11,383. RUDIMENTS, pt. 529

RUDIMENTS, pt. 529

(insipid vacillation : ohio)

Most of this life is

insipid. In fact, an

insipid wreck  -  even

the ones who are not,

are. Presidents, and

Popes. A real bunch

of schmucks. Being

considered 'not insipid'

just means you've

powered the fake play

better than others; have

been running through

the open cupboards

unseen. What's any

of it worth? Beats me.

At least when you're

a kid you find out at

Christmas.

-

When I had that

motorcycle office in

Metuchen, I'd get

visitors of all sorts.

The landlord was a

local Metuchen guy

with a lot of property

holdings in Metuchen,

and Woodbridge, and

Perth Amboy too. One

day he came by in a

big huff, all fired up

that I should go with

him  -  so he drove me

over to Perth Amboy,

where he owned a string,

hell, a street, of duplexes,

and in the basement of

one that had just emptied

out he'd found this "old

motorcycle leaning up

against a wall, half covered

by a tarp..." At first he called 
it a 'bike' and I said no. 
Terminology and all. But he
meant motorcycle. The bells

in his money-mind went off,

thinking it was worth a

billion bucks, some grand

antique, and could I get

it out for him, maybe see

if it worked, get it running,

what did I think it was

worth, and all that. I

took one look and just

had to laugh. It was a

piece of crap maybe early

1980's or such, Honda

Goldwing. That was Honda's

early answer to those big

Harleys with the saddlebags

and containers, radios and

windscreens. This one had

seen the other side of the

moon  -  plastic padding

coming out the torn seat,

bad wheels and tires, dents,

and all the rest. I stood there

gaping. Poor fellow  -  I

had to decide whether I

should level with the guy,

continue with some fake

interest in what 'might be'

an important find. I told

him it was maybe,

stressing maybe, worth

400 bucks IF he could

find someone who was

interested. I wasn't, and

told him I knew of no one

who would be. Never did

find out what he did over

it. At that time there was

still a St. Vincent de Paul

Mission Society store in

downtown Perth Amboy,

just stacked with 12 dollar

crap for sale. That's really

where it belonged.

-

One of the first places I

went to, after getting started

with the motorcycle rap, was

an old slimy Perth Amboy

bar called The Schooner

Tavern. An old time dump

from days before  -  when

people still cared about the

waterfront and news scoops

and real journalism. Amboy

used to be good like that.

A solid newspaper or two.

Bill George, a guy I got to

know when I covered the

town meetings for the Star

Ledger, including Perth

Amboy, was one of those

restless, inveterate reporter

types who got an everyone's

nerves. I used to love watching

him in action  -  meetings,

reporting, even running for

varied offices. He eventually

got run down and killed

walking along one of the

local roadways. Hmmm.

Always made me wonder

there too; sorta' just like

the Pelzman deal here. I

tend to not believe anyone.

The Schooner's long gone

now too, but the only people

who really drank there, at

one time were tough-assed 

bikers and drunk locals,

before the whole town went

Spanish and the Biker

element flaked away.

-

One time, again at that

ABATE office in Metuchen

I've mentioned other times,

the local cops came by

and wanted to know what

was up. I had been getting

a lot of visits from one of

the one-percenter club guys,

and they wanted to know

why. I told them, in my
best Biker accent, it was all

about picking up Girl Scout

Cookies. No, just kidding.

There was an ordinance

in town about NO colors

(club-jacket insignias on

the backs) on motorcycle

riders in town, and I'd been

getting a constant stream

of just that, riding, in fact,

right past town hall. They

asked me to clue them in,

please, before they'd be

forced to start pullovers

and writing tickets, and

they were 'sure' there'd

be other violations they

could find. Now, I might

have just said 'Do it

yourself, copper,' but

I didn't. I told the next

few visitors what was

up, and they were cool

about it, and  I also

showed them the other

way out of town so as

NOT to have to pass

the town hall and police

headquarters. Nothing

ever came of it, and they

just began turning their

club-vests inside out within

Metuchen. Kind'a weird.

The cops later did send

someone back to ask me

what I knew about any

impending club stuff and

what was up if I knew,

and I answered, 'Oh,

nothing. They're just

always fighting over who

owns the playground.'

(Meaning Biker turf wars,

which were always ongoing).

He said, back to me, 'Who

owns the playground? Well

you tell them back, from me,

WE own the playground and

they shouldn't forget that.'

Enough said, I suppose.

-

Sometimes, I figured, it's 

all just 'give it up' time. 

The needed energies and 

interests are all just too 

diffuse, wasted away,

spread and gone. Who

wants to listen to today's 

crap? One quarter of the

people my age now, even

those I went through all

this with ('peer group' and

all that stupid crap) are

drinkers or refiners, too

far gone to catch the cat.

Another half again are

just wandering around

with that 'what happened' 

dead scrawl on their faces.

There's a few with guns and

a few with bombs; a few

still dead. I like to think I

left it all behind and just

walked off into my own

sunset of words and subtlety.

And I'd swear to you I did.

But who knows. I said it

was all insipid already.

-

I forget how all that goes,

but if the friend of my 

enemy is my enemy too, 

or the enemy of my friend

is my enemy too, then

isn't it all the same, and 

what matters? One time

I was sitting out in Yellow

Springs, Ohio  -  not doing

anything, just watching

stuff, sitting in the streetside

gazebo area of some coffee

and bookstore kind of place.

Called itself the 'Epic' Bookstore,

where, using that old squib,

'An unexamined life isn't

worth living,' people sat

around reading. Hmmm?

I had a camera with me.

There was a guy sitting off

behind me; sure enough.

white bearded and all, he 

comes over and says, 

'Don't I know you?' like

we went to high school

together or something. I

said, (in my best Ohio 
accent), 'No, I don''t know,

or I don't think I know,

why are you asking, are 

you an assassin?' Now

that's a long stretch of time,

and this is true, between

Avenel and NYC and this

here Yellow Springs and

Antioch College stuff, but

he was reading Herzog so

I said to him , 'Sit down.

We'll talk.' I figured him

not to be any trouble, and 

anyway nobody in their

right mind reads 'Herzog'

any more, so I figured he

was cool. I'd heard of

Chillicothe, Ohio, a Hell's

Angels town, but I didn't

figure him for that. I'd

known the Outlaws, and

motorcycle club band of

drifters was out that way

too  -  Chicago to Ohio,

not so bad. I always just

liked making sure  -  this

stuff all carries. So I said,

'You know that's pretty

dangerous out here just

coming up to someone to

ask stuff like that. What if

that had gone bad, what

would you have done, or

what would you'd have

figured for me to do?

Is that in that book 

you're reading?' I was

up to being sarcastic, 

because I like to watch

the things people do. 

He was pretty cool, a

regular veteran. 'No,' 

he said, 'it wasn't 

nothing like that. You

just looked like maybe

I would have known 

you, or heard of you, 

or something.' I get

that often enough, I never

know what people are 

thinking. There was a

bar across the street,

the Trailside or something,

and I probably should have

been over there anyway, 

except my dog was with 

me. There were two

motorcycles out front 

there, but nothing

worth squabbling over.

So that guy and I sat

there, just talking, but

only a little bit. I saw he

had some sort of bicycle

there up at the wall, and

I realized the uncrossable

divide sometimes with

the word 'Biker.' I mean

one thing, and the bicycle

folk, they always mean

something else. Just

about as insipid as all

that can be. We parted 

with a handshake.

Unexamined lives?

For sure...