RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,330
(London calling)
Misery is a doghouse with a
very long leash; a tether-line
that reaches far. In the 1970's,
mid, it reached from Britain
to Elmira - in the person of
'me.' I had a job, on 1st Street.
at Whitehall Printing (owned
by the married couple Floyd
'White' and Margaret 'Hall',
thus the combined name). It,
in any case, sounded British
to me, and was also the NYC
name of the Whitehall Induction
Center (military/Army/Vietnam).
where 3 simple years or so before
I'd had so much trouble with
the NY/NJ Draft Boards. So
somehow it all made sense,
and seemed to tie my personal
references well-together.
-
Harold Wilson was the pre-Thatcher
Prime Minister of Britain during those
years, and at Whitehall - often enough -
there was sometimes little to do, so,
in attendance at the darkroom there, for
my occasional photo duties (graphic
arts photography, halftones, duotones,
etc., used in printing), I'd have the grand
luxury of bringing in with me that day's
NYTimes, WSJournal, even sometimes
foreign papers like the London Express,
or Le Figaro - all purchased along
Water Street, at Rubin's newstand and
stationery store. I'd sit there and just
read for hours, with the occasional
interruption of a shoot or two of a
paste-up or layout, for a newsletter,
flyer, bulletin or tech-sheet, usually
for the likes of Corning Glass Works,
The Hilliard Company, American
LaFrance, DanceMasters, or Kennedy
Valve Co. (fire-hydrant manufacturers).
These were all Elmira or Corning
industries in various stages of decline.
Everything there, before and after the
1972 Hurrican Agnes massive flooding
of the entire downtown and business
district, was running down, with a
dead economy (Jimmy Carter too),
a smoldering junk heap of infrastructure
and local housing stock, ghetto and
welfare problems. The only thing it
lacked was, pretty much, racial
violence, rioting, or discontent. They
named things after cool blacks, and
that always seemed to work. Ernie
Davis High School; Eldridge (Cleaver)
Park. Elmira College, by contrast, was
an oasis of goodness. That's where I
lived; 827 Lincoln Street.
-
It was all good. Old man Rubin (I
never used his first name, nor did
anyone else. It was aways 'Rubin', and
the store was merely 'Rubin's'). I really
liked that guy, and we'd spend a lot
of time sitting around, talking news
and politics. The Six Day War was,
to him, fresh enough. Roberto
Clemente's death in a plane crash
was a fresh tragedy to him (Pittsburgh
Pirates, I think. He died in a food-mercy-
mission to his homeland, Puerto Rico
or somewhere). The New Republic (a
'Liberal Magazine, back then was still
printed on newsprint-paper, not like
today's glossy and high-falutin' rag.
This was still the days of TRB, and
I.F. Stone. We'd sit around discussing
the Friday night opinion shows - Louis
Rukeyser's Wall Street Week, and
Washington Week In Review, with
Robert McNeil, and later Paul Duke.
These were great, early, PBS-like
shows, shows that 'normal' people
seldom touched. We thrived on them.
-
He always asked about my 'boy' - never
my 'son' (I had a 6-year old) Each time
I saw him it was, 'How's your boy?' I
liked that; it felt old-worldly or something.
He too had a son, about 16 or 17, who
did eventually take over the store (Rubin
was, then, already in his 60's). With the
son, it was always just casual hello's,
nothing ever of substance. The last time
I was in Elmira, that store was still there,
in exactly the same spot (a bit across from
the ugly Chemung County Bank building,
rebuild grossly in modern, already very
dated) architecture. It too is still there,
marring Water Street. Rubin himself is
long gone.
-
Anyhow, those were the same years as
the most miserable Labor Party years
that Britain had ever experienced through
the modern era, or post-war era, depending
on which piece you read. Strikes and
shortages, two freezing Winters, lack of
Coal, coal-miner labor stoppages, The
'Troubles' in Ireland - Sinn Fein and
the IRA, and all of that - (Sinn Fein
meaning 'Ourselves Alone'). Bloody
Sunday was a big date too; U2 and
Rubin were almost blood brothers.
-
Those miserable British days stayed
in my mind, for a long time. It was
one thing to read all about it, or talk
and handle opinions on what was
going on, but it was another to try and
imagine the local situations. On the one
hand, Roberto Clemente going down
on a poverty-level starvation food run
was a sort of parallel to the misery of
coal, food, and shelter in Britain. Central
America bore the slimmest relation to
Great Britain, but the misery was the
same. We'd talk about it, comparing
notes about what we'd read - Orwell,
'Keep the Aspidistra Flying,' 'Down
and Out In Paris and London,' and
others - he did pretty much know
all the same books I did at that point.
It was a real joy. I never got to know
the density of his religion, nor to which
Elmira Temple he may have belonged,
(I'd guessed he did). For a local and
circulatory 'businessman', Rubin was
a real treasure for me.
-
At the same time s all this, I was
studying Philosophy at Elmira College,
with John McLaughlin (no, not the
jazz-musician one), and English
Lit. and Composition, with Robert
Steber. Cool people each. The art
department, which I talked of before,
had as Artist-In Residence, Gandy
Brody - an old, beatnik era, NYC
artist of some renown. He'd have
friends come in, and they'd stay
with him and hang at the art studios.
Poet Kenneth Koch was the star of
that show. It was all so cool. The 70's
began dragging on. Carter to Ford,
the same useless faces, just different
people. The same fucked-over words.
-
I'd sometimes feel as guilty as hell
just buying an ice-cream cone or a
magazine, keeping in mind all the
horrors and the misery of what the
people of England were then going
through (1973 era). Soon after that,
during the Reagan years, one of his
morons came up with what they
called 'The Misery Index', by
which to gauge the politics and
the 'popularity' of their own
machinations of the 'American'
economy, which was becoming
equally despondent. Not that
they cared any about the people,
mind you, just their own butts,
and popularity, and insulation
from any ill effects. Bastards
all. stateside, and London too.
-
Or, as The Clash later put it, in
'London Calling' : London calling
to the faraway towns; Now war is
declared and battle comes down
London calling to the underworld
Come out of the cupboard, you boys and girls
London calling, now don't look to us
Phony Beatlemania has bitten the dust
London calling, see we ain't got no swing
'Cept for the ring of that truncheon thing
The ice age is coming, the sun's zooming in
Meltdown expected, the wheat is growing thin
Engines stop running but I have no fear
'Cause London is drowning and I live by the river
(London calling) To the imitation zone
Forget it, brother, you can go it alone
London calling to the zombies of death
Quit holding out and draw another breath
London calling and I don't wanna shout
But while we were talking I saw you nodding out
London calling, see we ain't got no high
Except for that one with the yellowy eyes
The ice age is coming, the sun's zooming in
Engines stop running, the wheat is growing thin
A nuclear era but I have no fear
'Cause London is drowning and I, I live by the river
The ice age is coming, the sun's zooming in
Engines stop running, the wheat is growing thin
A nuclear era but I have no fear
'Cause London is drowning and I, I live by the river
Now get this
London calling, yes, I was there too
And you know what they said?
Well, some of it was true
London calling at the top of the dial
And after all this, won't you give me a smile?
London calling
I never felt so much alike."
