11,867. HARDSHELL ON THE HARDSELL

HARDSELL ON THE HARDSHELL

Down by the water they try anything.

They'll sell you a platter of 'lift-caught

Shuckles from Manasquan Inlet' if

they can get away with it. As it is, this

is only Keyport and the place is just 

'Berlew's'. Where people come in twos,
and sit around and dangle. The Bikers 
enter loudly, all marooned and 
shaggy too, enough to lend a cherry

color to an otherwise bland atmosphere : 
of cheery beer and hefty fellows with
cigars, parking their bikes next to

cars, and the ample ladies who come

rolling in. (Not thin, mind you, 

just mired in sin?).....

11,866. WHEN THE RIVER COMES HOME

WHEN THE GREAT 
RIVER COMES HOME

Money is a terrible thing, and the

town I live in is run by mannered

crooks. Everything wrong abounds,

and the great unwashed 'we' pay for

its looks. The simulacra of restitution 

is  here a bald-faced lie. Old homes 

are parsed for something, anything 

of a consequence, meaningless as

drivel, so that the town can launder

money through a plaque on the

also meaningless lawn. These

signs are now everywhere, except

perhaps for Guernsey and Harvard,

two streets of rank ugliness that 

won't even accept the signs. Oh

here we go again. When the great
river comes home to stay, these guys

will try to claim it. This 'History' is a

fungible grant. They who will use

it for everything are the ones

who've sourced this rant.

11,865. RUDIMENTS, pt. 728

RUDIMENTS, pt. 728
(slaggard mud-heap of dead Detroits)

Antoine de Saint-Exupery had it

that, 'In life there are no solutions,

there are forces in motion; create

them and the solutions will follow.'

That was sort of start-up new-agey

self-help talk back then. It took

place, a phrase like that, before

some of the world's more crazy

monstrosities took place. Hitler.

Hirohito. And the rest. So much

for planning your own solutions.

No matter; the long road of life  -

which is exactly pretty short  -  is

sorrowful and mostly deserves

more neglect than it's given. The

idea of chasing all these dreams

and solutions is crazy. What I

mostly learned is that the best

bet is to just shut-up and pull

everything in close. Concern

yourself only with the moment

you're in, the absolute circle

where you are standing. I don't

think much else matters, and

the rest is just pushing product:

'Buy this, for that, and it will

solve those other things too.'

-

That's my foray into self-help.

Back in the 1950's, from what

I can recall, Bayonne people,

and Avenel people too, and

amazing as it all sounds now,

the route most taken to maintain

the sort of equilibrium that any

of the New Age and Self-Help

patter seeks, was, basically,

cigarettes, alcohol, and sex. And

everybody was in on it  -  and

that's the era now that you keep

hearing of as having given us all

that great industrial might, the

smokestacks and the machines

belching smoke and fire producing

a thousand things everyone was

told they needed, and giving us

that grand, golden age, of new

housing, expansion, colleges and

education, miracle drugs and cures,

inventions, developments, new

machines and labor-saving devices,

and so much or. A regular Golden

Era of might and value. All built

on what are now considered three

of the worst vices we have. Sex.

Smoking. Booze. Good God, you'd

now have to think they were all

doomed, by today's standards. But,

you know what, I guess they were.

They're all dead, and that might

and fury is all now a slaggard

muck-heap of dead Detroits, drug-

addicted, tattooed troglodytes, and

overly-sensitive grown-up mall

rats. Back in 1945, a war guy

could get all the smokes he wanted,

plus free college. But first he had

to fight in a gruesome war. Now,

they want ti give it to the current

crop of needle-nosed phone kids,

for free for doing nothing, except

maybe being sensitive, ambiguously

sexual, and without a care.

That's worth.....something?

-

It's funny too, how the American

world just sort of exploded about

1965. We had, (I say 'we,' but I

still discount myself. I mean

'America,' our land, etc. even

though it's not that any more

either), by that point, just

about every marvel needed,

in the pre-computer age anyway.

Princess phones, recliners and

motorized sofa-swings, instant

food, cures and drugs, big

buildings, etc. And then we

just quit it. We became fools

and jerks. We had a few dead

heavies  -  President, Senator,

leaders, weirdos  -  and by 1970

it had all turned to crap. What

we had, we no longer even cared

about or wanted. We were done,

while Europe was just getting

started. Coming slowly back off

the balls of its ass with all that

wartime ruin and destrcution,

they realized they had nothing,

and all they saw was all that we

had, and THEY decided they

then waned it too! So the second

go-round ensured. The dazed and

fractured Americans no longer

had a clue. They didn't know

what they wanted; they didn't

know, and couldn't understand

either, why any of those freaky,

small-car Europeans would want

the junk we just gave up on.

