13,327. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,117

 RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,117

(philosophy at every turn)

One time, it was late at night, and

I was in the middle of Vermont

somewhere in the area of Rutland,

or Florence/Proctor. Hubbardton  -

in that area but the exact location

forgotten  -  and a great, rumbling

freight train was creeping by. I

guess they did all that stuff late 

at night  -  dead of night, in fact  -

so as not to disturb the day roads.

This was on  a long, flat, very

dark, plain between high hills.

The train stopped us, in the car,

of course, but it seemed that it

would be so long that we shut off

the car, and got out. It was a little

eerie, being deeply lost in the

darkness like that, not sure of the

night geography or anything.

Anyway, we're standing there,

just looking at things as they

went by, and talking, and we 

looked up and realized there

was a man approaching, with a

lit railroad lantern. He was sort

of swinging it as he walked. He

came up to us and began to say

something. But as he talked he

touched or pressed something

at his neck and a weird, almost

artificial, voice came out. It

threw me for a loop, and the

I realized I'd seen or heard

about this before -  artificial

voice boxes and such, for people

who'd lost their vocal chords

or whatever or illness does that.

Once I got his limit, I was able

to hear and listen better. But

still it was strange. He was

going on about how he had

to protect the road, and any

drivers, from the oncoming,

long, freight. The he said that

we had, by standing there as

we were, startled him as much

as he had startled us; how he'd

been doing that for 14 years

now, the only job they gave him

after the accident but it suited

him fine, and how he never

much saw any people, nor

expected too, on these late 

night runs. Then he said it 

could be another 15 minutes, 

maybe, before the train got done,

so we could either enjoy it or

turn around 'whence ya' came,'

as he put it. 'Some folks do that.'

-

We waited, and he walked away,

over to the other roadside, and 

when the last car did come, which

is what we'd waited for anyway,

with a quick half trot and a nice

hop, he was up on that caboose

stair in a jiffy, and waved us along.

It was pitch black, nothing to be

seen, and quite the experience too.

Old Hubbardton Road was where

we were headed, to this other 

person's little home, and so off

we went. Thinking back now I

can't remember why we were

out so late, where we'd come

from, nor where my friend's 

wife was either.

-

Funny how memories fade. And,

speaking of Vermont still, I recall

another bizarre episode. We'd taken

a small little motel cabin, along the road, 

by that old Lake again, Lake Bomoseen

(I never got to know much about it,

but it was a big local draw) and my

wife and my, oh, 8-year old, son,

were out on the little porch. I saw

a bug of some sort, large and one

I'd never seen before, up near the top

of the curtain rod, at the window. I

went up to see it, by standing on 

a chair, and it jumped at me, yes,

and apparently 'stung' me, just at

the base of my nose, where it meets

my cheek. (I can't recall what 

happened to it after that. Flew off?

I killed it?). It burned like a fire on

my face. The next morning, I awoke

with a huge facial swell in that area,

throbbing, hot-red pain, and a weird

black mark in the middle of the swell.

Neither of us knew what to make of

this; it was pretty strange. When it

got to the point that I almost has 

trouble opening my mouth, we 

decided to find a doctor. One was

found, and we went over. He was,

as well, a bit concerned; asked a

bunch of questions, put on some

salve, and probed the area. A few

minutes later he brings out, with

his nurse, some weird thing that

for all intents and purposes looked

like an Exacto-blade and some kind

of pliers. (Pretty basic, Vermont,

medical equipment, I suppose). I

instantly thought of that guy with

the voicebox, wondering if this

could not be the same Doc!...

-

Anyhow, he cuts a little and hits

with the pliers, and he pulls out

what much have been a stinger, we

guessed, that looked more like a

long, slender, thorn. It was maybe

an eighth of an inch long, really

sturdy and stiff, and black. That

excision, whatever it was, did

immediately ease the pressure, 

and it relived the throbbing pain. 

In a day or so the redness and 

swelling was gone as well. Near 

miss? Had I been close to some 

bizarre bug death, with a poison 

soon to be hitting my brain had 

the spike not been removed? The

craziest thing was, the Doc had 

said, "That thing has to be removed, 

they tend to work their way inward, 

not out." Jeepers! Vermont country 

philosophy at every turn.

