Odometer Update: Day 4

I know!  Yesterday, I didn't provide a milage figure from my touring around New Orleans and today I can't even post a fresh picture, recycling one from last summer with at least 5000 miles missing from the Littlest Ninja's odometer.  ...And it is the same picture from Monday!  To rub salt in your indignation, not only did I get sidetracked from reporting about yesterday's journeys in order to talk about my search for turkey cutlets in New Orleans, today, I haven't checked the most recent reading.  This odometer update is turning into something else altogether.

My journalistic skills mimic my driving.  I am easily distracted and led onto detours according to flexible whim.  I have other fish to fry tonight and other concerns that burn my hash (not really, I'm incapable of sustained anger).  I did check my odometer's reading this morning and I drove very little today (all things considered) and I'll detail it all tomorrow, Heaven willing.  In the meantime I have lost one half of two different things.  Let us take a little side trip down the stream of consciousness and focus, magpie-like on the latest shiny facts that hold my attention.

Firstly, I lost one of my gloves at the Bulldog Tavern on Canal Boulevard.  I lose things all the time, but this is particularly irksome.  I found these gloves on the side of the road probably ten years ago.  Good deerskin gloves, well-broken in.  A thumb (on the lost glove) has a scar on it from before it came into my possession.  Anyone finding this glove is encouraged to return it to its rightful owner.  If you are reading this, you know who that is and you can find my contact information easily enough somewhere on this page.  No reward is offered beyond the satisfaction of doing the right thing.  While it may have fallen out of my helmet, or I may have misplaced it (which is often the case and it may turn up later), my preferred explanation is that some lovely lass purloined it as a keepsake after seeing me in full motorcycle regalia strutting through the Bulldog.  Lady, I may be Whalehead King, but I'm no Prince Charming.  I may be a knight on a charger, but I'm no Galahad.  My steed is the Littlest Ninja this side of the Mississippi River, not a white horse.  I may come to your rescue, but it will only be by happenstance, not as the result of a quest.  If you are reading this, I would like my glove back.  Because of my confabulation, this loss is irksome in a good way.  I have a story to tell.  My personal mythology has an addition.  Somewhere, someone is sleeping with my dirty, oily, beaten-up motorcycle glove under her pillow.  Sweet dreams.

Secondly, driving to my current destination, I noticed that it seemed to be raining even though everything was as bone dry as it ever gets in New Orleans.  As it happens, I took off my glasses and noticed something was definitely amiss.  A lens is missing!  Now, I've been expecting this for the past week or so, a vague premonition.  There were no overt signs.  This lens has been cemented onto the frame with Krazy Glue for about three years and has shown no signs of seeking freedom.  This pair of glasses, like my gloves, is about ten years old.  Unlike my gloves, I paid cash money for them.  They are the least pretentious pair of eyeglasses I own (besides my US Navy issue frames which I obtained at no charge), so I've been wearing them often.  I've been noticing how roughly I treat them.  They got pulled off and pushed on willy-nilly every time I donned or doffed my helmet, and I've been amazed at the durability of a drop of glue dispensed from a 99-cent tube of glue.  I can't say I didn't get what I paid for.  Three years of abuse is a long run.

I do not suspect someone stole my left eyeglass lens to be able to see the world through my eyes, but nothing is beyond the realm of probability.  Even this conjecture, though, is more than I can plausibly accept.  That said, if you are reading this and have my left lens in your possession, I would like it back.  As a reward, I will give you 10% of the advertising proceeds from this blog for the month of May 2011. Don't spend it all in one place.

So, I am left lopsided with more equipment on my right hand side.  This seems fitting.  The lady of the house complains that the patches on my motorcycle jacket are all on the left hand side.  While I find this to be a pleasing asymmetry, she thinks they should be arranged more equally along my sagittal line.  My left ear sports three earrings and four holes, while my right ear has none.  Maybe Fate is telling me that it is time to pay attention to the left side of my brain, as if I needed that advice.  I don't know.  All I know is that I am in a conundrum.  I have to pick another pair of daily eyewear (there are plenty of options in my wardrobe) and that I need to make a decision about my gloves.  Should I keep the remaining lucky right glove and just replace the left, or should I wear a coordinated set?  Oh, the troubles I bear.

