the

kids dance in place to some

horrible lip-synched BS. Dick

Clark (aptly named) was a jerk,

the kids were jerks, and so

was the music and the fakesters

who did it. I came home for lunch.

The first day. She asked how it

was, who was my teacher, etc.

And then she asked who was

in my class, with me.

-

When I was this age here, Fifth

Grade, I had all sorts of local

kid friends and acquaintances,

from school and from just being

around. Being a kid back then,

in Avenel anyway, was nothing

like today  -  we'd be out all the

time, all sorts of places, licit and

illicit, crawling in pipes, stealing

things, hanging around, breaking

into closed up places, walking the

woods, even taking girls and others'

sisters into the woods. It was an

open season for everything. My

Mother didn't know the half of

any of it about me. She had all

these little categories in her head  -

good kids, wild kids, rude kids,

loud kids, etc. Hell, if she knew

what we were up to then maybe

she would have had a right to

freak. But she heard the names

of some of the kids who were

going to be in that year's class

with me, and she freaking went

nuts. Right over Bobby Rydell

and the Chapel of Love, or whatever

it was, Shirelles or something, she

starts yelling at me  -  'Oh no,

that's not good, you're going

to turn out just like them,

being no good,' etc., etc.

Ain't even worth listing. She

was patently nuts, and fearful

of every little thing. 'Excuse me!

But maybe they'll turn out just

like me! Ever think of that! We

can all smoke and steal and rob

together!' (I didn't say that, of

course not. It's a thought bubble).

My point is, I guess, what sort

of weakness drives someone to

be like that and say those weird

accusatory things for no reason?

Point of fact was, I had not a

damn thing to do with whoever

else was in my class. 'Go see old

Mr. Lund, the Principal, if it's

all that so-important to you.'

(Thought bubble footnote).

-

So anyway, that really ticked

me off for a long time, and, yeah,

I thought less of my Mother

over it. I found her unreasonable,

weak, and unmanageable too.

But I never said anything.

That was a crummy year

anyway. Some twisty, young,

Jewish teacher, who seemed to

be about 16 years old, her first

or second year teaching, Miss

Artym. It was funny. She wasn't

hot or anything, I never thought,

but she must have rung the bell

good enough for some of those

swanked-over men teachers

there, because they were always

seemingly swooning over her

and hanging around. Her first

name was Ceil. That was the

name, not short for Lucille or

anything either. We had to sell

Burpee's Plant Seeds that Winter,

and a kid in class, Louie Carew,

he stole all the packet money

that was stored up by her desk.

She went nutso on us, demanding

that we turn in the culprit, but

none of us talked, all stayed

mum. Louie probably got his

thirty bucks, or whatever it was,

and our stupid honor system

probably saved his ass, but

all it did for the rest of us

was to get our class trip, with

the other kids, to Philadelphia,

on a bus, to visit the Betsey

Ross House, cancelled. All

the others went, but our one

dumb class had to stay behind

and have a regular Spring

school-day. (I'd say 'thanks,

Louie,' but poor old Louie

Carew, of Clark Place, died

when he was about 30. He was

a good guy; I always liked him.

It was funny, one day we were

talking, about this time, as we

were walking home. I'd go

straight, up Inman Ave., and

he'd turn, at the Wilk's house,

where there was a corner

mailbox then, for the left up

Clark place. He lived next to

Billy Moran's house. He was

talking about what he had done

on Saturday, or something, and

he said he'd gone to the movies.

But he didn't say movies. It was

weird. He said, no fooling,

that he had gone 'to the

'Thee-ay-ter.' He didn't even

say, like the rest of us, 'there-ter.'

But instead he had this weird

swag that he put onto the word.

Making it three, fancy, syllables.

The Thee-ay-ter. I'd never heard

that before  -  never much ever

after either.
-
So, on balance I don't fault
my parents for anything  -  they
were what they were, and whichever
format they came through with
they managed. They managed me too.
In fact, I probably deserve a merit badge
for tenacity and they for tolerance.
The part of all this I can never figure
out is how and why any human
being has to go through ringers
like this in order to eke out a
subsistence living. Someone
ought to tell me soon.

