RUDIMENTS, pt. 399
(town fathers of woodbridge)
I came through lots of places,
a million incidental, small
things. Here's my scoop :
The thing about being a
writer, an artist, a 'finer' soul,
whatever junk-ass stuff it gets
called, is that you notice things.
I mostly notice everything.
And at the same time, my
finely-honed senses allow
me to intuit things; to see
what people are really meaning
when they say something; to read
well between the lines. I can
see a useless son-of-a bitch
clearly, and from far off. The
artist in me immediately
interprets, re-translates, what
I see or hear into usable
sections of time, word, or
event. The paradox is that it
allows me - at the very same
time - a lot of leeway. I can
interpret strictly, and with no
margin for change, the ass of
the horse I am seeing; or, on
the other hand, I can make
fanciful flights of thought
from what I see, and still, in
either case, get to the real
bottom of things. That is
how the art-eye works. I've
spent 69 years already,
learning all this, and I'm
not about to forget it now.
-
So, point of fact, I don't take
much crap from people who
slime floors with the junk
they drag. Unseemly. Pasty.
Criminal. Crooked. Liar.
Belongs in jail. Should be
beaten with a stick. Lacky.
Midget follower of no-brains.
-
Photos don't lie; I've found that
out too. I know exactly what
a piece of shit looks like - to
the extent that I could be a
biologist. So, yeah, take a
look at criminals of the future.
-
I've never been too cagey. If
something is there before me,
I usually just slam into it. I
often wondered (have you)
about how a town like
Woodbridge could once have
had a crusading, truth-telling
weekly newspaper of some
real value and have lost all
traces of it. In my youth-days,
the Independent Leader was
important to me. Besides being
the local (weekly) paper of
record for all the deeds and
misdeeds of ongoing Woobridge
events, it threw all the dirt out
into the open that the usual
Neanderthals wanted hidden.
Then when I got to St. George
Press, through most of the 1980's
anyway, I worked with Larry
Campion, on ballot printing,
all the local election slips, fire,
and the rest. Through that, and
in our instructional small talk
back and forth, I learned about
more things of under-handed
and suspicious character that
had gone on, and were going
on, in Woodbridge, than would
be in an old Sears Catalogue.
More crooked than any elbow
you've ever see. (I'm a biologist
too, remember). Every past Mayor
and every township character had
a trail of dirt that stretched out
behind them as they walked. Some
of them went to jail; some of them
just died. Others dine at Dominic's
to this day. Port Reading weasels,
who come home to check out the
vittles and talk their dirt. Not for
nothing does one become a filthy
Sheriff too. The funny thing about
dining - insiders always go to
these local places to hang out,
pretending they're royalty. I had
a customer, in Woodbridge, for
years, who ran an operation
called 'Woodbridge Theater
and Dining.' It was a gas, only
because of the pretension involved.
For (back then) 70 bucks or so,
one would get an organized bus
trip in to see a Broadway show,
a perfectly timed arrival and
all that, a pre-show dinner
at some faux-swanky
theater-district restaurant,
maybe see a third-tier star or
so, and then go to the play.
Bedazzled with frumpery, and
slighted with wonder. It was
all the pretense in the world
that you were 'somebody,' a
big deal. Just like the local
bums who sit around sidewalk
restaurants, ordering DeMarino
sauce on their spaghetti (Ooops!
Sorry I meant Marinara sauce).
-
The Independent Leader is
gone, as is Larry. In fact, their
entire multi-story building is
gone, as is my friend's grandfather's
shoe store that used to be there,
right next to it. The tavern, the
Oldsmobile dealership. All that's
there now is Quick-Chek and
parking, and some shitty medical
rehab place. So you can buy your
artificial limbs 'locally' I guess.
This is how those jab-heads think.
Bare, paving, parking area, junked
homes, Walgreens. Now all that's
coming down too - the usual deals.
Walgreens stays, the rest turns into
an enforced fairyland. Life is life,
until it's turned into Death. Stop
into 'Pop's Place' before it's gone.
into 'Pop's Place' before it's gone.
-
Theater and Dining traded on
pretense. The old Town Hall
traded on crime and corruption.
The newer one, larger in all ways,
plays on it too, just larger (and
with better sound-deadening
too). When I worked at the
Press, I worked pretty good,
but from the inside out. One
time the owner was getting
on my case for 'appearance' -
yes, believe it or not, once
more, hair length and
everything like that became
an issue all over again,
and in 1989 no less. (It was
matchless). The guy says to
me that he didn't want me
looking that way 'because
the town fathers come in here.'
I nearly laughed in his face;
in fact, I did. Town fathers!
Are you kidding me? You
must mean that usual raft of
crooks and deal-makers and
all your Kiwanis buddies.
It was about another year and
I quit anyway, but the audacity
of that bullshit line has always
stayed with me. If Woodbridge
ever had town fathers they were
long ago boiled in the oils of
crime, corruption, adultery,
languor, self-centeredness, graft,
and murder too. My answer to
pretension has always been,
'Cut me a fucking break.'
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