RUDIMENTS 488

RUDIMENTS, pt. 488

(junk food / junk brains)

I never used to get tired,

when I was young. But I

never noticed it and just

kept going. Now I still

never get tired, but I

notice THAT. So then

I sleep a little. I also

now don't ever much

know what day of the

week it is, and I get

my weekends and

days mixed up with

each other and do

really have to think

about them. There

are only a few markers

I can go by, but I don't

have much. I guess

regular people can go

by TV shows and nights

of the week when they're

on, and that sort of stuff

is comfortable to them.

I don't live by those

markers.

-

I was reading something

today, and it reminded

me a bit of that mention

in a previous chapter

about the old, crusty

Maine guy, and those

questions. In this tale,

the writer of this book,

Nell Painter, titled 'Old

In Art School' is writing

of herself as a 67 year old

Princeton professor leaving

that job and entering art

school as an 'old' lady,

to try a new outlook and

approach to life among

the young  -   [Odd too

that her last name is

Painter]  -  she's walking

around with her father, in

western Maine. Her and

her father (who was a

voluble guy there, and

liked talking with just

about anyone), each

tended to be overweight,

and always fighting their

'belly' battles over their

weight. Her father and

her are out walking one

day and her father chatted

up a slender neighbor

working nearby in his

garden. The father was

always looking for ways

of help in his 'perpetual'

struggle with abdominal

fat. 'How do you keep your

belly down?' he asked the

guy. The neighbor's reply :

'Cancer.'

-

Well yikes on that, Nell

Painter. That one really

threw me for a loop. In

the course of this book,

(which I have to admit I

was not very fond of, in

the reading; I found many

of her points of view and

social attitudes vapid and

so politically and correctly

pointed, that I never really

felt I was reading anything

authentic), I kept thinking

of what line she was getting

near to, though I was not

able to get it. Something

perhaps 'in-between' writing

and painting, and therefore

kind of negating both, by

missing the essential point

of each. Sometimes I do

really wonder why

people bother.

-

I read a lot of stuff (you

can take that 'read' as 'red',

yes, and 'reed'  -  past and

present). In doing so, as

I've always, I keep an

eye out for the roving

points of view and the

approaches that writers

take, or use. Since like

1965, I've  developed a

lot of tricks  myself  -

very characteristic things

that make any piece of

writing identifiably 'mine.'

Digressions, assaults,

antics, aspersions,

arguments, boasts and

paradoxes too  -  you

can run that right

through all the letters

of the alphabet and

they'd each be covered.

That's what makes Swift

Swift, or Shandy Shandy,

(Sterne Sterne) or Dickens,

Faulkner, Twain, Salinger,

Roth, Bellow and anyone

else, who they are. The

irreducible particulate

matter of their own style,

whatever it may be. I've

had mine, and myself,

called every name in

the book (most often

by someone who's

claimed to 'be' everything

in the book).  It's never

rightly bugged me, and I

certainly wouldn't care.

(But I'm embarrassed for

him). I'm not bare-assed

for him, no; I'll leave

that for him to take up

with himself. How's that

go? 'Opinions are like

assholes, everybody's

got one.' It used to be

said that the pen was

mightier than the sword - 

and it is, yes, (and I love

penning bombs). But the

problem now is, no one

knows what a pen is, nor

what a sword is. Oh well.

The way it's all going

now anyway it just

should probably be

'the Pope's penis is

mightier than a sword.'

Saints protect us, and

sinners be gone.

-

When I was in NYC,

and first got connected

with that Andy Bonomo

guy  -  after I'd rented

509 e11th street  -  he

was always saying, for

the things needed in

the apartment, that I

should go to, I think

it was, 'Zuma.' Or maybe

'Azusa,' I forget. That

was then a store on

the corner of Fifth Ave.,

and w8th. Right

by the Studio School.

(It's now a long-term

cafe or eatery, having

been through various

manifestations since

my time there. In my

days before all this, the

last thing I'd ever have

known, or cared, about

was home furnishings

and decor. I was, as 

well, unable to figure 

out how and why this

somewhat shady, and

somewhat drug-dealing,

guy with all the cash

would have any interest

at all in 'fixing up' the 

place so some strange, 

vaguely oriental taste

which this store sold.

(It never really happened

anyway; turned out to be

more about incense and

cups and candle stuff).

More nonsense than

incense even. I guess I

just never did get on well.

As for myself, though I

never spoke it up, I took

offense to what I saw as

the stupid betrayal of the

immigrant and hard-side

America legacy the whole

place, had, and the building 

too. This was like ground

zero of the American

historical immigrant 

experience, where many

thousands of people had 

toiled, suffered, died, 

failed, or succeeded. And

it certainly all deserved

more than some stupid 

ashtrays with Japanese

cranes (birds) painted on

them. So easily do things

get out of control.

-

Suffice to say, I had not a

clue as to what was going

on  -  turned out Andy was

from California, where this

sort of tick-tock Asian

influence L.A. input had

a much livelier spell. The

closest I can think is of

maybe a store that was 

once around here called 

'Pier 1' which was a 

Polynesian sort of a 

mish-mash of  woven 

bamboo furniture, lava

lamps, and see-through

dressing closets, all in 

one location. With, of

course, all the legacy

left out. Whoever cared

about that crap was 

never in my book. Exotic 

shopping, for me, was 

the army and  navy surplus 

and salvage places. They 

were dotted around 

everywhere downtown  -

Canal Street, old Soho. 

There were Marine 

knives with 12 inch 

blades and sheaths, (I

used to tell the girls 'Yeah,

I know it's real, I measured 

it against myself'), used pea

jackets, boots, back packs,

bullet belts, army socks,

gloves, and flashlights too.

Seemed as if all that stuff

was all that you ever really

needed  -  fending off attack,

doing an attack of your own,

lighting up dark spaces, and

even using the 12 inches.

All for like 39 cents to, at 

most, high-end stuff at just

above 10 bucks. A veritable

paradise for the unencumbered.

'Meals-Ready-To-Eat' didn't

exist yet as a product, so never

was there anything too eat,
nothing sold as food, ever,

except maybe jellybeans,

which I hated. It wasn't 

until 1982, with Reagan, 

that they again became 

popular. Junk food for

junk brains.