A Salute to Dave Spinelli

Shhhhhhh.....

It doesn’t matter where you put the accent, but it does matter how you tilt your hat.  Everyone is a Berliner.  Everyone is a pilgrim.  Tying a bow tie is like tying a shoe.

An orca can devour a giant squid.  I saw it in a diorama in a museum.  I saw it in a movie.  I saw it in a dream.

If you are going to walk like a man, come out swinging.  If you are going to talk like a man, make it good.  If you get better than you give, the taste of a split lip is worth it.  War is a kind of poetry, and, needless to say, war is hell.  When a howling commando fights the good fight, he or she earns a medal forged from the alloy of a nation's gratitude.

When you’re bowling candlepins in a private, automated, basement bowling alley on State Street, the champagne factor can go to your head.  When you are rolling the bones on the bar at the veterans' club, the commotion at the shuffleboard table drowns out everything else.  This is what it sounds like when gulls cry.  


You can count bats in the jungle, but you can’t do it after dark.  Sometimes, home ways is best ways, even when the drinks are on the house and you have two on the bar.  Home is where the heart is.

A whale swims deep.  A pilgrim travels far.  Both play for keeps, doubling down on themselves, collecting the winnings, sharing the wealth.  

Fairfield County is one part of Connecticut.  New London County is its opposite.  The geographic center of the Constitution State is in Berlin, Hartford County, Connecticut, USA, the Provision State.  Ever heard of it? 

Whatever swamp or jungle a pilgrim finds himself or herself in, there is a way to go about things.  It is easy.  It isn’t a secret.  It is as easy as tying a shoe.  

Qui Transtulit Sustinet.  Who Transplants Sustains.  Everyone goes where they come from.

A city of weirdos

People in New Orleans don't act in public the way I expect respectable people to act.  They are histrionic, maudlin, stumbling, eloquent, passionate, friendly.  They are talkative.  They say I have an accent, but when I listen to them I think the reverse is true.  I'm in the minority, a stranger in a strange land.

Where I'm from, Connecticut most of my life, but most recently Boston, people are buttoned down and stoic.  You don't wear your heart on your sleeve and you don't say what you mean with any feeling.  For the past three days I've been trying to immerse myself neck deep in New Orleans.  I haven't been to the French Quarter and though I've run into tourists, I haven't made tourist destinations my destination.  I've tried to stick to the edges rather than the core economy.  This makes me a kind of tourist, I suppose.  I plan on spending many, many years here but as a stranger I'm only getting my toes wet.  I don't have any favorite places or any routine that will probably stick.  Everything is new and I am still haven't yet had a proper baptism.

All in good time.

I've been to New Orleans before on too-brief visits.  I'll be leaving again on May 20 but returning for good on June 10.  June 10.  It can't come soon enough.  Instead of a taste, I'll be grazing on a feast.  How many marvels can a New Orleans day hold?  I intend to find out more than 365 times even accounting for leap years.

People in New Orleans don't act the way I'm used to.  They love their city, the way most citizens do, but they love it over the top.  That's to be expected.  There is no place like New Orleans on Planet Earth.  It isn't Terra Incognita.  It is Civita Infantabula, a waking fever dream, all too real and tangible, Stupor Mundi, the sublime wonder of the world.

Can you imagine your heart drowned under fifteen feet of sludge and dirty water?  Can you imagine your home decimated and then remade by caprice and bureaucracy?  Can you imagine losing all you own and trying to scrabble every bit of joy and beauty you've ever known from scratch, with only sweat and tissue paper as the mortar that holds the bricks of future promise together?  Can you pin your hopes to something as ethereal and insubstantial as good music and good food and good friends bound together in a matrix of shoddy infrastructure laid out over centuries and long past expiration?

I can't.  I'm new to New Orleans and despite the verbal pyrotechnics and strings of adjectives above, I have to be humble.  I don't know a damned thing about being a citizen of New Orleans.  I can't claim to.  I know how to be a Nutmeg Yankee in New London, Conn.  Whoop-de-doo.  Even the good people of New London don't think too much of that.  It's a great place, but it's not a place that inspires good poetry.    I know how to be a Bostonian.  I've paid my taxes and parking tickets.

I am grateful to be able to call New Orleans home.  I hope to learn about what it is to live in this Crescent City that survives, improbably, against all odds and carves a niche for itself in a world where the rules are very different from the ones New Orleans observes.

I'm in a daze.  Nothing is as it should seem.  Everything is weird.  Maybe I'm the weird one because everyone else appears as happy as I am but not one whit concerned or out of joint in the least.  New Orleans.  The Creator was daydreaming a paradise when this city was founded.  The Devil has come to town but he left without corrupting the city's purity of heart.

Bird Dogs and Gentlemen

The sap is rising. Finally. The trees are flowering, the cat birds have come north to roost. Worms are churning the topsoil and the grass is the green, green grass of home. Ah, Boston!

The turn of the weather today made a lot of gentlemen linger on street corners. It was a fine day for girl-watching. Skin is starting to be exposed. Not everyone has unpacked thier shorts and bikinis but hems are rising and sleeves are no longer full length. The down coats have been mothballed, thank goodness.