10,932. PERMISSION GRANTED

PERMISSION GRANTED

If I die first, you 

can still go on ahead.

10,931. POST-FORCE INTENDED

POST-FORCE INTENDED

When I came back from Liverpool,

I was wearing a camera. Or I did

remember as much. I swore. Once

I got back to 23rd Street, I had none.

Perhaps it was the drugs I'd taken on

your fucking useless Beatles tour,

the night before. Get it?

10,930. WHEN THOSE GAMELAN BELLS START RINGING

WHEN THOSE GAMELAN 

BELLS START RINGING

Without proper placement they're just

noise  -  then they sent the Radon guy

to my house. Boy, that scam came and 

went. I can remember, in the late 80's,

every other fool coming in for printing

was some getting-started schmuck with

a Radon Company Inspection scheme.

They wanted like a hundred and seventy

bucks, for starters, to 'inspect' your 

basement for 'dangerous, illicit, radon 

seepage.' I said to the guy, 'Well, what

is it you're selling?' He said 'nothing, 

really. We scan and read the basement 

air. Kind'a trying to end up scaring 

people. So then they pay us to seal 

the walls. The real thing is, it's only 

now, as they've started building

people's houses on old garbage dumps

and places like that, that it happens.

90% of old houses, already in place, 

have nothing to worry about. They

were built on clean soils. But we

don't make mention of that.

10,929. RUDIMENTS, pt. 359

RUDIMENTS, pt. 359

Making Cars

Sometimes I just run down : the

last item before fisticuffs is a

TKO, and I'm finished without

ever hitting the mat. (Yep, that

was about as clear as a bell, sure

was). One of the words my mother

always used was 'sparingly.' I

never knew where she got it from;

it certainly wasn't characteristic

of her  -  voice or language. She'd

be ironing (spray irons were big

then) and she'd use the mist to

spray the thing she was ironing,

but only 'sparingly.' Or she'd

butter toast or something, but

only 'sparingly.' (She had a

penchant too -  also always

interesting to me  -  for never

actually 'completing' a task, but

getting the idea across and then

thinking of it as done. Like the

butter on the toast  -  just a dumb

little butter-blob, in the middle

of the toast, and to her mind it

was buttered  -  'sparingly,' but

buttered. It was never ladled on,

or spread around). Now, I'm not

nit-picking; I guess everyone has

their foibles. Like the guy who likes

pickle and peanut-butter sandwiches,

because that's what they ate in the

Depression. (You don't hear that

stuff much anymore, because

they're all dead now, but back

when I was young they were still

around  -  all those Depression

people. They'd always be going

on about how they used ketchup

for tomato sauce on spaghetti, or

how they only got milk once a

week, or how they stole chips

of ice from the iceman's wagon

while he was somewhere else.

All sorts of things like that. I

used to wonder what in the Hell

had been going on  -  how could

all that everyday crap have ever

been so scarce? Goes to show,

Buffalo Bob.

-

Space and place sort of always

went together. In Avenel, when

I was about 7 maybe, the local

First Aid Squad (what it was

called) held a 'Burning of the

Mortgage.' That was a new

one on me, and very strange

too. It seems the ramshackle

place called Avenel had a group

of people who responded to

emergencies  -  injuries, car

crashes, all the usual stuff.

The had previously operated

out of something on Park Ave.,

about 1/2 mile off, referred

to as the 'Sideways' house. I

think it was a house built

perpendicular to the street,

with two garage bays at the

front, instead. Ease of access

and all for the Cadillac

ambulance they had inside.

All of these emergency squads

back then had, as ambulances,

long, low Cadillacs, every so

often maybe a Buick, with big

lights on top, sleek and svelte

fast. None had, until the mid-70's

when it began, those now-common

EMT wagons. That didn't start

until later. It was always a long,

stretch station-wagon, luxury

equipped for a medical journey.

