RUDIMENTS, pt. 394
(TV time somewhere)
I always figured there were
a lot of destitute channels
everywhere and I was glad
to have never met up with
any of that. The surprising
thing, all those years, was
the media silence I lived
amidst. Except for 'tragedies'
like Kennedy's Dallas killing
and all the funeral and things
of the rites and processions
and all, which we got to see,
(this included the surpises
too, like Jack Ruby killing
Oswald on live TV like that),
there was also (curiously)
the death of Malcom X. But,
anyway, I see now there's an
entire raft of things - from like
the Munsters to Green Acres to
Beverly Hillbillies to Mr. Ed,
and a hundred more - that I
never got to see and no 'cultural'
reference to later when people
back at home started talking
about all that crap. The James
Bond movies, say, or Star
Trek. All these high school
idiots, back in Woodbridge, at
lunch and all, would be talking
Star Trek crap, constantly. I
was aghast at the moronic
lengths people would go to
in order to flavor or favor
(both) any of these strictly
TV characters. It all baffled
me. I was therefore always a
little out of the mix, even long
after. In the years around 1972,
in Pennsylvania when I had as
one of my small jobs the taking
care of the local schoolhouse
(it's since become a junkyard,
yes, and my old school house
is used for office area, cashier,
and parts-bins), the welfare
department for a while sent
me this older man - probably
45 to my 27, to use for handiwork
and mopping and all. I had
no choice in the matter; he
was kind of a local cracker,
no education to speak of, had
done Army time, in Korea as
I recall, and jabbered on about
all that, and he came from
Conshohocken, PA, which is
like a suburb of Philadelphia,
nothing to do with the high,
rural country we were in at
Columbia Crossroads. He
insisted always on saying
'Connieshohawkin' instead
of Conshohocken. Not that
it mattered, but it drove me
nuts because I didn't know
if he knew he was doing that
or if it was just a quirk. No
mind. He talked a lot about
guns, and girls, and all the
rudest things about girls
you'd want to know. Oh,
yeah, a real earful he was.
Lucky he wasn't a filmmaker,
because they'd have been
some real burners. Anyway,
as it turned out, he was a
bum loafer, and I never really
bothered him over it. All he
wanted to do (it was Summer,
no school) was watch daytime
TV - which ranged from
everyday, and I mean every day,
Beverly Hillbilies, some
Perry Mason, and whatever
other ass-wipe re-runs they'd
play. He'd set up a TV on the
cafeteria table. The piano on
the stage was quite nearby, and
his constant TV time shut down
by piano time, which also was
annoying. (We didn't get much
work done that Summer -
stripping and waxing the
floors mostly, by me, mostly,
and fixing some window glass,
and moldings). I filled out the
welfare paperwork with the
usual exaggerations and lies,
and I guess he got his pay or
whatever he got. No one ever
checked on him. He drove a big
old 'Cheevrolet,' (which is as
old 'Cheevrolet,' (which is as
he pronounced it), that was
mountain-running on like 3
cylinders, I swear. So, my
non-exposure in those
seminary years, by the
time of my sojourn to
Pennsylvania almost
turned into over-exposure
to American idiot stuff -
but I just turned away.
-
What I was meaning to say -
before that digression - was
that there was no 'media' in
the seminary. No one used a
radio, the TV's were used
sparingly, at least in the
circles I ran. Perhaps I am
wrong just because I did
frequent the rooms and
lounges where they were.
All I really remember was
theater area, and my friend,
Mike Bartholomew. I don't
know much about him; he was
a year or two ahead of me; tall,
direct, smart, and punchy. He
had a record player, and a fine
collection of jazz - be-bop
stuff and modern 50's and 60's
jazz. He drank great, large mugs
of black coffee. Pretty much, to
me he was a beatnik of the past
but in the future, if you can sort
of get that. I fell right in - John
Coltrane, Miles Davis, Theolonius
Monk, Modern Jazz Quartet,
Dave Brubeck, on and on, you
name it we had it. I even got
into the coffee thing, but I
hated it black, and milk,
though plentiful, meant still
another trip to the food section.
So I played at black coffee some.
You have to understand, there
was no store, nothing for us to
do but those vending machines.
The thing about Mike was, he
played guitar, electric. And he
had a small group of two or three
other guys and they had this little
band. They called themseves
'Laissez Faire' - it's a French
economics term really, meaning
'Hands Off' or 'Leave Us Alone' -
in the economic realm it refers to
rules and controls and taxation and
all that business stuff; but for us,
and his little group (I wasn't a part
of the band thing) it just meant
us. Paradoxically, actually, and
stupidly, since we were willingly
engaged into a Christian concentration
camp setting, but willingly, and of
our own choosing. Whatever. The
Thing with this band was, under
Mike's tutelage, they could take
any song, and I say ANY, meaning
commercial ditty or Christmas
carol too, and turn it into basic,
three-chord rock and roll and
you'd still know what it was.
It was crazy cool, for junk-band,
garage band kind of trash.
There was never any exalted
jazz attempted, mainly because
of respect for it - cheesy guitars
and drums would have just been
a dis-service. Priests of the
future? Us? No, fact of the
matter was were all all just
hiding out - from something,
from whatever. None of
us made it through.
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