11,919. RUDIMENTS, pt. 750

RUDIMENTS, pt. 750

(sing to me of other times)

Every so often, something

went amiss  -  with me or

around me. I'd see what was

wrong, running off, and  -  

only if there was a certainty

I could solve it  -  would I 

endeavor to get involved. 

I always ended up envying

those people I'd see  -  and

I knew any number of them  -  

who were good with tools,

able to fix most anything,

spin a wrench, tune an

engine, etc. The useful 

stuff. I'd somehow missed 

out on most of that although 

I could do the basics, and

did. Most often though,I'd

go past my level of competence,

and end up with a mess. Once

I learned my limits, I was

OK. When I was living out

in Pennsylvania  -  not much

money at all, living as close 

to the vest as possible  -  I

found myself with all this

space : workplaces, benches,

open area, barn workshop

room, and nothing to do in it

mostly because I had no tools,

or implements. I ever so

slowly set to using one of

those farm/country mail-order

places, from whose catalogues

I'd pick 20 or 25 dollar bunches

of tools. (25 dollars got you a

lot more in those days). Plus,

there were always farmers

dying, farm auctions, 

bankruptcies, etc., from which

to (ghoulishly) buy from.

Mostly I wanted to be able to

fix my own vehicle workings,

the necessary house stuff -

(two Gould water-pumps, the

bizarre furnace set-up, and

other things). It all went OK,

and turned out pretty well,

though before long I was

pretty surely hooked up with

Warren  -  the neighboring farmer

guy  -  and he had tons of stuff.

from generations of farming.

I found myself more interested,

in, and fascinated by, his fine

assortments of old tools. Like

really old, from two or three

family generations back. They

had that 'age' to them, the

ruggedness and 'patina' let's call

it, of countless uses and the

wretched turmoil of needed

work and toil. They sang to

me of other times. Of course I

kept quiet about any of that,

since these guys weren't the 

type that would understand 

or share the sentiments. It's 

always been such with me. 

-

Soon enough all that extra space

did manage to cause me trouble,

tools or no tools. I let a few

local guys in, using it as a sort

of auto-fix-it garage, sideline

space. I didn't exactly mind it,

at first. Well actually it all started

when I need a flywheel in my

'64 Ford pickup truck. Knowing

my own limitations, I let the

word out and this guy came over

and said he and his friends would

like to hep me with the flywheel

project, if maybe I then could

let them fix a few cars here and 

there in that open barn-bay

workshop space. Which was 

OK with me  -  got me a needed

repair job done, with me mostly

just watching, as they set about 

the task. I considered it to be

a major auto-repair; they just

laughed it off and went right

to it. I forget exactly, but maybe

three or four nights later, the

job was done. In a fine,country

style  -  a few cinderblocks, some

beers, jokes, throwing things,

talking shit, all that. Once or

twice my wife would walk in,

along with some food, and 

there'd be a break. It was  -

as I said  -  back then, and 

country  -  so cigarettes were

always going, and hard liquor

was around too. We got it all

done, in a straight piece, and

the truck ran fine.

-

When I was at St. George Press,

there used to be a body-shop

right next door to it, called

'Royal Auto Body.' I'd go in

there sometimes after work.

The guy, Jerry, had just taken

it over after buying it fro the

previous old guy who'd started

and ran the business  -  until he

retired and wanted out. I'd never

been in any place around Avenel

that sort of reminded me of my

old Pennsylvania spot   - but right

there, on St. George Ave., they'd

be inside, sitting around on crates,

staring at a car, talking paint, or

dents and scratches, or whatever,

and the bottle of booze would

be out, getting passed around.

It was so old-school and loose

and informal. Swigging from

the bottle, and right between

words. And, yep, there too, the

cigarettes. It was fine. It used to

be, back  the, 1978 or so, they'd

just paint the car right there, 

after prepping it and all, on the

shop floor, all standing around, 

talking and drinking too. Breathing

all that, and little clouds of color

sometimes floating around too. 

It was a few years later, with all 

that OSHA stuff, that a lot of 

these small places closed up  -  

the Government know-it-alls 

then mandated that each body-shop

needed an isolated paint-booth

inside, ventilated and filtered and

closed, to keep all that from 

happening  -  the stuff I just

mentioned. That was pretty much

the end of Royal Auto Body :

it was all a huge investment and

new commitment to make, and 

some of these guys, like Jerry,

the way they were, the kind of

guys they were, just weren't

interested in that stuff. It's the

same everywhere  -  stupid

Government a'holes muscling

in, like the pencil pusher dweebs

know anything about body-shop

work and lore. It's the same today;

government toadys running around

as fire inspectors and panty-waist

examiners. All full of themselves,

and crap too.
-
Now, these are my opinions, and I
therefore reserve my right to state
them here. Anyone may disagree, and
and I don't really give a flying 
ham-sandwich about that. What galls 
me the most is ignorance; and these 
are ignorant people. When they're all 
done with their filthy despoilation
of the places we live, when that boat 
for their post-career lives arrives, their 
simple sell-out of our lives and times
will mean nothing to them and they'll
be on the first 'I'm moving' boat out 
of here; leaving us their ignorant 
pain and destitution to live amidst. 
The profit motive is a clothes hanger 
running right up their butts.

-

I wouldn't mind any of it, but it's

the way it's all lied about that does

me in. These little midget guys 

think nothing of lying. It doesn't

even bother their weenie-conscience 

one bit. Two Summers ago, by the

local middle school, mostly where

Indians live and congregate, they

cut down a fine, long row of trees.

maybe 15 trees. The local poli-mouth

than put out a cover-lie, I mean, story

about tree infestation, disease and

all that usual malarkey. He made 

the announcement, at least, himself.

Two years later, the local park, and

one in Woodbridge too, is being

de-forested  -  trees coming down

everywhere. The same mouse-trap

this time stays mum, and some

other local dweeb says it's because

the trees were bad and a limb came

down, threatening the kids in the

park. Yes, Indians again  -  picnics

and festivals all the time. The local

political guy this time shuts up, and

they drag out some other blowhard

willing to say anything about anything.
He won't even speak for himself!

Something ought to be done about

lying. The fact of the matter is two-fold:

One. The demands of the Indian

populations, who hate trees, are

given priority over any older-line and

traditional American qualities  -  like

tree'd, sheltered, shaded, parks. And,

Two: The conveniently prime mover

of tree-infestation is always about, as
excuse. You see, the 'American' system 
is rigged. What's never mentioned is 

how insurance companies and renewal

policies have been given their own 

precedence for 'lowering' their own

exposures to risk-factors. Which is
what insurance companies are meant

to be about; to take and then to

cover the risk, which is why they

get your money in the first place.

But, the insurance lobby, powerful 

and monied, has other ideas. They

just want the municipal monies.

If you don't cut down this, this,

and that tree, we won't renew.

Good God, it might fall down.
(I also think it's a shame because
these little, unprincipled, men and 
women are the same ones who would
 kill your country, and sell you and me
down the river for a dime, to defeatists,
losers, liars and more know-nothings.
-

That's just how things are today.

Everyone's a girl-doll now; afraid of

shadows and finger-puppets too.

The locals cover for it; easy talk,

lies come cheap. I'd sure love to 

correct all that  -  bringing a few

of my old Pennsylvania guys out

here to re-do some flywheels and

get things running right. 'We don't
need no stinking spray-booth.'
-
(part two (next) is about the trouble
caused by their repair endeavor).