Roscoe Conklin "Fatty" Arbuckle.

Roscoe Conklin "Fatty" Arbuckle

They called him "The Prince of Whales."

I believed the champagne bottle story of his downfall until recently.  Like many things, it is more complicated than a telling anecdote.  Everyone has a story, but we don't always write it ourselves.

He had a real name, and it wasn't Fatty.  Rest in peace, Mr. Arbuckle.

Major without the majorettes

Though I've seen majorettes in the Dorchester Day Parade, I don't know of any marching bands based in Dorchester.  They may be there, I'm not too savvy on the school system.  There aren't any adult marching bands that I know of....we are in Boston after all, not New Orleans.  The only parade I see on any other day but Dorchester Day is the march of commuters heading to the T station.

Some people like their lovers big and naughty.  Dorchester is certainly both.  It is Boston's biggest neighborhood and it attracts is share of notoriety.  Dorchester's Marching Band wouldn't be light skinned, though it would include Caucasian saxophone players and snares.  It would be the usual polygraph of hues found on all continents except Australia (yet...there isn't an aboriginal enclave in Dot to date) that wander to and fro between Dot Ave and Blue Hill Avenue.

Dorchester could have a marching band, and I know what it would look like, even if more melatonin would be in the real version.  Dorchester should have an ambassadorial elite that represents the neighborhood at official functions.  Destination unknown?  Poppycock!  Destination Dorchester.  Spank up the beat and get dancing...celebrating...living the Dot life.

Inbound meet outbound

Two executive types stopped into Tom English's this afternoon.  You know the type: bespoke, chalkstripe, dark worsted woolen suits with cashmere scarves and camel hair topcoats.  Their silk socks matched their silk neckties and their pocket squares matched their handkerchiefs.  Squares.

These two executive types, reeking of hair oil and aftershave, took the two available seats at the bar between Drunk Charlie and Slats McAdam who were debating the merits of fluoridating water on one end, and Sliver Malloy and Molly, who were debating why Molly doesn't like sleeping in the buff anymore.  It was Inbound meet outbound.

One of the executive types told the barkeep, "I just want a shot of milk."  His companion remarked he was thinking the same thing.  The bartender, none too pleased to be pouring out an ounce of good White Russian ingredient at a low profit margin, asked for confirmation.  "Yep," Executive Number One answered, "Two shots of milk.  I would normally ask for whisky but something about this part of town calms my nerves and I want to keep my stomach settled.  It feels good in Dorchester and I don't want to ruin it by aggravating my ulcer."  His companion concurred.

Two shots of milk it was, neither shaken nor stirred.  The two executive types toasted each other and downed their shots.  They paid their two dollar tab with a three dollar tip, big spenders, and they headed down Dot Ave and then Crescent Street to the JFK/UMASS station.

Once the door closed behind them, Slats McAdam interupted Drunk Charlie's conspiracy monologue.  "I think they were spies," Slats confided.  Charlie looked out the plate glass window at the suspects' backs. "They're not spies," Charlie said, "their just speculators.  I'm gonna speculate they'll be around a lot more in the future."

Sneeze into your elbow

Without going into the reasons why, I attended a lecture by a certified CDC epidemiologist today on Swine Flu and Bird Flu. This gentleman thought the Swine Flu currently all the rage in the news was a flash in the pan and a dead issue, so to speak, while the threat that Bird Flu presents continues to keep him up nights.

How is influenza virus most commonly transmitted? The lecturer said, "We cough and sneeze all the time into our hands and then what do we do?" To illustrate, he turned to his right and said, "Nice to meet you," while pretending to shake hands with an imaginary friend. He went on to say, "We are teaching school children to sneeze into their elbow," and he demonstrated by fake sneezing into the crook of his arm. "It may look odd to us but we can learn something from what the kids are learning to do. It could prevent a pandemic."

Customs and social norms change. In the Middle Ages, if you were at a banquet and your face itched, good manners commanded that you scratch with a piece of bread crust. This was because forks and other eating utensils didn't exist. Everyone served themselves from common platters with their fingers. To scratch you itchy zit and then put your hand into everyone else's food was bad form. Don't try scratching your face with bread in a restaurant today.

I was at the Ryan Playground on Dot Ave this afternoon and I saw a boy of about twelve sneeze into his arm. Good boy. It was probably a touch of hayfever, but it could be Swine Flu or the more dreaded avian variety. He won't be transmitting any germs unless someone takes an inordinate interest in the weave of his shirtsleeve. A local outbreak has been prevented.

