Bad weather for prostitution

It's not quite the solstice yet but winter has snapped into place in Dorchester, Mass.  Some people welcome the biting nip in the air while others, who enjoy being outside, dread the upcoming few months.  Some people don't have a choice; their office is out of doors.  The bitter cold has put a temporary halt to one of Dorchester's oldest professions after making chocolate.   That profession would be: making whoopee as a livelihood.

I am not going to try to glamorize the life of a streetwalker.  To be frank, it is no doubt a joyless job and I doubt many people would enter the field were it not the low entry skills required and the rather constant, inelastic demand.   Practitioners do not need an engineering degree to master the mechanics involved.   This really is a job in which showing up is the only critical qualification.  That said, winter is a bad time of year to advertise available services on the streets in person.

I am not going to name the streets I am referencing.  If you don't know them, the neighbors are just as happy not to have you driving slowly along them.  The police are well aware of where they can find a hooker in the dead of night.  In warm weather after the bars close until just after daybreak, you can find ladies of the evening strolling up and down the sidewalks, usually scantily dressed.  I wouldn't say they are a Dorchester fixture, but they are around, as they are in every city with insomniacs driving around looking for something to do.  Any port in a storm, I suppose. 

To cut off any snide assumptions, in warmer weather I am on a motorcycle which doesn't exactly have the room or the privacy of a van, and I don't carry a helmet for passengers.  In colder weather, I use a bicycle to generate my own heat.  I am crisscrossing Dorchester usually to pick up a coffee in Andrew Square at one of the few places open at 4:00 AM.  Being curious and in no particular hurry in the wee hours of the morning, I tend to take a circuitous route.  That's what good reporters do.

At 4:00 this morning no one was walking the streets, male or female, business person or common pedestrian.  It's just too damned cold.  If the last two years are any guide, vice will not be visible to insomniacs for the next few months.  At least it won't be obviously available to innocents such as myself.

Who's Got The Button?

Whalehead King went to the tailor today and they were tidying up the button department. A magpie attracted to shiny objects, Mr. King picked through the boxes of shiny, gold buttons. He let them run through his fingers like doubloons.

Some of the buttons were stamped with the crest of the Admiral Billard Academy. Here is the story about the academy. It is true.

It seems to have been a kind of private, merchant marine prep school. If you turn down Admiral Drive from Montauk Avenue, you will see a stone ledge on your right about a hundred fifty feet down. There is a plaque set in the stone commemorating the school, erected by alumni of the last graduating class. If memory serves correctly, they graduated in 1957.

It is a little known, but equally true fact that the last whale to be rendered into oil in New London was rendered at the Admiral Billard Academy. This happened during WWII. Whalehead King is far from his archives. He is working from his vast, mental storehouse of New Londonalia. A dead whale washed up on the beach across from the Admiral Billard Academy in 1946 or 1947.

To honor New London tradition and keep their skills sharp, the students flensed the blubber off the carcass. They boiled down the sperm into lamp oil like their forefathers had. They did this in the cafeteria kitchen rather than on a whaling ship’s deck, but you get the idea.

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Foul Weather Friend

Today was not the best day to be a scooterist. Your intrepid vesperado went through a puddle so deep, the water went over his leg shield and even doused his hat. He stopped to stand up so that the water would run out of his lap and down a storm drain. Luckily, he is used to foul weather and he has the gear to handle it with impunity.

Whalehead King owns a Weatherproof® brand, 100% polyester fedora, lovingly made in China. It fits so perfectly that it stays on his head in gale force winds. Even at top speed on his scooter during a hurricane, this hat stays put. The brim is firmly in place, guarding its owner’s eyeglasses from blinding raindrops. He tilts his head a bit for maximum protection.

His trench coat is likewise waterproof. Rain rolls off it like a fisherman’s slicker. Rather than being made of yellow rubber, Mr. King’s coat is a tight weave of synthetic, stylish, microfibers. It buttons to the neck and the collar is sewn down so as not to flap distractingly in the breeze. It is long enough to protect his thighs from getting soaked and the scooter’s leg shield protects his shins and boots.

A little known fact: When Whalehead King arrives at his destination, though the front of his coat is wet, his back is dry. It is a result of his perpetual motion. No matter how wet he appears to be, his suit and tie are dry underneath and his starched shirt is still pressed with razor-sharp creases along the sleeves.

It takes more than inclement weather to keep a good man off his scooter. With a little foresight and preparation, even a dandy can look good no matter what the elements throw at him. He is like Teflon. He is like stainless steel. He is like titanium alloy. He carries himself proudly in fair weather or foul. You can’t keep a man-about-New London off the streets for long.

Crystal Clear

The air in New London today is as clear as the crystals hung on the world's largest chandelier which happens to hang over the food court in the Waterford Mall. Yes, the Crystal Mall rivals Versialles, the way New London rivals old London.

Whalehead King found a shiny dime today in the Henny Penny parking lot. He held it up in his ungloved hand, risking chillblains, to marvel at its sparkles that caught the New London sun as crisply as the clouds overhead and the whitecaps in the Thames River. The dime made him squint to see it. He had found it tails-up, the New London way, so he knew today would be lucky.

How lucky was today? It is too early to tell, but if it is like another New London Day, it will be full of surprises, good news and constant change. It will be chockablock with timely topics addressed in depth. It will inform, delight, entertain and inspire. A New London Day will encourage effective democracy to action. I am sure this Day will be full of what makes New London, Conn. what it is.

You cannot make a phonecall with a dime, not even at the Dutch Tavern. You can't put a price on New London, Conn. The city has a value hard to measure with coins. Every yardstick aligned next to New London has the wrong marks. The voice of a people is written on paper. It is inscirved on the charter and the newsboy will bring a more current form to your doorstep. New London, Conn. is a place that wears its heart on the inside of its sleeve.