So what about the odometer update?  Tune in tomorrow to get up to speed, or not.  I fully intend to give a full report on how many miles I've travelled this week.  I'm sure I've burned though a gallon of gasoline.  Some say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, but I've never found that to be the case.  I've found good intentions lead me to other roads and scenic journeys.  It isn't the destination that matters, it is how you get there.  Unless the destination is Hell, of course.  So far, I haven't arrived.

Have Ninja, will travel.
Keep an eye on your gear.
With a bare, left-handed, handshake,
WK

Sing along with Dot

Sing along with every dandy, bloke, schoolmarm, spinster, cripple, thug, harlot, tyke and babe that calls Dorchester home!  You know the tune...

Dorchester Man!

Dorchester Man!

Does what no other Bostonian can!

Is he strong?  Listen Bud,

He's got puddingstone in his blood!

Hey there!

Look out for the Dorchester Man!

Can he afford a loaf of bread?

Take a look overhead:

Wherever there's a tightrope,

He always speaks the right trope,

He always walks a fine line

Always just at the right time,

That makes him the Dorchester Man!

In the gloom of night,

At the scene of a crime,

At the speed of a stop light,

He arrives just in time

(to stop one not to commit one)!

Dorchester Man!

Dorchester Man!

Does what no Allston habitue can!

High degrees, he's ignored

Community is his reward!

He finds his thrills on the sidewalk!

He appreciates some straight talk!

He doesn't have any hang-ups,

He's had his share of bang-ups,

Wherever there's a tight spot,

He knows there's a home in the big Dot,

That's why they call him the Dorchester Man!

I did a pastiche on the same theme just seven months ago.  I don't mind returning to the same material to polish it up though.  This version is different and I think much better.  You decide.

Viva  Dot.

Peter Lorre review

For reasons that aren't always clear to me, the Dot Matrix has an affinity for Peter Lorre.  We can blame it on a past interview with Dorchester resident Laurie Masters.

How's the young Ms. Masters doing? you ask.  She's moved to East Boston so I've lost touch with her.  I'm certain all is well though.  She's a bright girl with good taste and Eastie is as fine a neighborhood as Dorchester.  Some might say more so but I'm not one of them.

If you are interested in a review of the movie from which today's illustration is culled, it a hoot from someone who apparently thinks Mr. Lorre smoked too much.  I've quit the cigarettes, myself.  I smoke a pipe instead.  Peter Lorre also smoked a pipe, though not exclusively.  I recently drew a picture based on a photo of him holding a pipe.  I'll post at this site in the next week or two. I'm very lazy when it comes to scanning things.

Bad weather for prostitution

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

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

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

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

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

Playboy vs. Penthouse

I was at Cappy's Convenience a few weeks ago, though that's not exactly news. I forget what I was buying...maybe ice but probably not; was it warm enough for a cold drink in September? Whatever it was, while I was paying I spied the 'gentlemen's magazines" discretely arrayed behind the register, inconveniently out of reach and wrapped in plastic. The wrappers were opaque except for the top where the masthead showed through.

I mentioned to the proprietor that I didn't realize Playboy is still around. "Does anyone buy it?" I asked. "Oh yeah," he answered, "I still sell a few copies every month." Curious, I told him I'd take one. I think it was $5.99. It featured a story by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. so that sweetened the pot.

I'm not sure what Playboy's target demographic is. I found the whole thing rather dull, including the fiction. There were some product reviews, two advice columns I think, an article on fashion that didn't make much sense but revolved around movie stars from the 60s, and the pictorials. If I recall there were traditionally three photo spreads of pretty girls when I was a kid. I'm thinking in this issue there were two, but there may have been three. I wasn't paying that much attention.

Leroy Neiman did the art on the back of the centerfold. Is he still alive? Has he been drawing these same pictures for 40-odd years? If they decided to recycle the old ones would anyone notice? The 'jokes' on the back of the centerfold were bawdy enough, if not particularly funny. The same goes with the cartoons that were sprinkled throughout. These dealt mainly with prostitutes and strippers and seemed to be of the same vintage as Mr. Neiman's drawings.

