RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,024
(learning : don't you get it?)
I was filled with ideas, yes,
but for maybe each one I
did there were ten more I
didn't. There was always a
sort of natural 'caution' by
which I did things - you'd
probably never believe that
now, but it was true. And it
mostly stepped from a sense
of inferiority. I knew all that;
I'd had nothing and whatever
it was that I strove for I was
blowing it. That still goes on
today - first thing people like
to do to me is point out all the
things I don' have. Credentials.
Degrees. All that stiff's maybe
OK for others, but it doesn't
mean a hoot to me. I could
best anybody, and I knew it
too, intellectually. All they
had for all their extensive
and expensive - and probably
ex-pensive - schooling was
some famed bragging rights
to someone who didn't care.
All that crap, mostly, just teaches
a person to be 'fine.' And that's
it. Fine, OK then, be that way.
That crap was never for me. I
was always in the Huck Finn
lane myself; taking experience
on the chin and then running
again to the backwoods of my
mind somewhere to lick my
wounds and come back again
for some more. Always 'lighten
out' for some other place where
the traps were fewer, and much
farther between too. Cookies
and candies never did much
for me; neither did fine-looking
females with good taste. All
that stuff was a dime a dozen
and you still had to wash it -
the high and mighty types or
the ornate slobs.
-
I never had any real 'industrial'
skills. Eventually I learned
printing, but just by watching
and doing and I was never much
good at it anyway. The premise
of offset printing is that oil and
water don't mix; so you get this
motorized roller system over
which the thick ink is progressively
(starting out the consistency of
a think gel) diffused, and that
ink meets with water, which
keeps the ink adhering only to
the certain parts of the printing
plate that have chemical image
on it, the words or the dots of a
photo, and that's where the ink
sticks because water keeps all
the rest of the plate resisting
the ink and image; a very thin
film of water. The ink sticks
where it should, and only there,
(where there's no water, there's
ink; where no ink, the water),
and then the flying piece of
paper gets pressed quickly
across it and the sticky ink
then transfers to the page,
and that's what you end up
reading. At the other end of
all this is a blown air system
at the piled of raw paper that
keeps but ONE sheet at a
time from going into that
roller process I just mentioned.
The air-pick-up is controlled
variable, as is the water flow,
in the bath-tray where it's
kept, and as is the ink, which
can be heavied or lightened
by some rotator-screws which
control that ink-reservoir too.
And ALL of this is speed
variable too, so can maybe
do (guessing, because I now
forget : 300 sheets a minute,
or 1700, let's say). ALL of
this is a tedious and a very
delicate balance. It truly
takes patience and verve.
And a form of interest and
persistence I, frankly, never
had. The possible problems
are all endemic to the system,
and I was good for about all
of them : doubles, double image,
jam-up's, tears, too light, too
dark, no paper feed, bad paper
feed, crunched sheets coming
out as finished, out of register
images, wet images. I mean,
you can name it and it's all
there.
-
I never had the touch for that
stuff; the idea of profit and
loss either. A super-softy like
me just always ended up giving
stuff away. I never wanted no
one's stinking money, and
working was drudgery. What
the heck did I ever care if
the markup was 12 percent
or 31? I was never cut out for
that crap and just ended up hating
all the people who thought or
acted like they were. And I
had my share. From flaming
for profit brother-in-law to
brokers to friends and to
all those freaking designer
babes who were always
bringing their fagged-out
designer stuff (guys did this
too) stuff to print, with
perfect purple inks and ecru
and taupe and aubergene;
all their fierce-ass designer
colors and paper tones and
ink matches. What freaking
bullshit, and I did it for years,
like 18 years - all the while
their tits are in my face, they
half the time smelled like
Heaven, and all seemed
horny as hell too. I finally
had to chuck it all; I just
exploded one day; walked
off and never came back.
The call of the wild had my
ear, certainly not that shit
any longer. The last straw, as
I recall was these two guys,
separate, but both cut from
the same cloth. One guy's deal,
I forget the business name and
all that, was to contract with
people (he fancied himself an
artist) to decorate, paint, and
create a wall-environment in
children's rooms, at their homes.
All jungle and seashore junk;
checkerboard with giraffes;
whatever they wanted. He'd
do up a room, for like 2600
bucks. He was just starting out,
so of course I had to do all his
start-up crap - letterheads,
billheads, business cards, the
little brochure he sold with,
showing a few finished rooms,
and other ideas. It all went on
and on , and the damned guy
was so drab I never knew how
he could sell anything, not even
a shell to a turtle that had lost
theirs. Probably lasted five
months, and had to close up
shop. And this other guy, same
deal - all his start-up and design
stuff for his new company,
interior design or something.
He was like Mr Suave, and
wanted everything - and I
mean everything - logo, colors
and all - to look just like the
Miami Vice, Don Johnson
look. That was some big-deal
show at the time, some sexed
out Miami detective or something,
and every thing was pale blue,
flamingo pink, orange sun,
and palm trees. What a crock.
I felt like saying, 'But, Sonny
Boy, this is Joisey, everything
here is blood-red, and black,
and blue. Don' you get it?'
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