But they did want it, and so

we continued to produce it.

It kept everybody busy. And

then the same thing happened

again with the Asians  -  all

those crazy billions. They too

wanted to come up to speed.

Now the 'Euros' got involved.

Multi-nationals. Empires of

Corporations and Financiers to

set it all up, Advertisers to push

it and make shit up about it all,

tourism, flight, travel, disposable

crap. Americans were befuddled

nervous-breakdown freaks by this

time  -  the 'Louds' of TV fame  - 

and they interrupted their own

franchise for some 12 years of

useless carnage in Vietnam,

Laos, Thailand, and Cambodia.

Nothing like war to keep the

product going.

-

When I was at St. George

Press, in the late 1980's,

Merck Co., then based

fully in Rahway, was

going through a major

growth surge and we'd

get any number of their

up and coming college

grad newbies each in

charge of their own little

departments. These guys

were all polish and

professionalism, the up

and coming executives of

their day. They worked,

for graphics and art/design

and printing purposes under

a guy named Warren Behan.
He was the graphics Manager
for Merck's in-house printing. 

A cool name which I always

got a kick out of. Not

Brendan Behan, the writer;

this was Warren. He retired

soon after. But these guys

all considered it a vast

promotion and career

advancement to be sent

for 2 or 3 years, to Merck

in Japan. That was the growth

field, the fast-track to their

advancement, and that transfer

meant they were making it.

I don't know where any of

them are now; Now they're 

maybe all burned-out wrecks,

or suicides. But I hope it

all worked for them. When
they got that assignment for
Japan, they knew they were 'in.'

-

It just all goes to show, New

York, Tokyo, Brussels, Beijing,

(Peking, then), and any of those

other, newer, world-cities, they

all stepped forward and took

their places. I never, ever did

think of NYC as failing or

falling behind, and pretty

much it was all I knew  -  that's

where my 'History' lines were,

the evidences of the past, the

tales and stories of the people

and places I'd learned about.

It was OK for me, and I never

needed 'motion' or 'solution.'

Like I put it before, I just drew

it all in, stayed close, and

pulled in tight. America

changed mightily; not me.

- 

It was funny to be aware of 

to be witnessing that change

as it happened. It probably 

happens in that same way for

everyone  -  worlds change

around all of us and only the

personal details of what we see

and note are any different. But,

this was for me, the miraculous.

The dead seventies were over.

The eighties held a theme-less

brush with themselves (which

I'll be getting to subsequently)

and the nineties and beyond

hadn't really beckoned. Once

my own 'world' had caught up

to George Orwell's '1984' and 

then rolled right past it, I wasn't 

sure what to expect. 2001, a

Space Oddity, yet to come?

-

I've always felt that everyone

else made it. I'm the complete

failure 'round these parts.

---

(part two next. Al Capp.

Charles Dickens. Comic

books and comic graphics

in America as it changed).

11,864. CHESS

CHESS

When I invented palpitations, I

gave them to the King. 'These

make everything seem to go

faster,' I said. The King smiled

and took one down. He was

spinning in a roadshow of his

own in a simple matter of

minutes. 'I'm off now; going

to North Carolina this way,

can I take your Queen?'

11,863. THE SCIENCES OF DEATH

THE SCIENCES OF DEATH

They make bilge; trampolines

carried over the rainbow, the

atoms of mercy and death collide.

They make road cars wherein the

corpses may ride. Everything blue

is blue again. And then?

-

A doctor wears a garlic rope,

dementia carries his torch and the

local ladies laugh back, hoping they

won't catch what he's taking away.

-

I can't give you anything but shoves,

baby. The sciences of death have

beaten me to it.

11,862. RUDIMENTS, pt. 727

RUDIMENTS, pt. 727

('one fell swoop')

'If all men are brothers,

then their natural state is

fratricidal warfare.' That's

pretty sensible and  very

straightforward too  -  it

means one man against

the other, 'til death. I

always fought concepts

and implementations of

things that back that up  -

military; armies; law and

order. Man's real test is

one of 'Harmony,' not

'Distress.' Forget all that

rotten stuff; humans need

to get it together enough

to co-exist and go-it in a

'together' routine. That's

hard, in light of economic

differences, cultural and

housing, and school

differences too. Refusing

to admit those differences

exist is a part of the

problem all on its own.

