12,194. RUDIMENTS, pt. 838

RUDIMENTS, pt. 838

(adolescence right to senescence : a mea culpa)

'Why take it to them? Sure,

I'm always armed and

dangerous, but the trick is

to never let the other guy

know that's the case. You

don't 'advertise' that sort of

stuff or there goes your

advantage. Part of the whole

tactic is surprise.' Yep. Have

you ever had three or four

rear-guard dudes  -  what we

now refer to, apparently, as

'bullies' come at you because

they think they've got you,

alone and cornered. Good

luck, Charlie Brown, and

please watch out for the

powder burns.  One time,

downtown New York City,

Community Board 3 or

something, run by some

guy, name forgotten, Gurskin,

Gruben, or one of the NY

tribe names. The order of

the evening was a hearing

to pass a noise ordinance

against loud motorcycles in

the area of, say NYU to the

lower east side, etc. 3rd street

included, which meant the

headquarters of the Hell's

Angels  -  at that time, as I

recall  -  run by one Brandon

Manning or somebody. Nice

fellow all around. A few of

us were there, as well, to

testify and speak up against

this proposed noise ordinance,

for reasons of backing up the

3rd street boys  -  not that

they needed us  -  and for

our own benefits too, as we

were often there, blasting

around. Any number of the

locals around there, whose

point, yes, I could understand

as well (I've always been cursed

with the ability to see either side

of an argument, and argue it too),

had been on the stand proclaiming

their displeasure and life-quality

loss with the constant din of

loud and often drunk bikers

echoing along their streets  -

they wanted it stopped, by one

means or the other. It was going

back and forth, a little testy,

anxieties rising. The people at

the head table, the board

commissioners were squirming.

They only reluctantly then asked

the President of the local Hell's

Angels chapter to take the stand.

No one knew what to expect.

Brandon stood up, as I recall,

long blond hair, and beard, vest,

jacket, colors, all in full HA

regalia. He took the stand and

spoke magnificently. His point,

on the other hand, was treated

as sarcasm  -  which perhaps

it was meant to be. He said,

to the effect, that he lived out

in Queens, next to JFK Airport,

and was under constant harangue

by take-off and landing noises,

at all hours and in all weathers.

Whereas Biker noise was pretty

much regulated, by weathers

and seasonal factors  -  which

he thought worked to their

advantage. He mentioned how

he thought they were unreasonable

for objecting to having a couple

of biker guys working it out

now and then along their streets.

He said, to alleviate his own

problem, in Queens, he just

doesn't open any windows.

And then he said, and ended

with, 'when I moved there, I

knew there was an airport right

next door, and I accepted that

and worked around it. My

answer to each of you, in

turn, is the same  -  if you

don't like this city living,

then move!' The resultant

grumbles and groans could

be heard down to the street.

And he walked off. He'd had

a nice profanity or two in there

as well, making a nice effect.

It was quite the moment.

-

A few of us were there,

as well, to testify and speak

up against this proposed

noise ordinance, for reasons

of backing up the 3rd street

boys  -  not that they needed

us  -  and for our own benefits

too, as we were often there,

blasting around. We'd been

hanging around at the White

Horse, for an hour or two,

beforehand, and then we

walked over to where the

hearing was to be. It was

pretty cool. Once inside,

I realized some guy from

Hoboken was in there, from

our Essex-Hudson Chapter.

There been some bad-blood

going on between that group

and myself, in the Metuchen

office, which had led to some

crap being written about me

in some local newspaper over

'cooperating' with the outlaw

clubs too much. It had kind of

really pissed me off, and he'd

been the guy behind it. So I

saw my chance, but only if

I did it alone, and quickly, as

with no aforethought. In the

meeting room building, just

outside the doorway, and as

the meeting was getting

underway, I got him and

pushed him off around to

the corner hallway. I pinned

him against the wall, in a

split-second, and made to go

at him with a right. As I

suspected, he immediately

cowered. He huddled back and

said, 'Don't hit me, don't hit me.'

I didn't have to do a thing, just

instead saying, 'You know what

this is about, you creep, don't

you?' He said yes, and

scampered out. I've never

seen nor heard of him

again, (got that, Court

Street, Hoboken?)….

