Finally, my big toe has stopped oozing
stinky puss;
my big toe nail trimmed far, far, far back
and swabbed with alcoholic astringent (and copious curses).
My left shoulder no longer a bulbous Quasi Modo’s hunch,
although to rest upon it causes a deadly moan ah.
Oh, nevermind, Desdemona was in Othello.
Esmerelda was the hunchback's dame.
My first injury of Bingham,
a thunderous fall on my left thigh
(such impact rattled my vainly beefy leg
right into my femur bone)
has finally diminished into a grey/green bruise
the size of a storm cloud.
Hidden on the backside of my ear
dermal scarring, no cauliflower but crudités
nonetheless.
Both knees scabrous burgundy bubbles of
mashed, marred skin placed above
shins, a splattered mosaic of brown/blue/red splotches,
wounds from various kicks/scrapes/cuts achieved
during two hundred and thirty five minutes of rugby played.
A novice sleuth may easily deduce
the violent, violet handprints crossing my
biceps and pectorals. Tackles attempted
(and failed, thank you).
Deep inside, hidden from eyes,
lays a strained string of muscle,
snaking along my stomach’s underside.
And as I type, my hands
(once mirror images) appear distorted
as though seen through a carnival’s glass.
The right, as normal as ever it was.
The left, a sickly mustard yellow flecked
with six crimson abrasions from an
aggressive rugger’s spiked cleat;
his attempt to mash my precious lefty into ground meat!
May 31, 2006
May 25, 2006
May 24, 2006
A Face for Radio
Tune in to Sirius Radio 106 OutQ tomorrow morning to hear moi discuss my forthcoming gender reassignment surgery!Hahah! I totally fooled you.
It's actually to discuss *gasp* GAY RUGBY and THE BINGHAM CUP!!!!!!!!!
I'll be on at 10:05 with some of my fellow Knights and hunky host Larry Flick.
EDIT: Oh well. We've been bumped. That's showbiz. One second your hot, hot, hot. The next you're old news.
Consolation: Larry will be coming down to the field to record some interviews for Monday's show.
This is going to be a long weekend. Is it the Closing Party yet?
May 23, 2006
Bingham Cup Information!
New York Gay Rugby Fans! Here’s the low down for Memorial Day Weekend’s Bingham Cup.Where are the Games:
The 2006 Bingham Cup will be played on Randall’s Island from May 26-28, 2006. Matches are free and open to the public.
Matches will start at approximately 9:00am and end at 4:30pm. Food and merchandise vendors will be on hand to meet your needs.
To get to Randall’s Island, take the 4, 5, or 6 train to 125th Street and transfer to the M35 bus to Randall’s Island.
Gayest Neil Says:
Ya’ll this bus, affectionately referred to as the “crack bus” will be filled to capacity with gay ruggers, the homeless and Methadone patients. Hooray for you if you fit all three criteria!
On the weekend, the 4 and 5 train have been running LOCAL and the buses are infrequent.
If you plan on seeing a particular match or, especially, if you plan on playing, GET THERE EARLY, EARLY, EARLY!!! You’ve been warned!
Also: Upon crossing the Triborough Bridge to Randall’s Island, the games are the FIRST stop on the island. Look for signs upon getting off the M-35 bus.
When are (Gotham Knight’s) Games:
The home team(s) play at the following times:
Friday the 26th
10:20 a.m.Gotham Knights (B) vs. Phoenix Storm
11:10 a.m. Gotham Knights (A) vs. Manchester Village Spartans
2:10 p.m. Gotham Knights (A) vs. Los Angeles Rebellion
3:50 p.m. Gotham Knights (B) vs. Amsterdam NOP
Saturday the 27th
9:30 a.m. Gotham Knights (B) vs. Minneapolis Mayhem
10:20 a.m. Gotham Knights (A) vs. Sydney Convicts (A)
11:10 a.m. Gotham Knights (A) vs. TBD
1:20 p.m. Gotham Knights (B) vs. Sydney Convicts (B)
Sunday the 28th
Playoffs: There are a slew of playoff and qualifying matches following. You’ll simply have to show up and find out who places for the added drama on Sunday from 9:30 a.m. to 3:00 p.m.
Where are the parties?
(a.k.a. Gayest Neil can you get me on a list?)
Now we’re talking! and no, I can't get anyone on a list.
Unaffiliated Events:
Tu, May 23 - 8pm - 10pm
Sydney Convicts
Gym Sports Bar,167 8th Av. btw. 18 & 19 St. (Convicted)
Wed, May 24 - 7pm-10pm
San Francisco Fog
Slane Irish Bar,102 MacDougal St. at Bleecker
Wed, May 24 - 8pm - 10pm
Gotham Knights
Gym Sports Bar,167 8th Av. btw. 18 & 19 St. (Rally Knight!)
Fri, May 26 - 8p-10p
Los Angeles Rebellion
The Eagle NYC,554 W. 28 St. btw. 10 & 11 Av.
Fri, May 26 - 8pm-1am
MetroBears
The Dugout,Christopher St. at West St.
Sat, May 27 - 8pm-10pm
Washington Renegades
View Bar,232 8th Av. btw. 21 & 22 St. (After “Showers” Party)
Affiliated Events:
Thursday, May 25 - 7pm-10pm
Bingham Cup Opening Night Party from 7pm to 10pm at Spirit, (530 W. 27th St.) Guests will be welcome to stay at the venue past 10:00pm when Spirit will open their doors to their normal Thursday night audience.Tickets for non-registrants, $50; VIP Tickets, $65. Includes 2 hours of open bar and dinner.
