12,826. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,061

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1061

(they're to blame)

One time I wished for a

wishbone but was told I was

too early. To make a wish I

needed the wishbone first.

Huh? I replied. And that was

probably the first Catch 22

sort of option I ran up against.

Let no one say the world is not

a dead-end place.  That Ming

the Merciless guy, from the

previous chapter; yes, he was

one of those first I ever saw with

the shaved-head thing by choice.

There used to be a show on TV

called Hawaii-50; just another

goofball crime show, made

distinctive by its Hawaiian

locations and setting. Whenever

it got really boring, they dragged

out this Hawaiian arch-criminal

honcho type named Wo Fat.

That was a fair approximation

of Ming. The thing about these

Biker outlaw guys was how you

were supposed to be able to read

them by their tattoos. I guess it

was much like prison inmates

and their self-tattooing. But it

was freaky when you're standing

around at Ajax, (that bar I made

mention of, in Elizabeth, where

the Pagans drank) and your buddy

Schultz drags some guy over for

for you to meet and he's got the

telltale signs all over his face:

the little blue teardrop tattoo

next to the eye  -  one eye or the

other, I forget  -  which meant

that he'd killed someone; etc.

It all went on, there were tats

and symbols for everything,

and buyer beware too. I

always thought it was so weird

to meet a crowd of venerables

who wore their symbolized

notations IN their skin. It's IN

and not ON, right? And none

of this was the 'designer' tattoo

stuff you see these days  -  the

heavy colors and full coverage

of sleeves and backs and all

that. This was, rather, a readable

shorthand, by small symbols, by

which you were, sort of, told

about the person you were dealing

with. For good or bad, either way.

-

In 1996, trying to build a website

for your outlaw motorcycle club

was, apparently, more of a problem

than it is these days. Apparently

they  -  and the other clubs too  -

worked it all out, because now the

websites are legion  -  photos, bios

of imprisoned brothers, the RIPs

and In Memoriams that proliferate.

Pancho and Ming, by the way, used to

come riding into Metuchen -  which,

back then  -  kept a fairly rigorous

enforcement policy; and the cops

used to be always watching (they'd

visit me too, ostensibly on their

'friendly' stop ins. Just some quick 
talk, while, I figured, they spec'd 
things out. I was sure, always, that it 
wasn't just a 'drop-in' social visit.

I'm sure that officer was looking for 
intel or info. Probably looking for 
club stuff, drug deal traces, and
all the rest. I used to light religious
votive candles, to throw them
off as if I was a Jesus-freak or 
something [not really]). Anyway,
Ming and Pancho, at first, would 
ride into town wearing their

colors (jackets, with club insignias

on the back). For whatever legal

reasons, Metuchen was one of

those goody-towns that enforced a

no-colors rule through their town,

for motorcyclists. One-percenter,

outlaw-club colors pretty much

were like setting fire to headquarters.

So, once or twice they got pulled

over, profiled, interrogated, and

all the rest. After that, upon

approaching Metuchen, they'd

turn their jackets inside out.

That shows how dumb the law

was and how silly any enforcement

of it was as well. By grown men

cops too. But whatever. It was never

an issue after that, though, from my

end of town, I showed them how they

could enter and exit from the other,

South Plainfield side, and be done

with it. Once they did that, and got

to Plainfield in about 2 minutes, the

problems were over. Pagans and

Plainfield, besides both starting

with 'P,' thrived on each other.

-

I still used to shake my head a

little in thinking over their

confusion about the way a

computer 'search' for 'Pagan'

would confuse them when it

brought up, as he'd put it, that

'witches and religious shit.'

It didn't, or  shouldn't have,

taken a genius for that one;

but I guess not everyone learns

what they don't teach in school.

You're on your own, outlaws.

-

Anyway, it's Biker Club stuff,

and not my problem nor my

business. There's a nifty Hell's

Angels place now in Newark,

I assume with plenty of muscle,

and, from Elizabeth on out to

Paterson, it's said the Pagan

influx has risen greatly and

that preferred weapon of choice,

for them is the 'axe handle.' Oh

boy, lots to look forward to there.

Maybe they'll soon let Druids join.

