New Orleans heatwave

My old chums from the Northeast were complaining about a heatwave recently.  Looking at my New Orleans thermometer, I don't see what they were complaining about.  I wonder what I'll be thinking come winter.  The coldest month I've spent in New Orleans was a few weeks this past March here, here, here.  I didn't find it chilly in the least, but then it was in the low 40s back in Boston when I left.

I wonder if I will ever have to use all the sweaters, coats, scarves and long underwear I brought down to New Orleans.  I couldn't bear to throw them away on the chance I would just need to replace them.  

As much as I've grown to hate winter, as my October through March posts from the past few years will attest (no links, you'll have to skim the archives yourself), I do enjoy winter clothes.  I love long coats and I love to wear hats.  When I was packing prior to the move, I did donate a few hats to Goodwill.  I didn't think I'd need all the toppers in my collection.

I did keep my trusty tricorner, a hat I love very much though in the past I haven't had much cause to wear it except while I participated in reading the Declaration of Independence while living in New London, and on Patriots' Day, a holiday unique to Massachusetts.  While it may seem an impractical hat, one that attracts stares and calls of "Hey, pirate!" on the street, I figure I can wear it for Mardi Gras.

At least one piece of winter gear will be put to use.  

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.

Three Dorchester flea markets

We criss-crossed the Dot this Saturday morning to visit three local flea markets in quick succession. It was quick because the first two didn't take a lot of time.

The first was sponsored by fleyewear.com. I'm not sure what the connection is. I got the tip on the markets location from a postcard posted in the J.P. Lick's in Mission Hill, and the website doesn't offer any tie-in. Nor was there any promotional material on site.

This is the second time this market has been held at the old Dorchester High School on Peacevale Road, off Norfolk Ave at the Codman Square end. About twelve tables were arranged in the cafeteria offering CDs, homemade chocolate, used bric-a-brac, and one table supporting a number of steaming chaffing dishes we didn't investigate. We did spend a bit of time exploring the school's ground floor which is largely untouched by the hand of time. The gymnasium is like the gym the nuns dream about in the film, "Bells of Saint Mary's" with a running track elevated above the basketball court.

Our next stop was the Dorchester Flea Market on Adams Street close to Fields Corner. This market has been in operation since at least this past winter. The entrance appears to be a well-appointed clothing shop. We headed toward the back and through a hallway where booths have been set up, but the operation still seems a bit disorganized. Leather jackets and clothing were for sale in two booths and there was an attended kiosk in which people were using a computer but it wasn't clear if they were selling anything. There was a collection of used furniture scattered throughout but little foot traffic.

We then headed toward the grand daddy of Dorchester flea markets, the Maxwell on East Cottage Street, tucked away between Uphams Corner and Newmarket Square. I've passed this old box factory a few times and read reviews of it. Since this was flea market day, today was the day to visit. It is extensive and there is a mix of sellers and buyers. Some of the booths are professional. You can buy home made cakes, sealed videos, all sorts of used furniture and clothing, food, electronics, and root vegetables. A watchmaker has set up shop here and we observed him making repairs with tiny tools through a magnifying glass.

The Maxwell Flea Market is well stocked, we saw three fireplaces with flues for sale and a score of vintage metal file cabinets, but we made no purchases. You can't cart a credenza on a motorcycle, especially when two people are riding. On the way out, through the back parking lot reached by Harrow Street, we overheard a merchant telling a customer that the radio he was inspecting wasn't functional. "Take that one over there," he instructed, "That one works and it's five dollars."

What does the gym at old Dorchester High look like? You'll have to see the movie if you can't get to Peacevale Road. I recommend the film.

Years of Refusal

Well, the cat is out of the bag and the bag is at the bottom of the harbor. Morrissey will not be playing a local pub tonight. Once again, the only stars Dorchester will be graced by are the ones in the sky and the hundred-thousand-plus points of light that dot and wander the neighborhood's sidewalks. Is there any harm in that? The surf laps the shores of Dorchester, carrying the rippled reflections of sparked halogen and twinkling ambiance. No one is any less wise or proud. The earth revolves on its axis and Dorchester is what it is: not only good, but good enough. Dorchesterites have earned their bragging rights but they don't make a show. Let the wind bluster in March. Dorchester is content overall for no definable reason in every season, every year, decade after decade. You can lay your hand against a puddingstone boulder, but you can't wrap a finger around Dorchester's soul.


