10,914. RUDIMENTS, pt. 352

RUDIMENTS, pt. 352

Making Cars

I used to fight with Philip Guston,

over his ridiculous car, a Rover 2000,

I guess it was 1968. Just verbal stuff,

I mean, don't get me wrong. He had

a wife, his daughter, Musa, I think

her name was, she was about 10,

and some big dog, all stuffed in that

car -  I suppose, America mid-size

smaller by a bit, large for British

standards though. He'd park out

back, at MacDougal Alley, by

Jim Tomberg's rear door, to the

sculpture studio, and just sit

around, all of them a last cigarette

and all that crap, before they left

for any one of their nearly weekly

(Summer) trips to Woodstock,

where he had a house, a barn, a

studio, a spread. Pretty cool set-up

for being famous and all. Up from

Poverty, as it were. I'd say, 'Who

you gonna' call if that things breaks

down? You don't know nothing about

cars. Why don't you take me too, I'll

ride shotgun for you, in case this heap

breaks down.' (British cars weren't all

that reliable back then  -  Lucas

electronics and the whole shebang.

All sorts of things apt to go wrong and

no self-respecting farmer-mechanic

up along the way would have anything

to do with that crap). I used bad

English on purpose; we talked

goofy, all of us, to each other.
I didn't know, either, any better
than anyone else, how to fix one
of those things if it did break down,
but it was all banter and fantasy
anyway, and I was just speaking out.

-

You can't always keep a hard, brash

tone to things. Otherwise you just

come out all boring and tight-butted.

I ran into plenty of people like that

around those days, and now too. The

ones who can't laugh about anything,

take everything like Holy Writ, and

refuse to cede anything. God forbid

I call another human a pig-animal

name; they extrapolate it out to my

complete hatred of humanity, my

foul, sour being, and my eminent

dis-respect for my fellow person,

whether breasted, vagina'd, fey,

imported, muscle-bound, insane,

perverted, or still closeted. 'It ain't

that at all, Phil, for Cripes sake,

I extend the same distaste to all,

and equally too. So take me along.'

Thank God it was 1968, and still

mostly no one gave a shit about

things like that. Phil would hack,

laugh, and rip another one of those

blue-pack Galois things, French

cigarettes, to smoke. Mostly them.

sometimes Gitanes too. French

cigarettes were about the girth

of a telephone pole then, short and

stumpy too. Just like him, sorta'.

He used to suck them down like

flavored lemonade or something.

If he didn't smoke them like that,

I'd bet he coulda' still been around

an extra 20 years instead of when

he died. It was crummy. Smoking's

the french disease. Like that kissing

with the tongue thing too.

-

It usually took about an hour for

him to finally take off. Really

funny too, because as long as we

wanted to keep him there we could,

by just talking to him. It was easy,

almost carnivalesque, because he

took real joy in talk, normal junk

talk, not always art and stuff. There

was a lot more about him I'd have

liked to be in on, but I wasn't. He was

way out of my league, not that I or

you would have seen it. All was easy.

I was 18 and 19, to his daughter's

10. Maybe I shoulda' just waited

around and married her. I think

about that sometimes : It would

have been cool. (That's just a

regular statement; I'm not trying

to be any weird child-lover or

anything like that. See how the

present day has everybody all

screwed up and all, about what

they say and mean. Even me,

now. Jeez, Louise). 

-

So I guess you can see how this

is a whole different stammer for me,

off the key a bit from what I usually

write. It's fun now and then to just

switch a voice, start sounding like

what you ain't. Just like we used to

do there at the end of MacDougal

Alley. As I've mentioned, it once was

all stables and things for the horses

and wagons and service stuff the

rich brownstone mansion on each

side of it needed; back entrances,

for the servants and slaves. Ain't

no more; purposeful like that

because all those same rich people

now are all high-toned and self-serving

enough to deny any taint. They never

had none of that soiling on their hands.

Just the horse-poop that Jackson would

clean up when he wasn't preparing

food for them to eat  -  the people,

not the horses, and Jackson was a

black guy, slung into servitude from

1704, slinking around NYC as a slave

when you weren't even supposed to say

much the word or let on about that. Then

the riots, and the city burned, and the

Slavery Plot, and more negro riots, and

the city was burned again, and then the

Draft Riots, over the conscription for

the Civil war when the city burned again

but this time it was the white people

Negroes and orphans and children and

burning wives and homes because of

the impending draft which was only

in lace because of the god-damned

slaves and Negroes so kill them all

too. For three hundred bucks (a ton

of money back then) any lily-white

ass-scratcher boy could buy his way

out of the draft, hire a second and 

stay 'home free,' to fornicate and 

savage the home front, but that 

wasn't good enough. The black 

asylum still had to burn. Hanging

them 'niggra's' from the New 

York trees too. Yeah, man. So 

I should worry about my

own language for sure.

-

When I first married Musa, it 

was instant financial bliss. NO, 

NO, not true at all. Just wanted 

to see if you was payin' any

attention. Mark Twain used to 

live at 10th Street and he'd 

talk a lot of good case for 

things too but it was much

later, in fact it was the 

'Gilded Age,' what he called 

it. When rich ladies, knowing 

they stank, perfumed their

twats with powders and 

dusted their wigs and clothing. 

Guys did too, but they never 

said. Some people though

they just liked to smell : 

sweat and manure, horse, 

cow, pig and food smells.

Not just the human stuff. 

And the animals used to run 

free. 'Right, Phil, right here 

where we's standing, this

was part of Harriman-Dusk

Stables later too, and then 

they built this  -  right there  

-  big, stupid, looming apartment 

building that shaded the whole 

place and altered the timbre of 

the whole little alley too. See it,

there, right above our heads. 

But we live with that. No matter.'

-

'It was kind of hard to believe you

were better than others, back then, 

but they did it. You think white men

built this country, built up New York

City? Hell no. It was built on the

dead backs of slave labor, work-jacks,

kitchen help, latrine cleaners and slop

throwers and distressed street-cleaners

the likes of you ain't never seen.

The most disrespectful of people and

the decrepitude of the ages, that's 

what made New York City. The 

kind of folks you wouldn't even

look at twice, nor spit back to.

Izod shirts indeed  -  you can take 

all that  lame-brained fussy stuff 

and shove it right up the same hole

that all those white-boy rich kids 

was using to violate their female 

slave helpers every chance they 

got. Yes sir, Philly boy. America's

always been a lie from top to bottom,

(your WPA Arts Project work

notwithstanding).'

-

So you see how it is  -  you've got to

at least be interesting, half a twist,

throw out some wisp of controversy.

Say what you will about saying what

you want, but it works every time.