Sunday, May 28 - 7pm-11pm
Bingham Cup Closing Night Partybegins 7pm at Webster Hall, (125 E. 11th St.) Guests are welcome to stay at the venue to take part in the XXL afterparty which commences at 11pm.Tickets for non-registrants, $65; VIP Tickets, $80. Includes 2 hours of open bar and dinner.
Monday, May 29 - 3pm-5pm
Going Away Partyat the Eagle, (554 W. 28th St.) This is a cash bar event with drink specials.
Gayest Neil says: The Closing Night Party is going to be a blast. Well worth the $65. The fee will include an open bar, dinner and a snarling segue into XXL’s afterparty. You also get to see Gayest Neil the drunkest he’s ever been! EVER!
What can you do to support the Gotham Knights?
Aside from attending the games, I ask all my fellow bloggers, particularly if you are in the NYC area and plan on attending, please give a brief shout out and link to this posting. The more people who have quick and easy access to the schedule and dates for the Bingham Cup, the better.
And I’ll make sure to hook you up with a sexy, international, gay rugby hunk at the after party. Sunday night everyone gets loving! I've decided Bryce and I are getting three or four! Woooo!
AND... On a personal note. I'm so thrilled to be playing this weekend. The Bingham Cup (and Plate) is the Holy Grail of gay rugby. I've been training two exhausting years for this opportunity and hope all my friends can make it to see our fabulous team play and, hopefully, win.
Don't forget, this is YOUR team New York City! Get out there this weekend and cheer on your mates! Thank you and see you at the Bingham Cup.
May 22, 2006
Fifteenth, the Conclusion.
Previously...
For the celebratory buffet to follow the big event, Miss Bethany Chester modified her classic “Crazy Shellz N Cheez Cazzerole”. Instead of pasta shells she substituted elbow macaroni and loaded the cheesy dish with jalapenos and salsa. Voila! Miss Bethany’s "Macareni Madness Casserole" was born.
Practically all of Cedartown gathered to witness (and participate in) the WGAA Macarenathon 1996. At least five hundred people, yours truly included, were assembled in that old cow pasture to dance the Macarena for as long as it took to get Cedartown into the record books. We were also gathered to witness the hopeful conclusion of the infamous Chester family feud.
Which pregnant Chester daughter would out-dance the other and earn the right to name her son Chester DuBois Chester the Fifteenth?
I spied over my right shoulder, three people deep, the sisters were standing side by side in matching tangerine outfits. Their bulbous bellies were held aloft by fanny packs stuffed with water bottles and granola bars. The Chester suspense (and the smell of cow patties) was killing everyone assembled.
Celebrity Hostess.
Cookie and Caitlyn Chester stood nervously side by side. They felt everyone’s eyes on them. The sisters tried best they could to ignore the attention and focus on the nameless fetuses nestled in their tummies. Nonetheless they fidgeted in their sterling white Reeboks stuffed with swollen ankles and neon socks. Their anxiety was soon forgotten as people began to point and cheer. A wave of star-struck wonder washed over the assembled dancers. The event hostess slowly hovered into the air above the crowd, held aloft in the repair box of Cedartown’s sole public utility truck.
Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, had arrived!
“Helloooo you devilish dancers! Are you ready to Macarena my mummies?” Elvira purred into a megaphone and pressed her bosom against the steel bars of the utility box.
My brother and I were absolutely thrilled that Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, was hosting the WGAA Macarenathon 1996. We were longtime fans of her late night horror show, Movie Macabre, on channel 14. Her 1988 feature film only cemented her awesomeness in our minds.
But many of the more Christianly townspeople thought her inclusion in this event was demonic and pornographic. About ten percent of the assembled dancers (mostly society ladies) held aloft signs declaring Elvira (real name Cassandra Peterson) a witch and harlot. Despite the controversy they still showed up to dance. Ole Chester DuBois Chester preened like a celebrity himself. His wheelchair placed for optimum views of daughters’ progress and Elvira’s fishnets from beneath her perch.
“Alright fiends. Let’s murder this Macarena!” Elvira jiggled seductively (her utility cage jiggled frighteningly) and everyone cheered. A wall of speakers thumped with the familiar music of El Macarena. Finally it was time to dance.
Heeeeeey Macarena!
First set of 4: Extend Right Arm straight out, palm down on count 1.
Cookie gave her younger sister a look of defiance and began to dance.
Extend Left Arm straight out, palm down on count 2.
Caitlyn returned the stare and mimicked the motions precisely.
Rotate Right Hand (palm up) on count 3.
Cookie smiled and moved her arms outward as a reporter from the Cedartown Standard edged into the mob for a photo of the competing sisters.
Rotate Left Hand (palm up) on count 4.
Caitlyn passively nudged her sister to the right. Cookie cursed (but kept smiling) as her new sneakers mashed a cow patty missed by the event organizers.
Next set of 4: Touch Right Hand to the top of your left shoulder on count 1.
Cookie was already breaking a sweat going into the second hour of the dance, but she knew her baby’s future rested on her persistence. Caitlyn had assumed this would be an easy win. She stepped up her zeal and gleefully wailed, “Hey Macarena!”
Touch Left Hand to the top of your right shoulder on count 2.
An official from Guinness World Records milled about the perimeter of the dancers. He officially numbered off dancers with a hand counter. A second official announced the three hour mark as the dance continued on and on and on. . .
Touch Right Hand to the back of your head on count 3.
Elivra, Mistress of the Dark, repeated the moves above the crowd. She moved vigorously. The carriage which supported her shook vigorously from side to side as she danced.
Touch Left Hand to the back of your head on count 4.
