12,179. RUDIMENTS, pt. 834

RUDIMENTS, pt. 834

(free parking included)

Someone once told me I

ought to be happy I'm not

in jail. I interjected how I

actually was happy not to

be there too, yes. And then

I asked what sort of society

was he pushing for, when a

person like me would be put

away. For espousing riot and

battlement as convictions? He

couldn't answer, and I was glad

for that. I told him that until

this becomes East Germany,

(back then), and he's a member

of STASI (the East German State

Police Force) and out on a job

of rounding up dissenters and

rabble-rousers, I didn't much

want to hear from him. I was

about 48 at the time, and still

had some spark in me.

-

We were at the Maple Tree

Tavern when this occurred. The

place was a loser-hellhole but

we got lots of fun out of it. The

place was a bunghole; a crappy

old leftover farmhouse out of

place and time, living on as

drunk legend. Certainly all its

validity was long gone, as was

its acreage, surroundings, and

pond too. The State of NJ had

long before taken the back 100

acres, right out to the railroad

tracks, incorporating the prison

farm too (that's where I lived,

as a kid, just across those tracks).

In those days the tracks were a

porous border, and we were quite

fearless in crossing it, 20 times

a day. We took bows and arrows,

sometimes, with us, into the maze

of cornfield and pasture that once

was there. Anyway, the State

came, about 1965 (I was gone

away by then, to my own farm

at the seminary school down

south) and plowed everything

away and in about a year and a

half they'd built some hideous

penal-colony sort of place, if

designed, that is, by George

Jetson, into which the State

poured and housed severely

retarded individuals given up

on by their parents. It all

consisted of about 15 'satellite'

buildings to house them, and

one or two main, administration

sorts of buildings, infirmary,

hospital, etc. Big time undertaking,

with powerhouses, a steam-house,

kitchen and laundry. The only

reason I know this is because

we used to do their printing too

( a yearly bidding process of

about 200 or so items, supposedly

awarded strictly by lowest bid).

Everyone referred to it as The

State School, but it had nothing

to do with schooling. That sort

of euphemistic naming is so

blandly bureaucratic, and stupid.

Because of the printing, I'd get

to go there often enough, and see

that hoaxful dump from the

inside out. It was pitiful. I've

already said penal colony, right?

-

The people who'd gotten serious

jobs to work there were no better.

Most often oval and overfed, they

dressed in the sort of cheap, light

colored clothing of bargain stores,

and everything was ill-fitting. Any sort

of job here, nepotism, connections,

whatever, was considered a baleful

goldmine  -  baleful, yes, but with

the golden opportunity of freeloading

and getting happily back into still

more tax-supported salary, benefits,

and pensions while wearing wrinkled

pastel shirts, ten-cent ties, and pocket

protectors too. You never see them

anymore. They used to be prevalent  -

white plastic, the insert size of a

chest pocket, sometimes with a panel

of advertising showing too, and they

protected the geek-central delegate

from inking up the shirt and pocket

with pen marks or blow-outs. There

were numerous annoyances with

these, to me  -  the main one was the

ridiculous amount of pens I'd often

see being stored. I could understand

one or two, but these often went to

six or seven, and mechanical pencils

too. Which now brings up another

subject here, locally: What sort of

madness compels people these days,

to decorate their homes, with lights

and ghosts and the dead-cemetery

things of Halloween, a full month

beforehand? In addition, how bizarre

has America become? On this street,

there are at least 4 houses, in close

proximity, with 4, 5, or 6 pumpkins.

One is somehow no longer enough?

Back when a pumpkin was 25 cents,

OK; but now when the usual large

pumpkin is 4, 5, or 6 dollars (I'm

guessing), these characters are flush

enough to pluck down 30, 40 bucks,

plus buying crap-ass decorations and

lighting their house up for 5 weeks?

No regard, of course, for others, who

may have actually liked the darkness

but who are faced with bare expanses

of idiot-lawns without trees or shrubs;

just lights and witches, goblins and the

dead. From very Christian households

too, I notice. Where's the disconnect

here? First, it's obvious these venomous

fools have too much money; second,

what exactly do they believe? Their

real religion or this pagan slop-shit?

Or does everything now have to be

ironic, coy, and in-fun? In a few

weeks it will all recur, with turkeys

and Indians, and then that too will

roll into the fat-lights world of Santa,

reindeer, sloth and envy too. (I think

those were reindeer names, right?)...

-

Yeah, sure, it's easy for you to say,

'Jeez, this guy hates everything.'

But it's not like that at all. I merely

hate the charmed paucity of a type

of Kindergarten living for the

rest of my infernal days  -  all

messageless, without foundation,

aimless, greedy, lax, and flaccid

too. How did any of this happen?

I want to know. There used to be a

radio guy I listened to, lots of

evenings. A long time back. Jean

Shephard  -  before he too petered

out and simply became another voice

of dumb-nostalgia about old things

gone. Before he too 'sold out,' let's

say. He'd be the guy I'd want to hear

now, the old version of him, ranting

on about the sorts of things I just

churned through. More on him

later  -  another chapter, for sure.

-

I'd have loved to see (or hear) him

word-tour the old 1990's Maple Tree

too. We used to pack that place to the

gills, back then, before everything

crapped out  -  bands, music, the

same 40 people every weekend

nighttime. Pure craziness; noise,

motorcycles, and good old

fornication too (Sorry. I've been

told, nothing first hand). There

were occasional battles, beatings,

stabbings, and a shooting too.

All this, with free parking

included.
-
The bikes used to line up there,
Thursday to Sunday, mostly, and
at the least. All sorts of reasons
could bbike some before running 
out. It nee found to get there  -  a
staring-out point, get juiced up a bit,
tune the ver mattered; and as far as
I now recall, everyone who ever left
there in the a.m. got back with the
same crowd, almost, in the p.m.
It was a very loose confabulation
of duty-bound guys taking care of
the horde. Girls, wives, riders, and
others too. There comes a rock-bottom
time when what's good about a place
is that it's so bad. There were no
restrictions. We all knew the ropes.
It was cheap. And, straddling
Rahway and Avenel/Woodbridge
as it did, neither police force
wanted to get involved. Which
was just fine by us.