Saturday, June 30, 2018

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!



Friday, June 29, 2018

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.





Thursday, June 28, 2018

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.....