Caitlyn willed her legs to continue moving. She relied on her training as a Cedartown High School cheerleader to push her through the pain of stiff joints and aching calves.
Chester DuBois Chester stole sips from his silver flask. He giggled and salivated at the littlest glance of the Mistress of the Dark’s black satin panties.
Next set of 4: Touch Right Hand to the left side of your ribs on count 1.
Cookie’s competitive spirit would not be undone! Her baby would get the family name. The fourth hour was announced and a renewed strength invigorated her body. “Dance, dance, dance!” Cookie began chanting to herself.
Touch Left Hand to the right side of your ribs on count 2.
Elvira’s heels hurt her feet. She questioned the choices she had made in life which brought her to this moment, doing the Macarena atop an old electric company truck in front an assembled town of rednecks and Christian protesters.
Move Right Hand to your right tush on count 3.
Suddenly, a gush of warm water soaked Caitlyn’s legs and ankles! She looked down in horror! She had dropped her water bottle.
Move Left Hand to your left tush on count 4.
An official announced the fourth hour had been achieved. Only thirty more minutes and Cedartown would win the title of largest and longest Macarena in the world! Considering the popularity of the Macarena at the time, I still can’t believe a mere five hundred dancers and four and a half hours was all it took to win an international record.
Next set: Swing once to the right on count 1.
More and more exhausted dancers began to stagger from the crowd. The organizers frantically asked everyone to keep dancing. Only fifteen minutes remained before Cedartown made history. Even my own resolve was fading as the cursed music continued to play.
Swing once to the left on count 2.
Cookie barely moved. She shuffled and repeated the moves and stared blankly at the ground. Caitlyn did the same. Miss Bethany watched from near the buffet table. She appeared worried for her daughters.
(Well, all except her second eldest Marjory. She had gone home within fifteen minutes of the event to instead catch a rerun of Matlock. So very dull.)
Swing once more to the right on count 3.
Only five minutes remained! The entire town cheered and joined in the Macarena madness. A renewed vigor cleansed the dancers of their prior fatigue! Elvira danced and jiggled. From his pervert’s post Ole Cripple Chester panted and laughed like a hyena.
Turn 90-degrees to the right on count 4 and repeat from the beginning.
All of Cedartown’s dancers and spectators began chanting a count down to the four and a half hour mark. Ten. The din was so loud no one heard the creak and groan of the twisting metal until it was much too late. Nine. Hands, originally raised to the Heaven in celebration of the Macarena, became pointing fingers. Eight. Smiles became stilted gasps of horror. Seven. All eyes turned to the carriage holding Elvira. Six. It slowly unhinged itself from its metal arm and began a slow, almost snowflake like, descent to the Earth. Ole Crippled Chester looked straight upwards and promptly kussed.
Chaos ensued.
When I was much younger, my grandparents often took my brother and I to Callaway Gardens in middle Georgia. It was a sprawling botanical complex used for weddings and picnics, lovely, lush, verdant. They had a mock Japanese garden among the various sculpted paths and lawns. There was a little pond hidden among the carefully raked pebble paths and serene shrubbery.
This coy pond was not so calming. It was an angry aquatic pit of brightly hued fishes snapping at one another for the tiniest morsel of kibble sacrificed to those hundreds of whiskered, watery mouths. The coy pond terrified me. I imagined drowning in it, being eaten alive by the jostling Japanese fish.
The resulting bedlam of Elvira’s terrible tumble made the coy pond tranquil by comparison: jostling hillbillies, screaming society ladies, hands and elbows everywhere. Cookie, Caitlyn, the stupid Chester name, nothing mattered as my brother and I led our mother to safety. Finally when the confusion died down, all eyes turned towards the spot where Elvira had landed.
She was standing with the help of a paramedic. The Mistress of the Dark had a bump on her head, but otherwise seemed ok. The utility box she’d been dancing in was crumpled on one side and rested next to Chester DuBois Chester the Fourteenth’s wheelchair.
Miraculously, still in his chair, sat Chester. He was alive. He was white as a ghost. He’d peed his pants. Otherwise, the old coot was ok.
Resolutions.
The Chester daughters resolved their conflict shortly following the potential tragedy. They recognized the absurdity of their argument and agreed that whoever had the first son would get the fifteenth Chester DuBois Chester and whoever had the latter delivery would name him the sixteenth Chester DuBois Chester. The fifteenth was eventually born to youngest daughter Caityn and the sixteenth was born to eldest daughter Cookie.
Miss Bethany published a cookbook of small town recipes featuring her Macareni Madness Casserole along with an autographed photo of a bandaged Elvira enjoying the now famous pasta dish.
Following his fourth near death experience, Chester finally changed his ornery ways and became a model of civility. He died from liver failure related to his longtime alcoholism a year later.
Cedartown never won the Macarena World Record. We failed by four seconds.
For the celebratory buffet to follow the big event, Miss Bethany Chester modified her classic “Crazy Shellz N Cheez Cazzerole”. Instead of pasta shells she substituted elbow macaroni and loaded the cheesy dish with jalapenos and salsa. Voila! Miss Bethany’s "Macareni Madness Casserole" was born.
Practically all of Cedartown gathered to witness (and participate in) the WGAA Macarenathon 1996. At least five hundred people, yours truly included, were assembled in that old cow pasture to dance the Macarena for as long as it took to get Cedartown into the record books. We were also gathered to witness the hopeful conclusion of the infamous Chester family feud.
Which pregnant Chester daughter would out-dance the other and earn the right to name her son Chester DuBois Chester the Fifteenth?
