12,942. RUDIMENTS, pt.1,104

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,104

(Nanuck of the North, in her sealskin winter coat)

Swell sense of direction.

Not fairly swell; swell.

Nimble; quick; fast. Those

were sometimes the words

used about me; I never knew

why. The only reason, if it

seemed that my reactions 

were quick were probably

because they only saw me

in dumb situations where I

had to be, or face the horrid

consequences. This one time,

leaving Asbury Park some

dreary late February day, all

things were sodden and wet,

it was the kind of damp and

atmospheric cold that, on a

motorcycle, there's really no 

way around. You just pile on

the clothes and hope it all works.

This day I was riding out, after

an afternoon of the usual and

way too many beers, and I was

riding on the barest minimum

of rear tread too, on a big fat, 

stripped down 1980 FLH, with

the braking power of a Tommy

Gun firing (meaning, little) and

what amounted to a 'slick,' or

nearly, in tire parlance. Everything

was wet, we were all wobbly 

(some 6 motorcycles), and

seeing myself challenged by 

an approaching stop sign to

a sort of major roadway, I

honked on the weak brakes

and went into, quite accidentally,

a sideways skid to write home

about. From the morque. But,

nimble and quick as a fast-lit

cande, yes, I recovered in time

to  -  instead of crashing down  -  

guide the bike into a slow slide,

doing little damage to anything but

pride. Maybe 30 feet, and a twirl.

This particular motorcycle had

crash bars, which I always had

particularly hated, but in this case

they saved the bike from actually

sliding on its side and destroying

everything  -  gas tank and the

rest, and probably me (and my

fairly lady passenger, who 

somehow actually enjoyed

the quick drama. Two points

for crash bars, I suppose.

-

What appeared to me as an

out-of-control mishap, however,

apparently appeared to my sidekicks

as some sort of professional and

totally controlled masterful and

skilled maneuver. Which of course 

once again bolstered my fame

and reputation as the most most 

nimble of motorbike wizards.

Yeah, yeah, thank you, guys,

and it was easy. The helpful

qualities here, as well as the

hindrances were the same, but

for the lame-brain idea of running

with that rear tire of despicable

reputation. The same wet road

that had me lose traction also

worked its way to saving my

hide and skin, by being wet. The

enormous amount of Winter

riding apparel we'd piled on 

helped as well. It all could have

been much worse, and we'd

maybe still be there picking

skin and bone scraping out

from he gouges in the macadam.

Which ever only LOOKS smooth

and supple. It never is. So, once

you get rolling with this stuff

quickly enough learn the opposites

the 'appearances' of all things.

-

Let me add too, that it had, all in

all, been a dishonest day by us all.

It was some kind of race day, first

race of the season, way down south

somewhere. Some Nascar stuff I 

never cared about but which this

guy name Joe White (hey! Is he

going to have to change his name 

now?) did. Each year, as a Spring

teaser (still months off) he'd rent

the old Howard Johnsons meeting

room, with all the glass and stuff,

that looked out over the ocean, at

Asbury Park. It was an ABATE

thing, and his Monmouth Chapter

always threw this party, and the

race was on the TV, on  a stand, 

at room center. (This was before

today's days of large, wall-size

TV's. Even though Wall Twsp.

was right down there, nearby).

There'd be food, bikes, bikers,

music, drinking, and then the

race. This particular day, my

friend (name withheld), while 

we were hanging around, eating

and drinking, found out that the

main beer-storage cold-room

was just around the bend by us,

unattended, and unlocked. So

he got this routine going of raiding

it and bringing out 4 beers or so

at a time. This went on, and then

finally the Greek guy who ran the

place, and who'd always been nice

and happy and good to us as could

be, came steaming over, having

caught on to this ongoing beer

raid and his loss of profit. He was

furious; heaved the guy who'd been

doing it out, and lectured us sternly

about what lowlifes we were (that's

the opposite of Miller High Lifes,

I think), taking advantage of him

like that, stealing from his good

braces, etc. He was right. We'd

sure screwed it up, just by 

complicity. The trouble was, at 

that point, none of us really cared. 

We gave him some approximated 

amount of pooled money (he still

lost out), and left. Our little group.

The rest stayed on. Maybe a hundred

people; maybe 80. I don't know.

We were headed out of town, on

our way back to the Pioneer Tavern,

in Iselin (our base then), when the

Gary slide-fest occurred. All's well

that ends well, and this did.

