Tuesday, November 29, 2011

A bed to believe in.

The season of Advent is one of joyful anticipation.  On the 8th day, it was furnished...
A bed to believe in.
Imagine lying awake tucked in and sleepy, but anticipation keeps tugging you from the edge of slumber.  Tomorrow will be better than your mortal mind can imagine.  The Hillsdale Man will be knocking tomorrow.  Free shipping is a kind of miracle.  He’ll be bringing a Morgan Twin Size Duo Panel Headboard.  Forty-six inches isn’t too high a point on which to pin one’s hopes.

Once upon a fortnight, a baby was born in a barn.  The door was left open.  

The advent calendar is full of chocolates, one for every day.  Tomorrow will be a banana split.  There may be more than one place in which to be born, but there is also only one way to sleep in style.  The Hillsdale Man is coming tomorrow.

Anticipation makes the best sauce.  When every day is already sweet, a surfeit of joy is not out place.  The only thing that could make it better is a good night’s rest.
Mele Kalikimaka
The heart blooms like a tulip painted, trompe l’oeil, by a Dutch Master, when its owner slumbers peaceably in a beautiful bed.  The bud has not yet burst its bloom.  It may happen when you least expect it, or it may happen tomorrow.  This is the season of hope.   A fully-welded, tubular design mirrors the pattern of one epiphany unfolding from another.  Durable, powder, dark gray finish will never be sullied by things that go bump in the night.  A tree grows in Brooklyn.  The American Beauty rose has no thorns.
Imagine lying in bed, knowing that tomorrow you will be sleeping like an angel, resting against a headboard as graceful as a seraphim’s wing.  It could be you.  Some harps have optional fretboards.  The Morgan Twin Size Duo Panel Headboard does.
Every December brings gifts that nourish the spirit.  This is one of them.  
A simple lotus.

Thanks to everyone who is enjoying One-Way Thursday, which came early again this week.  WK is loathe to commit to a One-Way Tuesday, so let's just keep calling it One-Way Thursday, knowing it will fall between Tuesday and Thursday.  Every Wednesday is Sunday at Carvel.  Yippee the Whale is not going to argue with Fudgey the Whale about the constraints of the calendar.

Friday, November 25, 2011

The conceptual artist's lament

Living the life of Kerouac and Pottsy Webber at the same time.
A little beat poetry today.  More like beat doggerel.  It's against the law to beat a live dog, but you can beat a dead one to your heart's content.  Keeping with the Thanksgiving theme (Ed. note: Thanksgiving was yesterday] Whalehead Amalgamated Enterprises, GmbH, etc, is proud to present.....

The Conceptual Artist's Lament.

I didn't know domesticated turkeys cannot fly,
and so my project,
the one that was supposed to make my name,
was a painful belly flop.

Now I stick to Wild Turkey.

I have plenty of ideas,
all of them impractical.
I will die.

-With a tip of the fedora to whoever wrote that Thanksgiving episode of "WKRP in Cincinnati," 

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Nothing to do with Sarkozy or Merkel.

There is more than one way to be say grace... [ One Way Thursday comes early this week by popular demand. -WK]

Continental styles on American shores.
Every American should be thankful for the peace we enjoy within our shores, just as Silvio Berlusconi has plenty to be thankful for.  Berlusconi knows how to do the "bunga-bunga."

After Veterans Day passes, Americans tilt our heads in the direction of Thanksgiving.  On the eleventh day of the eleventh month in the eleventh year, at eleven minutes past eleven o’clock AM, 111111, 1111 in military time, peace was declared.  It is right to give thanks and gratitude to Providence.

There is a penthouse suite in Rhode Island's capitol city that is called, informally, the “Berlusconi Rumpus Room.”  It overlooks Brown University, up on College Hill, off Power Street.  Italy’s premier bunga-bunga practitioner has often been overheard to say that Providence is his favorite place outside his mother’s arms.  The people who live here understand the attraction.  They live it every day.
The stalwart citizens of Providence, of good dissenting stock, gather round the table in distinctive style.  No stern, puritan ways for them.  Instead, their dining room set is the Legacy Classic Orleans 7pc Dining Set in Golden Brown.   Rich finish, refined lines, and an open inset of tangles...  We could be describing the quintessential, stereotypical New Englander.  The whole picture takes on a different meaning in Silvio Berlusconi’s, presumed favorite city.
7-piece dining room set in golden brown.
It takes a special man to be head of state.  Not everyone can be Roger Williams.  Somebody has to be Silvio Berlusconi.  A cranberry needs its sourness sweetened to make its sauce savory.  A Thanksgiving meal has many flavors.  Would you prefer dark meat or light?  Breast or thigh?  The dressing is in one's eyes.
Carve the turkey.
Brown without gold is verdigris.  The heart of pine makes grown men weep, and it makes women weak in their ankles.  Take six chairs and pair them with a table large enough to seat them all.  That's how they do it in the Ocean State, and it is how they do it across the ocean, at Silvio Berlusconi's Thanksgiving meal.  After all, he is known to love all things American.