-

It seems to me  -  general

observation, and I usually

watch for this kind of stuff  -

that the dumber a person is,

the longer it takes them to

get out of their car. That's

harsh, but I'll stand by it.

It works, in the same way,

for getting into the car and

leaving, but I'm not to

discuss that  -  my concern

is in the leaving. I generalize,

here too, but it's a very precise

generalization, paradoxically,

and I'm not just trying to be

funny. One of the higher,

or 'smarter' attributes of life

is efficiency; to make the least

amount of motion do the most

amount of work. It's a concept,

perhaps some ergonomic BS

too, something Accenture would

go on about (that's a management

efficiency company that snoops

into people's business and tells

'corporate' where they can achieve

savings and gains, oftentimes by

adding more to what people must

do, or by getting rid of them

altogether). In about 2005, Barnes

& Noble began that  -  bringing

efficiency people in. They'd stand

around like brute-force know-it-alls,

and stare  -  to watch the staff and

their movements and motions  -

receiving room people, books

handlers, etc. It was galling. Over

time, everyone comes to terms

with what they're doing, or must

be doing, and they find a natural

and 'personally' efficient and

self-rewarding way to do it. What

ensues is self-satisfaction and

joy and happiness in the doing

of the work. What I notice about

these car people the way they

enter the car, as if already ready

to leave, and then find 5 minutes

of other things to do before any

forward motion occurs about

the actual leaving : the phone 

gets checked, the hair reviewed, 

the handbag gets entered, things 

are inspected, brought out, etc., 

and put back, something on that 

phone demand attention, a call 

is sent, lips and face need 

attention in the mirror, the car 

(finally) gets started but further 

activity ensues. Nothing else

happens. 4 or 5 minutes can 

ensue, and I've seen such things

even with another car waiting

for the spot. It simply seems

to boil my sense of smoothness.

(Here's the scoop : Since I don't

usually enter stores, I spend

a lot of time, with my dog, 

waiting myself, but on foot,

observing the things that go

on around me).

-

It's all probably nothing and

in my head alone, unsettling

only to me. But that's how I

am. My father was frenetic,

so maybe I've got engrained

in me some genetic coding for

'get it done' and in a flash. I

have no other means of

reflecting : It's what I am.

Yet, at the same time, it

brings me interesting rewards,

my own small subtext to

living  -  the commentaries 

of my being. It seems I can

do no other thing but bring

this all back, re-filtered, as

it were, through only what 

I am now.

-

I've had some funny moments 

though,  things with my father,

back then. I was always very

foreign territory to him, once

I hit my 'stride'  -  pathetic

though it may have been. That

stride cause a definite divide,

the the chasm that morphed

into an abyss never really closed

up. I've related a few of the old

tales  -  the fake drug buy offer

at 509 e11th, a prank which

my upstairs friend Billy Joe

pulled on my unwitting father.

The ticket at the Studio School

from when he simply parked 

out front and where he chose 

and the devil be damned. The

ticket ensued, and how angry

he became. The abandoned

cars, the blown engines, the

Mexican cops, and more.

Much more. My father was

always at command of his

own peculiar form of anarchy

and pay back  -  taking seeming

offense at most everything, as

if, say, in the case of the parking

ticket, all of NYC had gathered

together to make the violation

and produce the ticket and fine,

just so as to antagonize and call

out HIM. It was a never-ending

response to offense and injury,

most often where nothing of the

sort existed at all. I often tried

thinking back to what it must

have been like as he 'grew up'

through the same sorts of ideas 

and sensations  -  which seemed

fairly general, as well, in others,

but the gulf was too wide, I was 

never able to visualize it, nor

bridge that gap. I don't think

he could ever have been me, nor

me him. Maybe it's like that

everywhere, and anyway, who'd

really want to be like their own

parent, if all truth be told. The

changes and the alterations

overall, seem to be far more

important than any 'alikes'

or similarities.

-

My father used to work at his 

upholstery trade, all day long,

with a mouthful of upholstery

tacks, the little, black kind, and a

magnetic, thin-tipped, specialized

hammer for the upholstery trade.

