RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,085
(keep the light flaming)
I never dreamed. It was always
real. What a mess I probably was.
Thinking back on all this now, it
more than anything feels like a
weird space-flight I maybe was
on, five or so years' duration. The
rounded-muddle of fuzzy ideas.
maybe some which lingered. Or
maybe some made up? Or mixed
up, for sure anyway. My chances
and my personal dichotomies
were like the wildest things ever.
You have to figure, and this is
all true, in a period of 15 years
I'd gone from being a gutter-bum
to sitting at Drumthwacket (the
Governor's Mansion, in Princeton)
three times, under two different
Governor's, and by invitation too!
Better than that even, for the Christy
Whitman re-election night party
and victory bash at some Hilton or
something, also in Princeton, I was
invited in, and, with my friend Pete,
along with me, had a grand old time.
No one there, granted, knew me
from Adam; in fact, I could have
been Lee Harvey Oswald's son,
I guess, and Christie Whitman
still probably would have joked,
dined and laughed along with us.
Actually, Pete spent a lot of that
night trying to pick up the floor
hostess girl who kept bringing
us beer. It didn't work out, but it
was a riot. All these Jersey big-wigs
were strutting around awaiting and
cheering the results, pretty-much
fore-ordained, and I forget the
opponent already; (Jon Corzine?).
The thing with all these political
creeps is they're always running
around saying things like 'This
is the most important election of
your lifetime; so much hinges on
this....' Etc., etc. It's all just cozy
bullshit because, at the very next
election they're still running around
saying the same shit and nothing's
ever changed. So, jaded as I was,
and imbued with the fervor of free
beer and fancy-ass rich people
finger-food pickins', I, along with
a very busy Pete, just hung around
for about 5 hours, watching and
taking it all in. There were women,
girls and political wives in there
who, judging by looks and desires,
all seemed on the prowl. These
political types must not do their
spouse-jobs all that well. In any
case, it was fun, but the haul was
nothing.
-
Christie Whitman, in her red executive
dress-suit and pointy-faced features,
even she looked not so half-bad, being
a winner and all. A Republican no
less, in dead-ass Democrat NJ, and
with a re-election too! I'll drink to
that! Sure, OK! It was funny, the way
she talked - not a clue that we were
there to represent some sluggo Biker
faction of mostly non-voters, and
we'd only been suctioned in probably
because my name kept showing up
on Governor's Mansion guestlists.
Beats the heck out of me how that
ever got started. In fact, another
time I was there by invitation too; it
was the 200th Anniversary or something
of the US Marine Corps. I think that was
it. All sorts of big military brass was
present, medals and certificates were
handed out, a bunch of rank speeches,
and, again, a 'Brunch' (man, how I
hate that word). No one knew who
the Hell I was, and they even had
me listed as a veteran. To save face
on that one, the 'guest' I proudly
brought along was my beaming
Father-In-Law, who'd been a POW
in Germany during the last year
and a half of the war. Stalag
something or other. The recognition
of this day's event was one of his
real high-points, and I'm glad I did
it - even with the mis-representation.
Those dumb codgers wouldn't have
known a dog-bite if it was on their
butt, so I told this one guy I was a
medal-of-honor recipient for my
service in Vietnam. He said, 'What'd
you do?' I told him about the safe house
I ran on e11th street for soldiers fleeing
to Canada. Wasn't much amused, no,
but I don't think he believed me anyway.
Those military guys have a real sense
of irony about them.
-
One thing that always bugged me
about the Princeton Governor's Mansion,
and this goes for when McGreevey was
there too, was how racial and slave-like
the service was. Like a plantation, and
it freaked the heck out of me. The entire
service staff in this place was black,
(probably managed and bossed around
by a white management). They served
in white uniforms, caps, the whole bit;
a real dress-up plantation setting.
All the smiles and bows and obsequies
of a slave to master relationship. The
silver coffee service, the pastries, the
appetizers, and then the big, main meals,
were always doted on and served,
slavishly, by the black wait-staff.
I always wondered about the word
'slavish' after that. Did it come from
'slave' or was it was something somehow
having then to do with Slavs, the race.
-
Christie Whitman was sort of a neighbor
up there in the Bedminster area, to where
I'd also been as a guest of Malcolm
Forbes. Old York Road, Dutch Lane,
or whatever it all is as it crosses 202.
Horse-country for sure. Can you imagine!
Little old ant-farm me, cavorting with
the likes of Fort Knox and Jackie O!
And no one ever knew the difference.
-
If life ever got un-magical, I never saw
that either. It was, after all, a real and
an angelic magic trick for me to get all
this going and go unrecognized to boot.
It has stayed as a dream, but a real one,
and sometimes bordering nightmare-land
too. I don't want it to end, or I don't want
to wake up, or whatever phraseology would
get across the point that no on in their
right mind know what's ever going on
in this breathing, skunking adventure.
All I've ever done has been to keep
throwing something onto the flame to
be sure the light didn't go out.
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