There is always free shipping to Rhode Island. 

Thursday, November 17, 2011

Free ships pass in the night.

There is more than one way to tell a tale...
A ladder of light.
It is funny how the night moves.  No matter what you’ve heard, the heart is not a lonely hunter.  It has plenty of company.  When the right eyes meet, a blush will rise in your cheeks.  A pear-shaped lover can be the apple of one’s eye.  It is funny how the night moves.

One evening, I found myself in the middle of a lively fandango with a sprightly lass half my age.  A polite Lothario can be an inoffensive Casanova.  She clicked her castanets in contrapuntal time as we reeled to the guitar player’s tune.  Out of breath by song’s end, I left her to continue with gentlemen closer to her age.  I shared a bottle of sherry with my wife of many years.  It is funny how the night moves.

In the still, quiet moments after the rest of the world is asleep, Rick Perry, who requested his real name not be used, sits at his desk in the light of his Nova Escalier Table Lamp.  One thing leads to another.  An adventure leads to fond recollection.  It is a writer’s world when all is said and done, even if what is written is no more than a diary.  Ask Samuel Pepys.  How you live depends on how you shape your life.  It isn’t only smoke that makes a staircase for you to ascend, it is how lightly you enter and exit your dreams.  Theories must be tested through practice.
Every day, like every life, has its own rhythm.  Rick Perry (not his real name) lives contentedly, within the bounds of his private aspirations.  Like any earnest lover, he has an object of his chivalric affections.  Her name is Norma, and she is as plain a Jane as you ever have seen.  To him, she is the most beautiful woman in the world.  She looks lovely in lamplight.  
I’ve danced with Norma more than once.  She is not a coquette, but she doesn’t mind an amiable fandango with a harmless gentleman whose wife is watching with mindful measure.  Norma's eyes are as fetching as brushed nickel illuminated by one-hundred-watt bulbs.  Her eyes especially sparkle when Rick Perry (not his real name) enters the room.  
Every lamp has a story, and the Nova Escalier Table Lamp is no exception.  Of such things, dreams are made.  It is funny how the night moves.

New Orleans State of Mind.

Two T-Bones, head to head, make a cross. 

Four rights make a square.
Fight for your rights.

Shoot from the hip.
It is hip to be square.

Be awake.  Be aware.
Dance like no one is watching.

- 'nuff said.
Balaenius Rex!
Ape Regina!
Mare Liberum.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Every chair has a story.

She is pretty in autumn.

Every Chair Has a Story.  Poetry Inspired by One Way Furniture...

There are cities more romantic than Paris, and there are cities with more history than Rome.  Where do you live?  I’ll bet that it is a pretty nice place.
We reflect our surroundings through osmosis.  A hardened criminal can become an upright citizen after a few months in prison.  A plowman can become a painter after spending a fortnight in an atelier.  Our spirits rise to our expectations.  Our furnishings should reflect that.  

If you aim a bit higher than you would normally be inclined, you cannot help but hit your mark.  A spontaneous decision requires laying the ground rules.  Shoot from the hip.  Don’t follow fads.  A chair is just a place to sit.  You are the accent.
There are cities more stately than Washington, and there are boroughs richer than Manhattan.  Even a small city can hold more than a million, naked stories, each one worth remembering.  Where there is love, there are homes, and, where there are homes, there is beauty.  It is human nature to surround a family with beautiful things.  
Every chair has a story.
Jackson Furniture Hartwell Accent Chair in Bollywood Finish. Everyone says it proudly, and most people say it loudly.  The name says it all.  

A school marm in Ottumwa knows she sits on top of the world.  She has the world on a string, and an engagement ring around her finger.  What a town.  What a life.  She’s in love with the most handsome young man in all of Wapello County, Iowa.  A river of opportunity will eventually deliver  a perfect match upstream.
Because he is such a gentleman, everyone refers to the school marm’s fiance as “Charles of London.”  He puckers up like no Frenchman would ever dare do.  She longs to be held between her lover’s generously scaled arms.  
Where good manners are the municipal standard, good taste will reign.  A community of well-appointed homes will sleep in the comfortable bed it has made for itself.  There are cities less religious than Rio de Janeiro.  There are cities less populous than Beijing, or Mumbai.  There is only one place where anxiety is countered by faith in the present.  Home is where the heart does well.  Hartwell.

Tuesday, November 08, 2011

The days of the week as pharmaceuticals.

The last movie Groucho Marx appeared in.  Go out with a bang.
Monday is an antibiotic.
Tuesday is a hormone replacement.
Wednesday is a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory, NSAID, as some people like to say.
Thursday is a an anticoagulant.
Friday is a mild sedative.
Saturday is a cathartic.
Sunday is a placebo.

'nuff said.
Balaenius Rex.

