She inspected restrooms for a living

It's been a long time since any parent was pleased by the prospect that their child decided to become a professional poet. Among the arts, this is the most cash-poor of professions, with low entry barriers and paltry rewards beyond the boasting rights of being published. I think the last poet to actually make a living from this craft was Rod McKuen, so that shows the depths to which poetry's respect has sunk. If you aren't familiar with Mr. McKuen's work, spare yourself the trouble of looking it up. Write a poem yourself instead.

I usually get lumped in with the poets wherever I land rather than with the more important kinds of writers. I'm no journalist no matter how hard I try to report the facts as I find them. Though I do write essays, I craft them with a turgid, alliterative prose fond of lists, a-la Walt Whitman, and dense with hermetic allusions. Too clever by half, I allow my free associations to guide my plot, such as it is, and even I never know where we will end up by paragraph's end. This is my style, for good or ill, and I enjoy it. What this gives to the reader, I have little idea but I haven't received many complaints beyond a recurrent observation that I sometimes resemble a donkey's back side. Be that as it may. In the right light, though I may not be the man some girls think of as handsome, being WK has its advantages.

I was once acquainted with a poet who, like most, couldn't make a living writing poetry. Her day job was travelling from town to town as a public rest room inspector. She would rate the general conditions and cleanliness of public toilets. As far as I know she never visited Boston. Who knows how many pages of demerits she could have written here? The funny thing is, she would boast about her paying profession. For her, it was a badge of authenticity. She could spin poesy as ethereal as gossamer, one syllable hinged to the next in a Jacob's Ladder that, when read aloud with halting...emphatic pauses, would allow the listener entrance to a world of spirit past the grime of day-to-day existence. Her passion was poetry, something which no one cared about. Her work was inspecting toilets, something that everyone does though few of us are paid for passing judgement.

She considered herself a poet of the highest order. The more she was acknowledged as a poetess, the more haughtily she would proclaim, "I'm a restroom inspector by day!" She wasn't a pretty woman. She looked like what you would expect a restroom inspector to look like, no insult intended to those who practice this trade. She would bring her infant daughter with her, one of her criteria being, "Would I change a baby's diaper in this stall?" She would brag that she brought her daughter to highway rest areas all over the Northeast. This isn't the kind of childhood I would wish on anyone but it may explain a social misfit's most deeply seated motivations. The poet in question didn't come from a long line of restroom inspectors. She seemed to have landed into it by chance and, having found something she was good at, she stuck to it. Like her poetry.

What does this have to do with Dorchester? A frequent critique is that I praise Dorchester much as this poet crowed about her career. I have landed in a place that isn't quite where anyone would want to spend their days and, to compensate, the Dot Matrix is dedicated to spinning gold and self-esteem out of manure. This isn't exactly true and I will tell you why.

Dorchester is not a pit stop where people answer the call of nature and don't care what they leave behind. Dorchester is a place where families are raised and futures find their foundations. It is a place that people move to by choice because it is the best option available, not because it is the only option available. Decisions aren't reached randomly in Dorchester, they are by design. After Dorchesterites make their move by conscious choice, they start to build on the community's strengths to enrich themselves and their surroundings. Though fertile ground, Dorchester is not where people flush their deposits. It is a place where they deposit their wages into bank accounts and all their actions accrue accumlated interest.

When I publicly state my affection for my surroundings, it isn't because I am trying make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. I am genuinely glad and grateful to live in the biggest and most diverse part of Boston that coincidentally happens to be the best. I am not masking shame with false pride. Dorchester is a place with a deficit of hubris. I report events as I find them, pressed through my patented Whalehead filter which many have tried to copy or mock with only partial success. Dorchester is good and there is no changing that bedrock fact. If you don't believe what you read on these pages, this says more about you than it does about Dorchester. I am happy and I know many other people who are equally happy and they wouldn't trade Dorchester for any other locale in the world. Dot pride is more than a state of mind. It is a way of life.

Pickpocket

We were sitting on a bench across from Cheer's Cafe in Quincy Market. Our companion was a professional pickpocket. Citing journalistic privelege, we will not reveal his identifying characteristics here. He is well known by the constabulary though they have thus far been unable to pin any wrongdoing to his person or reputation. As a source of solid information originating between the Aquarium and Government Center, we would prefer he stay out from behind bars. Regular Bostonians need not worry. His quarry is out-of-towners who don't know how to protect thier wallets.

Unable to reveal our companion's true identity, we will call him Sly Eye for the duration of this report.