-

Outside of all that, the day was

pretty good  -  if you like staring

out at a freezing cold ocean and 

watching race-cars sling by on

a poorly-placed TV. I used to tell

people  -  even though it wasn't 

true, that I 'wasn't a racist, I just

liked NASCAR.' I didn't really

at all. Confederate flags on the

cars, leftover George Wallace

bumper stickers on the bumpers

in the racetrack parking lot (on

TV), and all that hoo-hah stand

and salute patriotism crap was

never my forte. Give me a bald

tire imitation racing slick for the

rear of my motorcycle, in the rain.

Then you're really talking some 

language I can understand. There

weren't even any babes on the 

beach to look at, and any who

were there all looked like some

Nanuck of the North in a 

giant sealskin coat.

12,941. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,103

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,103

(reading at the Lionel Tavern)

We sometimes have brains

enough to be smart, but are 

not smart enough to be brains. 

There used to be a place in

New Brunswick, called Tumulty's.

In fact, I think there still is but 

it's not the same place at all. 

Legacy, tradition, and 'oldness' 

are fairly easy things to fake, 

and the current manifestation 

of the operation under that 

name has  nothing on the 

previous, though they do try

to fake it and act at carrying

on all the old connections. The 

actual old Tumulty's, along 

about 1980 maybe, was shut 

down and demolished when 

Johnson & Johnson Company

redid the town center, pretty much

after taking it over. One of those

dirty municipal deals where a

hundred different people made

a hundred thousand different

dollars each just by being in on

the deal. It's called stealing, but

no matter where you go you'll 

never find a place called Stealing

University, though it sure seems

always that all these guys must

have graduated from it. This 'old'

Tumulty's hugged the railroad

tracks to what is now a high berm

and a rise to the lawn of one of

those ridiculous white J&J

Buildings that desecrate that

part of the town  -  from the

train station, headed north to

Highland Park. You'd never know

any of it now, but that was once

a stretch of stores, eateries, junk

shops, a hardware, and a bookstore

too, with a sidewalk and a regular

town, walking feel to it.They just

came and swept it all away; one 

day just like that, it all began. My

friend used to live on the top floor

of 199 New Street, back then. The

entire town was different. Before

the J&J people came in and leveled

most of it for their stupid-looking

white buildings, all 1970's style

and weirdly windowed and spaced,

New Brunswick had that feel of

an old 1940's industrial town that

had lost its place and meaning. All

things were just kind of leftover

and destitute. Appliance stores

had used stuff all out front. I 

guess they brought it in and out 

each day but, from the way some 

of it looked, maybe not. Most of

the proprietors, all along those 

storefronts, were old-line Jewish

merchants; like storybook people,

they were so perfectly fictional, with

the hats and the gruff manners and

the precise counting they did of

every penny and percentage and

discount and rate. There was

this jumble shop of junk  -  stuff

and antiques  -  that was really

fascinating. They were sincere too,

not yet aware of themselves or all

caught up in that 'this is valuable'

ethos like antique stores and those

kinds of shops have today. I would

get lost in there, easy, for an hour,

every aisle and section was loaded

with things; nothing concealed,

all marked. I can see it perfectly

now as I write of it. The walkways,

the front section, the little alcoves

and the upstairs balcony areas still

filled further with things. A person

could just sit anywhere, on any of

the chairs or benches, and just sit

there thinking about the old  -  lamps,

those old dressmaker mannequins,

feather dusters, shoe-blocks, tools

and all the rest, from stuffed birds to

twisty screwdrivers and carpenters'

tools of old. And no one ever said

a word. It was like a church, silent,

and with the light coming in at the 

front, facing the tracks, elevated 

up above, through the large pane 

windows. It's all gone now, for years, 

like a good dream you never wanted

to wake from. Boy, the modern

world sure sucks.

-

I remember, back when Amtrak

first got started, with the trains and

all, the bridge there, for years, had

it mislabeled, as 'Amtrack.' A real

formal bridge sign too. No one

ever changed it, and I used to scoff

at drunk Rutgers, in a college town,

right up the street, putting up with

such a dumb mistake, and no one 

ever seeing it. It's gone now too,

though the old stone bridge remains.

-

My friend's place, at 199, upstairs,

3 or 4 flights, I forget, was on a

street that was boxed in with the

stone wall, old, of the railroad.

Right across from his front door,

of his apartment, (it was an old,

tall, white house from about 1900

probably that, over the years had 

gotten boxed into a rooming house

of 4 or 5 units), was a dairy  -  not

the farm kind, with the cows and all,

but a regular milkman dairy, with the

little milkman trucks for daily home

delivery. They'd be working and

lit up all night, bottling and filling

the trucks for the 5am milk routes.