A blue collar neighborhood has little need for celebrity. Working folks provide enough tenon and muscle to pull from morning to midnight and then to the next daybreak. It is always darkest before dawn. Dorchester, even when it is at its sleepiest, is full of a high wattage that slumbers waiting for a switch to be tripped. One hundred ten thousand volts, give or take, slumber in Dorchester waiting to make a connection and be fully employed. The neighborhood is electric. Bang! Bang! On go the lights.


Streetlights hum and attract moths but nothing about Dorchester is moth-eaten. It may seem rundown but that is the local custom, keeping properties' tax valuation low. Some people sing songs for money in Dorchester but many more sing out of pure joie de vivre. A spirit animates Dorchester and it isn't exactly the specter of Communism. There is a sense of community. The streets are arteries in this civic body. Let the rest of Boston refuse Dorchester it's place in the sun, but there is a place in the sun for everyone in Dorchester if they have the will to find one. I do believe I have found mine.

Mattapan haberdashery

The other day we commented that we hoped Porta Classica, the haberdashery in Mattapan Square wasn't going out of business. We visited again today, during normal business hours and discovered this is far from the case. Located at 1625 Blue Hill Avenue, just to the north of Mattapan Square, this men's clothier is crowded with gentlemen taking advantage of the current, store-wide 30% off sale.

This shop isn't as expansive as their formerly concurrent digs in Downtown Crossing but it is just as well stocked with things that make a man look and feel good. There are power suits and suits that are even more flashy for special occasions beyond the workaday routine. The suits are in all colors of the rainbow, from Easter egg-inspired hues to sober pinstripes. There are seven button jackets matched with six-button vests, and there are also single-button jackets cut with double-breasted lapels. The shoe collection is fancier and more daring than anything found on Newbury Street. There are shirts and ties of every color and shade and pattern. There are cuff links, tie pins, tie bars, collar bars, and tie chains. Some of it is gaudy and some is understated. This is a haberdasher that seeks to meet all needs. There is a tasteful collection of fine hats and woolen overcoats on offer.

The staff is professional, putting the customers' needs first and no one is unattended as the salespeople cater to everyone's assembled needs. There is an on site tailor for alterations, though she admits she cannot guarantee 24 hour turnaround. After a few days, at most, your outfit will be fitted to your proportions and you can stride into any boardroom or barroom confident you will be the best-dressed, bespoke man in the room.

Mattapan, as we all know, doesn't have the best reputation. Porta Classica, the "classical door" to style and sophistication, is the exception to these perceptions. You can spend a bundle of cash downtown getting yourself equipped for a business lunch with important clients or you can take the trolley to Mattapan to look better than the bunch on a sandwich board budget. Smart people shop Mattapan.

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.

The missing Tyrolean

Hans Nindelschitz reports that he lost his hat on the 22 bus somewhere after Ashmont Station while the bus was travelling Talbot Avenue. He is a German exchange student at UMASS Boston on Harbor Point and his hat is a cherished possession. It is a forest green Tyrolean hat with the requisite green rope braid over the brim and a boar's hair brush mounted on the left side. The hat is studded with pewter pins that Herr Nindelschitz earned on group hikes through his native Rhine Valley. He attests that he hasn't seen any other hat like it in Dorchester, so anyone who spies it can be reasonably sure of its rightful owner.

Herr Nindelschitz says that the 8:05 PM bus out of Ashmont wasn't crowded so he took off his hat and placed it with his books on the seat next to him on his way home to his apartment in Stony Brook. He could take the Red Line from campus to Downtown Crossing and then the Orange Line to Stony Brook but he has found that the Red Line to Ashmont and then the 22 bus shaves a few minutes off his commute. With his hat and books at his side, after a long day of studying, this scholar fell asleep, lulled by the rocking of the 22 bus. He awoke at 9:11 when the bus came to an abrupt halt at the intersection of Talbot Avenue and Nightingale Street. His head feeling cold, he reached for his trusty Tyrolean hat and came up empty handed.

His books were undisturbed but his hat was missing. He felt around the bus floor and bent to look under the seat but there was no sign of his hat. He made his way to the front of the bus and asked the driver about where it may be. The driver stopped the bus in mid traffic and asked his passengers to search their seats for the missing hat. It really was missing.

At Stony Brook, Herr Nindelschitz spoke with the Transit Police and the officers on duty promised to issue an all points bulletin for the missing headgear. The sergeant at the desk said, "We'll do our best but that hat could be anywhere by now. It could be at the tip of Hull by now and if it is we'll never be able to trace it."