13,326. CREEP

CREEP

All these Jewboys know,

coming to camp is a riot:

Two lakes, that awful fish

pond, and the hiking trail

that leads to simply nowhere.

There's an old tattered, Israeli

flag hanging there, with a sign

that just says: 'Welcome to

Simply Nowhere.'

-

I can laugh, now. It was long

ago enough to seem funny in

retrospect. That broad-backed 

woman, proclaiming, 'My son

Howard does not like the

bathrooms here? Can he go

anywhere else?' We all went

to laughter, sustaining our mirth

with cracks about her bosoms.

-

Kiryat. Bar Adam. Jonell.

So many funny words.

13,325. TREPIDATION

TREPIDATION

And, yes, I'm very tired of it.

My loins reek. I still fear death

but know its creep.

13,324. PINOCHLE

PINOCHLE

I didn't know how to spell it, nor

even how to play  -  was never a

card guy. These days, it doesn't

matter anyway.

-

Vaguely, things get slowly remembered:

Like my Mother, always going on,

as I recall, about a 'card table. 'Get the

card table out...' Sometimes someone

ate on it, if there was a crowd, or

with relatives visiting. 

-

Dining on he card table was dicey.

(Hey! There's a sort of connection?).

It was always wobbly, or wobbly

enough, and one needed always

to be careful. But what do kids

know? Fast feet, a swift move,

and something always got

knocked over.

13,323. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,116

 RUDIMENTS, pt.1,116

(this only person on earth. No, not solipsism.)

It was never easy-coasting for

me, though maybe sometimes

as I write about now I make

it seem that way. I was always

getting hung-up on one or another

seeming 'technicality' that never

appeared to bother anyone else.

Throughout the years 1966 - 1976,

I was a blasted conundrum;

everywhere and nowhere at all.

At one time I did think Vermont

could be my way out, but once I

tried it, it fizzled too. I had no

money, and even though houses

were 'cheap' (I use both the words

'houses' and 'cheap' selectively),

and I received the Strout Catalogue

steadily, I got nowhere. That catalogue,

by the way, was so cool we began

referring to rundown or bedraggled,

needy homes, as 'Strout Specials,'

wishing we could get one. We

finally did, yes, get 12 acres and

a pond, barn, etc., in Columbia

Crossroads, PA, but for sure that

wasn't Vermont. That one cost us

$17,900  -  a down payment for 

which was paid for with my train 

accident money from 1958 (12

years previous), and which had

been in trust until came of age.

But I still needed my father's co-sign

(which caused a little bit of trouble),

and a second mortgage too, for 83

bucks a month  -  besides the bank

mortgage. The local farmer from whom

I was buying the place covered the

unmet difference on the side mortgage, 

no interest. I was able to pay him

that sum back off in about a year

and a half. The bank payment was, I

forget exactly, something like 170,

for 10 years. Columbia Crossroads

was a farmland nothing; Vermont,

by contrast, had all the sizzle of

higher-breeding, some money, grand

looking girls everywhere (guys too,

I guess), but the cool thing was how

it embodied that old, ancestral idea

of the 'charm' of old America. I

had to face it; that place was ideal.

Things about it, in every direction,

caught my eye  -  the way the roads

along the country byways were all

sort of 'dug-out,' with the homes and

houses, seemingly, all just 6 or 20 feet

up above, on the road. I always felt

it was odd, for such a snowy place,

to do that  -  inviting the snow in,

as it were, to pile up. Slow, crawly

driveway entrances, flowered and

bushy road-sidings, let to grow wild

and rich, both led one's eye pleasantly

up to, AND brought one up to the

driveway, as well  -  without any of

that ransacked lawn and trimming

for views and entries that most places

had. It was crazy, lush, and rural. The

hillsides and mountains were dotted 

with the winding dirt-roads which

led up to each farm and village. Roads

were yet unpaved in most of those

farther-flung places. It was like that

too, a bit, in Bradford County, PA, 

but they meant business there, and the

farms never gave a second thought to

what scene they presented or how nice,

or not, they looked. It was all pure

utility, from Wyalusing and Towanda

on out. By the time one got to the area

of Troy and Springfield, at Columbia

Crossroads, the land was in use, for

farms....the heck with scenery and

beauty. You had to appreciate the

land and its beauty for what it was,

a natural workshop, instead of that

more-lofty, higher-ambitioned, 

magazine quality of Vermont.