Sharing wealth

Dorchester is a warren of streets, a labyrinth, a maze in which rats seek cheese and innocent pedestrians lose thier way. The tangled streets of Dorchester, Mass. lead out into the rest of greater Boston in one direction and into a horn of plenty in the other. Dorchester is shaped like a tortured gall bladder but its stones are not calcifications cemented with hardened bile. They are not pyrite either. They are the real thing, nuggets of pocket change to be spread around willy-nilly, for good cause.

I was at the Fields Corner Shopping Center this afternoon, picking up carrots and a bottle of hot sauce. A well dressed man approached me in the parking lot. "Excuse me sir, I have a flat tire and Auto Zone up the road charges $13.95 for a plug kit. My son is sleeping in the car, you can see him, can you help me out?"

I am usually dubious of such things, but this was a well dressed man, one gentleman to another, with a plausible story. I was admiring his outfit of light pants, navy jacket, woven leather loafers, crisp, white shirt and red tie sporting a tasteful green seahorse motif, as he walked from Dot Ave to my position. I thought it was a little early in the season for such an ensemble but he wore it well. As a person who travels on two wheels and doesn't carry a spare, I felt his pain. He said, "I work for Verizon, across from South Station. I pass people every day asking for money and now I'm one of them. I guess sometimes bad things happen to good people." I wasn't about to pass judgement on his goodness but I was inclined to help someone with a flat tire, having been in the same straits more than once.

The man had a Carribean accent. When I handed him fourteen dollars he said, "I'm sorry. You misheard me. A plug kit costs $30.95. That sounded more believable since the plug kit for my motorcyle cost $45. I emptied my wallet. He said, "You can take my cell phone number. I work for Verizon." I said I didn't want to be bothered with a lot of follow-up. I gave him my address and told him to mail me what he owed me. "I will," he said, "You'll have faith that there are honest people in the world,"

Perhaps I will. I'm out thirty-five bucks and while I'll miss them, I won't miss them overly much. It is better to waste money with good intentions on a confidence scheme than to squander it on loose women and booze.

I don't go to church. If I did, I would be making donations to give help the needy. I figure I'm cutting out the middleman by giving it to those who have the nerve and need to ask directly. I won't be fishing in my mailbox for reimbursement, but I will be contentedly surprised to find my trust in humankind rewarded with a payback plus an extra five-spot tacked on for my troubles.

A trip to the tailor

Last week, we began freshening up the old wardrobe. Some of our suits are getting a bit raggedy and there is nothing to lift the spirits and put a spring in one's step like a new suit. We went to Porta Classica in Mattapan for the cure to our sartorial doldrums. The on site tailor offered to make alterations but we declined, not wanting to take the Mattapan High Speed so far out of our way this week to pick up the finished goods.

There are two tailor shops in my Fourth Haven neighborhood where Columbia and Savin Hill intersect. On of them is the space shared by Vietnam Records and Kim Ahn Alterations. The other is Lien's Bridal at 932 Dot Ave. Lien's is marginally closer to to my home so I opted to give them a try. I picked up my hemmed pants this afternoon, satisfied.

This is primarily a bridal shop and men may be turned off by the racks of gowns and wedding froo-froo that take up the majority of the floor space. They shouldn't be. The shop's proprietor is a seamstress with nimble fingers who sews a mean cuff at the bottom of an inseam. We haven't tested the finished product yet, but her handiwork was offered for inspection and it seems as durable as a parachute seam without any stitching visible from the outside. We also brought a pair of pants for repair at the same visit and left today with a superior product, better than the original. No shoddy thread or wispy filigree here. This is quality tailoring that looks like it will stand up to being caught in a motorcycle's kickstand.

I'm sure my accent was as difficult for the seamstress to understand as hers was for me. We weren't discussing Shopenhauer, just getting pants hemmed, so subtleties and shades of connotation weren't important to hammer out the work request. To repair the hem on my pants cost $5.00. To hem the new pants cost $12.00 apiece. I paid with two twenty dollar bills and received eleven crisp Washingtons as change.

The conditions printed on the bottom of the receipt are a bit muddled but mostly understandable and reasonable. "We do not shrink any justifiable responsibility..." "We can not [sic] be responsible for weak, tender, defective or adulterated materials..." "Errors in budie [sic]count must be reported to the company withing 48 hours." All in all, a good deal at a good price and we are sure anything lost in translation can be solved to every one's satisfaction. We didn't detect any error in budie count.

Mattapan morning

One thing about the melting snow: it's uncovered all the trash in Mattapan Square. The sidewalks are filthy with sand piles and salt stains, and also with food wrappers. They are everywhere. Forlorn confetti from a parade that never came, the wind blows constellations of scrap paper everywhere. It isn't the kind of sight that attracts tourists, but how many out-of-towners get this far down Blue Hill Avenue?

