12,181. RUDIMENTS, pt. 834

RUDIMENTS, pt. 834

(non-union, if you must know)

One of the things that

Authority does  -  and

I'll point this out just

briefly  -  is pit the

underclasses against

one another. You may

laugh, sure; it's OK.

I've often been a voice

crying in the wilderness,

so it never bothers me.

Back at the old, ratty

Maple Tree Tavern, a

good number of those

motorcycle guys who

came and went were

often in the midst of

these oddball grudge

matches  -  one against

the other. For no reason

except the divisive hit

and hate tactics engendered.

It went funny, and I saw it

any number of times. I can

think of two instances right

off the bat. These guys were

hard workers, and skilled in

an unskilled way. One time, a

few of the welder guys were

there and they were taking

out at another welder guy,

who wasn't even present,

for being 'non-union.' The

same thing went with a few

of the others, carpenter guys,

who were non-union and one

guy had a beef at that, as a

union carpenter. Now, I

agree there are differences

there, but at heart one is

still a welder or a carpenter.

Working for the man, as it

were, and while one is there

sitting and slobbering over

endless Budweisers it never

made any sense to me to take

out after the other fellow

like that. It's kind of the point

of view that Management

would be happy to see you

fall into, fronting for them

as Authority would have,

and either way  -  the

'Authority' of Management,

which wouldn't seek to unionize,

and the 'Authority' of Union,

which would love to have

everyone in  -  the better to

milk the union guy with

dues and duties for 25 years

and then throw back a

guaranteed pension with the

funds THEY have been sitting

on for all those years  -  kind

of like a discursive and less

benign Social Security  -  are
happy. You're still doing
their bidding, for them. When

was the last time you ever saw

anyone in union management

going hungry, or without a

beachfront second home?

Go on, I'm asking. Either

way, YOU as the worker are

getting duped. End result?

One ends up at the Maple

Tree or its equivalent

somewhere, with maybe

a shiny, new motorcycle

and all the doo-dads that

go with it, but you're there

beefing out your fellow

worker. I never got that one.

-

The Maple Tree wasn't certainly

any sort of place to brag about,

and neither was Simcoe's or

Hank's or The Pioneer, or Flip's.

And my screwed-up list could

go on and on. I drinked at 'em

all! Top of the state to the dinky

bottom of the state, and out of

state too. What was it all worth?

I don't know  -  to my mind way

too many flags and salutes and

false patriotism and beer muscles

too. But, the class struggle went

round, all without anyone ever

even knowing it. In our own

ways, we were unwitting fools.

-

Back whenever it was, I was in

maybe 6th grade, and everyone

was always using the 'Mimeo'

machine. It made like weird,

light blue duplicate copies; we

often get tests printed out on

them. The paper always had

some  odd aroma that I liked

more than the test printed on

it. And around about that same

time there was some really

lame, angst-ridden movie

about the 'teen-age' problem;

all that angst and groaning

among kids  -  and a lot of it

was, it always seemed, tied up
(no pun) with sexual tension.

There was a guy, an actor,

named Sal Mineo, and of

course I always thought of

him as Sal Mimeo  -  a hundred

crummy copies of his own

self everywhere. (He later

got killed, in real life, in a

stabbing; I think maybe in

L.A., and I think too it may

have been some gay-lover-

quarrel stuff too). But anyway,

those 'school' movies of that

day really annoyed me. My

mother was always after me,

my father too, about that  -

delinquency, gangs, all that

'going bad' stuff. It was a real

pain, but those school movies

irked worse  -  'Blackboard

Jungle,' or maybe 'Up the Down

Staircase.' And like the really

worst one was 'To Sir, With

Love,' later on  -  some blimey

English crap about school,
all sweetness and mirth and
goofy, swooning, girl stuff.

All this garbage was so off

base, and adults of that time

were just so intensely stupid,

that it was apparent these

films were nothing more

than attempts at socialization

and soft coercion. No one

could even own up to what

they were doing  -  cold-pressing

an entire new generation of

roustabouts into the usual

straitjackets. My God, I used

to think, for this crap our fathers

and uncles fought to the finish

all around the world  -  guns,

bombs, and bullets? It sure

never seemed worth it to me.

-

All I ever wanted out of this

life was a decent finish : I'd 

spend lots of hours in 

contemplation, or writing in 

this useless tiny scrawl too

small even for ants; notebooks

of stuff, about theater and

playwrights, Jean Anhouil, Jean

Genet, Jean-Paul Sarte, Bertolt

Brecht, Frederick Durenmatt .

It all went on forever and I was 

often as aimless as a critter. I 

went through Peter Handke 

until I no longer could. I 

studied philosophy, theory, 

esoterica, folklore, literature,

and all sorts of crap until I was

delirious. And then I came to

the conclusion that no matter 

how much of this I did, there 

was always going to be more, 

and it was never going to be 

mine; so I just turned it over to 

my own stuff, strictly, and kept

it at that. I'd somehow finally

found a voice. It was late by then,

1997, 1998, but that was about

that time I finally felt firm footing

and a general, steady, and good

flow of words, information, and

inspiration too.  Non-union, if you

blokes really need to know.