11,203. RUDIMENTS, pt. 457

RUDIMENTS, pt. 457

(the whiskey rebellion)

The guy was telling about

Irish warfare  -  hitting the

other guy with a beer bottle

but making sure it was empty

first. Oh, yeah, I get it, that

was pretty funny. I moved

away from his seat as soon

as I could. There was a pile

of Irish newspapers on the

window shelf too. I tried

reading one of them but

couldn't make much sense

even though I do think it was

English, but to them that's

a foreign language (he also

had said that). You know, in

'Portrait of the Artist,' when

Stephen's father takes him to

visit Cork (a town near to 
Dublin), and Stephen gets

all embarrassed because the

next morning he's got to cover

up for his father's tea cup

clattering (with his father's

shakes) on the saucer, and

he's hoping others won't

notice. It's not much of a

scene but is the kind of

thing I retain. Well, I felt

like that and the best thing

for me to do was just move

away from the guy. This

was in Jonathan Swift's

Hibernian Lodge, which

is more or less a quite

glorified bar on e4th

street, claiming its

temperament as Irish

and its resident saint

as Jonathan Swift, the

writer. I spent many hours

there, to the point that

if I was 4 blocks away

they already knew I was

entering the premises and

Bernadette (my barkeep)

would have the Guinness

all settled and ready for

me. (It takes a good Guinness

a minute or too after pouring

to foam up properly and

settle in for the drinking).

We knew all that, and so

did everyone else. Tredwell

House was across the street.

It was one of those 200 year

old brownstone jobs, kept

near to restoration all the

time, so they could hit

you up for a 10 buck entry

fee and have you look,

supposedly, at how they

used to live in there 200

years back, except it was

all mostly bogus, probably

even the silverware and

serving stuff they had laid

out. In New York City that

stuff would have been scapped

up 2 days after whoever it

was had died. They don't

tell you that though. You're

supposed to fall for all their

rot. The street was like a

mouth with a lot of missing

teeth, on that side of the street

anyway. For a while the Tredwell

House had a decrepit, falling-in

version of itself a lot or two

over, but that got so bad they

did take it down. It's something

other now, newly built. In

all manner of times, through

it all, somehow, this one

Tredwell Hose remained  -

money and support and

some historical-group

connection  I guess  -

and it still stands, now

listed as Merchant's House

Museum, Seabury-Tredwell

or something like that. Totally

wigged out with furnishings

and even a  rear-garden and

a walk-through and guides

and all that. Any one of those

Irish guys in Swift's I know,

fifteen years back would

have swept through that

place like a magnet,

drawing up anything

they could get. But now

it's all revered and special

and no one touches a

thing. That's the sacredness

of  myth and story, you

know  -  how the people

enticingly build their stories

up into some form of group

think, and that's how society

congeals. Things and people

get all together, and it takes

on a life of its own and

everyone starts believing it.

It's the campfire mythos of

old tribal stuff; it's how

civilization got started. The

rest of the block, as I said,

through the 90's looked like a

gap-toothed mouth-remnant,

what with all the torn down

buildings and open spaces.

-

I took Avenel people there a

number of times. Not Bikers,

for it wasn't that sort of a

place. It did actually have a

finesse  -  a 'literary' finesse  -

attached to itself and the Biker

thing would have clashed.

My own motorcycle, on that

I went a few times. Bernadette

herself, on time, came out and

asked for a nice, long ride

around parts of lower Manhattan.

She went on break, took off

her serving apron, and we

went off. She totally enjoyed

herself. I think she needed 

the break. The Tredwell 

House, if you use your

thought-cap, could have
been perfectly made for

those kinds of Springtime

class trips that teachers use

to waste the time through

May so as to get through the

school year. Like the Betsy

Ross House, in Philadelphia,

except that there's no place

for buses to park and little

access except for the brash

nitty-grittyness of 4th street.

Traffic's a killer; so none of

that works. Few people anyway,

especially today's NY snotty

parents, would want their kids

standing out in a line across

from a bar, even a bar like

Swift's. Poor little Johnny 

and Janie (no, I'm not to be

making those distinctions these

days) wouldn't fare too well,

and no one gets to experience

real-life anymore.

-

I didn't know anything about 

this stuff, growing up in 

Woodbridge and Avenel as

I did; it was a foreign idea

that one would go somewhere

else to be imbibing history 

and not beer. And anyway,

the Whiskey Rebellion was

never taught in Woodbridge

High School  -  simply just

glossed over. It is, however,

one of the most important

early and founding principles

of the nascent American state,

by which we are now forcibly

ruled and of which we are 

(forcibly) kept in the dark;

the 'Tredwell House Merchant's

Museum' being a perfect example

of the sort of drivel by which we

are now coerced and lorded 

over. 'Bernadette, draw me up

another Guinness, I'm again

nearing your front door.'