Brothers Deli and Restuarant at 1638 Blue Hill Ave. was bustling, as usual. I passed by around 11:00 on a Sunday so most people were eating a late breakfast. They serve breakfast all day, of course. The $10 Dollar Store across the street is going out of business. Everything is marked down 50%. Next door at 1625, Porta Classica, the haberdashery, is offering a 30% off sale and offering a second suit at half price when you buy the first one. It isn't clear if the additional 30% applies to both. I lingered and admired some shoes and three-piece suits but the shop isn't open on Sundays. I took note that they re open until 6:30 PM on weekdays. There is no indication they are going out of business though they did close their Downtown Crossing location this summer.

One of the storefronts was covered with fluttering scabs of what appeared to be lichen. In fact, it was a scotch tape and flimsy business card display from Cesar's Movers. Though the cards show an image of Boston's High Spine, I doubt Cesar's is doing a lot of moving from the Prudential Center or the Hancock Building. They promise to remove all trash. They clean out yards. "Qualite [sic] service. Expert Packing. Incredible rates. Local and long distance. Big and small jobs. Free estimates." They can be contacted at 617-331-3509. "7 day service."

The congregations of Mattapan's churches attended services today. Men wore dark suits and women wore fanciful hats.

Bundle up the babies

The Stitch House in Dorchester has announced a recent shipment of 'baby-friendly' yarn and patterns to knit your little darlings a suitably sized sweater. The proprietors are so sure of the quality of the yarn, the fashion sense of the patterns, and the imaginative skills of their patrons that they are holding a contest for the best baby sweater in Boston. Entries will be displayed on the premises and voted on throughout the month of March.

The Dorchester Stitch House has been open a little over a year at 846 Dot Ave, near the corner of Mount Vernon Street, between the Avenue Gill and and the Dot Tavern. It is across Dot Ave from the Sugar Bowl and The New Store on the Block. If you don't drive, take the Red Line to JFK/UMASS and head towards Dot Ave. Then take a right. You'll see it. It is a mecca for those who wield knitting needles.

Ladies who like to knit while watching the television know there is a ready supply of raw materials and a chance at fame at the Stitch House. Real men know how to darn their socks, and the most independent of them know how to make their own and their own mittens, mufflers, and pullovers too. The Stitch House has yarn for every need.

Field's Black Friday

Having spent yesterday being thankful for their surroundings, the good people of Dorchester began their holiday shopping season in earnest late this morning. The streets around Field's Corner were bustling with foot traffic that was hurlier and burlier than usual. I just returned on the Red Line and throngs still teem Dot Ave and connecting side streets.

Super Dollar Plus was busy. Family Dollar was busy. Stereo Electronics was busy and its better know rival, Radio Shack, was busy. The busiest place of all was that bottomless bargain emporium, 99-Cent State, a place that puts Ocean State Job Lot to shame with less square footage and only one outlet located along the teeming sidewalks of Dot Ave.

At around 1:45 this Black Friday afternoon, people were waiting to get in. The fire marshall was called in to check that the store hadn't exceeded it's licensed capacity. The tree in this photo is hiding some of what's on offer in this marvellous shop. The sign reads: Elegant Gift, Toys Parts Bicycle, Kitchenware, School Supplies. The unobstructed side (so you don't have to fetch your reading glasses) says: Hardware, Household, Stationary, Frames & More. Set your imagination loose while you conceive of what 'more' may be. You won't be disappointed after you step through the front door. No wonder this was the busiest store in Dorchester today.

How to cross the street in Dorchester

Some people know how to do it. Other people don't. If you're a poseur, don't try to cross Dot Ave without following these simple rules.

First: Look your best. It doesn't matter what your personal style, whether you're a pinstripe man or a hip-hop artiste. Wear your threads like you mean it and carry yourself like a gentleman. Ladies, there's no need to tart yourselves up. Sensible plaid woolens this time of year are acceptable. In warmer months, demure is always better but a light summer frock will always carry the day. You can wear orthopedic shoes or stiletto heels. As long as you can walk straight, no one will think any the worse of you. It's not the hem line or the calf line that stops traffic, it's common courtesy.

Second: Look both ways before you cross. Stop, look, listen. It's been good advice since roads were invented, and you can find Latin inscriptions carved in the intersections at Pompei. Dorchester's intersections have an antiquated way of signalling the pedestrian right-of-way. If a traffic light displays both yellow and red at the same time, it means pedestrians can cross without worry. Beware though, most jurisdictions don't use this signal so some out-of-town drivers get impatient when they don't know what they are supposed to do. They will race into the crosswalk and when it is person vs. automobile, the person ends up in the emergency room.

