12,529. RUDIMENTS, pt. 952

RUDIMENTS, pt. 952

(genius-based moronic babble)

Mayhem and Mata Hari have

never made a difference to me

-  just a few odd words for the

here and there. Mishap too.

It's simply the way I've

played my world all along.

I don't much know what's

behind any of the concepts

of these words, but I find

them endlessly intriguing.

It's as if, beneath all the

chatter and noise, there's

another stream of words

and thoughts always running,

things underway that we're

not so aware of. 'The Secret

Meaning of Things,' would

be a could title for if it were

to be in book form. And you

know what? That was always

more important to me than the

commands and directions of

ordinary life and language.

I've always preferred the

inner light to some bare,

naked bulb.

-

Embolism. That might have

been another one. I loved that

word, like a catch-all phrase

for followers of that crazed

African mad-king, Embo, who

hacked people's arms and legs

off and then granted permission

to ride over Victoria Falls. He

later became, after the first

black Pope, Ebon I proclaimed

him so, the patron-saint of

amusement parks.

-

A friend of mine, and myself,

once, at a place called Oliver's,

which used to be on St. George

Ave., back in our motorcycle

drinking days (we drank, the

bikes didn't) would show up

on their Comedy Nights  -  this

was about 1995, they had live

NYC talent in once a week,

B-grade, starting-out stuff.

We'd heckle and berate the

comic who, having come out

from NYC, figured he'd have

an easy time playing before

these Colonia rubes, belittling

and calling out stupid suburban

ways, etc. We always managed

to teach them a few good things

about that, and they get their

show done (to about 10 people)

and limp away, probably sorry

they ever came. One night, the

proprietor finally came up to

is and said, 'You guys, fucking

funny boys. You think you can

do this better, next Sunday's

YOUR show. He gave us the

Sunday evening slot, I forget,

6pm or something. I was game,

and so was my friend. We worked

it a little, during the week. The entire
show was going to be sort of a mad 
riff on Rodney Dangerfield stuff, and

then we realized Sunday was Easter!

Who the heck's gonna' show up

there on Easter? We were suckered.

As funny as we maybe could have

been (probably to 3 people, instead

of he raging large house of 10),

we didn't even show up and went

to the Pioneer instead, to get drunk

there. I've always hated Easter.

-

Oliver's was the place too that I

went to the night I was punched up,

and then kicked around on the ground,

at some Biker rally in Hoboken.

It was a long time ago, and was

all because of a misunderstanding

over something that occurred in State

Island, but, in the Biker World, back

then anyway, you never really

escaped your screw-ups. If it was

6 days later, or 6 months, you paid.

This was mine. My friend, at that

time, was living in this cousin's

house down along Enfield Road,

right off from the corner where

Oliver's was, so I called him and

said, knowing his cousin wouldn't

be too keen on my bloodied head

at her house, meet me at Oliver'

in twenty minutes, with a pail

of warm water and soap, etc.

He was there went I arrived.

It was no longer a comedy night

scene at all. I was bloodied up,

and he tended to me, and it all

turned out OK, and I even took

my licking and made up with

the jerks who'd done it. Screw

them and their 'Justice' too, but

whatever; one moves on, even

if with a limp. 

-

You learn these things over time.

Stuff goes into 'remission.' That's

another interesting word, but one

never liked; same as 'emission.'

Especially 'nocturnal emission,'

which is one screwed-up concept.

Nowadays anyhow, when you

commanding Lieutenant sends

you an email for your next 

deployment to Afghanistan, I

guess that an e-mission too.

See how the world's changed?

-

All that change has just about

made me useless, but the good 

thing now about old age is that 

you're allowed to be useless. No

one gives two-damns about you.

They want you out of the way.

My life's been a fucking waste of

everything, and now I'm stuck with

all this crap, piles of writing and

art and photos and ideas and the

half-charged editings and seekings

of genius-based but moronic

babble. I get nothing back, I've

got no accolades. (What the

hell sort of word is that? Sounds

like a deoderant)....
-
It all adds up though. My life's
and ugly wreck. Nothing to do.
I saw a girl, just the other day,
going the wrong way down a
one-way street. I said to her. 
'One way.' She shouted back,
'No way.' My mother refused to
breast-feed me  you know. She said
'I like us better as just friends.' This
stuff sticks with you, especially a 
sensitive, like me. I gave blood 
the other day; the family it went 
to sent me a note. 'Our dog really 
thanks you.'  One time I asked
my father how I could get my
kite in the air. He told me to go
jump off a cliff...'