RUDIMENTS 663.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 663

(ride 'em hot, and ride 'em heavy)

McSorley's is an old-time bar in

the area of Cooper Union, lower 

east side. It was once, same as

Chumley's, a dairy. Into the 1920's

there was a McSorley guy who'd

walk his tethered cow around the

block or so daily. People watched

for him, he was a fixture, as was

the old cow and the daily walk.

It represents, if you get inside, a

real piece of an old New York City

that can only be found by lingerers

and those who haunt. Like me. The

stories within are deep and thick,

as are the mementos, oddball 

statuary, crusted dust and ancient

debris. They've been cited, in fact,

once or twice, and probably even

shuttered once or twice, for clean-up

and infractions. Joseph Mitchell

wrote a great piece, part of a book,

about McSorley's, and one of its

denizens too. 'Joe Goud's Secret,'

you just have to read. And, 'Up In

the Old Hotel,' being Mitchell's finest, 

needs to be read too. McSorley's was

sternly a men-only establishment,

until about 1969, I remember well,

when women were begrudgingly let

in. It had less to do with the actual

facts of equality and all that, more to

do with the carpet-weave of NYU

and local Village 'activas' in their

burgeoning new rights movement.

Which, somehow, took many men by

surprise. Which was odd, since the

village had always had females who were

tougher and could probably drink-down

any man around. It all fit, and the

silly issue died down quickly.

-

Sometimes I sit and wonder why

I'm writing all these things down,

memorializing a dead time, a lost

time, an empty oasis, my life. Some

of these things are downright

embarrassing too, but I forge on:

It often seemed like everything I

thought of doing required money,

an item I've never had, and thus

these things went undone. There

were times when I availed myself

as much as possible of what things

were around me to operate on

someone else's dime, so to speak.

There were the years of the 1980's

when I managed, with the sometime

help of one or two others as well, to

utilize the Barron Arts Center, here

locally, for poetry nights, reading and

presentations. Each was presented

in the aim of furthering my ideal of

bringing things TO others, that they'd

not normally have. It was never genius

stuff, don't understand me, but we

did a lot of good, all forgotten now.

I always wished to open a school

too, my own kind of academy. I had

it all planned out - books, my set

curriculum, plans, assignments, etc.

That never materialized either, nor

did the art-space and gallery I wanted

to open. As it turned out, all somewhat

perversely, now the only way this

stuff gets done is by the whims of

local in-place government. They 

have the cheap audacity, using tax 

money, to implement such things, 

call them 'Arts' this and 'Arts' that,

hire a bunch of flamer freaks to

run it, and it has nothing whatever

then to do with Arts at all. Nothing

progressive or even good is ever

brought out from or by it, just a

piss-fest of tax money turned into

antics and belittlement. In the case

here now of where I live, it's so far

over the edge as to almost defy

comment. A Mayor with a brain the

size of a caterpillar-turd manipulates

the strings, and the orchestrated (not

yet castrated) puppets dance.

-

It was apparent to me early on that

the American Experiment had failed

dismally. I was in an existential black

hole already by 1961. The Mayor and

Council even then was on its way to

being behind bars, and nothing of that

has changed. But what had changed

is the chilling fabric of the weave of

the sort of drivel people wear - in their

buying of suppositions and pretense.

That's a major, major, failing, and

one any Founding Father would never

have assayed. America's own Tom

Paine said that each man has divided

loyalties as a citizen of his place and

of the United States. He stands in a

two-fold order of his loyalties. By

his rank in the one, he is made secure

with his neighbors; by the other, with

the world. The one protects his domestic

safety, supposed, from internal robbers

and injustice; the other his foreign

and remote property from piracy

and loss and invasion.

-

For myself, at this late date, I feel

that we have been let down, and

miserably so, by the efforts, against

our failures, of the successes of the

usurping powers that be. The nation

we are left with is a disgusting shambles,

and the local 'places' we live, in the

same way, have been destroyed. All 

that we are given are ignorant morons

professing procedure and Robert's

Rules of Order by which to run the

meetings which pull that wool over

out eyes. We are left with nothing, 

yet no on lifts a finger to resist.