He'd have 10 or 20 of the tacks

in his mouth, and with a swift

(efficient!!) move he'd swipe

the hammer quickly and perfectly

up to his lips, and the magnetic 

end would always come back with

a tack at the ready, point out, for

the hammering. One swell foop,

as they say, one continuous

motion. Always without fail that

I ever saw, and without ever

swallowing a tack, that I ever

knew about. It all used to amaze

me. That, and the radio always

playing  -  WNEW AM, a sort

of ballroom or crooner music 

of the 1940's and '50's. Julius

LaRosa, Frank Sinatra, Ella

Fitzgerald, Vic Damone, and

more, and on. Music not worth

spit. Hammer-mouth full of

nails, or not.

11,861. THE DREADNAUGHT IN THE SERVICE BAY

THE DREADNAUGHT 

IN THE SERVICE BAY

One of the most fascinating WORDS

I ever ran across was the 1906

BRITISH word used for one of

their heavily-armed military ships

that sailed the many seas when old
Brittania ruled the world.

-

DREADNAUGHT, as in 'Fear

Nothing.' Large-caliber weapons 

at the beam of a huge, broad ship.

11,860. YOU WERE MY MOTHER?

YOU WERE MY MOTHER?

In another life, so the story goes,

things that now cannot be, were.

Everything has its opposite in that

other kingdom. But if the opposite

there is the opposite of here, what's

the opposite of what's there? Here?

That doesn't seem right  -  it's too

much work for natural things, and

crazy options never materialize.

-

I want to find another way : ride a

without any sound. Play cards with

some gas-station guy who's a genius

in disguise. Mention 'unleaded' to him,

and he goes on about what you're

not saying. He reads Beatles' songs, 

and plays books by Mark Twain.

-

You were my what? In another life?

Where? And in what other life? Tell

me now, I really need to know.

11,859. JUST ANOTHER

JUST ANOTHER

Tumbling dice, and Lady Jane.

A bunch of old crap still lodged

in my brain : where were we going,

and where were we all coming from?

Boy, I'd like to know about that.

-

Just another secret under the sheets

of that idle bed. Take that, hang

my hat. They're having a nor-easter

down south, and up north the tropical

winds blow. Apples are growing on 

pineapple trees  -  finer distinctions

than that cannot be. I'm going home.

11,858. TIME SPEEDS ALONG

TIME SPEEDS ALONG

Everything is ample to itself,

unremitting larceny, taking what

it gets : today, in the sun; tomorrow,

in rain. I can remember the idea of

force before it really meant a thing.

-

That man  -  over there  -  he opened

that book, and a skeleton fell out.

Until that point, he said, he never

realized that  -  as bones  -  we all

look alike. I said, 'I think it's slowly

evolved that way; yet still, time

speeds along.'

11,857. RUDIMENTS, pt. 726

RUDIMENTS, pt.726

(here's a proposition for you)
Many of the oddest moments
of growing up still seem to 
resound around cliches : the
older person, sweet and jovial,
cherubic and wise, bending 
down in some silly grandparent 
pose, saying things like 'What do
you want to be when you grow
up?' like it mattered to them;
like they had anything to do
with it, like they even cared. 
'Well, first I'd like to derail a
train filled with people, then
maybe go to El Paso and rob
a bank, and then, returning
home, knock out all the kids
I once knew, with a baseball
bat.' Just saying....Mostly,
what a kid has to go by is what 
he or she sees, and that's it.
-
 The law is an odd thing,

and one that I was never

attracted to. When, as a

youngster, I did send a

letter to J. Edgar Hoover

about my interest (at

probably 11 years old) in

an FBI career. I received

a fairly basic form letter

back, with I guess his

signature at the bottom,

saying how my aspirations

were notable and that my

best efforts ought to go into

school and learning and

loyalty in the continued hopes

of, at an older age, sustaining

my interest and undertaking

the rigorous course of action

needed. Oh well, at least it

didn't come with a plastic

FBI badge, and a pair of

white socks. (ha).

-

I used to send letters to lots

of places. It was an odd idea;

one of my aunts, or maybe it

was a neighbor, mentioned

to me once, in a visit  -  my

mother often had what she

called 'coffee clatches' with

neighborhood ladies and/or

visits from aunts and others.

Whoever it was made a

mention how the best way

of getting information about

cities, towns, places, counties,

etc., was to just send a letter

to the Chamber of Commerce

requesting information. She said

every place had one  -  towns

and villages, cities and counties.

The idea behind it all was a

sort of boosterism, for visitors

and for businesses, to move

there, invest in a factory, visit,

etc. I many times wrote simply

to places like, 'Clayton Chamber

of Commerce, c/o City Hall,

Clayton. Indiana' (just a made

up example). The letters always

seemed to reach them, even with

the crummy addresses as shown.

