Our Hero Transplanted

Whalehead King has transplanted himself to Boston, Mass. far afield from New London, Conn. Things happen and life is a tricky cookie to unfold without breaking to get at the fortune. Soak liberally in sake and plum wine. Destiny is foretold under the aegis of a blue moon in the afternoon. Our hero's peid-a-terre has become his permanent address for awhile. He sits on the porch under the scorching sun, working on his tan (he is still in competetion) and bleaching his haircut in the late July rays.

Boston is a good city in which to be a medical biller and coder, and it is a good city in which to be a writer and artist. It is a good city in which to be an eccentric, even if Whalehead King is twenty years older than most of the college students who throng Boston's sidewalks after hours.
Jack Kerouac came from Lowell, Mass. This seminal influence was featured in yesterday's Sunday Globe. Mr. King feels his beat blood rising and pumping ready for a challenge.

Whalehead King has settled in Fourth Haven, the neighborhood a few blocks along Dorchecster Avenue off the JFK/UMASS T[**] stop between Savin Hill and Andrew Square. He is making the most of this low-key adventure, chronicling what happens and keeping busy enmeshing himself in his immeadeate day-to-day surroundings. If he had a paying job, it would be better, but even a minor genius cannot ask for too much in three weekdays.

We do not know if Boston has a bard, and Whalehead King doesn't really feel up to the task. He will be the Bard of Fourth Haven, perhaps. It reminds him of New London in some ways and it reminds him that he is far removed from his comfort zone in others. Either way he feels at home and suspsects everything will work out for the best. As usual, there may be ennuie, but no high drama. Time will tell what the future holds. In the meantime, Mr. King has tucked a Chinatown fortune into his wallet that he looks at every morning to uplift his spirits. The paper is an inch and a half long and a thrid of an inch wide. It reads, "You will have some kind of luck some day." The reverse says, "Bing-Chou=fried dough. Your lucky numbers are 2, 4, 6, 27 and 144."

Our hero finds good advice where you can.

**[ T is short for Metropolitan Boston Transit Authority. It is what these people call their subway. It is above ground much of the time, including the JFK/UMASS station.]

Born on July 4th

Whalehead King was thinking about teaching a foreigner a partriotic song that he learned in elemetary school. It was the Fourth of July and the spirit of George M. Cohan was dogging Mr. King. He found a jaded, internationalist European who has no understanding what it is like to love one's country. You cannot blame her.

Here is the song he proposed:

She's a grand old flag, she's a high flying flag, and forever in peace may she wave.

She's the emblem of the land I love, the home of the free and the brave.

Every heart beats true fot the red, white, and blue, and with never a boast or a brag.

Should old acquaintance be forgot, keep your eye on that grand old flag.

Well, as one would expect of a jaded European, Mr. King's friend found the song ridiculous and couldn't get through the first phrase without gaffawing. Neither one could think of something better though, so they hummed a few bars of 'Afternoon Delight' and let Independence Day wind on to its patriotic end, fireworks and all. Whalehead King wore his tricorner hat. His friend wore her 'Life is Good' hooded sweatshirt.

Mid Hiatus

Whalehead King has been in a New London State of Mind, but he hasn't spent much time in New London, Conn. That is the way the world works sometimes, and like in the alley behind Ernie's Cafe, you never know what is around the corner. It may be a tiger of a lady or it may be a beached whale. It is hard to deal with either and it takes stamina and patience and superhuman strength.

Our man in the field has been reconoitering in strange climes and waters, dipping his toes into the surf that laps muddy beaches along Dorchester Bay, Massschusetts. He has spent many hours in Taunton, Mass., a special stop in his regular journeys to the hub of the universe. Unlike New London, Conn., Taunton is landlocked and our hero doesn't understand how a city can exist without a harbor. He feels just as blinkered about Des Moines, Iowa, Oklahoma City, Okla., Austin Texas, and Cheyenne, Wyo. Mr. King has never been to Philadelphia, Penn. It is one of the few places in America this minor, urban bard has left univestigated. It is too far from the ocean and inconveient when our hero is navigating the Eisenhower National Highway System.

Taunton, Mass. has more 1950s-era Chinese restaurants than any other place our continent-wide traveller has ever visited. They have signs in faux, chopstick calligraphy that advertise American and Chinese specialties. Mr. King passes through and admires the anachronistic restaurant design. He only imagines what chop suey treats are on the menues. He stops at Henry's Root Beer House. He pulls his Littlest Ninja motorbike up to the carhop stand to enjoy the cusine with other regulars. They sit at the picnic tables under the awning, eating hot dogs and sipping non-alchoholic root beer, trading road stories. Mr. King's license plate gives away his point of origin. He has to describe the back road ride between New London, Conn. and Taunton, Mass.

Each side of Mr. King's Littlest Ninja, the odometer of which has passed 6000 miles in less than a year, bears a sticker along his faring that reads, "You have a freind in New London, Conn." Truer words were never spoken and people pick up on the promise. You make more friends when you are in a New London State of Mind. Whalehead King lets the good times roll as he rolls with the punches and takes his just desserts with an indulgent smile. Mr. King's future, like New London's has never been brighter.