12,543. RUDIMENTS, pt. 958

RUDIMENTS, pt. 958

(calling edsel ford wong)

I guess a part of me realized

immediately that I was out of

my element in San Francisco;

or perhaps it could have worked

had the effort been made. The

idea of Guerneville, by itself,

however, at Freeze Out and at

the Russian River, well I don't

think that would ever have

worked. It's a part of life I

don't think I would have

ever understood. To add

to the complications of the

moment, I had to contend

with my friend's crazy

girlfriend making a play

for me. That was very

foreign territory, apparently

not so foreign as 1976

California went, but for me

I was feeling flogged. We'd

rented a car, some sort of

fat, rounded Chevelle of

that year, and getting into

the rear seat was kind of just

a low thump, as you sunk down

to an almost subterranean seat.

She was wearing nothing

underneath her skirt, and, this

day, as she plopped down in

the seat, facing me entering

the passenger front, holding

the 2-door fold seat down for

her, she wide-opened her legs,

in my face. Hello! And with

a big grin, muttered surreptitiously,

uttered a very ungracious thing.

How'd that old song go? 'California

here I come, right back where I

started from?' This had never

happened to me before, not even

among my wonderfully, naked,

Digger-girl cohorts, and I was

for sure taken aback, not the

least because she was also my

friend's live-in girlfriend.

Whatever any of that portended,

I pretended it didn't portend.

I felt like an idiot too, (but

she had a nice grin, flashing

that smile). I never did find

out how the California protocol

went for stuff like that. No one

seemed to mind anything.
It didn't stop there, but,
no matter now.

-

I took the boat tour out to

Alcatraz and was sort of

just bored. Everyone in

the little tour group then

wanted to see all that

'Birdman of Alcatraz' stuff

-  some Burt Lancaster movie

about a lifer there who raised

canaries or something. It's

such an apparent allegory for

flight and freedom versus

captivity and care that even

the idea bored me. It was

like cardboard thinking

before they even got started.

They had his supposed cell,

and some little exhibit about

him. Actually praising him,

which was weird. And then

there were a few stories about

the attempted escapes, of

which it seemed none ever

were successful  -  the treacherous

waters and all that island and

harbor/moat stuff. There's

really little except vicarious

interest, in my view, to relive

someone else's prison ordeals

or days. I immediately feel

sorry for the person and fearful

for myself too, ever being put

in that situation. One can

tourist-up all this crap all you

want, but it's not cool to peer

onto other people's anguish.

-

On the whole, the length and

breadth of this California trip

and time showed me a lot of

things. I always got amazed,

do so to this day, by how the

entangling arms of 'Military'

are mostly everywhere  -  those

first incursions into alien ports,

firing and fighting the natives

and locals, the old forts and

pathways, now all revered and

sacred (like the Presidio at the

Golden Gate Bridge underplay).

It's all so unnecessary but was

necessary then, because 'we'

were the interlopers and the

conquerors, usurping and taking.

But you'd never know any of that

stuff, because  - even way out there

at the westernmost fringes - they

simply don't say. Everything is

encoded, into law and order, rights

and privileges, economics and

prosperity. And of course they

leave out the millions of deaths

that this grand culture has granted

us : lung cancer, asbestos death,

alcohol, drugs, violence, anguish,

and all the other rotting formats

of'modern death by which we've

improved the land. Yesiree Bob,

'Chief What-The-Hell' of the

Sierra-Nevadas. Take two hits

and call me in the morning.

-

I've written before of the NY

Chinatown I'd spend time in,

at the Mayflower Tea House,

as it was officially referred to,

and the rich dark coffee and the

endless hours and Ginsberg and

those guys floating in and out.

In San Francisco proper I was

coaxed into the strangest Chinese

restaurant I've ever seen; in their

Chinatown. It was a place called

Sam Wo, and it had this Chinese

waiter guy who, in 1976, was

already a legend. Edsel Ford Wong.

That was his name, and there was

some reason behind it, but I forget.

The place itself was very cool;

each dining party got its own

wooden, dark and almost formal,

cubicle to eat in; perhaps 10

or 12 of them around the floor.

This Edsel Ford Wong guy, his

specialty was insulting customers,

kind of like a Don Rickles of

waiter-service. Of course I didn't 

know that, and I became the

selected abusee of our party.

Edsel was rough, and non-stop.

He'd throw a damp rag at you

(me), and make you clean your

own table, from the previous

diners. He'd hand you a metal

cruet of leftover tea, and that

was the 'water' with which you

cleaned the table. He'd have
you just pour it out and swab. 
And, all the while, as much

as he was able to, he'd be 

watching, calling you out, 

commenting, ridiculing and

cat-calling the chosen one (me).

There was nothing really to be

done about it, but as sport; ride

it out. I'd imagine there must

have always been some thin

skin who gave him pushback,

but I don't know. He was a

legend : abusive, loud, and

in your face. I got stuck with

him this one time and it was

barely manageable. But, I

survived. And I got the full

lecture about the varied kinds

of Chinese noodles, what

the dish called 'Chow Fun'

meant (a 'Fun' noodle; nothing 

to do with American laughter.

It's a broad, wide noodle, as

I recall, sort of the opposite of

the normal lo mein noodle).

But, at the same time, who

really cares, and this guy,

in a short while, really wore

out his welcome and just

became a pest. Plus, it wasn't

so cheap, and you ended up 

paying for the floor show too,

at your own expense, in my 

case. You can look him up,

actually. Edsel Ford Wong.

-

Mostly, I just always wished

to be left alone, just like now.

Everything bothers me, all

this pretense about things

meaning stuff, and the 

symbolism of this or that.

It's all crap, and it's all a

made-up symptom, too. 

Of emptiness and vapidity.

As I said in the previous,

 this tragic nation is so f'd up

with all its own crap it's a 

wonder the Gods haven't

already obliterated it. Putting

up with all this crud is the 

most'difficult part : midget

Mexicans defoliating our

lands, and happily too, without

a brain in their little midget 

heads. Towns themselves

doing the same thing, on their

own agendas, with moronic 

crews of town workers, at 60

bucks an hour and using the

endlessly available and costly

town equipment to do the

same things as the Mexi-killers.

There's no respect for anything,

and there's no mind in anyone's

head either. Parasitic crumb-buns

playing at Council and Mayor.

Diseased losers teaching and

enforcing rules and laws for

what they deem as 'education'

for kids of little value anyway.

I probably should just have

let Edsel Ford Wong kill me.