-

I was never in any position to

complain  -  for any number of

reasons, money being only one.

I was on the run, watching for the 

law, worried about NYC catching 

up to me, keeping tabs with one 

eye on what new developments 

reared their  heads, what with the

Vietnam protests, the bombings, 

the eluding, and the dead and crime 

too. I had simply made myself

disappear, willing myself, as it

were, into non-existence. Speaking

of eluding, I had eluded myself.

I won't belabor the point here, but

somewhere, much earlier in these

endlessly numbered series of chapters,

that old saga about myself and my

'new' me is told. I was reborn.

-

Just in time for Nixon and Kissinger.

Just in time for the Christmas bombings

of Cambodia, while 'we' entered ever

more deeply and destructively into that

'war' Nixon had extemporaneously (all

liars are extemporaneous) said we'd be

'exiting' from. Pure bullshit, like caramel

creme. I had to watch all that, quartered

like a dray horse, seething that I was

no longer a part of any resistance. 

Which had all turned to shit anyway.

-

Thank God for the countryside, I always

said  -  whether Pennsylvania or Vermont,

either one was far better for me. At that

point of my life, the turnover was brutal,

and I ended up sitting around reading

oddball things like 'The Greening of

America,' and 'Future Shock,' trying to

figure out what I'd just left and what in

the world was going on. Charles Reich?

Alvin Toffler? Noam Chomsky? Eric

Ericson? B.F.Skinner? Saved my life,

I suppose.

-

Having to be one thing but act another

never set well with me  -  just like the

bakery work, I couldn't get my round

hole to admit that square peg  -  and I

knew it and I knew, as well, that the

mission of the rest of my life was most

probably to be how to get around that

deep divergence between things. A bit

like dream and reality. Strife. Archetypal

strangeness that I could only answer with

a wild, careening creativity, one that most

people couldn't handle nor come close to

understanding. Like being the only person

on Earth who spoke the language I spoke.

13,322. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,115

 RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,115

(young, and stupid enough, too)

The first night in the Bennington

Hotel was warm and cozy; the

steam units hissed and pinged

all night, and the temperature 

had to be a steady 72 or 74. 

Nothing to be done about it,

so I cracked open a window;

just a bit. I slept soundly, and

remember dozing off, with Jerry

Lewis on the TV. He had grown

a beard! Those hippie days sure

were unpredictable, what with

all the Hollywood guys suddenly

all hip and in Nehru Jackets and

the height of cool. It had gotten

funny enough  -  so to see goofballs

like those Rat Pack guys, and Sammy

Davis, Jr., all of a sudden with their

hipster sides up, cracking lewd

jokes, jiving about dope, and 

suddenly appearing around in 

terribly up-to-date clothing, looked

really foolish but gave no one a

second thought. The world had

somehow turned. I half expected

Dick Nixon to be 'toking' with

Henry Kissinger while they called

out the B-52's over Cambodia.

-

The next morning was awesomely

cold. It was 12 below, at about 8am.

My old Jaguar wasn't having any of

it, and the slow crank of attempted

turnovers made me know enough to

hold off at least until the temperature

had risen by sunlight to something

reasonable, plus I did NOT want to

kill the battery. I went around for

coffee, walked a bit, freezing, and

the went back into the hotel lobby and

sat around, looking at magazines and

the Bennington girls for a while 

(Bennington College was still female

only, and that was OK by me), as they

came and went, for whatever reason.

I was told a lot of guest lecturers, 

speakers, and other visitors, stayed 

there. Parents, visiting, too. The golf

ball forehead guy was there, at the

desk, the whole time, signing people 

up, ringing that little bell for baggage

service, and calling people with

messages and scheduled notifications,

etc. Newspapers. Magazines. Traveling

salesmen types, everywhere. I didn't

think I saw any call girls or hookers

about, but, whatever. Maybe Bennington

was too proper for that sort of stuff,

but I doubted it; just didn't see any.

-

Funny how, years later, I'd think of that

scene and lobby when I was in Georgia,

in a small motel off the Interstate and just

north of Savannah  -  on my way back

up to Jersey. It was about 8pm, and the

knock at the door brought me, upon

opening it, a slight, only half-attractive,

black girl. She was actually 'asking' if 

I'd like her to return later on and if I'd

like to 'party' that night! My wife was

in the other small room, but I didn't let 

on, and just said 'No, thanks.' My wife

asked, 'What was that, who was at the

door?' I said, 'Damndest thing! This

rinky-dink, two-bit motel has door to

door, by request, prostitute service!'

