RUDIMENTS, pt. 526
(avenel, my god what's in your water?)
You know, I have a lot to say -
studied things, not just crap.
Writing these pieces and
posting each day, I hear from
a lot of people - nice things,
but not always. I have to hear
it both ways, so you will too.
I love my people (but I don't
always love you...). That's
non site-specific. Just let
me go on here.
-
B&D Motorcycles was on
Route One, in Rahway, about
1000 feet from another place
just south of it, called Deal
n' Wheels. The guy's name
there was Leo (last name not
needed here, though I know
it), and his worker-hire sidekick
was another guy from Bayonne
too, named Gary. (Not me).
Deals, as it was called, was
cool, just not a dealership; so
nothing 'new' was sold out
of there - which sometimes
made it even cooler. Since they
were so close to each other,
(the owners were related,
cousins or something, but
they didn't really get along
and didn't speak to one
another - part family crap,
part business). As it was, one
guy had the Harley 'pedigree'
and the other didn't, though
you'd never know it. The
Harley guy was named Bill,
I know that last name too, but
no matter here. He ran the place
with his female sidekick; a
relationship of something to
do with family that I forget
now too. Doris was her name,
I think. It was all mixed
up and overlapping. A visit
to one place, since they were
always so near, was a visit to
the other. You could just walk
between them. I used to place
my monthly ABATE newspaper
in each, so I was often around.
There was kind of a worn and
direct path along the highway
between the two places, thus
also making the connection.
-
The front doorway of B&D
opened to the highway - the
curb of which was approximately
one motorcycle length and a
narrow sidewalk away -
meaning it was a close call
at all times. Traffic was apt
to, let's say, take your hat
off, if you weren't careful.
Or, as the bikers would say,
leaving, 'if you had a boner
you were taking your life
into your hands' right there.
That extra 8 inches (ha!) then
became a real important margin,
For a long period of time they
used to have 6 or 7 used Harleys
put out there each day, for sale,
taking their life in their hands,
each, (if Harleys do such things).
Most of the times they were
so rank and ugly that it little
mattered. Bill (the owner)
put the emphasis here on
'used' Harleys. In the earlier
days, the new, showroom
motorcycles had been indoors,
but that went away too. As
did the Evinrude boat-engines
dealership representation, a
part of the franchise long ago
lost. Marine stuff, boats; yes,
that's how I first got introduced
to the place, at about age 7,
with my father and all his
boat junk. It was a great
entry into this more abject,
seedy part of life. In the
1950's and '60's there used
to be an outboard motor on
the roof, and the words
'Evinrude' stylized too. It
was nice - there was some
sort of mysterious postwar
crossover between the boat
guys, like my father, and the
motorcycle guys. Figure this,
again as my father - the boat
guys seemed to be Navy and
Coastal Defense men, living
though their post-wars on water,
somewhere, anywhere - Jersey
Shore, Long Island sound,
Chesapeake Bay - go ahead,
name it, Sewaren. That salt
and water stuff gets in your
blood, and that's it - even
women and wives can't beat
it out of you, let alone kids,
families, houses and jobs.
On the other hand, the real
mad, angry guys, the hotshots,
the pilots and aces of the sky,
the war-wizards and all, they
were the Biker guys, filtering
in. Ten years on, the war was
over, but they would never
quit. That's where Bill (and
probably Leo) made their
money. These screaming
fighter-pilot and airplane
guys were massive attitudes:
leathers, 'fuck the world'
slogans, flames, fire, eagles,
guns, bombs, babes and
motorcycles. The 1940's
versions of babes - you'd
be surprised - still was
living on well, and quite
sexily too, into the beginnings
of the 1960 changeover.
Everything was still blazing.
These guys paid their dues
and didn't want the change
(that's a pun intended, I
think). They'd take you down
with a nudge - knife in the
gut, maybe, if you still
didn't understand. Guns.
Girls. Booze, and the sacred.
For them too there was a
sacred - the Bike. It was
all about the motorcycle :
rude, loud, fat, sloppy and
raucous. And goddamn it
better be running, or YOU
fix it, dig? There was a
small airport, about a mile
or so north. Linden airport.
Across from it was the GM
plant - a vast horde of
Pontiac or Chevy shit that
mostly employed anyone
who wanted to be there.