I spied over my right shoulder, three people deep, the sisters were standing side by side in matching tangerine outfits. Their bulbous bellies were held aloft by fanny packs stuffed with water bottles and granola bars. The Chester suspense (and the smell of cow patties) was killing everyone assembled.
Celebrity Hostess.
Cookie and Caitlyn Chester stood nervously side by side. They felt everyone’s eyes on them. The sisters tried best they could to ignore the attention and focus on the nameless fetuses nestled in their tummies. Nonetheless they fidgeted in their sterling white Reeboks stuffed with swollen ankles and neon socks. Their anxiety was soon forgotten as people began to point and cheer. A wave of star-struck wonder washed over the assembled dancers. The event hostess slowly hovered into the air above the crowd, held aloft in the repair box of Cedartown’s sole public utility truck.
Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, had arrived!“Helloooo you devilish dancers! Are you ready to Macarena my mummies?” Elvira purred into a megaphone and pressed her bosom against the steel bars of the utility box.
My brother and I were absolutely thrilled that Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, was hosting the WGAA Macarenathon 1996. We were longtime fans of her late night horror show, Movie Macabre, on channel 14. Her 1988 feature film only cemented her awesomeness in our minds.
But many of the more Christianly townspeople thought her inclusion in this event was demonic and pornographic. About ten percent of the assembled dancers (mostly society ladies) held aloft signs declaring Elvira (real name Cassandra Peterson) a witch and harlot. Despite the controversy they still showed up to dance. Ole Chester DuBois Chester preened like a celebrity himself. His wheelchair placed for optimum views of daughters’ progress and Elvira’s fishnets from beneath her perch.
“Alright fiends. Let’s murder this Macarena!” Elvira jiggled seductively (her utility cage jiggled frighteningly) and everyone cheered. A wall of speakers thumped with the familiar music of El Macarena. Finally it was time to dance.
Heeeeeey Macarena!
First set of 4: Extend Right Arm straight out, palm down on count 1.
Cookie gave her younger sister a look of defiance and began to dance.
Extend Left Arm straight out, palm down on count 2.
Caitlyn returned the stare and mimicked the motions precisely.
Rotate Right Hand (palm up) on count 3.
Cookie smiled and moved her arms outward as a reporter from the Cedartown Standard edged into the mob for a photo of the competing sisters.
Rotate Left Hand (palm up) on count 4.
Caitlyn passively nudged her sister to the right. Cookie cursed (but kept smiling) as her new sneakers mashed a cow patty missed by the event organizers.
Next set of 4: Touch Right Hand to the top of your left shoulder on count 1.
Cookie was already breaking a sweat going into the second hour of the dance, but she knew her baby’s future rested on her persistence. Caitlyn had assumed this would be an easy win. She stepped up her zeal and gleefully wailed, “Hey Macarena!”
Touch Left Hand to the top of your right shoulder on count 2.
An official from Guinness World Records milled about the perimeter of the dancers. He officially numbered off dancers with a hand counter. A second official announced the three hour mark as the dance continued on and on and on. . .
Touch Right Hand to the back of your head on count 3.
Elivra, Mistress of the Dark, repeated the moves above the crowd. She moved vigorously. The carriage which supported her shook vigorously from side to side as she danced.
Touch Left Hand to the back of your head on count 4.
Caitlyn willed her legs to continue moving. She relied on her training as a Cedartown High School cheerleader to push her through the pain of stiff joints and aching calves.
Chester DuBois Chester stole sips from his silver flask. He giggled and salivated at the littlest glance of the Mistress of the Dark’s black satin panties.
Next set of 4: Touch Right Hand to the left side of your ribs on count 1.
Cookie’s competitive spirit would not be undone! Her baby would get the family name. The fourth hour was announced and a renewed strength invigorated her body. “Dance, dance, dance!” Cookie began chanting to herself.
Touch Left Hand to the right side of your ribs on count 2.
Elvira’s heels hurt her feet. She questioned the choices she had made in life which brought her to this moment, doing the Macarena atop an old electric company truck in front an assembled town of rednecks and Christian protesters.
Move Right Hand to your right tush on count 3.
Suddenly, a gush of warm water soaked Caitlyn’s legs and ankles! She looked down in horror! She had dropped her water bottle.
Move Left Hand to your left tush on count 4.
An official announced the fourth hour had been achieved. Only thirty more minutes and Cedartown would win the title of largest and longest Macarena in the world! Considering the popularity of the Macarena at the time, I still can’t believe a mere five hundred dancers and four and a half hours was all it took to win an international record.
Next set: Swing once to the right on count 1.
More and more exhausted dancers began to stagger from the crowd. The organizers frantically asked everyone to keep dancing. Only fifteen minutes remained before Cedartown made history. Even my own resolve was fading as the cursed music continued to play.
Swing once to the left on count 2.
Cookie barely moved. She shuffled and repeated the moves and stared blankly at the ground. Caitlyn did the same. Miss Bethany watched from near the buffet table. She appeared worried for her daughters.
(Well, all except her second eldest Marjory. She had gone home within fifteen minutes of the event to instead catch a rerun of Matlock. So very dull.)
Swing once more to the right on count 3.
Only five minutes remained! The entire town cheered and joined in the Macarena madness. A renewed vigor cleansed the dancers of their prior fatigue! Elvira danced and jiggled. From his pervert’s post Ole Cripple Chester panted and laughed like a hyena.
Turn 90-degrees to the right on count 4 and repeat from the beginning.
