11,382. RUDIMENTS, pt. 528

RUDIMENTS, pt. 528

(here comes wayne davis)

I always had a lot of fun,

or if I wasn't having fun I

imagined that I was, and

then it was fun. Pretty

simple. I suppose that's

the way life goes. We

make accommodations.

It's a senseless proposition,

but I never cared. The way

the Devil gets you  -  screws

you down, nails you  -  is

by making you 'strive' for

things that first have to be

defined. A person then

becomes the sort who's

dependent on someone else

always telling him what

he's experience. Thus, the

need for horrible things like

Docents at old places, and

explainers. I know a guy

who's like that. I could take

him to the coolest old wrecks

of places in the world, but

it wouldn't mean anything

to him, or have any validity,

until first he had some geek

in front of him explaining

the 'official' site to him, and

weaving any and all of that

stupid story-line history

of the sort that Parks Depts.

and history places like to

give you. All bogus and

halfway made up anyway.

Like that Parker Press thing,

the little building, in

Woodbridge. It was never

there, in that location,

and the story line with

it is all crap and a fake

reconstruction. But people

fall for it constantly. Why?

Because it advances the

false mission of satisfying

Woodbridge's 'Need' for

prescribed History, false

or not. It's just being

a dullard.

-

Real history is in the dirt

and the nitty-gritty of what

we live. I got my head

busted up a few times in

stupid biker conflagrations.

I had a few friends in the

same situations. I made

mistakes, they made

mistakes, and so did

the assholes on the

other side. Whatever.

I could tell the stories,

yeah, but they're so

stupid for anyone who's

gone past sixth grade,

so why bother? It's truly

difficult now to consider

the things that people

used to flag and fight, and

and die, for. A dead guy

in Manville. And the perp.,

still in prison. Over nothing

at all except fashion. Well,

fashion with 'meaning'

behind it  -  but if someone

has nothing better to do that

walk around as fashion police,

what the heck is that about?

You're only as big as your

Bike, and your bike ain't

very big after all. It was a

racket, I later found out,

I was bound to lose in. One

day, I just got out. Dropped

it all and walked away.

-

My friend, or a friend

anyway, named Wayne,

he was always exemplary

for me, and for the strangest

reasons. He entered B&D

one day, some distributive

ed program or something,

and they started him out

sweeping floors; and he

never left, it was so good.

And in some few years he

was running that sales

counter like a wizard born

for the crystal ball. It was

just a perfect fit and good

fun too. He's still in the

business, and all around,

and better than ever. It just

goes to show  -  you don't

anyone 'splainin' things to

you, versifying all what's

right and proper, all the

antecedents and predilections

and all that crap. Don't need

no guide in  a museum like

that. You just do what the

spirit offers you  -  authentic

like and real. The rest just

always comes. And it's

good, and it's good.

-

The other day I mentioned

Oliver's, that St. George Ave.

bar place where we held

comedy court. One time,

after I got whomped pretty

good in Hoboken because

I'd pissed someone off in

Staten Island, my head was

split up, blood was running.

We got back on the bike

and scrammed-it back to

Oliver's, where I had a

friend or two waiting to

tend to my head. Another

time (decidedly, the 'other'

team. I've had the distinct

pleasure of being roughed

by all three sides of a

three-sided NJ Biker turf

war, ongoing.), I got back

from somewhere in Wall

Twsp., in pretty much the

same situation, This one,

I just got home, placed a

phone call, and (I guess)

the rest of it got straightened

out. This was some tough

shit, all around me  -  like

Terry Malloy and his brother,

in 'On the Waterfront'  - 

things could happen quickly.

That could be you, or your

family member, as in Terry's

case, hanging dead on that

chain link fence.

-

One thing I finally concluded,

and that conclusion drove me

right away, was that any attempt

by a bad-ass  -  local, Avenel,

Rahway, Elizabeth, Hoboken,

North Bergen or NYC or

Middletown NY too (had

my deals in all those places

and more  -  any time some

bad-ass decides its time to

go legit, move away from

it fast. The bad dudes are

bad. Period, and that's just

the way they are. It's the

schmucks  -  like me, and

like others who should have

known better  -  fringe

characters a bit out of their

league, who do things like

walking both sides of the

plank, like Biker and some

ABATE crap legitimacy ,

who are wrong. You can't

do that stuff. You can't,

let's say, butter toast on

both sides and expect,

when it falls, it going

to fall butter side up. It's

like 'till death do us part,'

and brother, watch out.

You can't pretend you're 

bad just because you ride 

and you've some big, old cigar 

in your craw. These other guys

do it all, for real, and much

better than you.

-

Trying to stay on a straight,

and maybe narrow, line in

these sorts of situations just

doesn't work. I was out of my

element, and I knew it, and  -

like so much else of my life  -  

I was putting out effort for 

nothing. You can't read

Dickens to the residents

of a cow-barn. You don't

diagram sentences in a 

school for the blind. You

don't serve gourmet fodder

to people with no tongues.

One time there was  - and

this is probably a ringer

for me too  -  coming down

my street, from off Route

One, and down along Inman,

right past my house, when

I was maybe 9 or 10, a string

of a few of the loudest, most

brutish, nastiest, motorcycle

guys ripping along on their

Harleys  -  helmetless, back

then, having a grand old time

of it  -  I could tell  -  and

meaningful about it too. I

heard them coming, and I

went flying out my front 

door to watch. Just 

mesmerized, staring, 

was I, as they roared

by. It wasn't much, but 

I felt as if I had seen 

the other side, done the 

reckoning, saw the grace,

and 'been to the mountain'

With never no need to ever

be legit. I wasn't going to 

need no squishy 'docent' 

type to tell me the life I'd 

witnessed. That was a 

whole other side of the

authenticity coin I'd be 

trading in. My atmosphere
was, rather, a deep, moist,
greenhouse wherein new
things were growing.