Then, as the town grew, they

moved out of that and had a

structure of their own built, on

Avenel Street. (It's since been

wholesale changed, expanded,

grown and widened. Now none of
it bears any relation to my tale.)

At this new, organizational

location, they'd had a mortgage,

and the town celebrated when it

was 'paid off.' By saying 'Burning

of the Mortgage,' they threw me

off. If they tried that now, the

Fire Department would swarm

them. (Hell, everybody's looking

for SOMETHING to do).

-

Anyway, it was a big, noisy,

block-party. The side street was

shut down   -  music, hot dogs and

hamburgers, watermelon, clowns,

games, and a parade. At this time,

I forget exactly, my father was a

'Vice President' of that squad, maybe

for one season or term, whatever.

He never got along with anyone,

believe me, and it didn't last long.

But, I still have his little pin, and

he was involved some in this

undertaking. At this time, the

little building was by itself  -  all

around it yet was open field and

a wooded patch. The President of

the 'Squad' (that's all they ever

called it), was this cool guy named

Bob Snowfield. Cool name, neat

guy, I remember him well. There

was a ball field too, out back on

the open meadow, and they held a

softball game and this Snowfield

guy  -  I remember vividly  -  could

hit the longest, high, arc'ing home

runs that I ever had seen. Some good

stuff. (That open field thing was

later built upon, as was the next

area a convenience-Krauszer's and

a hair-salon place, etc. At the rear,

another squad guy, and a family

friend, Steve Bomback, built a

small, ranch-style home, which

still stands). Everything is

different there now. One of

my sisters claims to be afraid

of clowns. They never bothered

me in any way, in fact they were

seen as rather hapless goofs. But I

remember one being there for that

day. A 1950's version of 'clown'

basically meant twisted balloon

shapes, big red shoes, and a red

nose with a brashly-painted face.

Certainly nothing very essential

there, no side-road to horror anyway.

and none of that movie-stuff had

been invented yet, maybe there

was Vincent Price, but I hated him

like she hated clowns. There was

a certain part of the decade  -  and

probably this was it  -  of the 50's

where national 'Irony' hadn't yet

arrived. Everyone still respected

stuff, at a distance, all that IKE

stuff (President Eisenhower) and

his creepy wife, Mamie; nothing

had a wink, everything was yet

straightforward (except maybe

for Jayne Mansfield, Marilyn

Monroe, and pointy bras from

outer space). If there were any

'sweater girls' at the first-aid

squad, I never saw them. BUT,

funny thing, 30 years later or so

the whole place was shut down

and taken over for a while by

some other part of the municipality

because the Avenel First-Aid Squad

guys got caught using an abandoned

skating rink for porno-photos and

other sexual purposes, with the

town ambulances too. Now that

was amazing, and kept pretty quiet

too. A humbling moment for all

those big-mouth local pricks

who always bragged about

righteousness and goodness.

I should have known there

was always something up

with this crap  -  all those

beds and cots and recliners.

Ambulances as rolling

porno-palace boudoirs.

Now when I get my yearly

fund-raising requests in the mail,

first aid and/or fire, I'm always

sure to send them a condom.

They mail real easily.

-

Yet, I don't want to ladle it on,

the harsh criticism; I want to do

it sparingly. BUT, places that take

refuge in their own rightness kind

of make me sick. Back in Bayonne,

the cops were on the take. Over in

Newark, Mayor Hugh Addonizio

did prison time (hey Mayor, join the

crowd  -  the municipal officials'

wing is off to the left). Here in

Woodbridge, Walter Zirpolo, and

Bob Jacks, they too joined the

jailbird crowd for selling out the

town  -  just like is happening

again here now. How is it the

French put it  -  'plus ca change....

(the more things change, the

more they stay the same). Ah!

The French. Now, back then, as

for Brigette Bardot and the rest,

let me tell you this story.....