Friday, November 04, 2011

One Way Furniture Thursday on Friday

Home is where the heart is.
I'm thinking about a weekly feature that I know I will be able to keep up.   I think the months that are full of posts are the best ones in the archives, so a regular feature is good practice.  I'm thinking about hosting One Way Furniture Thursdays.  Hold your applause.  It isn't written into the Constitution yet.  That's why we are celebrating Thursday on Friday, today.  Hip-hip-hooray!

I am  a simple man with simple tastes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy reading a good furniture catalogue in the lulls between my adventures.
Not every opera is an epic.  There are categories outside comedy and drama.  There are topics more commonplace, that touch us every day.  There is furniture.  

I have a passing interest in One-Way Furniture, and its experiment in writing interesting sales copy.  As regular readers of this blog know, I am a proponent of good writing artfully crafted with the aim of moving product while capturing the audience's imagination.  You might have to go back a few months to find the exact citation.  

Our story begins with the Chief Inspector stumbling into the apartment of the most celebrated detective mastermind in the history of good taste.  Our hero is smoking a corn cob pipe while leaning on the classically finished white mantle of his electric fireplace.  He likes to stare into the patented, flame-like effect while he warms his bones after a march on the moors.
“I need to find a way to add heat and/or ambiance into my quarters,” the Chief Inspector gasps.  As he speaks, he is comforted by 400 square feet of soothing warmth radiating from logs that appear incredibly real.  The detective’s private study always has a regal air about it.  His electric, indoor, transitional fireplace sets the tone with its touch-responsive, thermostat control technology.  Everything falls into place, like clues leading to a solution.  Great minds think best when their surroundings exceed their expectations.  
“Look no further, Inspector, your answer is right here!”  Our hero nonchalantly points the stem of his pipe at the fireplace that glows flickering with enchanting flame effects.  “I have on-demand heat, or, just a pleasant glow that is considered romantic for lovers, such as yourself and Mrs. Inspector.  It is also an aid to solitary, stoic contemplation by bachelors, such as myself.  It’s a Dimplex!”  

The detective raps the bowl of his pipe against the mantle with a hearty knock.

Balaenius Rex!

All Soul's Day, New Orleans, LA

New Orleans is very, very good.

Dwight White was down and out, asleep under the highway overpass that runs over Calliope Street.  His royalties had run out for the foreseeable future, and he had nowhere to go but up.  Some people say that New Orleans is a devils‘ playground.  Others claim that it is a paradise.  In need of some basic hygiene, and wearing the tattered costume from last month’s gig, Dwight White looked like the commanding statue of Saint John the Baptist towering in white marble on the front of Saint John the Baptist Church on Oretha Castle Haley Boulevard, formerly Dryades Street, except Dwight White was lying down wrapped in scuffed corrugated cardboard stamped with the logo of Zapp’s potato chips.  He was wearing a red, porkpie hat pulled down over his eyes.
Someone brought a full-bodied, fully cooked turkey under the overpass for a communal supper.  All of a sudden, all of Calliope Street smelled like deep-fried Thanksgiving, dark meat and light, anointed in baptismal peanut oil, crisp outside while yielding succulent under the crust for a communal repast under the overpass.  It smelled so good that Dwight White couldn’t nap without his gut waking him up.  He had to follow his nose.  He inhaled deeply.  He gave thanks.  He took a piece of turkey for his supper.
Squatted on the neutral ground, against a pillar, as passing cars made the shaded transition between O’Keefe Avenue and Oretha Castle Haley Boulevard, Dwight White noticed everyone was staring at him.  He was holding his portion of turkey over a paper plate, just about to take a bite  Everyone else under the overpass that shades Calliope Street who was eating a piece of that deeply fried, crispy-skinned, succulent turkey, stopped what they were doing.  They paused to watch Dwight White take a bite.
The passing cars slowed their commute.  Rubbernecking drivers watched, with time stood still, to see if Dwight White was going to do what he seemed to be doing.  
He did it.
He took a bite of crispy fried turkey from the piece he was given.  He bit the savory, crispy appendage that jutted most closely to his mouth.  As he chewed the skin and fat, traffic stopped moving from the East Bank to the West Bank, and vice versa.  The Crescent City was connected in a pregnant pause, a virile crescent, all for one and one for all, spontaneously, simultaneously, instantaneously, perilously ripe and ready to spring.
“He has the Pope’s nose,” people whispered, once the sound of booming eighteen-wheelers again reached Dwight White’s ears.  “He has the Pope’s nose!‘  

Wednesday, November 02, 2011

New Orleans is the City Care Forgot

Modesty is always in style, even in New Orleans, LA.

Many, little things happen in New Orleans.  They all add up.  The good buries the bad.  Not every melody is a dirge, but every melody is a march.  A cry of agony can sound the same as joy.  You can sob with laughter, or you can sob with tears.  You can cry because you are happy.  Those who are true to their heart of hearts, cannot know anxiety.  New Orleans is the City That Care Forgot.


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