She didn't believe me, but it was true.

I figured either management got a cut,

and told this girl of the night's arrivals,

or she just slung around the outside

doorways from out back, plying her

trade. I did, and still do, wonder what

she charged.

-

The car finally loosened up and started

about 1pm, just about in time for the

whole descending temperatures and

re-freeze for the evening to start all

over. I decided to give it a run. I can't

recall the distance, nor how 'wide' 

Vermont is (it's 59 minutes, and 

41 miles, Google says), but I 

decided to just take Rt 9 due east,

over to Brattleboro. It was a cool ride.

I couldn't really open the Jaguar

up  -  twisty and cumbersome to

drive such a heavy beast in a sport

fashion up there. When I got to 

Brattleboro, I pulled over for gas.

The guy (kid) in the gas station

wasn't much older than me, and

somehow we got to talking while

the fill went on, about the change

I had that was Canadian money.

He said, 'Sure no problem around

here, we take it. Up here there's no

real difference, it's all the same  -  

lots of Canadians come through here.

Money's all the same.' I thought that

was pretty cool; all these odd coins

with little Queen Elizbeths or 

whoever it was, on them. In 

another  hour it was dark again,

and just as cold, and I was back in

Bennington for another night. Another

cool thing about Bennington, back then  -

I don't know if any of that is still there,

the place has been totally changed,

and new buildings, plazas, and even

layouts, are in place, was this operation

just out of town, I guess at the north

end, called Stengel Pottery. I went there

the next day; I'd been there before too.

It's not really 'pottery' like you'd think;

it was actually pretty fancy dinnerware

sets, high- end dishes and glasses, vases

and all that crap. Nothing raw or rugged

like you'd think an artisan 'potter' would

make on a turnwheel and all that. This

was heavy-glazed, and heavily-colored

stuff. Expensive, yeah, but they had a

nice basement or underground section

where they'd sold, well-discounted and

cheap  -  the seconds. Flawed. Badly

colored. Crooked. Or chipped or cracked,

slightly. It was a good place to find

cheap little things like cruets or 

pitchers, saucers and cups. I forget

what I got, but I bought my girlfriend

a few things and brought them back'

home with me when I left.

-

That was my last time going east 

across Vermont. I never did that again; 

in the years after that it was always 

north, to Rutland, or Proctor or Lake 

Bomoseen, or Florence. Proctor Marble 

Works was  cool, these huge slabs of 

marble coming out of the ground, 

getting chopped off and then finished, 

in great slabs -  for architectural use 

on big NYC buildings, and churches, 

etc. Guys would polish them up, and

then the finished, sized and cut slabs

would get strapped onto these huge

flatbead trucks, for the slow roll down

to the NYC sites where they were 

needed. I always imagined, a hundred

years previous, how they'd probably

have been brought by horse, or wagon,

or sledded with horse, west towards 

Albany, so as to be floated down 

the mighty Hudson for the same

end result. Real heavy-duty work.

I got a job once too, by mail!, at

a publishing and printing place 

called 'Tuttle Printing.' At that time

they were actually IN Rutland, but

they later moved out to some nearby

location called Airport Industrial Plaza.

It never worked out that I took the

job, and I just sent them back a letter

in which I declined then offer  -  dumb

enough, actually, since I was the one

who'd initiated the job request. The

crap you do when you're as 'young

and stupid,' as they say.

13,321. MILEPOST TEN THOUSAND

MILEPOST TEN THOUSAND

A'fearing I might have already passed

it, I refused looking back. There's no

sense now in what's behind me. I

stopped at a diner along the way.

'Katie's Kitchen' the broad sign

said  -  and she was too. It also

said 'Perpendicular Meals of a

Stunning Persuasion.' What?

-

I wasn't even sure what 'perpendicular'

was  -  a sauce of some sort, poured

onto cross-cut fries? Afraid to ask, I

ordered soup. She glared down at me,

'That don't meet minimum!' So I

smiled, and added coffee, pie and

a meatloaf platter too.