Anyone in Dorchester who happens to accidentally be in possession of an unfamiliar Tyrolean hat is encouraged to turn it in to the nearest MBTA police station so that can be reunited with its rightful owner. Today he was wearing a knit watch cap, popularly called a 'scully' in Dorchester, and while it is warm it isn't warm like he likes.

Intensive care

The owner of a particular hair salon in Savin Hill asked that no revealing details be told in this report. We respect his wishes. By naming the shop's neighborhood we are not letting any cats out of any bag. Like everywhere in Boston, Savin Hill is flush with hairdressers as well as barbers, manicurists, convenience stores, pizzerias and Chinese take-out joints. To say that one catagory of establishment is in any broad jurisdiction is not a secret; there are dozens within blocks of each other.

The salon in question doesn't have any remarkable features if one looks through the front window. It is clean and stylish enough to entice women and metrosexual men to stop in for a hair cut. The receptionist at the desk looks welcoming and unintimidating enough. There is a special room in back, however, that maintains its sterility through positive air pressure, where a few special clients are admitted access. As the owner told me, "We don't like to advertise our services. We already serve clients beyond capacity and, really, the facilities are for emergencies only."

Before we started our tour his cell phone rang. He listened intently and barked a few questions: "How long has this been going on?...Mmm hmmm...How rapid are the contractions?...Mmm Hmm...Do you feel you can drive? Should I call an ambulance?...Okay. Get here as quickly as you can." Then we started our tour.

I was ushered past the chairs and mirrors and sinks and that make up the main salon through a locked, panel door that opened with a whoosh that blew my forelock back on my scalp. What greeted me was what may be Boston's premier intensive hair care unit. It was empty at the moment and this allowed the owner to show off and demonstrate all the equipment. The room is about the size of a typical pantry and most the wall space is lined with shelves holding bottles and polystyrene bags of exotically colored gels and small, mad scientist-style machinery. At the rooms center is a typical barber chair covered with a foam, egg crate mattress to prevent clients from developing pressure ulcers while they undergo treatment.

We proceeded clock-wise. The owner explained, "Here we keep our nutrient protein-enhancers and on this shelf we store the collagen formulae. Down here are the coco butter and lanolin for easy access at hip level in the case the patient, I mean client, goes into split arrest." He directed my attention to a device that sprouted a kaleidoscope of telephone wire tipped with alligator clips. "This is our follicle defibrillator," he said, "And over here is our parenteral conditioning unit." His tour was full of descriptions about micro-sebaceous pumping mechanisms and trans-dermal vitamin infusions and cytogenetic dye spectrometry. I have to admit I didn't follow most of it but he seemed to know what he was talking about.

As we wound up my visit a young woman wearing a turban burst through the front door. "You have to help me," she exclaimed, "I'm going to a party tonight and I can't go like this. I tried to do a touch up job bleaching my roots and now my hair is falling out!" The hair stylist on call took her pulse for thirty seconds and then fetched a flashlight out of his pocket to check her pupils. He turned to me and said, "I have a serious case here. Do you mind if you show yourself out? I'm going to be very busy for the next hour or so and I can't be disturbed. Lock the door behind you, if you don't mind." I said I understood the gravity of the situation and I did as he requested. As I closed the door I heard the stylist call to his assistant, "Fire up the autoclave. We've got a case of acute, achromatic alopecia here!"

smart women by whaleheadking
Make a stainless steel travel mug online at zazzle
More Massachusetts Mugs

A little shameless promotion. Here is a nice gift for the gal at the front desk who greets people who enter your high-flalutin' brokerage firm and politely tells them to cool their heels while they wait to consult with you on a high-risk, high return scheme. In the world of high finance, it's the receptionist who makes or breaks deals.

This cup also is good for any immigrant Bostonian of the fairer sex. It is popular in Roxbury kitchen cabinets as much as in the board rooms of the BPL, the BFD, the BRA, the ICA and at the diners clustered around Broadway Station in Southie. Smart women do live in Boston. Most of them drink coffee.

Burger King smells better

Burger King, that hamburger empire with outlets on Dot Ave and Columbia Road is branching out of the food business and into the scent business. We don't mean the aromas that waft out of the fry-o-lators into the surrounding neighborhood. We mean the scent of seduction "with a hint of flame-broiled meat" as only Burger King can do it. Flame broiling is what separates BK's burgers from McDonald's, as much as customers being able to have it their way. Now you can have it your way after a shave and not be a slave to the corporate tastes of Drakar, Canoe, Stetson or Old Spice.

Burger King has introduced its own cologne, or 'body spray' as the marketing wonks at Axe like to call it.