Playboy did at least try to cover a variety of topics even though it did so in a pseudo-hip, winking way that made me embarrassed for the authors. A week later I decided to sample the distinguished competition so I purchased a copy of Penthouse. "Yeah, we still sell a few of those a month, too," the proprietor told me.

Penthouse is pretty much about one thing and in the most superficial and juvenile way I could think of. Playboy wasn't funny. Penthouse was stupid. From the centerfold: "Q: Would you give up your right arm or the ability to have orgasms? A: My arm, then I could make some hot amputee porn. " Really? Someone really said this?

The problem is there is nothing about Penthouse that is believable or even remotely interesting. There was an article on Satanism that was so superficial I could have written it. Regular readers of the Dot Matrix know that rigorous research is not my strong suit. There was another article about having a bachelor party in Boulder, Colorado. Q: What's the best strip club in Boulder? A: The Penthouse Club. Really? Is that an unbiaseed opinion? Who said that? The owner? The owner of this magazine?

Playboy may be dull but that is because its obsession is on a faux sophistication that has aged about as well as Burt Reynolds. Penthouse likewise has an obsession and it isn't about being sophisticated. It makes Playboy look like the New Yorker.

You may argue that no one buys these magazines for the articles. That may be. I bought them out of curiosity. Maybe some people buy them for the pictures. I saw a few more body parts in Penthouse, but I don't need any anatomy lessons. I haven't made my purchasing trifecta yet by buying the latest Hustler. I'm sure it will be at Cappy's when I'm ready to stare with bewilderment at how I wasted another six bucks.

The man named Lorre

Four months after the fact, I'm rather surprised that a dispatch on the subject of Mr. Peter Lorre remains one of the Dot Matrix's most visited pages. Who would have predicted?

While the human interest aspect of young Ms. Laurie Masters' adolescent infatuation with the late actor has legs, it seems to be a near-universal fascination with the late Mr. Lorre himself that is driving traffic. People want to learn more and share their affection for this talented thespian.

What's the appeal? He was certainly suave, debonair and exotic. He had an endearing way about him. Even when he was playing a rat or, regrettably, a raven, people felt an instant bond with this fellow. He was a tragic hero even when he was a villain, and he was never very villainous. Was it the accent? His voice? Yes and more.

No summary would be complete without mentioning Peter Lorre's eyes. Limpid pools of tender humanity, a woman could lose herself seeing her reflection in those peepers. What did Mr. Lorre see? It's written on his world-weary face. Greatness and humility are conveyed by every tic and arch. When Peter Lorre cried, I imagine he cried by the bucketful and those weren't crocodile tears. They were the tears of a man who seen both top and bottom. They were tears that pluck at a nourishing lover's heartstrings.

What do men see in a fellow man like Peter Lorre? He never came across as particularly macho, but he could smoke a cigarette like no body's business, relishing carcinogens like they were candy. He sometimes came off as cravenly, but in a tight spot, wouldn't any man be to save his own neck in order to try again another day? I would. So would you, Buster. Be honest.

Though not a politician, Peter Lorre was a man of the people in the widest sense. People identified with him even if they had nothing in common. They still do, though regrettably, Mr. Lorre hasn't worked since 1964 when he passed away. Like any great actor, he could communicate the human condition in a way everyone could relate to. No small feat, and a talent many politicians lack.

So, back to the Dot Matrix's raison d'etre, what does this have to do with Dorchester, Mass? Much like Mr. Lorre, the Dot has a certain je ne sais quoi, an appeal that is hard to pinpoint but that is irresistible nonetheless. The parts shouldn't work together, yet the fact that they do is undeniable, to a degree no one would reasonably expect. Peter Lorre had his magic. Dorchester has its.

If you haven't gotten your Peter Lorre fix yet, and you shouldn't just reading this, there is a Peter Lorre News Blog, that covers all thing pertinent to the appreciation of the man born Laszlo Lowenstein. A tip of the fedora to Cheryl Morris who tends this flame.

A wonderful town

Dorchester, Mass! It's a helluva town. Andrew's up and Lower Mills is down. People ride in a hole in the ground! Dorchester, Mass! It a wonderful town.

Dorchester is a visitors' place. People live there on account of the pace. 100,000 folk with plenty of space. Dorchester, Mass. it's a wonderful place.