-

One of the things that screwed up

my life  -  at least in terms of getting

anywhere or interacting well others  -

was a large difference in points of

view. AND, more importantly, a

rather inauthentic, two-level manner

of living, or being. that has been my

most difficult thing  -  having to

exist in a world filled with others

whose habits and inclinations are

on no way inclined to mesh with

mine. I've never been one of those

to sit idly by, over food or coffee,

entertainments or travel-sites, and

wile away all the wasted hours in

being 'entertained by the enjoyment

of same.' It just doesn't work, for

me. In fifteen minutes, my spark

is on to the next endeavor or idea

or impulse. An 8-hour workday,

for me, is pure torture, and always

was, and I could never understand

how people so gladly imprisoned

themselves in such traps and tombs.

The love of God or money just

wasn't enough for me to do it.

That's a difficult burden, and one

that cannot readily be explained

to others. A quite (and quiet)

solitary, non-obligatory, café life

would have suited me better.

Upton Sinclair once wrote -

"The world which I see about

me at the present moment, the

world of politics, of business,

of society, seems to me a thing

demoniac in its hideousness; a

world gone mad with pride and

selfish lust; a world of wild beasts

writhing and grappling in a pit."

That was in 1903. Yes. He also

said  -  and this works fairly well

too for explaining why people

slave away at jobs while not trying

to understand their world first at all:

"It is very difficult to get a man

to understand anything when his

livelihood depends on his not

understanding it."

-

I always figured things had to

make better sense than what they

appeared as  -  the world was, then,

otherwise too ramshackle and too

raucous; disorganized. I never saw

'Creation' as having been meant to

be that way; so it couldn't be. You

end up with things like 'Pagans' being

confused by looking up their namesakes

and getting surprised to find religion

and witches. Upton Sinclair, in my

studies of his work and times, at least

somehow came up with a form of

a workable solution, to injustice,

maybe, or to just plain sleaze.

Utopianism. Power. Equivalence.

-

So, why try. Oh, man, do I get

tired of trying to explain my

differences. I never was much 

for that intellectual stuff, all those

literary reference types with

the big words and the memorized

lines of verse and all. That was

nothing as much as a conversation

stopper for me. A lot of that was

guys; males. I always figured

it to be what my friend George

used to call 'Little Man Syndrome.'

Meaning like, in Napoleonic terms,

some small guy overcompensation

in another department  -  like

literary or intellectual or any of

that. I never knew if that was true,

or if girls even cared about that

stuff. Never got the low-down

on it. Never had to, Ha!  But I

never felt that same thing coming

from the personality of a female.

They were at least sensible, and

could be talked to, as far as I saw.

Men were always fearsome, ready

to bite at the bit; and then, twenty

years later, they end up as interior

designers or fashion guys or some

weird something anyway. On the 

whole you have to figure, it's 

a female's world. At least back 

then it was. Why any lady would

have wanted to take the place

of any man in the 'sweat and

grunt for life' work-world was

beyond me. What's the use?

I could never fathom living a

life of work. When I was about

30 maybe, I met a guy once who 

said, upon being asked what he

was planning to do with his life,

that he was going to 'Try and do

everything to not work a day of it.'

Foolish me, hearing that, I was

unable to even figure what he

thought he'd be doing for gas and

food, let alone housing  -  and I ended

up working for like 40 stupid years

at a splendid series of non-literary,

and sometimes almost non-literate,

jobs, for about 30 cents on what

should have been a dollar. I was

underpaid my entire life, and no

one anyway ever saw the candle

under my bushel.  I guess I hid it

and am going straight to candle

hiders' Hell. Was that said to

be a sin? Or just a mistake, the

kind that can get forgiven? Man,

I never understand this religion

stuff, as it professes and goes about

saying forgiveness is possible, even

at the last moment, if you repudiate

your fearsome ways and earnestly

accept God and ask forgiveness.

Why then bother about a good life? 
Just wait until the end, repudiate, 
and make it home safe? How the 
heck do  these dudes think? All I 
know, by that count, is I better not

get bitched out, when I die, for any
of that hiding my candle stuff. 
Nobody wanted my light anyway. 
They're to blame; they just 
wouldn't listen.