All of Cedartown’s dancers and spectators began chanting a count down to the four and a half hour mark. Ten. The din was so loud no one heard the creak and groan of the twisting metal until it was much too late. Nine. Hands, originally raised to the Heaven in celebration of the Macarena, became pointing fingers. Eight. Smiles became stilted gasps of horror. Seven. All eyes turned to the carriage holding Elvira. Six. It slowly unhinged itself from its metal arm and began a slow, almost snowflake like, descent to the Earth. Ole Crippled Chester looked straight upwards and promptly kussed.
Chaos ensued.
When I was much younger, my grandparents often took my brother and I to Callaway Gardens in middle Georgia. It was a sprawling botanical complex used for weddings and picnics, lovely, lush, verdant. They had a mock Japanese garden among the various sculpted paths and lawns. There was a little pond hidden among the carefully raked pebble paths and serene shrubbery.
This coy pond was not so calming. It was an angry aquatic pit of brightly hued fishes snapping at one another for the tiniest morsel of kibble sacrificed to those hundreds of whiskered, watery mouths. The coy pond terrified me. I imagined drowning in it, being eaten alive by the jostling Japanese fish.
The resulting bedlam of Elvira’s terrible tumble made the coy pond tranquil by comparison: jostling hillbillies, screaming society ladies, hands and elbows everywhere. Cookie, Caitlyn, the stupid Chester name, nothing mattered as my brother and I led our mother to safety. Finally when the confusion died down, all eyes turned towards the spot where Elvira had landed.
She was standing with the help of a paramedic. The Mistress of the Dark had a bump on her head, but otherwise seemed ok. The utility box she’d been dancing in was crumpled on one side and rested next to Chester DuBois Chester the Fourteenth’s wheelchair.
Miraculously, still in his chair, sat Chester. He was alive. He was white as a ghost. He’d peed his pants. Otherwise, the old coot was ok.
Resolutions.
The Chester daughters resolved their conflict shortly following the potential tragedy. They recognized the absurdity of their argument and agreed that whoever had the first son would get the fifteenth Chester DuBois Chester and whoever had the latter delivery would name him the sixteenth Chester DuBois Chester. The fifteenth was eventually born to youngest daughter Caityn and the sixteenth was born to eldest daughter Cookie.
Miss Bethany published a cookbook of small town recipes featuring her Macareni Madness Casserole along with an autographed photo of a bandaged Elvira enjoying the now famous pasta dish.
Following his fourth near death experience, Chester finally changed his ornery ways and became a model of civility. He died from liver failure related to his longtime alcoholism a year later.
Cedartown never won the Macarena World Record. We failed by four seconds.
May 17, 2006
Jaded
Tyzilla names her sixth Top Model tonight.I hope Jade wins.
She’s a mess. I’m talking an absolute freaking mess. She makes Foxy look downright put together. Here are three of this cycle’s best Jade moments brought to you by the funny folk at YouTube.
Jadebonics. Words can’t express how ignorant Miss Chia Head is. And Ms. Chia Head can’t exactly express words. This clipette is positutely awesorrific.
Ace of Shady. Watch as Jade resorts to shady attacks against her fellow wannabe models during a light-hearted improv contest; one of many examples where Jade’s deep rooted insecurity turned into aggression towards the other young ladies. Or I should say younger?
At 26, Jade is the 2nd oldest contestant in Top Model history!
Wiki-Who? Jade has a Wikipedia entry! Gayest Neil sure don’t have a Wikipedia entry. Tyra crown her tonight!
JadeSpace. Here is her overwrought personal website full of mystikal poetry and her heaviest, personalest ideas and expressions. This girl deserves to be a Dandy!
And finally. The best ever moment of America’s Next Top Model ever! Jade flubs her CoverGirl commercial. I needn’t say any more.
HUMP DAY HIDDEN BONUS! A close 2nd for best ANTM moment ever is when Tyra went ape shit all over Ms. Beer-Weave a few cycles back. Hilarious, heart breaking and cringe inducing.
May 16, 2006
Rugby Rumination
Typically for longer stories here at Diary of a Contemporary Dandy, the entire frame is constructed way in advance. All that is left is the heavy handed slapping-on of muddy leaves and dried animal skin. Once built, my crude world wide wig-wam is slathered with rough colors and rudimentary furniture, maybe a stool or shelf. Inside it I dwell for a few days, tossing off a witty remark here or a quip there.Like a modern era, native storyteller, I elaborate on the oral history of my people. Sadly, no matter how much time I’ve spent in this makeshift hovel, my recollections of the WGAA Macarenathon 1996 is presently lacking in both clarity and inspiration.
One third of my wigwam is missing its roof and a downpour of thoughts dreadful has stolen my focus.
What’s flooding my mind on this rainiest of days?
Gay rugby.
Oh accursed rugby! Oh blessed rugby! My Libran scales are set to perpetual wobble as thoughts of this sport, both brutal and elegant, both social and at times, personal, weigh against itself.
I remember distinctly in Spring of 2004 I was at the Dugout and cruising hard on a woofy young cub whose name escapes me. All I remember is a pair of beautiful eyes and the fact that he was on the Gotham Knights rugby team.
He suggested I should come to their spring boot camp. I scoffed and sipped my watery light beer. The very notion that I could summon such a primal physicality was, at the time, amusing. It was also the last thing I desired in my life. I desired a night of naughtiness with the cubby rugger. No such luck. I took home his dumpy friend.
But that seed planted itself. (The rugby not the friend, thank you) I began asking myself questions. Could this darling dandy do such a thing? Join a ragtag gang of gay rugby men? Dig deeply into myself? Commit every Tuesday and Thursday night and all of Saturday to practices and games. Did I want a competitiveness previously undiscovered and, most importantly, entirely unsought?