Dorchester women dress in silk and satin, or so the fellas say. Dorchester gals are both thin and fattened and they smile all through the day. "No way!" you say? Okay...

When sailors pull into port they head to Dorchester, where the most robust good times are to be had. If you've only got twenty-four hours in Boston before shore leave ends, you might spend a few hours touring downtown, but once evening nears, it's Dorchester that pulls the sailors in like a siren. On a sailor's pay, military scrip will buy more Dot grog than Back Bay Manhattans. The company is better too, more in tune with a swabbie's sensibilities. Simple pleasures and earthy talk.

Just as some sailors have a girl in every port, some Dorchester girls have a sailor on every ship. Dot hospitality is known all over the wide, undulating breasts of the Seven Seas. Many a seasoned bo'sun has been a Dot maid's boatswain. Keep that under your foc'sle and don't tell the coxswain you've been worming the cuntline all the time you've been on shore. No one will believe you've been pulling duty in Dorchester, that seaman's paradise.

Dorchester's whereabouts is well known. Every Master-at-Arms, Pharmacist's Mate, Seaman Schmucketelli, titless WAVE and powder monkey has been to Dorchester at least once on a tour. Those stationed far away have heard marvelous tales of the delights found along the shores of Dorchester Bay. Neither compass nor sextant is needed to find good times in the Dot. Old hands guide raisins loaded with rubber hooeys for the good times sure to roll after the pucker factor has subsided. (Translations here.)

Dorchester, Mass! It beats New York for port call.

Pork pulled at Pit Stop

Anyone who lives in Mattapan knows where the best barbecue can be found. If you're not familiar with the Dot, go down Morton Street and look for the knot of cars congealing traffic around address 888. Three eights are a good numerological number for the Pit Stop Barbecue. A calligrapher couldn't make a better choice. The number eight has a handsome head and a swollen belly, three in a row resemble the line of customers that leads to the counter at the Pit Stop.

The Pit Stop is a little shack on the corner of Morton and Hannon Streets. Its chimney exhales the mouth-watering scent of smoked meats. The people who live in Morton Street Village must be the hungriest in Boston, their appetites are always stimulated by the smoke out of the Pit Stop.

The pork ribs have a national reputation as being the best Texan style, slowly cooked meat north of the Red River Valley. You will sometimes see Winnebegos parked on Morton Street that belong to pilgrims who have made the trip east and north from southern, desert states to taste the best barbecue New England has to offer. It makes me feel fortunate to live a mere mile and a half away.

The pulled pork sandwich is a regular favorite, as are the pork ribs. Rich, salty, flavorful sauce that hasn't been replicated at any other, more fancy outlets complements the smoky meat the Pit Stop offers Thursdays through Sundays at a price every Mattapan citizen can afford. Local high school students and Back Bay Lotharios both report that the best way to get a date in an amorous mood is to offer her a meal of pulled pork. The Pit Stop often runs out of menu items due to excessive demand, but the demand for pulled pork sandwiches always seems to be the first supply that's exhausted. The rumors may be true, the pulled pork may be an aphrodisiac. The theory has been tested enough times to have street credibility.

The Pit Stop is more than a barbecue pit, if hearsay is to believed. It is also a passion pit, at least off premises. There isn't enough room in the Pit Stop for an orgy, only for takeout.

I was chatting up a couple of college students at Teatro, on Boston Common last night. They told me, "Spanish Fly drops have nothing on Pit Stop pork. That sandwich is a one-way ticket to heavy petting and then it's easy to get it punched for a transfer to the next zone." I asked if they were worried about the Swine Flu epidemic that may be heading to Boston. "I don't think past tomorrow morning," one rake replied.

Making the Dot sweeter

I was enjoying the beautiful weather this morning by taking a constitutional walk around Savin Hill, both the neighborhood and the summit of the hill itself. I entered Savin Hill Park by way of Rockmere Street and strolled between the puddingstone boulders. Savin Hill was originally called Rock Hill.

I came across young Julia Ward who was planting something in Savin Hill's rocky soil. I asked what she was up to. "Ma says its going to rain this afternoon so I thought today would be a good day to try an experiment," she said.

