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.]

Matthew King has found himself in all sorts of situations over the years. He has had escapades and exploits that would make for a good memoir. Mr. King has had lively and varied careers throughout the latter half of his life thus far. He currently holds two positions.

Mr. Matthew Gordon King hasn’t quit his day job. He is regularly employed, evidence to the contrary, in a position that requires his Social Security Number. He lives with style though few people know how he can afford to do it. His secret: He lives in New London, Conn., where your dollar goes farther.

As Whalehead King, Mr. King practices a cash-poor profession. He is the Unofficial Goodwill Ambassador and unappointed, unelected Bard of New London, Conn. While the stipend for these titles wouldn’t feed a mouse, Mr. King enjoys the prestige and intangible privileges these positions provide. Walking a mile in this pair of shoes would prove tiresome to most people, but Matthew King tries to do it with good grace while stylishly dressed, with malice toward none.

Mr. King witnesses the dawn and looks forward to tomorrow. New London is good. Life is good. Being Whalehead King is good. Being Mr. Matthew Gordon King is good. There is little room for complaint when thoughout every day in every way everything gets even better. All New London is a stage and you get to pick your role and play it as best you can. Choose wisely and juggle your obligations judiciously. Put your balance to the test. New London demands determination.

If you can make your mark in New London, you can succeed anywhere. You can be yourself and you can outstrip other people’s expectations. You can run in place or you can sprint toward a finish line cut in the sand until the tide washes it away. It is good to be whatever you want to be. Life is always a parade.

Hip-Hip New London

Firstly, a shout-out to Montauk Marketplace at 553 Montauk Avenue, New London, Conn. This is the only establishment in the Connecticut's Whaling City that offers the full line of Whalehead Library merchandise currently available. They also have a wall dedicated to newspaper clippings of Mr. King's exploits as the Bard of New London and the city's Unofficial Goodwill Ambassador and unelected mayor.

On to more serious and less commercial business. Snow brings out the best in New Londoners, especially when an intrepid soul scoots by on a little motor bike encrusted with ice and a cape billowing behind him. Yes, the littlest biker is also the most intrepid. Weather, like any other obstacle life puts in your way is just a state of mind. The Scooter Man knows this. He will not let a little slush and more than a hint of danger get in the way of his patrols.

Green Street, one of the narrowest yet most culturally important streets in New London is also one of the most neglected by the plows. There was a narrow path of wet asphalt along the east gutter. Several pedestrians offered the Scooter Man advice as to how best to navigate this rutted slush pile that is Green Street. Thank you everyone for your advice. The block was navigated without a spill and the applause was so thunderous, people stuck their heads out the window thinking a Saint Patrick's Day Parade had just passed down Green Street. It was a parade of one: a dandy with a colonial cloak, a porkpie hat and a silk, aviator scarf blowing beind him. Hip-Hip New London. It is the little things that count.

Return of Whalehead King

Our intrepid reporter has been out of New London recently, hence the shortage of important news being posted for your edification. He has, however returned from the Sooner State and is back on the beat.

While Whalehead King was there on serious business, a funny thing happened in Oklahoma. It turns out that many people in Wewoka, the seat of Seminole County government, have never seen someone who looks or sounds like your correspondent outside of the movies or television. This caused some initial misapprehensions and misunderstandings, but everything was smoothed over and all business was finally conducted in with Yankee-quickness.

For everyone who has inundated Montauk Marketplace with inquiries as to Mr. King's whereabouts and health, not having seen him motorscootering about town for a week, he is back in New London, alive and kicking and on patrol. Keep your eyes peeled, he is sure to cut you off in traffic tomorrow.

A new sign is hanging over Carlos' restaurant picturing what the new "New York-style" condominium buildings will look like. Impressive indeed if the architect's vision comes to fruition. Remember, the Chelsea Groton Bank building is supposed to have an impressive dome that has yet to materialize. The Shaw's Landing buildings are supposed to add more visual interest than vinyl siding to Bank Street's sight lines. If the Carlos' developers' buildings turn out as imagined, bully for them. In a New London state of mind they will be Parthenons beside Columbus Square. To everyone else, they will be as attractive as anything that can be found in Oklahoma City except for the Skirvin Hotel, which is a jewel that belongs in Connecticut's Whaling City.

It is good to be home, where Whalehead King's heart is.

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.