-

Now, isn't that all so amazing  -

totally out of character for me,

and bearing no meaning at all.

I actually still feel bad for what

I did  -  feeling however that I

had to do something, and besides,

in all honesty, he was lucky it

wasn't worse. I could really have

had him chewed up, had I brought

others in, especially after two

hours at the White Horse. It was

never my style to get rough, or

to humiliate or hurt the feelings

of others. But what's done is done,

and maybe if he's out there (I can't

even remember his name) he can

forgive, as I do him. It was all

a creepy form of foolishness.

I've kind of always worshipped

a form of 'perfection,' and I

admit, ruefully now, this wasn't

it. But, the past is the past and

if it wasn't we'd all be dead. A

lot of other things bothered me

too, and the 'Biker' world was

full of it. The good think about

the Hell's Angels, to be truthful,

was that they didn't do any of

that crappy flag-waving,

patriotism, gung-ho USA #1

crap. I hated that, and it was

everywhere I turned on two

wheels. Let me give a call-out;

-

Patriotic rhetoric started out

good, a long time ago. Then

it was hijacked by goons. There

once was always a core of truth

in it  -  in 1825, America was a

broad democracy, a magnificent

spread, daunting and thrusting,

from nearly coast to coast. There

was material progress, growth,

and a good, strong industrialism.

Melting pot. Immigration. Then,

with the wars, (1898, 1917), WWII,

and Vietnam and the rest, the

crazed and suicidal tendencies

of it all took over. It all became

unbelievable and, in all actuality,

it (patriotism) has lost all it power

to animate, and is mostly used

now to sell things, cover over

lies and blunders, and as a coat

for superstitious politicians to

hide behind. Usually with their

zippers open. Without 'real'

patriotism  -  and that means

a knowledge and appreciation

of the old ways and the bedrock

and foundation of the nation,

a person has no 'community' or

sense of place. The scoundrels

who take over, crafty shits that

they are, will give you some

sham pretense of their version

of 'Patriotism,' but it's not that.

It's hucksterism. It's ignorance

too  -  beer at the lodge, booze

and a parade at the Legion, for

Veterans Day while attempting to

stand and salute the 'parade' of all

those wavering 'Merican values

you're being sold. The loss of the

real and the old gets abandoned

at a terrible cost  -  a man/woman
robbed of a true patriotism, not

the sham, bullshit one we get, is

only really half living, has been

robbed of a human right, and

has no community. Because there

is no longer any  -  young people

certainly cannot aspire to what

they see, when it's know to be

a ruse and insincere. The selling

of red, white, and blue cornflakes

maybe, but cornflakes nonetheless.

The area of patriotism is a lost

area between childhood and

adolescence, and, surprisingly,

many adults seem to get stuck

there : waving their little flags, 

buntings, poppies, and anger at

others for not sharing that false

pretense. People then appoint

themselves as on 'better' peer

group over others. It's all then

played into the hands of fools 

and rogues; microphone fakers

of no value. The Johns and the

Corys of make-believe land.

There is no 'American' any 

more. How then to be proud?

The American landscape has

been utterly corrupted : Ugliness;

the conformity of towns; neglect,

and the disesteem of public goods

and places; we get, instead of

space and goodness  -  the kind

of 'places' that make community

and a deserved patriotism  -  a

new corporate style in the form

of shopping centers, chain stores,

and supermarkets, along the

highways of what once had been

places; locations to come from. 

Now it's a joke, like that one about

which 'exit' you're from. This all

works out disastrously for communities

even though the asses in charge are

proud of it. These 'centers' are not

centers of anything, certainly not

of communities. It's a long process

of disruption for places and villages

that no longer are; suffocated; left 

to die and therefore expired. You

can no longer 'come' from anywhere,

and you can't be anywhere either.

-

What we're left with is the jerkiness,

of the sort that even I inhabited

while pushing another guy around

in that hearing, for a community

that only wanted peace, solitude,

and its own old silence, back.

How can you make ends meet

in the middle when there's no

center to meet in?