I was in line to order a loaded Angus Burger at the Dot Ave BK, standing behind a couple of toughs. You know the kind, construction workers wearing grimy, Carhartt overalls with baseball caps that haven't seen a washing machine since they were made. and bandannas in their back pockets caked with half-frozen snot and grit scraped from V-8 engines' headers. They had beards speckled with crumbs from yesterday's lunchtime subs and teeth as stained and crooked as the tombstones in the Old Burying Ground on the Common. These guys didn't place an order for food. They asked for the new Burger King cologne they has heard about from their buddies, the cologne that drives carnivorous women wild.

The cashier thought they were crazy so she summoned the assistant manager, a pudgy fellow who has obviously enjoyed his share of complimentary Whopper Jr.'s in lieu of a decent wage. He took control of the situation and told these customers that the cologne was only available for sale via the website firemeetsdesire.com. The shorter of the two protested, "But I don't have a computer." The taller one pulled him aside and said, "You can use mine. I'll get a bottle for each of us."

After enjoying my scrumptious Angus Burger, I went home to confirm the facts. It is true, a meat scented cologne is for sale under Burger King's aegis, concocted to their exclusive, trademarked formula. After all, who could do it better than these experts in the field of flame-broiling beef for the masses.

I called Esmelda Perez, who is planning to open her "Smell Good Shop" on Upham's Corner. She told me over the phone, "Oh, I'm all over this one. I've already ordered a case and written the product line into my business plan. This will go over big in Dorchester. I smell dollars."

Nylon Dress

Like the old song says, “If you want to make your baby happy…Go to the shop and buy a dress of nylon.” A number of fashion options are available to New London’s stylish set. Whalehead King brought a lady friend with him to judge the ladies’ clothing available in New London’s shops.

“A cotton dress comes from a plant…A nylon dress is a work of science.” Mr. King and his companion stopped at Honey Plus to sample an array of frocks that are hung in the back of the store. There were a number of colorful, Indian, cotton dresses attractively priced at $14.99. Mr. King’s companion panned the dresses as not being fashionable enough.

They next went to Family Dollar on Montauk Avenue. They made a beeline to the women’s clothing racks. Mr. King’s companion was in hog heaven. Nothing at Family Dollar costs more than ten dollars, and the nylon dresses are no exception. Mr. King’s companion grabbed a handful of dresses brightly printed with flowers in every color in the rainbow. She is impulsive about spending money, but she knows what she likes.

Why nylon? Mr. King’s companion quoted the song. She said, “A nylon dress is a fancy dress…a nylon dress never makes a mess.” So true. When you wear a nylon dress, you are dressed for success. Check out the goods at Family Dollar on Montauk Avenue.

You can learn more about the importance of fashion at Myspace.

Change is Afoot.

They have cut down two large trees on the old Bodenwien property on Pequot Avenue. On the other side of the city, they have wrapped ye olde towne mill in Tyvek. Fire trucks rushed to Squire Street yesterday and closed the street to traffic. Fire trucks rushed down Broad Street toward downtown at 11:00 o’clock this morning.

A city is full of details and action. New London, Conn. is a city. New London is full of activity. It is like an ant farm. Citizens go about their business and no one action makes sense unless viewed as part of a whole. If New London is a mote in God’s eye, God smiles at New Londoners’ antics. Everything works out for the best.

Two old trees will not be missed on Pequot Avenue. Ye olde towne mill will last another four hundred years under the Goldstar Memorial Bridge. Accidents happen and they will be replaced by other accidents. A single life is a string of details. A city’s life is a collection of incidents. Whatever happens, adds to the whole.

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.

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.

The Red Sock

Gladstone Turner of apartment 2-A at 78 West Street woke up early and didn't turn on the lights before he fished through his sock drawer. He donned one navy sock and one red one. He didn't realize it until much later in the day while he was working in the mail room at Connecticut College. He realized he couldn't do anything about it at this point, so he continued sorting the mail and putting the letters in their asssigned slots.

Cindy Cornerstone, who is the youngest, most single, and prettiest female employee in the Connecticut College mailroom noticed that Gladstone Turner was wearing mismatched socks. She didn't think this was a mistake. She thought it was a mark or individuality. Only an assured man would wear such contrasting anklewear. Anyone who can wear such socks without being self-consiousness, obvisously had little to prove in the bedroom.