Sly Eye turned to your reporter. Both were smoking White Owl brand, grape flavored cigars provided by the scofflaw. Sly Eye asked, apropos of nothing but the surroundings, "Have you ever wondered how much Fanieul Hall weighs?" We had to admit we haven't.

He said, "Look around at these plump tourists. They're fatter than all the pidgeons put together but, unlike the pidgeons, they have something I want. Pidgeons have fleas and mites. Tourists have coin and bills." Sly Eye smacked his lips enjoying the cigar's grape flavor and blew a smoke ring. He said, "All the money in these tourists' pockets weighs more than Fanieul Hall and the Center Market building put together."

Sly Eye makes his living fleecing the inattentive. As he was blowing another smoke ring a beat cop passed our bench. The pickpocket said, "Hello, Chauncy. It's a busy day for a gloomy November."

Chauncy said, "It's a bright day for you if I know you. Just keep it low-key, if you please."

Chauncy looked at your humble reporter, ""You're not following him into the trade are you?"

We protested, perhaps a bit much. "No, no," we exclaimed, "We are just here for the news that is fit to print."

"Get along then," Chauncy said. "You don't want to alarm the tourist traffic."

"Indeed not," replied Sly Eye, and with that he and I parted company to enjoy our cigars on opposite sides of the Sam Adams statue.

Smart Boys Live in Dorchester, Mass.

Smart Boys Live in Dorchester, Mass.


Smart boys live in Dorchester, Mass. They live there and learn there and they fall in love there. Mothers tell their sons that if they don’t clean their plates they won’t be able to play on the puddingstone after dinner. Dorchester boys study hard between bouts of playing in the parks. They do their homework and they work around the home. Many hands make light work in Dorchester, Mass. Chores make a smart boy whistle. Time flies when you are having fun, and Dorchester is the part of Boston that is freewheeling and carefree while being sober and thoughtful.
The prettiest girls live in Dorchester, Mass. They grow into the prettiest women in Boston. Great ideas are hatched in Dorchester and great inspiration is also. The neighborhood is composed of free verse without words. The people turn the art of living well into opera. People in Dorchester have strong lungs and broad shoulders. They can carry the high notes as well as they carry a tune, their toils, and their troubles with a shrug and a boast. They do it all with good cheer. Where people are happy, good things come without waiting. Life is a cabaret.

You don’t have to be a genius to stand out in Dorchester. Plenty of regular fellows get along very well. It doesn’t hurt to be bright and it doesn’t hurt to be honest. When you live in Dorchester, you have arrived. The welcome mat is always out, the porch lights are on, and neighbors keep an eye on one another. If you fall, you will be picked up.

Dorchester is called the Dot but it is more than a dot on a map. It is a big, varied place full of surprises where expectations are more than met. Cups spill over. There is plenty to do and there are plenty of plump, juicy berries to pluck off the bushes. Smart boys live in Dorchester. They launch careers, make a living, and marry pretty girls who become pretty women married to smart men. Love makes a community, even if it is only two on a mattress. Dorchester is full of mattresses in the sleeping quarters of its triple-decker apartment blocks.

Few thoroughfares run straight or long in Dorchester. Much like the course of any individual life, a route through Dorchester is full of one-way streets and dead ends and private ways. Dot Ave is an exception. It runs straight as a plumb line from downtown Bean Town, down Dorchester’s spine. It runs where it counts and pauses when it must, with a steady aim and a singular purpose, to the banks of the Neponset River where Boston ends and Milton begins. It is paradise found. Dot Ave progresses through physical space the way Dorchester’s spirit courses through history, undeterred from its target, a chain linking two anchors. Lower Mills is as bittersweet as baker’s chocolate. N’orchester is a hub of bustle and tongues.

Bright babies are born in Dorchester. They are the apple of their mother’s eyes and the twinkle in their grandparents’ eyes. They make proud papas weak in the knees. Good children are raised in Dorchester. They grow into responsible citizens. There is no handshake like a Dorchester handshake. Cash paid to a Dorchester native is money well spent on a job well done. The proof is in the puddingstone that juts in boulders out of the soil. Many pebbles can cohere. These are people who believe in being straight while allowing for natural deviations. They are on the level. When you deal with a man from the Dot you can be sure all the T’s will be crossed in red and there’s no fine print.

The best things in life are free. Dorchester is affordable. Smart boys live in Dorchester and they don’t regret it. They thrive in Dorchester. Smart girls do too. So can you. The Dot hits the spot more often than not. When you’re hot, you settle in Dorchester, Mass. The breeze of Dorchester Bay is refreshing.

