11,807. RUDIMENTS, pt. 705

RUDIMENTS, pt. 705

(bite-sized pieces)

The bizarrely paradoxical

nature of America could 

always be found. All items

were presented as 'New' and

'Bigger.' No one wanted to be

second. You went over to

Murray and Martha's candy 

store to sugar up and rot your

teeth some more and you'd be

presented with 20-ounce bars

of Hershey's chocolate or 

whatever, until, then, one day,

all of a sudden, 1959-style, we'd

walk in and be hit with a sign 

about 'New and Better! Bite-Sized

Pieces!' That was only worth

like a 'Huh?' from us  -  never

mentioned was the strange

switch, the smaller scale, the

forced preponderance of new

evidence. Cars too  -  at one

time through the late 1950's 

they had gotten large enough 

for a small population to gather 

within; cabaret cars with all the

glitter and splash of private

clubs. Highways went up, 

everywhere. Over hill and 

dale,  trees felled, vast distances 

tarred and covered over, all with

the expectant hope that a Nation

would be on the move, great

suburbs spreading, huge and

comfortable cars taking people

swiftly and in comfort to all

these wonderful new places.

Within ten years the whole country

was covered and you  pretty much

HAD to live that way, unless you

wanted to remain planted in any of

the abject, riotous, and filled with

low-life, cities. Then what happens?

Everyone gets comfortable, all

mortgaged out, distant suburbs, 

and the road, cars, and traffic

mandated the need for cars and

travel, for work, etc. All of a 

sudden, again, 'New and Better,

Bite-Sized Pieces!' The gamekeepers

change the game in the middle of

the playing: cars get tiny, compact

cars are produced, the roads get

crowded, the gasoline becomes

expensive, and everyone who 

bought the dream gets it right

back up their rear, and they're

stuck. Nowhere to go. That was

called 1960 Checkmate, and it

was a no-win game no matter.

Funny how all that happens.

-

I guess the richest man I ever

knew, or spent time with, was

Malcolm Forbes. Up on Old 

Yorke  Road or whichever that 

was off  Rt. 202, if it was 202.

The dirt road leading in was nice,

the houses were big, but not

palatial bullshit, nothing of the

overwhelming,  knock-out-dead, 

sort  -  rather  just the spread, 

and the assorted buildings, and 

all that landscaping and grounds.

He had a mechanic-staff on duty, 

a garage dedicated to the storage

and maintenance of some 100

motorcycles, a car-garage and

all sorts of 'vehicles' there too.

He was OK, in the sense that 

you could at least talk to him, 

normally. He wasn't the imposing, 

or superior, or stand-offish type; 

his sons and helpers and staff too 

all were always cordial. A little 

much on the expensive food and

outdoor breakfast trays and all

that, but it was for sure tolerable.

Also, whenever I got to these

sorts of locations, 'Drumthwacket'

included (the Governor's Mansion

in Princeton), the serving staff and

food people were always black.

It was very off-putting, very much

with the airs of Southern aristocracy,

and a servant class, black, to do

all that bidding and chores. The

biggest problem at Forbes', frankly,

and just because I probably never 

was 'there' enough to find some

common spot with him, was in

the communication. What does a

punk-asshole Avenel kid contrive

to say to a billionaire with an empire?

'Hey, how about the fishes painted

on the underpass, ain't they something

then?' (No, I'm kidding. They weren't

painted yet Had they been that might

have been my eco-in). I really wanted

to steal a Vincent Black Lightning and

get on out of there. (That's a motorcycle,

the Vincent). One thing weird, he had

a hot air balloon that he kept on the

property too, and very often it was

torched up, fire-blasting for take-off,

but it never went anywhere. On those

days it was just ignited as part of the

panoply and, shall I say, 'ambience.'

-

Had I gone back to Avenel with any

one of these stories, it would have

been a real gas. I could have hung

out at Cameo's and said, 'Well,

Malcolm says that.....' They'd have 

wrung my  neck first and then 

maybe only later said, 'Oh, I 

wonder who that Malcolm was

he kept talking about? 'Wisdom

knows the ages, and that age is

gone.' [I made that up]. Two things, 

no three, come to mind: First : We 

were out riding one afternoon, 

maybe 20 of us, and he was leading 

us completely astray, the wrong

direction through Englishtown, the

whole bit. I had to decide, from the

middle of the pack, if I had the 

gumption to go up and tell him

he was going the wrong way.

I decided I did, and at the next

light rode up and told him so.

He said, 'You sure?" I said 'Yes Sir.'

He put me in the lead and said,

'Get us there.' Two: One of the

morning rides, before we set out,

he addressed the little crowd, and,

because there were a lot of new faces,

he said, 'One ground rule. If you get

lost; tough shit.' And, third, and finally,

(this goes back a lot, to 1992, when

the first President Bush was running

for re-election, which he lost, to Clinton),

we got to a place where there were

some vending tables out, and one of

them had political stickers for sale.

He spied a bumper sticker that read,

'Lick Bush in '92.' He thought it

hilarious, and laughed heartily.

(Talk about bite-sized pieces?)
-
I immediately thought how funny
it was to see what a billionaire laughs
at, and how little different it is, actually,
from what fat Joe Schmo, standing
at his barbecue guzzling a beer in his
grease-stained  Jersey-guy tee shirt,
laughs at. Humor is universal, I guess,
except when the joke's on you  -  which
is how I felt most of the time; in this
case the 'You' being 'Me.'