When fall blew into town, I attended the Gotham Knight’s boot camp on a lark, and I had a terrific time. If nothing else, I recommend everyone attend the boot camp. It’s great fun. (Oh, and cubby wasn’t there. I haven’t seen him in my two years on the team.)
Following boot camp, I attended practices and discovered I had a knack for chasing men and taking them to the ground. I was entirely lost and confused on the pitch (the field). For an entire season I had no idea what was going on during games. I hear the same complaint from several of the rookies on the team now. Their worrying makes me more than a little nostalgic for those earlier days.
Now the Bingham Cup, hosted by my team, is coming to New York City on Memorial Day Weekend. Forty gay teams from around the world will be here to compete and make out. I’m thrilled. It is going to be an exhilarating tournament brimming with emotion for the participants and the spectators. It is one of the only sports where watching is as exciting as playing.
So here is my spiel: come watch some fantastic rugby Memorial Day weekend. Come support the Gotham Knights on Randall’s Island. We’ve put a lot of heart (and injury) into this raucous recreation. I sincerely hope everyone who enjoys this blog can make it out. All of your support and cheers will be greatly, greatly appreciated.
The parties are going to be fabulous as well.
May 12, 2006
Fifteenth Part Two
To read part one click here.
The First Grandson.
Who knew dowdy Marjory would be the first to give Ole Cripple Chester a grandson? In 1984 Marjory fell in love with an astoundingly dull ophthalmologist, Dr. Jacob Weisberg, and the two of them married at the big gazebo in Peek’s Park. The mother of the bride was heard whispering, “That’s an awfully terrible waste of a perfectly fine dinner glass, but they have their customs, I suppose.”
Then in 1986, Mrs. Marjory Chester Weisberg gave birth to a six pound baby boy. It was rumored she didn’t cry a peep during the delivery. Marjory simply sighed and it slid right out of her.
So very dull.
All of Cedartown waited for the news that the fifteenth Chester DuBois Chester (albeit Weisberg) had been born. Fittingly, ornery ole Cripple Chester refused to “waste” his name on his dullest daughter’s infant son. He had his hopes for a second grandson riding firmly on Caitlyn’s perky bosom and her quarterback boyfriend's vigorous handshake.
Chester DuBois Chester’s reservations were indeed prudent. Young Jacob DuBois Weisberg proved himself to be the dullest young man ever born in Polk County, Georgia, ever.
Whatizzit?
Georgia rouged herself up and stood center stage in the International spotlight. The 1996 Olympic Games had finally made their way to Atlanta. Remarked Ole Cripple Chester, repeatedly, “Last time a damned Yankee carried a torch into Atlanta, ’twas my great, great, great grandpappy who shot him dead. Right ‘tween the eyes!”
The excitement of the Olympic Games set pulses and fevers racing across Cedartown.
Miss Cookie was inspired to do something about her loneliness. At forty-eight, she got herself an America Online account and found an internet boyfriend in one of those “big girl chatrooms". She visited him in Ohio a few weeks later. He even flew her out in an economy-business seat. It was her first time on an airplane. She had such a wonderful time. Cookie was in love.
At seventeen, Caitlyn the cheerleader and Bryan the quarterback officially started going steady and swore vows of virginity at First Methodist Church. Caitlyn was in love.
Both sisters were pregnant within a month.
Both sisters were expecting baby boys. Both sisters’ men, upon hearing their fatherly obligations, fled to parts unknown. Both due dates were guessed to be within days of one another, and both baby boys would be taking the Chester surname.
Ole Cripple Chester acted like he won himself a gold medal.
Not only was there a baby boy to take his name, and only his name, but there’d be a spare baby incase something went awry. This was the happiest he’d ever been in his pissy, old life.
But which grandson would get the honor?
Mami Melee.
Unbeknownst to the family, and Cedartown, a bitter sibling rivalry had developed between the elder and youngest daughters. Cookie and Caitlyn both lived with mom and dad. Cookie more so to help the aging Mrs. Bethanny and Caitlyn cause she was still in high school. Three decades separated the single, expectant mothers, yet you’d never guess it the way they fought over absolutely everything.
Caitlyn dropped out of her senior year at Cedartown High School. Cookie turned over Broadway Hair management duties to her best friend Mark. (As a kid, I loved getting my hair cut by Mark. We shared a peculiar fellowship as he gossiped about the goings-on of Cedartown’s society ladies.)
Relations between the sisters were bad enough when they had day-to-day obligations to occupy their attention. Now, with nothing to do but sit and look at each other's swelling bellies, the snippy comments became full on maternal mayhem. Accusations of deceit and jealousy were tossed. Caitlyn blistered Cookie for trying to ruin her baby’s chance at having the family name. Cookie fought right back. She was eldest; her baby deserved the prestigious family name. Caitlyn countered at least she wouldn’t be in a nursing home by the time her baby made it to high school. Cookie countered at least her baby would graduate high school!
The ruckus would quiet down come time for “All My Children”, but soon as those credits rolled, it was back to fighting. Something had to be done. A decision had to be made as to which grandson was going to be named Chester DuBois Chester the Fifteenth.
Who knew mousy Marjory would be the one to set things straight? It happened while the three sisters were on an emergency snack run to Winn-Dixie. Cookie had a hankering for ice-cream sandwiches lined with dill pickle slices. Caitlyn wanted Nutter-Butters and Mellow Yellow. Both sisters were eight months pregnant and neither was allowed to drive. They called Marjory for help.