The milk would come in in those

large milk-cans you always used to 

see. I don't know where the farms

were from where they got the milk,

but there used to be farms around,

not like now. Suydam's Farm.

Aetoff Farm. A lot of old Jewish

names there too  -  it was funny

to me how Jewish guys, involved 

as they are sometimes, with all

those non-dairy restrictions and

the kosher rules and all, would be

the ones with the milk-peddling

places. Another one of those

mysterious things. My life was

full of that stuff. Not too much

ever got answered, but much was

noticed, and a lot of questions

just always hing in the air.

-

Anyway, this old Tumulty's place,

it was a Rutger's college booze bar

more than anything else, though

they also had steaks and a regular

restaurant clientele. They also had,

kind of ingeniously, model railway

trains, Lionel, that were always 

running, all up along the ceiling,

into the walls and through too the

next room, dining area, section of

bar. They went everywhere, maybe

3 or 4 different rains, all criss-crossing

and swooping around past each other

and all. It was cool, and it all went

on, constantly, up high up, to the 

near ceiling height, and a person

hardly even knew it, unless you

looked around or got interested.

Pretty cool. That's why we call

it the Lionel Bar. There were

books around, and some club

chairs and things to read too.

Thus the 'Reading at the Lionel

Tavern' title gimmick I used.

12,940. ONLY THE EGG THAT IS READY TO HATCH GETS THE CRACK

ONLY THE EGG THAT IS 

READY TO HATCH 

GETS THE CRACK

As I awoke today I remembered tomorrow;

almost dreaming, when the walls all came 

tumbling down. It's a good and gracious 

feeling to see so many others all confused. 

Rambling on in double-speak, turning their 

groves of thought into a parking lots for tired 

cars. Soon the run-off will overwhelm the

autos, and I can pick my teeth with the can

opener I've already sharpened? I'll have to

think about that for a while. The oak tree

holds a lamplight. I think I'll go and sit.

12,939. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,102

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,102

(polymath and wanderlust)

About the biggest bridge you'd ever

see in the Pine Barrens was a double

wide, people bridge over some limpid

stream. Most often, it it was a road,

the road for vehicles just went down,

with a gentle dip, into the waterway,

if it was small enough, and pulled all

right back up the other side. Even then,

there wasn't much of that. I always

feared for the frogs and turtles, or

whatever kind of water-life was there.

Getting squished. The large, and the

paved, roads, well-designed, always

seemed parallel or adjacent to water,

and not through it. That was always

pretty unique. There were, as I made

a previous mention of, large lakes and

ponds, places for swimming and for

camping. Most everything of that

nature was led into by paved road.

-

It was only, really, deep into that

large unknown area of the huge square

that the barrens were, where all these

sand-road convergences occurred. A

person could be tooling along for

some fifteen minutes, and all of a

sudden come to a crossing; of four,

yes, yes, sand thoroughfares. It was

almost possible to imagine, if it was

developed, where the gas stations

on opposing corners would be facing

each other, and where the 7-11 would

be, the curbing and parking, and even

the darned traffic light. Of course, none

of it existed, but it was all patterned as

if some conjectural 'future' stood just

outside of reality and, with 200 or so

people, could actually materialize

into being. (Maybe that was the

'other' bridge that I visualized too;

the one within the Pine Barrens that

always led to the other side, the other

version, of things. Once I crossed

that 'bridge' (of thought anyway) I

sensed that all the other things did

NOT necessarily need to happen  -

the roads, the rows of condos and

cheaper, subsidized housing, the bad

water, runoff, cars, greases and heat,

the haughtiness that comes with bad

attitudes and false pretenses. It didn't

happen there, and that kept my faith

alive).

-

I've never been into any of that

leisure sports stuff that took up so

much of other people's time, but

the incident I related when I nearly

ran out of gas down there and the

guy in Chatsworth wouldn't sell

me any all stemmed from one of

those instances when someone

asked me to do something for

them and I said yes. My friend

was going to meet his own friend,

down at some paint-ball range just

off the area of the Pine Barrens,

out along some equally desolate

road. It was one of those tournament

things, in paint-ball; some sort of

competition where ranked teams

were going to fight it out, pretend

killing each other (like videogame

tourneys today) by splattering

their attack opponents with the

blood dyes and fake paints of the

competition. He needed a ride

down there and would ride back

up with his friend (provided he was

still alive?). To kill the afternoon,

we explored that old cranberry camp

I've written about. He was pretty

impressed. Eventually, and after

the gas fiasco, I dropped him

off at the killing fields, and it all

worked out. The juxtaposition of

the Pine Barrens and all their

saintliness to me, and the nearby

paint-ball simulated slaughter

acreage, I thought of as pretty

funny. Weird how all sorts of

baser human things, like the

paintball scheme, can coexist

with the high and the exalted

splendors of our world. One of

them has to have a come-down,

I suppose. There were a lot of

things I always liked there; stuff

that, for New Jersey, was rare.

