11,500. RUDIMENTS, pt. 580

RUDIMENTS, pt. 580

('hold this on your head')

In the late 60's there was a

rash of art-inspired happenings,

sort of seat-of-the-pants type

provocations, done right out

on the street and in people's

faces. The idea was to drag

the morons out of their own

lethargy and push their myopia

forward a bit, to see other

angles  -  like Vietnam, for

instance. No one knew shit

about that 'war'  -  least alone

the grunts who had to go out

and fight in it, perhaps die in

it, and never get the full tally

of what was going on and why

they were being told to do what

they were doing. The average

stateside, at-home, person,

they'd get more worked up

about Muhammed Ali being

a Muslim, or Jimi Hendrix

screwing around with the

Star-Spangled Banner, than

most anything else, 'cept

sports and sex and TV shows

and the rest. Pure American

drivel, yeah, and expected to

be defended with a bullet to

the heart or through the brain,

just so those 'Yellow bastards

don't run down and take over

Vietnam...' as the wordings all

went. What a nasty crock of shit

that all was. Over at e11th, we

had kids coming in, scared to

death for the living of their own

lives, deserting in numbers and

running up to Canada. 16 at a

time, mostly, they'd be slumped

out all over the floor, sleeping on

blankets, until the next van came,

Toronto bound usually. To my

mind, that was patriotism. Get

outta' town Mr. Brown, and my

own patriotism too was in seeing

that it all got done. Guys, and

girls too, fleeing the military.

In all those days, really I don't

think I ever needed more than

two bucks a day to live on. It

was all easy; people leaving

clothes behind, money around

or left in their pockets, forgetful

stuff. One guy gave me a great

pair of shoes on his way out,

he didn't need carrying an extra

pair and they were just my size,

14 triple E (OK, just kidding,

ladies). I wore them for a long

time  -  real leather, round toe,

zipper side. Real different. It

was all like that  -  cast-offs and

things left behind. The part of

the street theater and all the

provocation, that was gravy.

-
To me, all this went to show how
broad, misguided, and lethal,
propaganda could be. It was
everywhere, even back then. 
The Coke and Pepsi commercials,
heck, the Miss Breck print ads,
they were all set up as the sort
of propaganda that advances the
narrative of those in power  - 
same as now, it's still done, it's
just that now the people doing it
are smaller, have smaller brains, 
and fewer references to fall back
on. That's what the street-theater
and art-provocation was all about:
to smack people around, wake them
up. You get a local representative 
with a sixth-grade level mind now,
and you're supposed to be 
thankful for it.

Most of my provocation was

in just going back and forth

and keeping people off-key.

Or off-stride anyway. Like

today, jumping ahead fifty

years, I got into this slimeball

Mayor's speech using a good

disguise (as Rabbi Ari Schneerson,

Temple Beth Orr). I stayed at

the rear, and just slid out as

he finished. It was funny, like

the President, he gives a 'State of

the Union' Address, to Congress,

to the assembled Senators and

Representatives, those are the

people to whom he answers,

as the Executor and they the

Legislators. To those to whom

he's beholden. So, what's the

asshole Mayor do? Talk to the

people, who pay him and for

whom he is supposedly Mayor?

No, he speaks to a roomful of

salivating business schmucks,

realtors, brokers, developers,

corporate handkerchief types who

can't wait to continue the destruction

of Woodbridge as they pocket the

dollars, deals, payoffs, and people

they can steal, and steal from. It's

all so disgusting I sat there thinking

about gun control. We can't have

them. I bet the Mayor has a gun.

I bet the assorted council babies

own guns. I don't know what

any of it's all for, but it sure

ain't Government, in my book.

And, by the way, this is one of

those times when I maybe just

get angry and stay that way. It's

all a provable case of pure and

reckless dereliction. When those

thieves come to get you in the

middle of the night, don't say

I didn't warn you.

-

Sometimes, better than other

times too, I was so lost in the

deep, green woods I had trouble

remembering my own name.

Everyone used to think drugs

were the answer to the tremolo

of trouble they all bore. Hell, that

wasn't anymore true than that

Alice in Wonderland was a whore

for Jesus. The truth of the matter,

and I found it out, dead serious

and on the money too, was that

it's all inside you, everything.