Third: Be gracious and accomodating to other people using the roadway, no matter how they are utilizing it, be it by car, motorcycle, motor scooter, wheelchair or on foot. It is a public thoroughfare and every fellow citizen is entitled to cross the street to reach his or her destination. Forgive misunderstandings over who has the right of way. A little inconvience is better than agitating tempers and enabling even more gridlock.

Fourth and foremost, a summary of the rules of good street-crossing summarized into something more than their parts: Look good, feel good, be patient, be courteous, be understanding. You are in Dorchester, after all, able to enjoy all the sights and smells of a rich neighborhood unfolding its routine while you bear witness and lend your presence. There are hungry children all over Africa, and thier equally struggling parents, who would feel blessed to be able to cross Dot Ave on some mundane errand. Feel your good luck and thank Providence and Fortune that you are able to enjoy this little adventure. With that in mind, and due caution, you can cross the street without worries and keep Dorchester the smoothly running community it is.

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.

The Best Dressed Biker

It was a red light at six AM this morning on the corner of Montauk Avenue and Bank Street. A small, beat-up, Japanese brand, pick-up truck pulled up to a small, shiny blue, Japanese-brand motorcycle. The driver of the truck rolled down his window and, with a cigarette butt hanging our of his mouth, told the driver of the motorcycle that he was the best dressed biker he had ever seen.

The motorcyclist was wearing a new, French, olive, boiled wool, trench coat with a double row of brass buttons in the front and a brass-buttoned belt in back. He had a silk scarf knotted between the dashing lapels of his coat in best Hollywood avitator's style. The knot was as puffed out and full as an ascot. He was wearing a stingy brimmed fedora that fits so well it stays on his head safely at any speed. His legs, that showed beneath the hem of his coat were clad in dark gray, worsted wool, pinstrip trousers.

The truck driver told the motorcyclist that he was the best dressed biker he had ever seen. The motorcyclist took his white, kid skin gloved hand off the throttle and tipped his fedora to the truck driver by way of thanks. They both chuckled and waved as they parted company when the light turned green. The truck rattled up Town Hill toward the New London border. The mortocycle sped up Montauk Avenue, the hems of the driver's trench coat flapping gracefully in the wind.

www.whaleheadking.com is temporarily undergoing rennovations, but to read more about the New London state of mind, feel free to visit www.blog.myspace.com/whaleheadking.

Prune Belly Syndrome

Prune Belly Syndrome is a real medical condition as classified in the International Classicfication of Diseases, 9th Edition, Code Manual (ICD-9-CM for those in the medical coding trade). Whalehead King was reminded of this twice today.

The first time was while perusing the ICD-9-CM. The second time was while walking down Eugene O'Neill Avenue. America's only Noble Prize-winning playwright didn't have a prune belly, but many of the people who stroll the street named after him do. Always alert to details, Mr. King noticed a person, who should be old enough to know better, wearing a short shirt over low-cut pants. We will not go into details here, but some fashions are not meant for everyone. Midriff exposure is one of them. Hopefully, this fad will pass soon.

Of course, it is the New London way to make choices and damn the consequences. It is the New London way not to care what other people think about what they see. It is the New London way to show off one's best and worst attributes at the same time. In a New London state of mind, everything is fine.

It takes real courage to wear whatever you feel like wearing. It takes a New London kind of courage. In a city, you are given a chance to invent and re-invent yourself. Sometimes you make a mistake, but there are so many opportunities, you can redeem yourself tomorrow. If one day you are a mess, the next you can be a dandy. If one night you are a stumblebum, the next you can be the toast of the town. You needn't be ashamed of your prune belly, you just have to know how to use it to your advantage.

Remember to visit the Whalehead Library by clicking on the title of this essay to learn more about New London's brand of courage.

The Tuxedo Cat

Bailey is the cutest cat you will ever see. His owner told me so. He is black and white, a formal wear type of cat, a feline in a tuxedo. He is a gentleman house cat. Bailey looks like a penguin except, of course, he walks on four legs rather than two and Bailey has a tail. Both Bailey and penguins have heard their share of symphony conductor jokes. Bailey hates water, though he does love to eat fish.

Penguins get herrings thrown to them at the zoo and they catch them from schools in the sub-zero oceans off Antacrtica. Bailey gets a double packed can of brisling sardines packed in spring water when he has been extra good, which is almost every day. With all those omega-three fatty acids in his blood, Bailey has the silkiest coat of any cat in New London County. His black fur is as sleek as the velvet on a fancy man's lapels. His white fur is as primly ruffled as a fancy groom's , a mariachi guritarist's, or an opera affecianado's silk shirt.