The people that live in Jersey, as

used as they are to what's around

them, don't always notice. Like,

for instance, power lines. The

telephone poles down there were

mostly thin, spindly things, if

they were there at all, and often,

after 20 or 30 years, I'd guess,

they'd sort of dried out and gotten

crooked and twisted a little, with

the few wires they carried, still

intact. There was nothing like

up in the larger suburban areas:

wires and poles everywhere,

crisscrossing with transformer

boxes and all, up on the poles.

Real busy, cluttered, and heavy

looking. In the pines, it was as

if it was still 1928  -  a few wires,

skinny poles, and a 'let's see if

this works if we hang the wire

here' kind of approach. Another

thing was the driveways. Any

houses there were  -  and there

were enough in certain spots  - 

hidden; you hardly even saw them  

or even realized they were there.

Unlike suburbias with their crazy,

massive, and optic lawns, the houses

were set back, way back, like 150

feet or more. Little, flat homes,

with a long, sandy driveway, trees

and shade. No one really cared

about all that suburban crud with

flat lawns, marine-cut grass, and

fancy entries and lights. There'd

be some dumpy old rural mailbox

out along the street, sometimes

even in groups of three or four,

and little else. It was real private

living, and no one got overly

nutso over the externals. Like

the way it ought to be. If someone

needed a shed or a barn, they

made their own, pretty much.

I never much saw any people

either. I don't know who lived

around there, or if they had sons

or daughters, or what went on.

There were a couple of churches,

but nothing big deal there either.

-

One last thing: There was a place

out there, along the road from

Chatsworth to Rt 72, or whatever

it was, called 'Hedger House.'

Like the Pick-A-Lilly, it was a

Biker Bar, at least it was whenever

we were there, since we were on

motorcycles and made it one. I

never was there on any off-time

from that. It was nice, a tad less

raucous, and dangerous, from

the Pick-A-Lilly, but still nothing

you'd write a postcard home about.

It was old, and nice, had about

maybe 50 acres of land, a few

shelters and coverings, beer stands,

horseshoe areas. All the usual

outdoor sots of drinking-place

attributes you used to often see

around; sort of like the old Maple

Tree grounds in Avenel. Motorcycle

parking was anarchic. You just did

what you wanted, but always had

to make sure your kickstand, after

a few hours, wasn't to sink in

the sand and have your bike 

topple over. That  happened time

enough and, along with trying to

successfully get out of the place

with a fair drunk on, maybe even

seeing double, it all made for some

interesting exits. Watching 2 or 3

'inebriated' motorcycle guys huffing

to pick upright a toppled bike is a

comedy routine to be sure. Even

without cops.

12,938. HOW LIKE HUMAN

HOW LIKE HUMAN

Upset again by thunder and a storm,

this crazy dog takes hiding; sheltered

in a corner, beneath a table, shaking.

Much like everything else, with noise.

The birds are gone, to their own leeward

hunkering under limb or branch. We shan't

upset them any more than this, those now

creatures of this Lordly kingdom : Though

we do much. We hammer and saw; fell

tall trees. Mask play-intent with childish

bent and fracture fireworks in the night.

To someone's moronic delight.

(Oh dear dog, I cannot speak your

language, though if I did there'd

be plenty to say, and for sure).

12,937. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,101

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,101

(permafrost and eskimo pie)

Nothing was ever a pistol

to my head, in fact I could

fairly well move about freely,

and I always stayed busy. My

life was never much idle. Oh,

maybe I always kept these little

mental lists, of things that would

help me later on in life. It was

a sort of personal IOU list of

what return I'd be getting as

my life wound down. I had

always been idiosyncratic to 

a fault, and that was a lot of

my problem. Back at Columbia

Crossroads,when I was taking

care of that schoolhouse for two

years, there was a 5th grade

teacher guy there, I forget his

name now, but it was something

like Chuck, O'Neil or O'Brien.
(I just remembered, two days
later! His name was Guy Hall).