Pretty women are everywhere out and about, taking the streets by storm. Boston is full of eye candy and a virile man's thoughts turn toward the fairer gender. He can't help himself with so many pretty specimens walking the sidewalks. Some tips for potential bird dogs:

1.) Don't wear mirrored sunglasses. a.) Even if you have mastered the peripheral stare, ladies suspect what you are doing. b.) If you haven't mastered the peripheral stare, you look like a damned fool staring head-on at a woman while wearing mirrored sunglasses. c.) If you are not a cop or prison guard, why are you wearing mirrored sunglasses? Do you really want to intimidate lovely ladies by looking like a damned fool out of uniform?

2.) Women are more than a pair of breasts. When you look at them, look at the whole package. you won't seem like a fetishist and you will enjoy the many attributes female beauty embodies. Look the ladies in their eyes. You won't seem so much a creep. This doesn't apply if you wear mirrored sunglassses while you do it.

3.) Women are not just an attractive body or a pretty face. It takes a lot of work to make everything ship-shape. Admire a woman's clothing. Steaks are sold more for their sizzle than their meat. If you like an all-you-can-eat buffet, sloppy dressing may appeal to you. A true connosieur admires a woman's shoes. Ladies put a lot of thought into their outfits and they appreciate attention paid to thier footwear.

4.) A woman can have snaggle teeth and they can be charming. Nothing beats a confident, cheerful smile. Look a woman in the mouth when you look at her. There is plenty to admire and plenty to learn about a potential paramour. A piece of spinach between incisor and gum means she eats healthily. A gangrenous blotch of osteonecrosis means you probably don't want a kiss, no matter how bouncy her breasts.

5.) Muttering, "Nice choppers" is never overheard as a compliment. The same is true of "nice stems," or other unprintable things. Keep your thoughts to yourself no matter how strongly you feel them. Play your cards close to your vest.

Reasons Not To Lend Your Scooter

The Berlin Pilgrim asked to borrow Whalehead King’s little motor scooter to run errands about town. The Berlin Pilgrim has traveled across the country on a motorcycle sleeping wherever his exhaustion got the best of him in landscapes both pastoral and lunar. A little motor scooter would seem to be a toy for someone who has crossed a continent with more horsepower between his legs and more hurdles in his path than New London’s streets can offer even during rush hour.

The scooter in question, made by Honda, has the apt model name, Metropolitan. It sits inches off the ground, runs on an automatic transmission, is whisper quiet at full throttle, and handles like a magic carpet. It is seductive. Its maximum speed of 35mph seems like an effortless slide alongside a slipstream. The surroundings go by with enough time to notice the details and beauty along the route. Do not let appearances deceive you.

Whalehead King isn't about to let any novice take the Metropolitan for a spin. As its name implies, this is a model of scooter that requires sophisticated understanding to master its operation. A motor scooter is not a toy; it is a responsibility to be taken seriously, with every sense sharpened to a keen edge.

The Berlin Pilgrim had to hoof his way to the apothecary and the cobbler. As he headed home toward the southern end of the city, it started to rain on Howard Street. By the time he had reached the second rotary, it had started to hail golf ball-sized stones. It is springtime in New England and anything can come out of the sky In front of Stash’s The Berlin Pilgrim was struck by lightning. Finally inside his building and headed to the front door of his condo, he slipped on the top step and went tumbling down two flights of stairs. He crawled to his door and finally managed to crawl to the phone. He called Whalehead King and cursed him out royally. Imagine what would have happened to the scooter if Mr. King had lent it out.

Elm City Invasion!!

There is a loosely named, loosely organized, "New London School of Poetry." It is basically a dozen writers who gather every Sunday to enjoy each other's production. New Haven is popularly known as the cultural capitol of the Nutmeg State. New London is the cultural capitol of Southeastern Connecticut. It is time for New London to claim a new coronation.

New London's writers are fixing their bayonets. The men are pinning cockades to thier caps and the women are pinning carnations in New London's colors into corsages. There is going to be a convoy from the Whaling City to the Elm City. Writers of New London, unite! You have nothing to gain but your due!

New Haveners tremble at the thought of plucky, spunky, talented, take-no-prisoners, New Londoners are headed their way. Grand ideas, eloquently put, full of rolling vowels and pregnant pauses will be deployed against the fey, pretentious New Haven style. A rough and tumble bout of wits and have-baked lines will tussle and scuffle in the ivy-clad environs of New Haven. New Londoners like to deploy a shiv and a razor when they split hairs and parse sentences.

There's going to be a convoy. Breaker-breaker. Smokies will be on the I-95 ready to intercept the parade and stop the literary carnage. Get ready New Haven, New London is ready to take control and take charge and claim the crown.

Weather for Folderol

Today at about 1:45 on a crisp afternoon, a young couple dressed like matching sofa cushions in down coats, were sliding along the ice in the empty lot in front of Shaw's Cove One. The taller of the pair (we assume it was the male) was carrying three blue, helium-filled balloons. The shorter of the two (again, we assume it was the female) clung so tightly to her companion that they couldn't take a straight step.