-

Damn! That big girl had won her

case without even pleading. Katie's

Kitchen indeed. The place was chucked

up with other people  - truckers and

vacationer families too  -  so I figured

it must be safe. None of these Disneyland

types would venture foul food, and the

truckers would throw it back in her face.

-

I sat me back, and lit a cigar, thinking of

my brother, and a friend named Neil. They

were always big cigar guys, and I'd always

wondered how that would feel.

13,320. HERE WE GO

HERE WE GO

I broke my leg at the armistice.

Damndest thing. I broke my arm

at the Leggo convention. How these 

things happen to me, I'll never

understand. I'll probably break

my knee, dancing at the shindig.

See?

13,319. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,114

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,114

(hard to roam and wander)

It's hard to roam and wander -

when you're old anyway. It's

not so bad as a young guy; much

easier to just pack it in and take

off. Looking back now, I can

recall a hundred things that

stand out as definitive of that

era of being young  -  not all

of it good, mind you, but most

all incautious and devil-may-care.

It's kind of funny, being a guy,

how guys say to one another,

'stop thinking with your dick.' 

It's a younger man's game, for 

sure  -  but each guy instantly

understands what the other guy

means by saying it.

-

I remember, that bakery job, 

which had drawn me down to 

most of the most inconsequential, 

boring, and localized things, was 

about the easiest thing I ever chucked.

Yes, it was that bad  -  which made

it all that much easier. I can't even

remember the going rate back then,

but I think it was a buck and a

quarter an hour. Which wouldn't 

even buy a pack of condoms over

at the Publix Pharmacy. That was

a riot too, back then, the way

everyone squirmed and wiggled

in having to 'ask' for them from

the guy or lady behind the counter.

That was Hell, for sure. 'Hmmm, I

suppose you're using these to make

balloon animals, right?' That was

how interrogative the whole process

was. You felt like sniping back, 'Oh,

ah, yeah, me and my girlfriend are

building a whole circus.' It was a

weird world. Smoke and cigarettes.

People in their thirties screwing

their brains out, constantly, and often

with friend's and neighbor's wives

too  - what the heck  -  and they even

had TV shows about it ('Bob&Carol

and Ted&Alice; etc.). Meanwhile

some snotty kid (like me) has to

go through Hell to get his coverage.

And I don't mean life insurance  -  or

maybe I do. I remember, when I

turned 40, I think it was, a bunch of

my nutty Biker Friends took me over

to The French Maid, over along Blair

Road, when it was there, amidst the

junkyards and screw-hammers (I

should'a known), and amidst the

revels and joys of a sleaze-ball

GoGo Bar, I was feted with all

sorts of goodies from the Men's 

Room by my pals  -  little packets

of French Ticklers, Condoms,

Flavored condoms, and some

striking, elasticized cock-choker

or something, which was supposed

to help the guy hold off on the

'big explosion'  -  supposedly for

more pleasure on both sides of that

pleasure scale. I never knew things

like that we're suddenly so easy to

acquire. Jeepers, no wonder Publix

went bust! Making it worse, now

they have wall displays of that crap

at every 7-11 and Joe's HappyMart,

wherever you go and whatever the 

name. ('Hi, my name's Dick?).....

-

I remember one of my Bayonne uncles

one time telling me all about their

trip into the city to see Oh Calcutta!

on Broadway or wherever it was.

He was still palpitating with the

happy feeling of what he'd see  - a

farcical sex-romp, with nudity and

the rest. I suppose after that the whole

world was wide-open for that stuff. 

-

Anyhow, after I'd phoned in my regrets

to that bakery lady, I jumped into my

Jaguar and decided that my 'personal

business' to which I had to attend to

(which I'd told her) amounted to a few

days in Vermont. Great idea, but the

trouble was that my Jaguar had never

successfully gone anywhere over 100

miles without some sort of gruesome

and horrid problem along the road,

usually involving grease, gasoline,

wheels and tires or some strange

electrical problem which would, say,

turn OUT the headlights but electrify

the steering wheel  -  it was that weird

a car. I got onto Route One North,

and just past the Bayway Refinery

was hit with the most horrendous,

rush-hour (morning rush) crawl

(obviously, the opposite of 'rush),

leading north towards Newark

Airport, the Holland Tunnel, and

Tonnelle Avenue (my destination),

which was actually just Route One.

They called it Tonnelle Avenue up

after the left at the Tunnel. Go figure.