Cindy Conerstone asked Gladstone Turner for a drink at Mr. G's that night. One thing led to another. Apartment 2-A at 78 West Street was never louder. The tenent at apartment 1-A beat on the wall wtih a broomstick. Cindy Cornerstone and Gladstone Turner are a couple now. They keep thier relationship professional in the Connecticut College mailroom, but beyond the postal boxes, passions run high.

As Gladstone Turner will tell you, size doesn't matter. Socks do.

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.

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.

They Called Her 'Mento.'

A slender young lady with long, curly, red hair decided to experiment with her wardrobe last week. She tends to wear earth tones. Her hair attracts enough attention that she has learned not to showboat with her clothes. Otherwise no one would be able to take thier eyes off her.

A concerned aunt gave this young lady a sweater for X-mas. The aunt thinks her niece should show off her red hair better so she purchased a mint green sweater a shade opposite orange on the color wheel. Our young lady is polite and she thanked her aunt and neatly folded the sweater into a drawer. Her conscience finally got the better of her and she pulled out the sweater last Friday.

She looked in the mirror and felt pretty good about herself. When she got to work, her co-workers immediately noticed and complimented her on her bold choice. She was very happy but still not completely comfortable as she received more compliments from customers throughout the morning. As her confidence started to grow, a certain gentleman arrived. He shall remain nameless.

This man has eyes senstively attuned to color after years of training as a landscape painter. He took one look at this mint green sweater and squinted and stopped in his tracks. He looked right at our young lady and said one word very softly, but loud enough to be heard, "Mento."

The nickname caught on and for the rest of the day everyone called the young lady Mento. She was none too pleased. The next day, she dropped the sweater off at the Salvation Army. The man had meant no harm, but the damage was done. She wasn't angry, he had just said aloud what she already knew. Today she is wearing a white turtleneck with a burgundy cardigan over it. She looks lovely and the gentleman told her so.

Who is Joey Royale??

Carnie folk have always had a soft spot for the Whaling City. That is why there are always so many rides at Sailfest. One native was so taken with these travelling professionals when he was a child, he ran away to Coney Island to learn the trade.

Joey Royale is a fire-eater. Really, not metaphorically. He puts open flame down his alimentary canal like it is shavings off a snowcone. He mesmerizes crowds with his intestinal fortitude. He digests flame like a simple carbohydrate. During romantic dinners, he eyes the candles. Needless to say, Joey Royale plays with matches.

If you watch those tattoo shows on the Discovery Channel, you've seen Joey Royale's arms. He sports a pompadour that would be approved by both the Sharks and the Jets. He has moved back to New London, and his boyhood chums marvel at what he has become. He is a showman, an impressario, a man with a vision who marches to Calliope's tune.

Besides being a fire-eater, he is a musician. He is so talented with a tune that he was drafted into one of New London's most prestigious quartets. One look at Joey Royale and you know this is a man who is familiar with the mysteries of estrogen and tonic. He is a natural fit. Besides that he is an amateur cryptozoologist and kitchen table taxidermist. He has preserved samples of strange beasts shipped to him by explorers of stranger places than New London, Conn. He once thought of running a jackalope ranch, but figured fire-eating would pay off better in the long run.

Despite his lucrative fire-eating career, Mr. Royale still has a day job. He is a man of many callings who believes children are the future. He is known for his youth, fire-eating, mentor program run through Parks and Recreation as Joey Royale. Under a psuedonym, he works more directly every day shaping the outlook of our region's youth. He is an elementary school teacher.

Business is Booming!!

Who says businesses aren't moving to New London, Conn. to exploit its ripe opportunities? A gala grand opening was held at New London's newest occupied storefront. The glitterati were out to be snapped by The Day's paparazzi. The party started at 4:00PM and the tuxedoes and gowns were out to take advantage of the last hour of daylight.

Every entrepreneur knows to fill a niche that's empty and that is just what New London's latest commercial emporium is doing. Bank Street Pawn has opened its doors with a selection of merchandise priced for the discriminating connoisieur. While chi-chi antique stores have infiltrated downtown New London in recent years, Bank Street Pawn, at 227 Bank Street offers something different from the pack.

The specially invited guests to the grand opening party were greeted by an accommodating sales floor laid out like a fashionable emproium from the Whaling City's gilded age. Bank Street Pawn promises to be one of the smoothly humming engines in New London's commercial juggernaut. The grand opening concluded at the sensible hour of 7:00PM. The revelers, still wound up from the marvels the entertainment provided by hosts Willow and Ozie. Though it was a suitable hour for bed, no one wanted to go home. The party was adjourned to the Thames Club for a round of dances between duckpin bowling frames.