She was armed with a soup spoon and an empty package of assorted fruit-flavored Mentos, the chewy mint from the Netherlands. "I heard my folks talking the other night and they were saying how glad they are to live in Dorchester, how everything has been so nice since we've moved here. My Pa said that the only thing that could make Dorchester sweeter is if Mentos grew on trees. I'm trying to make the Dot nicer for Pa."

It seemed like a noble plan so I didn't bother discussing basic biology. Instead, I wished her good luck. Who am I to judge? Good things grow in Dorchester. We all know Clapp pears are the best pears money can buy when you can find them. I've heard rumors about a pork chop tree that supposedly grows in Dorchester Park.

True to Mrs. Ward's word, it has been raining since early this afternoon and it promises to continue through the night. If Julia's Mentos don't melt, they just might take root. Want to start your own garden? Here's a chance to get enough seeds to start a farm...

Big beauties bulk up Dorchester

The most current edition of The Bay State Banner (Vol. 44, No. 29) reports that the second annual Miss Voluptuous Beauty Pageant is being held in Woburn in the very near future. What does this have to do with Dorchester?

Well, firstly, the most beautifully voluptuous ladies call Dorchester home. You know the kind. Art history majors have seen them in Rubens' paintings. They are sensuous and intelligent with plenty to love. They are strong women with big bones and ample curves. They walk Washington Street and Dot Ave and Blue Hill Avenue and all the side streets in between, turning attentive heads. They can be spotted taking out thier recycling bins at the crack of dawn. If you haven't been to Dorchester, you may want to take the Ashmont Branch of the Red Line and maybe then the Mattapan High-Speed after that to get your full quotient of Ooooo-la-la....la-la-la-la-laaaa...Ba-boom! Big, beautiful women inhabit the Dot.

The second reason is that the pageant's organizer is Dorchester's own fellow citizen Fabiola Brunache. We are not going to paraphrase the Banner's crack reporting here nor will we second guess why Ms. Brunache is holding the pageant in Woburn rather than closer to home base. We will provide a link for more information: Click Here. We will encourage everyone to see the contestants strut their stuff and show off in competition for the title they probably all deserve. Admission to the event in Woburn is free, as free as a Dorchester walkabout.

An American werewolf in Dorchester

Tonight's happy hour led me to the Dot Tavern where I was sitting next to a bearded chap with a Southie accent. We didn't talk at first which suited me fine. I was finishing up the horse racing news in the Herald and preferred not to be interrupted from my studies. After I put my paper down, the 'gentleman' gradually engaged me in conversation.

He saw what I had been studying in the newspaper so the talk started with palaver about the ponies. While he regaled me with tales of his well chosen trifectas I noticed that his eyes always wandered when a lady walked past. The woman in question could be young or old, attractive or not, blond, brunette, redhead, bluehair, cross-eyed, snaggle-toothed or super-model. If they belonged to the fairer sex, which naturally they did, his eyes would follow them from behind my left shoulder to the hairy edge of his left ear.

"I've been drinking beer all day. I could use me a nice goose right about now," he told me. I suggested he visit Gene and Paul's Meats just down the road. This grocery has the freshest meats of all varieties from any flesh-bearing, land bound animal one might wish to consume.

He said, "Naw, I don't cook. I just want me a little tickle." Then he pointed with a crooked finger at a spiky-haired, crew cut brunette lass sitting in a booth. "That's the goose I want to pluck," he said, extending his finger out then pulling it back a few times. I excused myself.

I introduced myself to the ladies in the booth. It was all, "Hello, I'm Whalehead King...it's a nice night compared to yesterday...what do you do for a living?... uh huh, uh huh...do you live close by?...do you know that the creep who keeps looking over his shoulder at us and licking his lips isn't watching me but you?"

It turned out to be last call for the ladies though the evening was still early, hours before cutoff time. I offered to escort them home but they refused. I said I was leaving anyway, and we left together, parting company at Columbia Road. The goose hunter didn't follow, which is just as well.

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!"

Pennies from Dorchester

When Betsy Trumbull was burying her guinea pig in the back yard of her Tonawanda Street three-decker, she made a fortuitous discovery. It was the day after Thanksgiving. Chirples had died the day before Thanksgiving but there was a wake to be held and no one, not even a guinea pig, gets buried on a holiday. During the Thanksgiving meal, Betsy offered up the sentiment that even though Chirples was gone, he had lived a good life. He was six years old when he met his maker.