Every last one of us has the

resources to turn this world

ass-over backwards into truth

and allegiance, but all most

people do is screw it all up.

I never drove my car through

the drug-scene, nor their crowd;

mostly a bunch of self-absorbed

misfits with dicks for brains. I

didn't need any of that, and I

already knew I was better at

heart than any of them  -  the

Long Island drug-pushing sons

of bitches, the landlord-Jew-

excelsior types living for

money alone and expecting

to have to do nothing for it;

the fakers, the story-tellers,

the liars  - I was sick of all

of them.

-

The farther I got out and away

from all that, the better it began

feeling. Except for the Winter

isolation  -  which never much

bothered me  -  most people really

would end up liking country life

better that the bottled-up gin

and misfit suburban crowd of

living they go through here. For

one thing, country people are

inured to realty. They don't take

keenly to misrepresentation or

being lied to. Around here, it's

just normal process.

-

Oftentimes I look around me

now, when I'm doing things, and

I realize they're all dead, lots of

the people I knew. They're

dwindling and dying off and

that whole old world with them

Right about now it's not charity

and it's not goodness that keeps

me going. The girls tell me not

to curse so much, that I should

start saying nice things and be

mindful  -  hell no, I say. Now's

the right time for me to be the

nasty alleycat nobody wants

around  -  because they're all

a bunch of shits anyway, those

people around. They have the

gall even to call themselves

men. The way they now lurk

about,  with nothing going

on, no thoughts in fool heads,

beaming in their little uniforms

and hanging tight with their

on little asshole cliques while

pretending to be doing people's

business. The little midget

bastards.

-

One thing for sure, no one

ever says I'm true or not making

stuff up. Everything I do is a

mystery with a clue, and it's all

put out there, parable like, as if

it was holy writ. You take your

clues from where you hang.

-

The worst guy I ever knew,

really, in the wilds of Pennsylvania,

well, maybe second-worse, was

a newly returned Vietnam veteran

farm guy from out there, right

around where I lived. If you can

say morose, vile killer, you've

about summed it up for him.

There wasn't anything noble

about this guy at all. and the

first thing they did when he got

back, in the next, nearby little

town over, was make him one

of their police force. It was all

supposed to be some honor and

homage they were paying this

local boy for defending the colors

of Liberty in those faraway

hamlets and jungle scenes. I

don't know where any of them

got their thinking from, but it

was probably the usual civic

and municipal-minded upchuck

that usually runs things  -  this

guy was a certified, unregenerate

madman; he still fought some

strange, weirdly schismatic war

in his head, and his new battlefield

became the highways and roads

he patrolled. How you could deem

to, first, arm someone like that and

pay him for his services weekly,

and, secondly, give him a badge

and send him out there alone with

sole prerogatives as to what was

and was not the law and lawful

things, was beyond me. That's

the how; why would come next.

-

The big, old Troy Hotel was about

a block off from the small police

station, and I'm not sure the two 

ever met. In between them was

a small, one-level cinder-block

thing they call Troy Hospital. That

was as good a middle-ground as

ever to have between the two, 

since it probably well-served the

purposes (and overlap) of each;

even if it only had a part-time

doctor for whom the average wait

time for arrival was 45 minutes.

'OK, so don't die on us and press

this hard onto the wound while 

you wait, to keep the bleeding

down. Doctor will be here soon.'

Yeah, the nurse-ladies were real

nice. I went in there one day

with a stitch-able head-wound, 

early on in the morning, like

7am, and had to wait until

10:30 until they opened, or at

least until someone showed up.

-

Some of the stories this 

cop-trawler guy used to tell 

me were enough to make even 

me shudder  -  and I can take

a lot, usually. His stories 

seemed pretty much evenly 

divided, sort of, between a

Vietnam setting (boy, none 

of them were very nice, and 

they all involved death, killing, 

or snuffing. If that was 'war'

I was triply glad I'd never seen

it), and highway happenings 

right thereabouts, Route 6, 

Route 14, etc. From what he 

told me, the last thing I'd want 

to bee back then was a female

pulled over for speeding.

-

Well, that's my report for this

chapter. Rabbi Schneerson.