I wasn't a toll-road guy (Turnpike or

any other) in that car  -  one look at

it by  a State Trooper usually meant

instant pullover, and I don't mean

sweater. I managed to sweat it out

(get the joke-connection! Ha!), and 

make it up to 9W, past Fort Lee, and

then into NYState and on my way,

through all those voraciously cool

small, Hudson River places, like 

Kingston, Saugerties, Albany, and

the Northway, or Rt. 7, or whatever

it was, into Vermont. Bennington, to

be exact, which is like the first thing

that hits you as you enter from the

southeast border with NY. That was

cool by me; I'd somehow made it there

with  no infractions of the law (?), no

problems or breakdowns, and the

entire car still running! 

-

Man, I felt like a million bucks. 

That Avenel Street/Rahway Avenue 

monkey grind was thousands of 

miles away, as far as I felt. They 

could shove it all in a paper sack. 

I found the little parking lot adjacent 

to the Bennington Hotel, and went in. 

I'd been there once before, and it

was a grand memory. The Bennington

Hotel, then anyway, was right in the

center of downtown. I don't know

what's there now, nor if it is still

around, but back then it was a large,

rambling white Victorian-era, hotel;

a sort of wooden monstrosity, with

a large, central sitting room, a desk

clerk area, bellhops and all that. 

Just like in some oddball old movie. 

I forget if there was elevator service,

but I always used to great, carpeted

staircases, 3, 4, or 5 floors, which

were lined with cool, rural scenes,

paintings lush with old atmosphere.

It was so quiet in there it was stunning.

Probably a 200-mile an hour wind

would have had trouble blowing

that old building down. I got my

room, which was like a hundred acres

large; all old-style stuff  -  woodwork,

big cornices, curtains and carpeting,

and a bed rich enough for Kennedy

(back then). I'd seen the desk clerk

previously, he was a strange, natty

guy, compact, dressed neatly, and

utterly efficient and proper. The cool

and distinguishing thing about him,

which I'll never forget and can recall

instantly to this day, was the golf-ball

sized impression, or depression, or

rounded dent, right in the center of

his forehead. It was the coolest thing,

as if a 100 mph golf ball had smacked

him, head on, back when his skull

was still soft. You couldn't not notice.

Heck, you couldn't not even stare; but

he went on as if it was not present, and

it as never mentioned, noted, or even

remarked upon.

-

All was good. The room was spacious, 

warm, and roomy (it was v-e-r-y cold

outside), by silly car had performed

perfectly, and I walked across the street,

to the W.T. Grant's lunchroom  -  which 

that evening was having their weekly,

Tuesday night, Turkey platter $1.25

special. I enjoyed!

13,318. RUDMENTS, pt. 1,113

RUDMENTS, pt. 1,113

(to leer and lust forever)

I admit to having had plenty

of other things to do than work

in some stupid old bakery, but

there was a period of time where,

yes, I was trying to learn about

where I'd fit in. I sold magazines,

door to door, for a while, not

just 'magazines,' but rather

subscription packets of 3 or 4

magazines at a time, in some

sort of clumped-interest group,

to housewives who'd answer

the 4pm doorbell along the

lonely streets of Elizabeth,

Linden and Perth Amboy, NJ. 

I was supposed to engage the

ladies in conversation, find

out their interest, whether

gardening or cooking or

fashion, etc., and find out,

as well, if their husbands 

liked sports. From that info

I was supposed to quick-think

a grouping of, say Redbook,

Good Housekeeping, Sports

Illustrated, and Reader's Digest.

For like 14 bucks or something,

they'd get their subscriptions, 

and we'd get some 3 bucks or 

so for the deal. It was a lousy

racket, what with cooking, kids,

poverty and, lest I forget, brutal

husband, not home, more on their 

minds than magazines and shelling

out money they didn't really have.  

Some housewives talked. The ladies

were usually in fear of him, and

often used that as the excuse to

say no. We were supposed to

see that coming, and somehow

fight it off with charm. I mostly

hated the lousy cooking smells

in those apartment halls and

lobbies, or, in private homes,

the kids and crap always

floating around. The ladies

were often fine, and fun 

sometimes. Nothing ever

happened, but I could tell that

sometimes, maybe, a 16-year

old boy would have been a

new delight for them. That

little light went on.