It's been a warm autumn this year and the ground in Dorchester hasn't been locked up with frost. The shovel slid into the dirt as Betsy Trumbull and her father excavated Chirples' final resting place. Her father tossed a shovelful of dirt out of the ground and Betsy noticed a velveteen bag mixed with the soil and puddingstone pebbles. She called the operation to halt to examine it. The bag was worm-eaten and moldy but still intact and drawn closed with a scarlet silk string. Inside the bag was a carefully folded envelope fashioned from butcher's paper. Inside the envelope were ten tarnished coins.

"What are these?" Betsy asked. Her father replied, "Some kid's treasure buried and forgotten. It looks like Chirples is being buried in a special place." After the funeral service was concluded with all due solemnity, Betsy and her father took the coins into their kitchen. Her father said, "Let's leave this in a glass of Diet Coke overnight and see what we've got."

By morning the carbonation had scoured the coins free of all accumulated debris and corrosion. Betsy found herself in the possession of ten shiny Indian Head Pennies minted in 1908. The following Monday (today) Betsy and her father took the pennies to the check cashing parlor on Edward Everett Square. They were informed that pennies of this vintage and in this condition were worth a dollar a piece. Mr. Trumbull urged cashing them all in. Betsy thought otherwise. She cashed in nine for nine whole dollars. She is keeping the other one in memory of Chirples and his final resting place. She knows she won't live on Tonawanda Street forever. Someday, she hopes to live on Melville Avenue and then she will be able to look at this penny and think of where Chriples is buried.

The Eye of the Beholder

Chatting with an acquaintance outside the Starbucks at the bottom of Newbury Street, the conversation was brought up short in midsentence as my acquaintance craned his head to watch a fashionable young lady sway her way down the sidewalk in the direction of downtown. Once he regained his composure, he said, "Did you see the hair on that girl's arms?" I had to admit I hadn't noticed.

He continued, "She has arms like a mafiosa. They're covered with wiry black hair. She has arms like a bonobo." Then he mused, "I wonder if she has the libido of a bonobo?"

I wasn't much interested in her libido but I was interested in her hairy arms. I left my coffee on the table and a few bucks for my companion's cab fare back to Newton. I said, "I'll see you next week. I've got a little field study to do." I then caught up with the woman, keeping about ten paces behind in thick foot traffic. It is Indian Summer and seasonably warm this Columbus Day weekend. People were out as thick as gadflies on Newbury Street.

I followed the subject of my investigation as far as the Public Garden. She did indeed sprout thick, black hair on her shapely forearms. People stopped in thier tracks when they noticed. She was blond on her head, whether natural or not I didn't get close enough to determine. I did see that she was young enough not to have undergone any surgical, cosmetic augmentation of her shaplier attributes. She attracted quite a bit of attention, mostly from men. Whether this had to do with her features, which would normally be considered remarkably pretty, or whether it had to do with her hairy arms is an unanswered question.

Wherever this young lady strolled she was blithely unaware of the stares and doubletakes she drew in her wake. She kept her head upturned, enjoying the sunshine, the play of shine and shadow through overhanging leaves, and the slices of solar gold that cut between Newbury Street's eaves. She smiled most of the time, content to be walking the walk of the lovely. She was lovely. She did have a bonobo's forearms though. She didn't stop traffic but she slowed it. I still don't know the reason.

A Gruesome Mission

Bella Donna packs a double whammy of desirable attributes. She is beautiful and young. To put icing on the cake and round out her attractiveness into a trifecta, she rides a motor scooter. She tools around Boston on a Piaggo Typhoon 150. That's a ride as sweet as an American girl with an Italian name. That kind of girl is easy to find in Boston but that kind of ride is pretty rare. A woman like Bella Donna is a rare find indeed.

Bella Donna, never to be mistaken for her arch nemesis, Bruto Uomo, grew up in idyllic Kane Sqaure in the shadow of St. Peter's Church. She was reminiscing with Trixie Herlihy last night about a wristwatch she lost when she was a child. She and Ms. Herlihy have been pulling duty at the Peppermint Squad's Meeting House Hill satellite depot, near where Bella Donna grew up. It is a fairly quiet outpost with ample downtime during which squad members can bond and share their memories and goals.