Bailey is polite and affectionate. It isn't only his fur that is soft. His disposition is to cuddle and rub and purr with contentment. Whalhead King had an extended conversation with the woman who shares her apartment with Bailey, the Tuxedo Cat. She has never spent the night in bed with a penguin, but she states for the record that she is sure she would prefer a night cuddled with Bailey over a night spooning with a penguin. It takes more than a black and white exterior to make an animal worth sleeping with. It is what is inside that counts.

Tricorner Mania

You may have seen a man dressed in a modern, bespoke suit strolling State Street wearing a fancy, cockaded, tricorner hat. Why did this hat ever go out of style? It was made famous by Minutemen and French Revolutionaries. It is a hat that shows off a man's head and shows the world that this is a gentleman with whom you must deal fairly and reckon with dearly. Did George Washington cross the Delaware wearing a baseball cap?

We are New Londoners, citizens of an old city, who should be proud of our old ways and traditions. Prove to the world that you don't care what they think is fashionable. Purchase a tricorner and wear it as proudly as Thomas Paine, Ben Franklin, Isreal Putman, and Cesear Romney. This is a Hip Little City, not a Hip-Hop City. Wear your tricorner with pride and show the world you are a New Londoner. To Hell with the what the rest of the world wants to wear.

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.

Dare To Be Different

A city is a place in which you can remake yourself anew. People come to New London to start afresh and be the people they always wanted to be. The city's society is an ever-shifting collection of characters acting out roles written in the color of desire.

Many people think Whalehead King is a fop, a clothes horse, an overdressed peacock, a pretty boy, or a Gentleman's Quarterly model. He is a dandy rake, but there is one person who exceeds his passion for old-fashioned style assembled with modern panache. This gentleman is referred to as The Baron. Whalehead King has only sighted this sanppy chap twice before today, and all the encounters were years apart.

The first time was in 1998, when Mr. King and a date were enjoying the symphony at the Garde Theater. The Baron escorted a lady to the last row in the loge. Mr. King was wearing a four-button, bespoke suit of black sharkskin with a royal windowpane pattern. He had on a lime shirt with black cufflinks in the shape of motor scooters. His Turkish silk tie was in a perfect half-windsor with a deep dimple centered square under the knot. The Baron was dressed in a silk and velvet, swallow-tail tuxedo, a watch chain draped over his cumberbund. He had a crisp, white bow tie around his neck and a monocle over his left eye. His companion floated by in a ruffled gown with a bustle behind her corsetted waist.

In 2002, Whalehead King was in the antiques store where Olympic Sporting Goods used to be. He was leaving just as The Baron was entering. It was a Sunday morning and Mr. King was wearing his walking-about togs, fashionable and smart looking, but not any more elegant than George Clarke. The Baron also wasn't not formal, but he was wearing tea colored jodhpurs, and a white, two-hundred count, Egyptian cotton shirt. He carried a walking stick capped with silver on each end. The Baron has a long goatee and wears his hair like Lord Byron. Mr. King had to turn and marvel at this creation he had just passed. The Baron studied a Louis the XVI combination chair and magazine rack without looking at anything else.

Whalehead King saw The Baron again today, in 2007. During this encounter, The Baron was a symphony in gray tweed and knit. His slacks and his jacket were subtly different weaves of houndstooth. His motoring cap was cut large without a snap on its bill. The Baron was wearing a cream, woolen, cable sweater and a nubby, slate scarf over his shoulder. He was wearing white, cotton gloves that buttoned at the wrist.

Now, Whalehead King isn't dressed like a slouch during this sighting. Mr. King is decked out in his Romanian cashmere topcoat over a worsted, double-breasted, midnight blue suit with ecru pinstriping. His English tab shirt is cantaloupe, its cuffs secured with Connectiuct quarters and his tie is a constellation of sparkly crimson dots set in utlramarine. He is wearing a dark vest of paisley brocade. His pocket square blooms from his breast pocket like a daffodil. His fedora has been freshly brushed and blocked.

Mr. King can only stare at The Baron and admire this confection striding down the street, uncaring that it is out of place. Whalehead King has no natural adversaries in New London, but there can be only one best dressed man in the Whaling City. Most people think it is Whalehead King. He demurs. He thinks the title belongs to The Baron, a gentleman with whom he has never exchanged words, but whose style he admires. A tip of the fedora to this sartorial maestro.