12,401. RUDIMENTS, pt. 908

RUDIMENTS, pt. 908

(whistle, wink, and Wildroot)

I find, as I age  -  and I

do age, no denying that

old man  -  I dwell on 

things more; maybe 

because of that freedom 

of time that I've got. I

never now can think 

how I managed all those

other years, working

every day like that and

somehow keeping myself

convinced it was worth

something. It never was

and never could be, mainly

because I was never the

type to ever get straight

with money. People were

always getting one over

on me, and never saying

anything about it. I was a

regular mud-slinger, and

they were always flying

(what they thought) high

above me in their money

seeking ways. The business

person is always churning

those wheels over how he

or she can get more out of

you than they give back. That's

the nature of the deal but they

don't have to be so stealthful

about it. Every one of them

has and retains some form 

of the slave-driver blood in

them. Face it. To slave for

money it takes both a vanity

and an ego of expanded size 

and push. Otherwise who 

the hell would care. The last

guy I worked for, you'd think

he was Rabbit Angstrom or

something (John Updike books),

going home, shooting baskets

at the hoop in his driveway,

going out there with his daughter,

throwing the infernal basketball

like it was a Magi-Star a few

weeks after Christmas. Hope 

and love and expectations 

all down the drain 'long as 

I make my pennies.' Instead

of cars being sold, it was

books. Then when World Cup

came around, that took all his

other attention  -  staring up

at the pizza-place TV screen

for inordinate periods of time.

Futbol, Ole!, that was.

-

I read 'Travels With Charley,'

by John Steinbeck; never

much knowing what it was

about or how it was written.

It had been mentioned to me

as a grand book to read, but it

just made me sad. He's driving

around the country, to see things,

for 6 months or so, with Charlie,

who's a faltering, aged French

Poodle dog, with urination

problems and all the sadnesses 

of old age  -  even for dogs.

That stuff took all my attention;

the dog trying to pee, like forever,

at the Great Divide, and Steinbeck

out there, pretending not to notice,

so as to give the dog some basic

privacy and space, but it goes on.

The Great Divide; he straddles it

proudly with the vehicle, which is

kind of cool. (It's not a chasm or

anything like that, in fact, it's 

nothing and just simply marked.

Everything on the right side of

this high land, water, etc., flows

to the east; and everything on

the left side (from where his

perspective is in the book) flows

to the west. From the west side

he claims to feel the warmer 

breezes, even higher up on 

the elevation there, because

he remembers someone telling

him that the warm air from

Japan flows in over to there, 

way inland, and surprisingly

so. It's all nothing much, but

I like all that discursive stuff

dragging you as a reader 

hither and yon, as is said, 

with sidebars and information.

It's just the sort of thing

that attracts me. A lot of

times, with me, it's all 

'deep-end' stuff  -  in two

meanings of it. 'He's gone

off the deep end again,' and,

the other meaning, of it

being treacherous and more

dangerous than any shallow

end would be. This ain't no

comic strip, Dondi.

-

John Steinbeck, back to that

book, has it thusly, when he

writes about something said

to him before he set out: 'If

anywhere in your travels you

come across a man with guts,

mark the place. I want to go

see him. I haven't seen

anything but cowardice and

expediency. This used to be 

a nation of giants. Where

have they gone? You can't

defend a nation with a

board of directors. That

takes men. Where are they?

There used to be a thing or

a commodity we put great

store by. It was called the

People. Find out where the

People have gone. I don't 

mean the square-eyed

toothpaste and hair-dye

people or the new-car-or-bust

people or the success-and-

coronary people. Maybe

they never existed, but if there

ever were the People, that's

that's the commodity the

Declaration was talking about,

and Mr. Lincoln. Come to think

of it I've known a few, but

not many. Wouldn't it be

funny if the Constitution had

been talking about a young

man whose life centers around

a whistle, a wink, and Wildroot?'

In the book, Steinbeck answers

back with: 'Maybe the People

are always those who used to

live the generation before last.'

Man oh man, I hope not.

[This was 1960. Wildroot was

a hair gel for men, and the

whistle and the wink was

from their TV commercial].
-
I got to thinking he also wrote
The Grapes of Wrath, and also
he wrote Cannery Row. They're a
bit different, and not as much to my
liking, with all that socialism and 
need stuff, dry-rot and dust-bowl.
None of that, from today's vantage
point, is of much concern to me,
and the 'Grapes of Wrath' as a
propaganda film was a real
rotter as a movie. Just the sort
of thing those old-timers wished
to see while crunchin' down on
their Oklahoma popcorns in L. A.
Some of that downtrodden and
beat-to-a-pencil-nub stuff just
ends up getting me down.
-
Steinbeck is one of those totally
literal writers : if you see something
with him, or though his eyes, there's
not much 'lift' or elation or flight that
comes from it, just the rather taut
and basic format of description and
mention. One becomes innured
to it after a while, knowing what's
coming, and how he does his work.