The ladies were sitting on the front steps sharing a nip of cinnamon schnapps and watching the world go by. Bella Donna told Trixie the story of how she lost her wristwatch after burying her pet guinea pig in Ronan Park. Trixie said, "That's so sad."

Trixie asked where the guinea pig, whose name was Piggy, was buried. Bella Donna gave a rough description of the whereabouts. She is young but people didn't regularly rely on GPS in those days so she isn't sure of the exact longitude or latitude. Moved to the brink of tears, either for the lost watch or the dead pet is uncertain, Trixie assembled a posse this morning. Luckily it had rained much of the night and stopped just after sunrise. The ground was wet and loose but the skies were sunny and dry.

Trixie led the posse which consisted of a gaggle of Peppermint Squad hangers-on wanting to score brownie points with a full-fledged member as well as Tweedledum who had nothing else to do and who happens to own a metal detector. Tweedledum pulled his motorscooter up to the others already assembled on Mount Ida Road. After dismounting, he flashed Trixie The Peppermint Signal with his left hand and said, "Where did you find these rubes?"

Trixie apologized, explaining that this was the best group she could assemble on short notice for a Thursday morning. The posse went to work. Tweedledum activiated his metal detector and, with Trixie's direction and a entourage of stumble-footed onlookers, made his way to the spot Bella Donna described.

The metal detector started to beep like a gieger counter on a forbidden planet and Tweedledum knew that he had hit paydirt. He announced, "If this isn't a watch, it's Fort Knox!" One of the posse answered, "I just hope its not a dead guinea pig!"

This remark put a damper on everyone's excitement. As the leader of this posse, Trixie selected a deputy, one of the wannabes whose hands shook the least and handed him a trowel to discover what was buried. The deputy stepped up to the task with aplomb and went to work in the muddy soil. Soon enough he hit paydirt: a rusted wristwatch circa 1994 with the hands stopped at precisely 3:14:55, whether AM or PM wasn't apparent. It was a Hello Kitty wristwatch and when the deputy held it in the air, the buckle end of the moulded wristband fell of into the grass.

Trixie said, "Bella Donna is going to be so happy to get her watch back."

Tweedledum said, "You did your good deed for today, Trixie."

Carrie Crow

Like people, some crows are gregarious and some are shy, coy, and retiring. Some crows prefer their privacy to the raucous good-time lives other crows experience. Some crows live in shadow.

As a hatchling, Carrie Crow fell out of her nest in Bates Woods. Suzanne White found the baby bird and brought it home. She asked her mother if she could keep it. Because Suzanne had carried the little bird, she decided to call her Carrie. Carrie Crow is an indoor crow. She prefers to have walls and a ceiling, as well as a floor. She flies fancy maneuvers within the confines of her world. She soars like an angel within her limitations.

Who would have thought Blackie would have met Carrie Crow? Blackie is the kind of gadabout and gadfly that is usually in the spotlight rather than on the sidelines. Carrie Crow is a crow that rarely leaves the confines of her comfort zone. They did meet one day, against all odds. That morning was overcast and drizzly and not a creature was stirring at the tail end of Ashcraft Avenue where Carrie Crow makes her home. Since it was quiet, Carrie Crow decided to poke about the lawn. It just so happened that while Carrie Crow was weeding the garden, Blackie was soaring overhead to meet a little chickadee in a bush on West Street. When Blackie caught sight of Carrie Crow, he whirled around on pinions free to take a second look. Blackie was in love.

He landed at a respectful distance from Carrie Crow and introduced himself, being sure to say first, “Begging your pardon, Ma’am.” Blackie pulled out all his charms. Carrie Crow was mystified at first, but after awhile Blackie started to attract her like a dead mouse in a trap. Let us just say that nature took its course and that crows are one of the birds included in the phrase, ‘the birds and the bees.’

Blackie still visits Carrie Crow. She is one of his stable of tablemates. Carrie Crow smells like Febreeze™. Blackie smells like Romeo y Julietta brand cigars. Despite that they have such different dispositions and goals, the two get along quite well. Carrie Crow enjoys hearing about Blackie’s adventures. Blackie enjoys the peace and comfort of Carrie Crow’s company. They fit together like a quill and an inkwell.