This area was originally water when New London was first settled. Shaw's Cove was filled in over the years until it became the office park that it is today. You will notice: However dry it is inside the Shaw's Cove office buildings, the lawn is as soggy as a bog. Because the land is so wet, on days like today it becomes a sheet of ice puncutated by the last upright spears of grass.

This cold weather promotes run-on sentences and pointless journalism. It has been one month after the Kream Kollision, the challenge between The Berlin Pilgrim, Mr. David Spinelli, and Mr Matthew "Whalehead" King. Spinelli and King have chillblains and they need to write them out. The follow-up duel has been declared.

It all started on Hygienic Night. Mr. King, blunt as always, told Mr. Spinelli he should dress more like a dandy and less like a track star. Mr. Spinelli, never one to lose his cool, took a long sip of Old Yankee Ale and said to Mr. King, "The day I dress like you is the day I write like you. Don't forget who gave you a komeuppance a few weeks ago. Maybe I should be giving you advice."

Well, to summarize, Mr. King's fedora ended up in Mr. Spinelli's face with an offer to eat it. The two agreed to a rematch. The format will be the same: three poems, three topics, half page each. Yesterday, Mr. King relayed two themes to his rival. Mr. Spinelli gave his suggestion. The event will take place at Joyce Ellen Fine Arts, Masonic Street, New London at 3:00PM on Sunday, February 18th. This time the loser has to shave his head.

Kollision Results!

Well, it wasn't boring. Everything unfolded New London Perfect! The Berlin Pilgrim v. Whalehead King in a sparring match of poesy. Excitement was at a fever pitch. No one could wait for a warm-up act. The first line on the bill was reserved for these two gladiators of the spoken word. The combatants opened Open Mike Night with a bang.

On a stage improvised to look like a druid altar complete with evergreen and holly, Mr. King introduced the challenge. A murmur of anticipation swept through the crowd like the courtroom at a murder trial. A video camera was set up to record this moment for posterity. The Berlin Pilgrim took the floor while Mr. King sat back at a respectful distance. The verbal fireworks began.

To listen to the crowd gathered to watch this contest, you would have thought it was the Fourth of July if you didn't knnow it was January 17th. The cries of "ooooooo!" and "aaaaaaah!" sometimes drowned out the combatants as they read their work aloud. By the end of the tournament, both Spinelli and King were hoarse trying to be heard over the applause and the boos.

So who won? There is no definitive answer. The jury is out. We could watch the video and replay the highlights to make a decision, but remember: the night was New London Perfect. Someone left the lenscap on the camera. Some claim The Berlin Pilgrim upset Whalehead King during Round 2 and our hero never recovered. Others claim The Pilgrim never stood a chance and even if he made Whalehead King stumble, good ol' Whalehead remains the people's choice.

Niether competitor is happy with the outcome. Both have already agreed to a rematch in a month. Rest assured, during the next Kream Kollision someone is going to get a Komeuppance!!!

Something Spinellish Is Around.

When you walk past a gaggle of pre-teens waiting for the school bus and they call you spinellish, you can't be sure it's a compliment. Adolescents hate the idea of standing out in a crowd. Conformity to a clique is the rule. When you are spinellish, you aren't the nail that gets hammered down. You are the nail that makes the carpenter bang his thumb.

Sometimes the breeze off Long Island sound smells spinellish. It smells faintly like green tea and honey mixed with aspic and soy milk. It isn't cinnamon or clove or lemon zest. If it resembles any spice, it is closest to a hint of nutmeg.

A butterfly is spinellish while a seagull is not. A moth and a pigeon are spinellish, but not a mosquito or swan. New London, Conn has become a little spinellish in the last year. There is something spinellish in the air, something spinellish on the streets. People have begun to take on spinellish habits and to talk in spinellish ways.

A spinellish storm is brewing today. The clouds are expected to open at 8:00 PM tonight at Kream Coffeehouse, 318 State Street, New London, of course. An umbrella won't protect you.

Who Is The Berlin Pilgrim??

The Berlin Pilgim is a Nutmegger at heart. He has spent his time in odd corners of the world unimaginable to his current acquaintances. The Berlin Pilgrim is a man of the world, but he is a Nutmeg Yankee at heart.

The Berlin Pilgrim is not cosmopolitan. His travels have taken him to out-of-the-way places. He understands many dialects, but has never lost his accent. He has never gone native. He knows his limitations better than anything else, but he hasn't learned how far he should reach. He has lived in jungles, dormitories, on the road, and under the stars. He has been marveled at for being different from his surroundings.

The Berlin Pilgrim moved to New London, Conn. It is not much different from his other destinations beyond being in the Constitution State. Why would a world-traveller choose New London? Why not? You grow where you are planted. That is written in Latin on The Pilgrim's driver's license.

The Berlin Pilgrim takes notes about his travels in his journals. He impresses by keeping mum. When he speaks softly, people listen. He carries a stick more flimsy than his convictions. The Berlin Pilgrim partakes as much as he gives. The part of a fortune cookie you remember is the message in the middle, not the flavor.