It didn't matter. He'd always be

going on to me about his, what

he called, photographic memory.

I could picture what he meant,

but that wasn't what he meant,

nor what a 'photographic' memory

was about (joke)  -  he'd explain

how, even all through college, all he

had to do was look at something,

a page or a chart, anything, and

he'd have total recall of it, at

all times, upon demand  - and I

figured, for his sake, that came in

handy with pornography? If I 

had to hear it once, I heard it 

30 times, all about his total 

recall and his photographic

memory (as I recall. Ha). I

used to rationalize the whole

thing away and just think he

was full of himself and that

all life was, in essence, was a

sort of photographic memory, 

for all of us, anyway  -  maybe 

some details get lost, but they're

never that important. To him,

none of that cosmic-brain stuff

mattered; it just meant, he said,

he got through everything easily,

never much had to study, and,

as a teacher, could recall names

and faces and lists and grades all

all that, with no sweat. Yeah, big

deal, and what a dumb, stupid

proclaimer of nothing I'd think 

he was. I also told him I figured

he would have gotten a better deal

and probably made more money too,

if he'd become a detective or some

other sort of cop-sleuth, instead of

wasting it all on  a bunch of bratty

5th grade farm kids. I was always

trying to be pithy, and show him

up, in a way, since he seemed not

to think too much of maintenance

people in farm-clothes always

dragging a mop or pail around.

I could sense his disdain, so I

took him up on it. Over at my

little farmhouse, one year, I was

raising two pigs, real porkers, and

they were always busting out of

the electric fence and pen. Their

hides and hefts were so thick that

my feeble little electric current

didn't even bother their coarse

bristle  -  they'd just oink with

the shock and break through the

fence anyway. I'd find them all over

different parts of the field, and

I then always had the darnedest 

time getting them back in. It usually 

ended up that I'd grab one of the

big prod-sticks I had around, made

for the purpose of herding pigs, and 

start slamming them on their rears 

and backs with it (this sounds crueler 

than it actually was). Then they'd

move, maybe 30 feet at a time,

nose-down, squealing, but at, still,

their own pace, to, sort of, the area

I'd wanted them, and then back

into the repaired-anew fencing. They

were, by this time, real big pork

chops on the hoof, no more the

two little piglets I'd brought home

in the back of my VW. So anyway,

I told this whiz-kid photo-memory

guy about the problem one day as

we were talking (seemed all he

ever did, a lot, was talk to me, an

endless blue streak, mostly after

his classes were done and I'd be

in his classroom, sweeping or

straightening for the next day and

he'd be there doing papers or

reading tests or something). So,

he said, 'Let me come over and

see this fence problem, maybe I

can help. I grew up on a farm out

by Mansfield, and we did a lot of

fencing.' (He meant fence-mending, 

not the sword and duelling sport, 

and these local area teachers

most all came out of Mansfield

Teachers College, which was

about 30 miles west. It was kind 

of the local go-to school if you

didn't want to farm like your daddy

had done). So I figured, what the

heck, and he came on over : Liked

the place, walked around a lot,

talked always too, and then we got

to the porkers, and the barnyard 

area, and the fencing. He starts to

handle the posts; prodding, seeing

how secure they were in the ground,

how taut the wires, and all that. It

was, maybe, mid-February, still

quite cold, and it never really

'warmed up' there until about late 

April, end of it anyway, or the

beginning of May. He, and his

photographic memory, suddenly

seemed pretty useless  -  a 5th

grade teacher in his shirt and

tie, yanking on around two pigs

and a sty. I sensed not much was

going to come of it. He quickly

gave up, and said, 'Well, yeah,

looks like trouble, but we can't

do anything here until the thaw.

Right now, this is all perma-frost,

like 6 inches or more down.' I

shrugged and just let it all go.

It was fencing and wiring that

were the problems, not the 

damned fenceposts, Mr. Wizard!

And he was acting like it was

the Yukon or some Alaska tundra.

Permafrost! Jeez.

-

I remember that almost perfectly.

Even down to his pheasants on the

tie he wore, and that new-style,

1972 maybe, Dodge pickup he

was driving. It was a new design

and didn't much look like the

previous older ones, which a

lot of the farmers around were

still driving. He used light blue

ink too, when he wrote in his

ledger books, and his handwriting

looked, surprisingly, feminine;

back-slanted and gaudy, with

loops and swirls and all that. They

hadn't invented smiley faces yet,

but if they had he'd have probably

had them in his periods at the end

of each paragraph. Permafrost!

Didja ever?