Right there in the parking lot, during the middle of a heated argument over which sister’s sonogram was the cutest, Marjory freaked out, and I mean she freaked the fuck out.
“Will you both, will you both please be quiet? Please?”
You have to remember that for Marjory, this was indeed a major freak out. Ten year old Jacob Weisberg sat next to his aunt, eight years his senior, in the backseat, quietly staring at his knees the whole time.
Marjory brought the car to a soft idle in the deserted parking lot. The pregnant sisters looked at her agape. Marjory was tired of hearing them fight. They had to consider how upsetting it must be for the little babies in their tummies. She suggested they settle the debate once and for all at the WGAA Radio Macarena-thon 1996.
It was by far the most exciting notion Marjory Chester had ever come up with.
Sweeping the Nation!
In 1996, Cedartown was snared in the lethal grip of two national sensations. The first being the Olympics, as mentioned, and the second being the Macarena. The two seemed rather synergistic. No sporting event, be it a Braves’ game or horeshoes, was complete without stadiums of obese Southerners following the Hispanic-lite dance addiction of Los del Rio. Who didn’t love the Macarena in 1996?
Marjory’s solution to determine which would-be mother’s son would become Chester DuBois Chester the Fifteenth was a simple one: a Macarena dance-off was being organized for that Saturday night by the local public radio station. WGAA planned on playing the infectious tune nonstop over the air and the entire town was asked to show up and do the Macarena in the old farm lot near the Big Cedar Creek. Someone said a representative from the Guinness Book of World Records would be there to count the dancers. Cedartown history was in the making.
Chester family history was in the making too. The sisters agreed. They’d Macarena and whichever sister was last dancing would earn the right to name her son Chester DuBois Chester.
Immediately, additional rules and clauses were tossed onto the table. Caitlyn was an unfair advantage because she was younger. Caitlyn countered that her big sister was fatter, so had more energy to burn. Cookie offered to break Caitlyn’s leg. Caitlyn said she’d still win the contest. The arguing lasted well past bedtime that Friday night and continued the next morning as the sisters fought over who would wear what to the big dance. Apparently both of them wearing a tangerine maternity top with purple Capri pants constituted a fashion no-no.
Practically all of Cedartown showed up for that 1996 Macarena-thon. Only a third of them were there to dance. The rest arrived to see the expectant sisters Chester dance and brawl.
And dance they did. And brawl they did too.
to be continued...
The First Grandson.
Who knew dowdy Marjory would be the first to give Ole Cripple Chester a grandson? In 1984 Marjory fell in love with an astoundingly dull ophthalmologist, Dr. Jacob Weisberg, and the two of them married at the big gazebo in Peek’s Park. The mother of the bride was heard whispering, “That’s an awfully terrible waste of a perfectly fine dinner glass, but they have their customs, I suppose.”
Then in 1986, Mrs. Marjory Chester Weisberg gave birth to a six pound baby boy. It was rumored she didn’t cry a peep during the delivery. Marjory simply sighed and it slid right out of her.
So very dull.
All of Cedartown waited for the news that the fifteenth Chester DuBois Chester (albeit Weisberg) had been born. Fittingly, ornery ole Cripple Chester refused to “waste” his name on his dullest daughter’s infant son. He had his hopes for a second grandson riding firmly on Caitlyn’s perky bosom and her quarterback boyfriend's vigorous handshake.
Chester DuBois Chester’s reservations were indeed prudent. Young Jacob DuBois Weisberg proved himself to be the dullest young man ever born in Polk County, Georgia, ever.
Whatizzit?
Georgia rouged herself up and stood center stage in the International spotlight. The 1996 Olympic Games had finally made their way to Atlanta. Remarked Ole Cripple Chester, repeatedly, “Last time a damned Yankee carried a torch into Atlanta, ’twas my great, great, great grandpappy who shot him dead. Right ‘tween the eyes!”
The excitement of the Olympic Games set pulses and fevers racing across Cedartown.
Miss Cookie was inspired to do something about her loneliness. At forty-eight, she got herself an America Online account and found an internet boyfriend in one of those “big girl chatrooms". She visited him in Ohio a few weeks later. He even flew her out in an economy-business seat. It was her first time on an airplane. She had such a wonderful time. Cookie was in love.
At seventeen, Caitlyn the cheerleader and Bryan the quarterback officially started going steady and swore vows of virginity at First Methodist Church. Caitlyn was in love.
Both sisters were pregnant within a month.
Both sisters were expecting baby boys. Both sisters’ men, upon hearing their fatherly obligations, fled to parts unknown. Both due dates were guessed to be within days of one another, and both baby boys would be taking the Chester surname.
Ole Cripple Chester acted like he won himself a gold medal.
Not only was there a baby boy to take his name, and only his name, but there’d be a spare baby incase something went awry. This was the happiest he’d ever been in his pissy, old life.
But which grandson would get the honor?
Mami Melee.
Unbeknownst to the family, and Cedartown, a bitter sibling rivalry had developed between the elder and youngest daughters. Cookie and Caitlyn both lived with mom and dad. Cookie more so to help the aging Mrs. Bethanny and Caitlyn cause she was still in high school. Three decades separated the single, expectant mothers, yet you’d never guess it the way they fought over absolutely everything.
Caitlyn dropped out of her senior year at Cedartown High School. Cookie turned over Broadway Hair management duties to her best friend Mark. (As a kid, I loved getting my hair cut by Mark. We shared a peculiar fellowship as he gossiped about the goings-on of Cedartown’s society ladies.)
