Boston/ Baltimore, same dif

P4 informs me she aspires to become the President of Boston. Boston?

We had a kid in school, grade 8 rugby, tall lanky Fijian kid who’s favourite tactic when in possession of the ball was to jump high at any tacklers and sort of bicycle his feet mid-air, size 13 cleats spinning in your face so that you ducked out of the way and he got safely past. This strategy worked very well for him until a new kid from Baltimore showed up, that’s in America. He was a football player, never played rugby before. First time he was faced with the cleats of death manoeuvre he simply dipped his shoulder, caught Fiji-boy square in the gut and flipped him neatly over his back whereafter Fiji boy did approximately one and one half startled turns and landed flat on his own back with much coughing and spluttering.

Just shows sometimes its better to go in knowing nothing. That’s how you get to be President of Boston.

3:45pm

Now Millie was sure of it. She was being followed by a documentary photographer.

Meanwhile Stella and Jane play Laser Beam Death Duel because they both like the same fella and the lady in the hat, three ahead of Millie in line, contemplates stealing a baby on her way out.

Ahhh, the Thirties, what a fun time they had with their hats and their Great Depression and their Studebaker automobiles.

And don’t forget the polio!

Trout can be people too, if we let them

Did you ever leave your car windows open and then it rained and the seats got wet but it kept raining, or threatening to, for 4 days and you couldn’t leave the windows open to let it air out and it got really stinky inside? That happened to me the other day. Smells like sneakers fished out of a swamp with a tinge of sour milk.

Did you ever leave the laboratory/galvanized tin shed late at night with an armload of computer and computer accessories and your coffee cup and your smokes and your keys and when you got outside it was dark so you waved your arm to activate the security light, and spilled half a cup of cold coffee on your own head? That happened to me yesterday. It was, unprecedented. I stood for a time struggling mentally to grasp what the hell had just happened. In the end I had to accept it.

Did you ever talk to someone who was so unqualified for their job that whenever you try to speak to them the conversation degrades into a surreal round-about of mis-communication and misunderstanding, spiralling ever downward and left of the topic that by mid-point you yourself no longer know what you’re talking about and you start just agreeing with them until they go away? That happens to me every day. It’s like explaining chess to a fish. Not a clever talking fish, not a fast-learner fish. Not like that fucking Nemo. Just a regular fish. A trout, perhaps.

We’ll see if tomorrow I can’t spill coffee on my head IN the car. Give the trout something to talk about.

Dear Mr Jutra

Hello brother, hated enemy of the possum,

I sit in pleasant weather on my back veranda overlooking the green fields and wooded woodlands of the vicinity. Thunderheads are forming to the north and west, cicadas are buzzing. There is a slight breeze from the south-east, humidity is low. I smoke a small brass pipe, a gift from my wife some time ago. I hardly ever think of strangling her, I love her so.

I watched a program about the symptoms of Grumpy Old Manism. Several British men made witty soliloquies on the benefits, philosophy and symptoms of GOM, one of them was a Sir somebody from somewhere. I was pleasantly surprised to find I share the philosophy and have many of the symptoms. I have worked for many years with the aim of developing into a true GOM, I have always enjoyed the work of Walter Mathou and the Herman cartoon strip. I was pleased because, though not yet 40 years of age, I have the signs of becoming a fine GOM. I have not only hair in my ears, but GREY hair in my ears. I often dribble my coffee when I drink it simply because I can’t be bothered to aim, my damn hand should know its way by now. I spend approximately 40% of my time looking for things I just put down and a further 24% of my time going back to get something I forgot (I keep cigarette lighters in every room, in my car, in my work bag, in my desk and still not a day goes by where at least once I can’t find my lighter). My grey whiskers have been joined by white ones. Are GOMs forgetful? No, it’s just that thinking is getting to be such a fucking drag. If my body can’t deliver a cup of coffee to my face-hole on its own by now, after 25 years of practice, well then I give up. I have a nice wife who washes my shirts and I hardly ever think about strangling her.

Herman by Jim Unger

But you brother, how are you? Did you complete the writing workshop you were accepted to? Did you find it useful? Did you meet Nolten Nash? Is he really alive because I think he’s a robot, like Dick Clark and Bob Barker and Ronald Reagan (not dead, de-commissioned)? How is your wife? I have not met her yet so I don’t know, but you must have, so I thought I’d ask you. Surely you never think of strangling her as you have your possums to occupy you. Does she do anything interesting like prophesize the future or crochet? The world will end tomorrow, here’s an afghan I made. Does she wear a hooded cloak? That’s how you can tell a prophet. Sometimes they have a stick, but then so do a lot of people (wizards, shepherds, stick collectors) so that alone is not reliable evidence. You’ll work it out.

It will be cold there now, assuming the global warming hasn’t happened there yet, with possibly snow on the ground. Snow makes things quiet, makes the cars in the street tip-toe. Snow is good to do that. I have nothing against snow. I have heard it snows here, saw it on the news once, it’s big news, but so far have not witnessed any myself. People here get excited if it hails – did you get hail? We got hail. Hailed for ten minutes. I’m sure it was hail. Killed the cat.

Anyway brother, my battery is dying so I will go. I hope you and your possibly prophetic wife have an enjoyable Christmas holiday. May you have snow, not hail.

#505

We sat at dusk, Teddy Roosevelt and me, and he told me of Rough Riders and later of rough trade and I said Teddy, Ted, T-Man, why did you charge San Juan Hill, you raving queen, why? For the hats he said, the hats, the hats. San Juan has good hats. HAD, I corrected him, had good hats. Yes, he said, they surely did, hardly ever blew off. And we laughed at his little faux-pas and then just sort of drifted apart, having nothing left in common.

That was last week I think, maybe a little before, but I still think back to those times when the rain blows in off the hills and the magpies head for shelter. Magpies are not at all like they were played by cartoon greats Heckle and Jeckle. Magpies don’t actually talk, most of them, and when they do it’s just a repetitious string of memorized phrases. There is no witty banter.

Not like Teddy and San Juan. They had a thing going. They bantered like there was no tomorrow. That takes guts. If there was no tomorrow I don’t think I could banter. I’d probably be too sad. Tomorrow was pizza night. Anticipating pizza makes me sad, a little. I worry about the toppings. How will they cope with the slicing and molten cheese, will they remember being free?

But I guess they knew that when they signed up to be toppings. Just like Teddy. Just like San Juan. Not like magpies. Birds cannot be toppings, they are hard to slice. Chicken pizza is a mistake. Against the natural laws, against tomorrows, against everything old Teddy stood for. San Juan had no opinion, but he’d agree if you paid him to and old Teddy did, often. For the hats.