Three blocks from my own home 

one of the usurpers lives and has 

the authority, for some ignominious,

inglorious, reason, to parade and

lord over the affairs of his fellows,

and get away with it all. Back in

Metuchen, in my day, I had a 1980

neighbor who called himself Russ

the Dane. His home was located

at a perfect cross-point of parkland,

lot depth, and corner crossing nearby

so that he was afforded privacy and

some grand American freedoms. They

would have a fire-pit burning, Summer

nights, banjos and ukuleles, singing,

harmonicas wailing, all these great

into-the-deep-night open sounds of

transplanted southerners. Amazingly

enough, one day, a feud with some

neighbors across the street had their

lawn set afire. 'Jes a little sprinkle

of gasoline, all it took! It burns

itself out quick!'

-

In NYC, oddly enough, many of 

these very old, and even colonial 

era points could still be found; 

places where famous things had 

occurred : the Tontine Coffee 

House location, the old India

Club, and Fraunces Tavern. 

The Slave Revolt of 1712-1719. 

These were all real places and 

sacred spots to me and I often

made the little treks on my own,

retracing steps I'd read about,

and envisioning whatever I could

of the other and old day. Ninety

percent of everything now was

gone, and people didn't think.

Completely unawares, there

was no one about.

-

I simply was living out of my

element, and it almost seemed

as if I was lost. One time just

outside of McSorley's there were

maybe 5 or 6 of us, with motorcycles,

drunk and toasted, trying actually

to ride. My friend, unfortunately,

come barreling through at that

moment on his motorcycle and

careens into mine, sending it, and

me, bit no harm, into the side of a

stretch limo there sort of double

parked, waiting for his little crowd of

revelers or bachlorettes or whatever,

to come back out. The driver was

a sort of half-conscious foreign

dude who was as perplexed as

me. Getting myself up to check

my motorcycle, he too comes 

over to check the car, and me - 

the door was punched in some.

He shrugged and was ready to

let it all go claiming to be able to

make a report for fleet insurance

that it was some driving mishap.

Unfortunately at that time tomatoes

start coming down on us from a

nearby rooftop. Truly. Our noise

and commotion had annoyed the

tenement neighbors (who probably

heard such crap all the time) and

that was their way of telling us to 

get lost. Unfortunately, they'd

also called the cops who just then

arrived. In horrible condition,

I got myself together and was

told by one of our riders (a cop,

who often rode with us, as cover)

to beat it, and he'd take care of the

rest. He traded some cop favors, 

and got us all of the hook, and

I took off. Solo. Drunk. And at 

speed. I got to the Holland Tunnel,

which was traffic-deep, and inside

the tunnel I began riding up

between cars, but at one of the 

curves I managed to hit a car;

slight enough to remain up,

ding his front right just a bit,

and my own bike too. (This 

is all true stuff, trust me). I

took off between cars. Days

later I received a packet from

the Port Authority Police with

security camera photos, etc.,

purporting show my what 

occurred. The guy was from 

Cranford, about 70, and was 

a pilot, en route back home

from one flight place or another.

The license plate, yes, was

visible, and was mine, but I

made no claim of being the

unrecognizable, leather-jacketed

and helmeted driver on the

bike. Also true, I said I had

a number of motorcycles and

that I 'ran' a motorcycle club

and various people use them.

That may have been my plate,

but it wasn't me.

-

It was a real shot in the dark.

My local lawyer, Andrew 

Prince, said I was plum loco. 

But, it worked! Nothing further

ever occurred. Talk about

manipulating things, taking

facts and action into your 

own hands, and 'banjoing the 

ukelele play' of America; I'd 

somehow made myself into

a class-A jerk whiz. And I 

didn't even have to light any

lawn on fire.