(Before zip codes. Well before

computer look-ups and internet

references). I'd get 9x12 envelopes

back, often filled with cool stuff.

packets of info, maps, history,

photos sights, notable people

and occurrences. It was very

interesting. It was a nice way

to learn.

-

Anyway, back to the law. It's

a funny thing about the law. It

doesn't exist until someone

violates it. Sort of, and awkwardly

put; but I'll try to explain. It's also

the reason, or one of the reasons,

I could never be a cop, to 'enforce'

the concept of 'Law' or a law. It's

all too cryptic and pliable. I'll

lay down here two very simple

instances, one about the law not

really existing until broken, and

the other about the uselessness

of policing  -  in a political sense.

First; in the town I'm in, there's a

law against fireworks. I've called

dispatch numerous times to again

have reiterated to me the law that

forbids fireworks in the air. That's

a curious footnote, but one that was

told to me by the desk cop (Horvath).

No fireworks are allowed (without

a permit) that leave the ground. That's

foolish in and of itself, because there

are plenty of fireworks ('blockbusters,

etc.) that are loud and resounding,

and damaging too). Stipulating only

those that fly up is dumb. But no

matter  -  because both forms go 

on here at least 3 nights a week, 

connected to no holidays, nothing 

festive, except maybe the continued 

inanity of yard barbecues, beer,

jerk-fests, and the usual assortment 

of moronic kids and adults up to 

their wee-wee pads in boredom. 

I ask, point-blank, in the call,

whether or not this is a violation

of the law, and then I say, why 

then do you have the law if 

you don't enforce it? 'Yes

sir, we'll send a car.' This has

happened twice already : the

fireworks continue, the cop

arrives, doesn't see anything

going on, no fireworks at

that moment 'underway.' The

guy denies he was doing so.

Ballsy to lie so, but, yeah. The

cop says, coming back to me,

'Sir, there's nothing I can do, I

didn't hear anything and he

denies that he was doing so.'

So I guess the law does not say

an 'officer must be present and

witness the undertaking to cite

it as a violation.' That's all pat,

and pretty cool too, if you wish

to blow off fireworks.

-

As far as concepts go, the idea

would be the same as denying a

New York City bank robbery

while in the midst of its cash

because that denial would allow

Mr. Cop to pass on acting. I grant

you it's not the same thing at all,

but I said 'concept.' The concept

of law is that it is enactable

within the conditions of the

activity which is proscribes. The

law of torts, and damages, and

personal infractions, and civil

disorder, each  -  I would think  -

owe their validity to the idea

that they are to be put into

practice. Or, as I say to Horvath,

'Why then does such a law exist?'

To excuse idiot behavior (not

mine either, wise-guys).

-

The other option of the more

strict uselessness of law and the

extreme brainlessness of a

police person is as follows, and

concerns the idea of 'Community.'

It would go like this : a small

town or village  -  or any town

or village  -  peaceful and settled

in its ways, has local legislators,

mayor and crooks, who give in to the

business and real estate interests,

as usual always seeking growth and

expansion. The old town opposes

it. All that the 'town' has ever

stood for or been about  -  and the

supposed 'history' of the place 

(which too is played up and applauded,

even in falsehoods and plaques) is

slowly being destroyed  -  as the

payoffs are put in place and into

effect  -  variances and zoning changes

are given approval (again over the

objections of townsfolk), the

requisite site clean-ups, permits

and paperworks done. The projects

begin. Areas are fenced off. Work

is underway, people are angry. The

town sends cops, to guard the

site, watch the fences, and, generally,

when you come right down to it,

protect the crooks and the thievery.

They are working for the corrupt, not

for the people who pay them  -  and

even if the cop himself opposes the

project, he has had to check his brain

at the door, to uphold the crooked

law(s) and deals. Because that cop

is (somehow) beholden by having

'sworn' to uphold the letter of the

law. It's all so ghastly as to be

untrue, and can only result in a cop

being seen as a jerk, and nothing

more. A robotic automaton running

by command. It's not that much

different, actually, than any

situation  -  Venezuela, China,

some Arab Spring uprising, or,

even, Hong Kong. People see

this, and they just end up 

wondering, 'will the police

hold, will they stay loyal to the

denounced dictator? Or will they

begin going over to the other

side, the rebels, the opposition?'

It always comes down to 'Security.'

-

Now, send that to the Chamber 

of Commerce, and see 

what they say.