Whalehead King has made his home in Dorchester, Mass., Boston’s biggest, most diverse, and best neighborhood. He views it all with a child’s eyes, full of wonder and delight. There is plenty to seduce a proper gentleman with an open mind and an open heart to succumb to Dorchester’s charms. Mr. King has designed a line of tee shirts that celebrate Boston, the MBTA Red Line, and Dorchester, in particular. He writes about Dorchester and he celebrates the many marvels he stumbles over. Whalehead King thinks the Dot is tops! If you do too, you should join the parade. All abooooard…Last stop: MATTAPAN.

www.whaleheadking.com
www.zazzle.com/whaleheadking
www.bostonnow.com/blogs/whaleheadking

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.]

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.

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.

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.

Glitterati

Once upon a time, a dandy moved to New London, Conn. His profession was too look good. It was a trade which he studied and practiced in every spare moment. The world needs beautiful people. A small city needs all the beautiful people it can attract.

Sometimes, the smallest city can be the most handsome. Napoleon had charisma. New London is the second smallest city in the third smallest state. A good city is full of good people. It is what is on the insde that counts. New London is full of dandies and demimondes, of rakes and coquettes, of fops and of divas. Stroll New London's boulevards and you will find yourself amidst a cast of characters.

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.

Who is Snow Boy??

When Snow Boy came to New London last year, it was during a blizzard and the bad weather didn't let up for two weeks until after his arrival. Nobody likes Snow Boy. He made winter worse. He is bad luck.

Snow Boy is a fat boy, and that makes him an easy butt for jokes. He is round like an apple and he comes from Yakima, Washington. Children yell when Snow Boy goes past, "Hey Snow Boy, you're an Apple Boy!" This past autumn, they pelted him with crab apples, It's not easy being Snow Boy in New London, Conn.

New London is usually kind to stangers, but Snow Boy is the exception that proves the rule. He is mealy mouthed. He talks like his tongue is covered with slush. He is pale in a sickly, weak way, limp wristed with blue spider veins running up his pale arms. He is the opposite of robust. He is pathetic. New London loves an almost-winner, but Snow Boy is sure to come up last in the pack. Why bother encouraging this predictable disappointment?

Snow Boy insists that Yakima, Wash. is better than New London, Conn. He is so dim and dunderheaded, he cannot see the obvious. Even a New Londoner, who can tolerate all sorts of scorn, cannot stomach the idea that Yakima, Wash. is better than Connecticut's Whaling City. When Snow Boy passes them on the street, some children say, "Hey Snow Boy! I'm yakking up on Yakima!"

Snow Boy went to the Dutch Tavern last night, not the busiest night, but not as slow as a Tuesday. The Dutch was full of slender characters just as pale as Snow Boy. He was wearing a tattered sweater with holes at the elbows. He fit right in with the scruffy New Londoners who meet at the Dutch on Monday evenings. No one mocked Snow Boy for his Washington accent. No one threw anything at him. He met a nice girl, Julie, who listened to Snow Boy's stories about the apple fields that stretch out from exurban Yakima. She took him down to City Pier and they kissed as the ferry went by.

Maybe Snow Boy has found a home after all. New London is full of smart women.

Super Sunday!!

Every day is super in New London, a city that is waiting for a hero. People wear capes, but mostly for warmth and for fashion. People wear masks, but only on Hallowe'en and during masquerade balls. There are plenty of muscles poised to do some heavy lifting and figures ready to leap into action. Everyone has a secret identity.

Today, like most days, New Londoners get together to share each other's company and comraderie. They get raucous, they cheer, they razz, and they indulge in friendly wagers. They eat like gluttons at a banquet and they drink like they have hollow legs. New Londoners don't need an excuse to host a party, their whole lives are fun-loving and based on good-willed competition. New Londoners know how to enjoy themselves. New Londoners know how to celebrate.

Every day is an event in a city where little happens. New Londoners will offer a toast to a new haircut. They will rally around an underdog. Any news is better than no news. New Londoners will bet on a cockroach race. They will watch the clouds pass over their skyline for fun. New Londoners will look for any reason to tell a joke in front of an audience. New Londoners love a party and know how to keep it going.

Every day is super in a superlative city. Every breakfast, lunch and supper is super in New London, Conn. New London has powers far beyond the pale of other cities. New London soars along the bank of a mighty river, carving out its destiny with bare hands. This may be a mild-mannered city, but its daily life is full of high adventure.

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.