Unionized and lifetime
employment too. Next to
that was a Gordon's Gin
distillery, and next to that
a factory that made instant
coffee powder. The clashing
smells were awesome. Tenco
I think it was called. Cars,
planes, gin, coffee, and still
just up the road was the
Budweiser Brewery, entering
Newark from Elizabeth. It
was a crazy world, and Route
One had it all - in the war,
WWII, the one AFTER the
war to end all wars (remember?)
it had all been taken over to
make tanks and military
equipment, but now they had
it all back. These Biker guys -
the later day's Hell's Angels
and screed biker-club punkers -
from New York and anywhere,
they'd get on the airport landing
strip and flash their bikes and
times - spin racing their big
dumb-ass Harleys like it
actually mattered. They left
when they had to, not when
told - cops there didn't care;
the Linden boys wanted to
get home that night.
-
I compare some of this to the
present day at large, and it
makes me gag - I'm glad to
be alive, and to have survived
all the nasty stuff I probably
shouldn't have survived, but
today's people, by contrast,
take the cake. Using the local
'Avenel' page as a good (bad)
example of the sort of drivel
we live with now - no balls,
no brains, no glory. There was
a girl or two on there this
morning whining over why she
couldn't find any FREE child
pre-school day care??? The
previous ghetto towns they
had lived in had provided
it. Well hell, ladies, this is
America! The Government
can't (yet) wipe your ass for
you too. Then some other
geek pipes about the so-bad
need for a supermarket!
And gets nodding approval
from about ten other nitwits.
There's freaking 10-15
other supermarkets within
ten minutes of here, if they'd
get off their fat asses and
find them. They think nothing,
however, of driving 45 minutes
to go shopping or to pig-out
at some slush-fund bar or
restaurant. They've just got
to have it all, instead, in their
big, sloppy laps, and they act
as if all 'services' were their
right and entitlement. Little
moronic bastards. How
different is this world now.
How different. They live,
willingly, in a Management
directed world, downward
management, being told
what and how to do it. And
these are grown men too -
the hot toddies, living off
tax-dollars, with the service
drives and the fake wisdoms.
Can you spell Loser? I'd love
for one of these other-ethos
Biker guys to have a go at
one of these - in a supermarket
even. Probably in the tissue
aisle.
-
You know how the Internet
was going to 'save' us by
opening up communication
between people? All these
little spiff towns with their
own sites, facebook pages
and such, where people
could talk and air things
out; issues and ideas. Yeah,
that lasted about a week. As
an example now, the Avenel
page has turned to pure drivel,
with smokescreen posts by
idiot girls and (Men too!)
to clutter and push out any
real issues, discussion, and
disagreement. Try that at
old B&D and they'd drag
you out back and make you
eat a carburetor raw. There's
nothing left on there now,
the Avenel page, except the
boorish drivel of the lame-ette
they've got for Council, and
the Mayor's Apocalypse horsemen.
Or manure. One or the other.
What a damned shame it all is.
-
Those motorcycle guys, man.
Back when there was a black
Masonic Lodge on the highway
there too, in Rahway, the rear
picnic-grounds area of it anyway,
30-some acres, we had a Bike
run once - the big booze-shed
out back was perfect for our
needs. There was a gigantic
old ramshackle house. I made
arrangements to go in one day,
meet the people, set up the
rental - insurance costs, beer
and booze allowances, parking,
times, sound system, outdoor
band, all that crap. I stayed,
just me and a guy named Joey,
for hours. Sitting around some
old lounge room and a kitchen;
big old armchairs, crap all over,
a TV running on, all these cool
black people hanging around.
They weren't quite sure what I
was up to - Bikers, Harleys,
and the rest. But they took
my assurances, and we rented
the place for our day. They
just wanted to be sure too
that their own guys, on
rice-rockets and Jap bikes,
would be welcome too. I
said sure. Everybody came,
it was massive, and we even
had some trouble out on the
field, with some club guys,
but I worked it all out. Kinda.
Anyway, bringing joy to the
welcome and guns to the fiesta,
by the long end of a July twilight,
besides us, all these black race
bike guys (alcohol had by this
time, 8 hours on, done its trick),
and they took their highly
charged, fast and toxic speed
burner-bikes right out to the
high-ramp part of Rt One, and
- basically after having shut it
down, southbound, to one lane,
had wheelie competitions,
burn-outs, spins and races, all
gong on for a few hours. Man!
What a life that was.
-
Now you're telling me 'the
Government won't tale care
of my babies, for free?' On
this subject, and before I
close, let me just say two
things: This ain't Communism,
yet. And, by advancing the
notion of free, Governmental
day care, my little Cinderella
crybabies, you're also advancing
the regulatory and licensing
procedures of Government,
cost, fees, overheads, and
wages into your tax pocket,
even more than they are
now. You see, what seems
'free' to your little pubescent
brain ain't free at all. Like
the ladies over at Pumpkin
Patch told me, every time
they're getting to leave,
that fire inspector 'somn'a b.'
comes in and throws a firedrill
at 'em. Never seems to fail.
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