A poetic observation of what crows are called in scientific Latin can be found by visiting http://blog.myspace.com/whaleheadking.

Aparagus Martiini

There is a New London hotspot called Midnight-a-go-go, we will not mention its address. If you don't know it, there must be a reason. It isn't hip to be flip, but only the best and brightest of New London's stars frequent this secret headquarters of hedonsistic libertines. Come as you are, but you had better be good. Midnight-a-go-go is where the beautiful people go.

The most beautiful woman in New London ran into Whalehead King last night at the Whaling City's most exclusive nightlclub. She walked over to him like good karma in motion. She asked if she could buy him a drink. Never a man to turn down an offer from a beautiful woman, Mr. King agreed. He politely asked if she had any idea what he may prefer. She said she had no idea what Mr. King's eccentric tastes may require, so she told him to order what he wanted.

Whalehead King leaned over to the bartender and whispered, sotto voce, for a rarely ordered house special, the asparagus martini. This is a drink for people who like their vegetables and can take their medicine. Grey Goose, Cynar and an asparagus spear. Sophisticated, vitamin-filled and an effective digestive.

Mr. King enjoyed his drink while his companion sipped a rum and coke. They kissed briefly when they parted company. The most beautiful woman in New London said Mr. King tasted bitter though his manners are always so sweet. He blamed the asparagus martini, which is an acquired taste.

To learn more about the most beautiful woman in New London, see today's blog post at MySpace.

Things are not what they seem

In a city where nothing is as it appears, you never know what you will find. Be careful where you look and when you see something you shouldn't, avert your gaze. Sometimes two plus two equals a conga line in New London. They teach this in the fourth grade at Edgerton school.

What look like abandoned buildings on Bank Street are really pleasure palaces behind the boarded up windows on the third stories. Bachannals take place every night with no one suspecting. New London is home to some saucy and naughty entertainment for those who know where to find it. New London's secret floorshows are secret because this city was founded by Puritans and home to the first American Episicopalian diocese. It has a reputation for morality.  It has a reputation as pure and undriven as the unplowed streets in December.

Seek and you will find. This is a city of pleasure-seekers and lovers of the flesh. Scratch a New Londoner and you will find a hedonist under his or her facade. As the nights wear on, New Londoners live on little sleep and plenty of exercise. They are busy chasing their dreams and distractions. They are enjoying the pleasures offered to their senses.

Amy Hannum for President!!

Mark your calendar, social activism and the prospect for change are in the air. March 31st, at the Oasis Cafe, 14 Bank Street, I beleive, will host an event to promote New London's most promising presidential candidate. Show your support and hobnob with the possible next leader of the free world.

Amy Hannum, locally known as Paintdragon, is running for president. That's right: Commander in Chief, Head of the Administrative Branch of our Constitutional government, a breath of fresh air more full of energy, younger and more charming than Ralph Nader. Ms. Hannum is a fountainhead of ideas as powerful and as personable as a character out an an Ayn Rand novel. If you want to see a woman in the White House, cast a vote for Amy Hannum. She deserves it more than many, many other candidates.

March 31st at the Oasis. What a perfect place to launch a leader in the desert of hackworn ideas that have dominated the debates thus far.

What Makes A Wallflower?

Sometimes the most timid maid in the room can contain a bestial zoo inside her head. Just because someone lingers by the punch bowl and looks comfortable in a folding chair, doesn't mean there is a lack of lust in that person's libido. You cannot judge a book by its cover, not even a Bible.

Human beings are many sided things, New Londoners more than most. They are aristorcrats of the gutter, they are Morlocks among the Eloi. Who is who and which is which is a matter of circumstance and situation. The most demure damsel can be a tiger in the boudoir, but you will never know. If New Londoners appear angelic, they can also be devlish. We are all human after all, containing the divine and the demonic, the pure and the purulent, perfection and perversion.

Beware the wallflower. She will eat you alive like a carnivorous plant if given the chance. "Come into my web," said the spider to the fly. Just don't get caught like an ant under a magnifying glass. You will regret it more than being brave enough to chat up the wallflower at the ball rather than the belle. Be careful what to expect.