11,640. RUDIMENTS, pt. 638

RUDIMENTS, pt. 638

(little bit of 'merika in us all)

Regarding things I didn't know

much about, I mostly just stayed

mum. There's no greater way of

giving away your paucity of

knowledge or information than

by beginning to babble on. I'd

face plenty of that in the next

few years. Bars were great for

babblers. They were (and are,

I'd guess, still) also great for

mythmakers, liars, creeps, those

who regret and rue, and those

who mourn. There's no getting

around that fact the a bar's

currency isn't really 'money' at

all  -  although of course for the

owner or proprietor it is  -  but

for the average half-drunk it's

as bad as the Internet is these

days  -  half-truths, innuendos,

and mis-representations. This

all can be done successfully, of

course, if it's cloaked properly

in a dressing of perfection. There

were numerous times when the

mythologized format of someone's

retold life, once exposed, turned

out too bear no resemblance to

what was said about it. "Huh?

He told me he had a million

dollars, from the sale of his

atomic watch company which

had been bequeathed to him by

his grandfather...You mean that's

not true?" No, actually he did

two years in lock-up, in South

Carolina, for beating some guy

to a pulp."

-

A lot of the biggest blowhards

I ever met outfit their stories in

the thinnest veneer of patriotism,

so that not believing them somehow

made you dishonorable by tainting

the flag they were wrapped in. I'd

heard so many  -  the always, and

untraceable, 'merchant marine' guys

back from the Mid East adventures

escorting troop carriers through the

Gulf of Aden, while their own ship

carries 900 barrels of rocket fuel

and 300 cases of MRE's for the

hungry soldiers. The beer-intensified

stories were always dangerous,

near-calamitous, and filled with the

big three, of course, intrigue, booze,

and babes, as well. But the bars and

watering-holes thrived on the

thinks of this nature. It was a

constant and completely-running

undercurrent, a subculture, to the

real people who made the underbody

of NYC what it was. Especially

the hoodies of the midtown

westside  -  all those Irish guys,

drinkers, thugs, toughs, brawlers

and crooks. The sometime-stevedores

and guys who walked around with

hooks  -  hooks for bales, and freight

bales too, of the sort where a lot

of that stuff never even touched the

ground; it could be' gone' that

quickly. I only knew a few of these

guys, and they weren't often always

able to talk. Sometimes they didn't

even want to, but the presence of

the criminal element all along that

area walked and went hand-in-hand

with the taverns tap-rooms, and bars,

which were supposed to be 'neutral'

areas for the talks and the betterment

of all. But never were. Even though

it's a seeming contradiction, 'Secrecy'

was out in the open. It was often

mindless too. For me, it's difficult

to recreate because so much of it

is gone now, but in the area where

now is Javits Center, an atrocity of

ridiculous, paneled black-glass

formed into some non-shape and

hardly even in the shape of a

building (it may have looked grand

as an expo-center in someone's

small-office architectural rendering

in the 1970's, but by the 1980's it

already resembled crap). This had

previously been an area of great

interest to me, sort of the headquarters

of an Irish underworld of waterfront

hoodlums, Italian lifters and haulers,

and enough mash-ups in between to

just blend everyone into a waterfront

sort of Everyman. No bones (or none

to be found!) about that. There really

were people who went to work in

the morning and never were heard

from again. The widow's fund would

maybe give the wife and kids a

thousand bucks, and say a sweet

good-bye too. That too is all gone

now, as the very world we walk

upon has changed over again.

-

You know how the first thing you

learn, in trial law and all that, is

that a lawyer should never ask a

question to which he doesn't already

know the answer. I found that so

sweetly baffling when I was first

told it  -  it was like a light going

on in a very dark room. While

another light went of! That light

which  went off being the idea

that truth and justice matter  -  they

don't, and I learned that very quickly.

Using a lawyer as an example, it's

all in the words and the skill of the

lawyer in bringing certain things

out  -  selective things and only

those wanted. No surprises. This,

never ask a question for which you

don't already know the answer.

-

That never made any real qualitative

sense for the facts of living a life.

It bore no relevant value, nor did

it actually bring one closer to

'justice.' Whatever that may be

at any one time. (That's why

Justice is blind  -  in her portrayal

Because no one wants her to see

the crap they're trying to run by

her with. Becoming aware of

all this was pretty painful). The

end run was always of Reality

evading perception. The world

was a crazy-ass place. It little

mattered what people said in

regards to the truth or the facts,

instead it was always the most

crafty twister of what-is who did

the most damage. Like  - again  -

LBJ back then with his stupid

Gulf of Tonkin Resolution. It

was the '60's version, I suppose,

of the story of Iraq having weapons

of mass destruction. For Tonkin,

and the resultant Vietnam War,

it was only much later, after some

58,000 (American) lives were

lost   -  that's the only figure that

ever gets mentioned, as if we

didn't air-bomb, maim and kill,

slaughter and decimate five time

that amount in our efforts to be sure

the 'Chinks' didn't take our links.

Links? Oh, yes, I probably forgot

to mention and you probably didn't

know, that one of the main non-

combatant results of that war is

the manner in which America

built communities of American

style suburbs, ranch-homes,

golf-courses, pools, gyms,

and carports too, in complete

isolation to the rest of the

Vietnamese culture, right in

the middle of all their lands.

This was so that our corps of

officers and back-field personnel

could live like they were still

back in Dubuque while we

destroyed the local world

the Vietnamese lived in.

Sounds a lot like what was

done to the Native American

population too, all through

the 1700's and on. They probably

even had those midget-little 

fire wagon cars that the locally 

based castration-crews drove

around in inspecting stuff. 

There's a little bit of 'Merika in
all of us, I guess. I'd say 'get

a real job, mofo,' but there's
probably little else they know
how to do, and sponging is as
sponging does. I wish I had some
of those Westies guys around
here now; that would solve a few
problems real quickly. 
Let's unleash the dogs of war.
-
It was still a weird time, 1967, but
I'm sure it's more weird now and the
'People' themselves are much more
dumb. Back in the smuall-town crap
schools we came through, Avenel and
all, they never taught us any of the
real stuff that had just so recently
burned up the country  -  all we
ever got was the puff-ball batter-up
junk of the likes of Mr. Ziccardi
and the others. That passed for the 
masked reality we were taught.
Sylvia Plath, in writing of NYC
at the time of the Rosenberg and
McCarthy outrages, said, "In New
York, on every corner and at every
subway entrance', headlines about
those issues confronted passers-by -
raising the question, were we safe?
Only anonymity and conformity
ensured security, but these were
impossible for artists. 'Their very  
being set them dangerously apart.'
It's the very same today, except the
headlines blare differently, pure crap,
and the ninnies and jerks are the
same, just worse. I sometimes
can't believe I came through
as well as I did.