11,369. RUDIMENTS, pt. 524

RUDIMENTS,  pt 524

(bush league)
['Oh thou the snookling
fore-frink, westing the palms
of all these oils on the sodden
backs of others and seeking
the alms of the poor with none
to give to others what ye 
shouldst give thyself'].
-

I have a few pet peeves.

'Who'd a'thunk?' (Ha).

Two of them are to do

with sentimentality, 

hagiography, idol

worship, iconography,

and erecting false idols 

after the fact. Like the

President thing, of late.

Every butt-licking

buffoon who ever had

anything negative to 

say about the dead 

guy is now all over 

themselves saying

or writing what a 

brilliant, great guy 

and statesman he

was. That's not only

bush-league, it's also

prairie-league. The

guy was a killer, 

Director of the CIA,

and a service revolver

for every dark-mark 

we've ever had  -   from

Reagan and Nixon to

U Thant and Konrad

Hilton too. But that's 

all these foul creatures 

have to do with their time.

They're all in the same

game together.

-

Sentimentality. False Pride.

Hagiography. Idolatry. And

a bunch more  -  they're all

there, in the aisle, doing it

to each other. Presidential

swimmers never drown. They

just float like light debris.

-

If I was writing a book,

(I never write, would never

think of it), it would take

place in a small town on

which time was running 

out. The old, elderly Mayor

is in the way  -  all the new

guys want to be part of the

new plans, people, deals,

and money being developed

out of the state capital. The

plans are all set; the people

are in place, ready to roll, the

outside interests with the plans

and the diagrams are ready  - 

the old parts of the town, to

be ripped and torn down, no

longer have anything in the

way. 'If only we can get this

rolling. Get this guy out of 

the way.'

-

He's old. So they medicate 

and slowly poison him. He

dies. His wife, surviving,

knows no better, so they take

her in with accolades and

promises and 'reverence.' 

They ask her for her story, 

to remember her past. The

dead guy they put away with

honor; name a few parks and

stuff after him. In Town Hall,

all those people who've ever 

wanted to be Mayor get to be.

A little bit of time, here and 

there. The replacement guy

gets selected  -  the one with

the inside information, and the

accounting numbers and paths

for all the deals. He gets drawn

in from the state capital, and

takes it all over and, over a

way-too-long period of time,

and with all the concomitant

graft and corruption and

appointed personnel, gets 

done, or gets started anyway,

before he's found out and

indicted, with all those many

plans and lucrative demolitions

and new contracts to re-contrive

the sprawling town. There

is no real opposition, because 

he's been hiring everyone,

handing out jobs and 

appointing his minions. The

money is knee-deep, and

every contract is as leaky 

as his girlfriend's you know 

what (who's also got a job 

with this group : 'Appointed'). 

-

Now if this wasn't a book,

you see, or a book to be, I

couldn't write the pages of

his death. But it is. He gets

electrocuted with a heavily

wired pen, remotely set off,

as he's signing some more

dirty bills. Fried on the spot.

The indictments fall away,

and the spotlights turn to

others, who then in turn

also get indicted  -  their

past political misdeeds,

from other towns and other

office-holdings, catch up

to them by this too. Someone

sets fire to the old school

headquarters building. While

that fire rages, down from the

sky come agents of vengeance

with their ray guns, and, in

town hall, from office to office

they sweep, zapping people 

and killing everyone. It's

all over in less than two days, 

and the police too get taken 

away. Sordid mastery of

detail here is not needed; 

the facts are so general and 

widespread that most any 

scenario will do. You too 

can write the book. You 

don't need me.

-

The old guy Dooley, who had 

a toy store on the long lawn

with a house there too  -  where

the Woodbridge Library is now  -

he knew all this and saw it coming.

Everyone detested old man Dooley,

the ragged toy merchant, Irish

booze-bum, a bunch of kids and

a big sloppy house. I loved the

guy when I was about 11; my 

father and him were pals some.

Dooley pushed and prodded,

opposed lots of things  -  new

growth, the loss of the old town,

the deification of greed that 

took its place. All those town

hall guys hated him for  -  as

what I recall  - some form of

always running for Mayor in

opposition to the crap that was

always happening. There were

rowboats of graft and corruption

back then too, a lot of those guys

went to jail. The one family is

still around, making zillions 

of the town now floating bond

issues to pay them with for

the junk lands they own which

are now 'suddenly' quite

valuable, and somehow a

part of the 'new' development 

plans. Hmmm? That 340,000

dollar sign too, at the old boxing

club location -  now some

bombastic nothing on an old

two-land road  -  why's that

grandiose sign there, paid for

by us, with all its lights and

message board crap? Because,

in 8 or 10 years that'll be all

a completed and heavily 

populated area of new 'growth,'

people, and buildings. You 

won't know about it. I won't 

know about it. But 'they' 

already do  -  and they're 

getting in while the

getting's cheap.

-

If old Dooley was still alive

(long, long ago) I'd much rather

put my feet up with him and

talk this shit, rather than spend

my days and nights ferreting

things out and writing this

journalistic claptrap for people

who don't read anyway. And if

they do read, do nothing about 

it. Just today, my wife said to

me, 'Why do they treat Avenel

with such disrespect? Why do 

they just step in and dump all

all the junk here? This has

become a hell-hole?' I told

her to sit tight, the revolution's

coming  - and if there isn't

one I'll sit here and make one

up. No one reads anyway.

(If that ain't bush league,

what then is?)...