-

Places such as Elizabeth were

horrid. I never figured out what

sort of 'identity' as a small city

that place had tried to achieve,

but apparently it was none, or

it had failed so miserably as to

never have been mentioned

again. At this time, most of the

white-flight had already occurred.

Most of my house-hits ended up

being Spanish, or Puerto Rican,

or Cuban. It was pretty limited.

The Jews had dwindled, though

one or two craggly synagogues

were still left. Italians and Poles

were dwindled to nothing  -  many

of them, in fact, having moved

ten miles or so down Rt. One

to Avenel and Woodbridge! Nay,

even to Inman Ave itself! There

might have been movement along

that corridor, but it wasn't much

of a 'move' actually, neither by

distance or economics. Same crud,

different day. Elizabeth was totally

without a theme, and certainly

without any prevailing sense of

architecture, presence, wisdom,

or knowledge either. Man, the

dregs of central Jersey ruled!

That may have been the real

beginning of something, because

now the same theft and corruption

that ran downward from Hugh

Addonizio's Newark (jailtime), 

to the same stream of operations

from Bollwegs or whatever the

name was, to Zirpolo and McCormac 

and Vas, ran right down the same 

sewer lines. They learn this stuff 

in school, these sorts.

-

You could tell, just by the air, that

so much was wrong. That people

were hurting, but no one cared;

that people were being allowed in,

the immigrants and laborers, just

to push and shove the failing

industrial product of that entire

wharfside of New Jersey, but just

as numbers and digits, not people.

No one cared for any of them;

instead, the usual icy pols would

take and steal, maneuver and

finagle, so they'd walk off shining

and the heaps of the beleaguered

would be left behind to squirm

until  -  as in Elizabethport (at the

far-eastern section at the waterfront)

would, by 1980, become a sick,

drug-infested disease hole slum

later destroyed and razed and 

now used (go see it for yourself),

as a conduit, like Avenel, for the

crooked flow of housing and 

'development' monies that

advance nothing as much as

disrespect, dishonor, lies and

cheating. And these political scums 

still go to church, with their families

and little kiddies, and still profess

to their upstanding sense of right.

-

When I was in the Biker world,

down in 'the Port,' as it was

called, the outlaw biker bar of

that day was a place called 'Ajax.'

Maybe it was Ajax's, or meant to

be, but it was just called to as

Ajax. Tough-ass place too, and

the club guys who hung there,

big-time Jersey swooners, could

just as soon peel your skin back,

rape your wife, and leave both

in the gutter when done. One

had to be extremely careful

about comportment in that

crowd. Been there. Done that.

(As it used to be said). I'd

sometimes be in Ajax and think

back to those old magazine selling

days, imagining any one of the

guys in there as the squirming

neighborhood kids I'd see when

they were 5 or 6 and I was selling

magazines to their mamas, and

checking them, and  her too, with

leer and lust (two buddies of

mine). Their was a brutal sense

of 'justice' in that world, bad as

it may have been; bit I often did

conclude that any number of the

political types around  -  and their

wives  -  should have faced that.

They'd learn real quick.

-

The world, yes, is now so changed

that no one would ever think of

sending some creepy teen boys

along the street knocking on doors,

engaging horny housewives, and

trying to peddle them 'magazines'

named Swindle. They'd probably

now all come to the door with

their phone, totally pre-occupied,

and with anything of their interests

already downloaded and on screen.

So much for me, and my two 

buddies, Leer and Lust.

13,317. A NEW JOKE

A NEW JOKE

Maybe under the heading 'Crass.'

I came along Provender Street, and

rounded the narrow bend. The trestle

made a tunnel here, and the tracks

curved overhead and the road

ran down below. A few men stood

around, outside Starside Tavern,

where the liquor store has its funny

doorway. I heard them talking and

the one guy, with a joke, says: 'Hey!

Three guys go up to Heaven. St. Peter 

says 'I'll let you in, but first each of 

you has to show me something and

tell me what it meant to you in your

life on earth.' (I forget how it went

and I work here from memory). It

has to be something that reminds

you of Christmas. The first man

takes out his lighter, and says it

reminds him of candles. The

second guy shakes his keys, 

saying they remind him of bells.

The third guy takes out a pair of

women's panties. St. Peter says,

'How do they remind you of

Christmas?' And he goes,

'These are Carole's.'