Relations between the sisters were bad enough when they had day-to-day obligations to occupy their attention. Now, with nothing to do but sit and look at each other's swelling bellies, the snippy comments became full on maternal mayhem. Accusations of deceit and jealousy were tossed. Caitlyn blistered Cookie for trying to ruin her baby’s chance at having the family name. Cookie fought right back. She was eldest; her baby deserved the prestigious family name. Caitlyn countered at least she wouldn’t be in a nursing home by the time her baby made it to high school. Cookie countered at least her baby would graduate high school!
The ruckus would quiet down come time for “All My Children”, but soon as those credits rolled, it was back to fighting. Something had to be done. A decision had to be made as to which grandson was going to be named Chester DuBois Chester the Fifteenth.
Who knew mousy Marjory would be the one to set things straight? It happened while the three sisters were on an emergency snack run to Winn-Dixie. Cookie had a hankering for ice-cream sandwiches lined with dill pickle slices. Caitlyn wanted Nutter-Butters and Mellow Yellow. Both sisters were eight months pregnant and neither was allowed to drive. They called Marjory for help.
Right there in the parking lot, during the middle of a heated argument over which sister’s sonogram was the cutest, Marjory freaked out, and I mean she freaked the fuck out.
“Will you both, will you both please be quiet? Please?”
You have to remember that for Marjory, this was indeed a major freak out. Ten year old Jacob Weisberg sat next to his aunt, eight years his senior, in the backseat, quietly staring at his knees the whole time.
Marjory brought the car to a soft idle in the deserted parking lot. The pregnant sisters looked at her agape. Marjory was tired of hearing them fight. They had to consider how upsetting it must be for the little babies in their tummies. She suggested they settle the debate once and for all at the WGAA Radio Macarena-thon 1996.
It was by far the most exciting notion Marjory Chester had ever come up with.
Sweeping the Nation!
In 1996, Cedartown was snared in the lethal grip of two national sensations. The first being the Olympics, as mentioned, and the second being the Macarena. The two seemed rather synergistic. No sporting event, be it a Braves’ game or horeshoes, was complete without stadiums of obese Southerners following the Hispanic-lite dance addiction of Los del Rio. Who didn’t love the Macarena in 1996?
Marjory’s solution to determine which would-be mother’s son would become Chester DuBois Chester the Fifteenth was a simple one: a Macarena dance-off was being organized for that Saturday night by the local public radio station. WGAA planned on playing the infectious tune nonstop over the air and the entire town was asked to show up and do the Macarena in the old farm lot near the Big Cedar Creek. Someone said a representative from the Guinness Book of World Records would be there to count the dancers. Cedartown history was in the making.
Chester family history was in the making too. The sisters agreed. They’d Macarena and whichever sister was last dancing would earn the right to name her son Chester DuBois Chester.
Immediately, additional rules and clauses were tossed onto the table. Caitlyn was an unfair advantage because she was younger. Caitlyn countered that her big sister was fatter, so had more energy to burn. Cookie offered to break Caitlyn’s leg. Caitlyn said she’d still win the contest. The arguing lasted well past bedtime that Friday night and continued the next morning as the sisters fought over who would wear what to the big dance. Apparently both of them wearing a tangerine maternity top with purple Capri pants constituted a fashion no-no.
Practically all of Cedartown showed up for that 1996 Macarena-thon. Only a third of them were there to dance. The rest arrived to see the expectant sisters Chester dance and brawl.
And dance they did. And brawl they did too.
to be continued...
May 11, 2006
The Fifteenth
Chester DuBois Chester the Fourteenth was the angriest man who ever walked the fair streets of Cedartown Georgia, until, that is, he returned from the second World War with a Purple Heart. Then he rolled the fair streets of Cedartown, even more hateful, kussing up a storm at anyone who offered him the briefest bit of attention.
And although a right sinister novel could easily be written about Ole Cripple Chester, this ain’t it, exactly. This story is about his three daughters, and the contest to determine which lucky grandson would be heir to his very name.
That Damned Name.
In 1516, the original Chester DuBois Chester was accused of being a French spy in the court of King Henry the VIII. He was executed two years later for treason. His son, Chester DuBois Chester the Second was exiled to Paris with his mother. In 1541, at the age of 28, he met John Calvin. Many years later, following his friend’s death, he returned to Britain as one of the first preachers of Calvinism.
In 1628, Chester DuBois Chester the Fourth, a royal scientist, helped discover how blood circulated in the human body. A hygienic man, he lived to a then unheard of 90 years of age and bore six children, including the Fifth Chester DuBois Chester who became a lawyer.
In 1732, the Sixth Chester DuBois Chester sailed aboard the first ship from England when Oglethorpe founded Georgia on the sandy shores of Savannah. Ole Cripple Chester was always quick to point out that his ancestor was a naval officer, not a debtor. In 1780, Chester DuBois Chester the Eighth led a band of Creek Indians against the British during the Battle of Augusta. He died of syphilis.
Chester DuBois Chester the Tenth, was a successful Dahlonega miner who in 1828 discovered the richest vein of gold in Georgia’s history. It was during this time the family settled permanently in the north Georgia area. In 1865, the twelfth named Chester DuBois Chester was present at Appomattox Court House when General Lee surrendered during the War of Northern Aggression.
His son, the Thirteenth Chester DuBois Chester, moved to the Cedartown area and established the town’s first gun store in 1899 where once there existed a Cherokee Indian pow-wow site.
War Hero.
In 1921, our Chester DuBois Chester was born. They say he was so mean he bit the doctor and spanked the nurse. Chester was drafted to fight the Japanese in 1941. Six months later he received a hero’s welcome home. A Purple Heart was awarded for his injuries received during battle. A parade was thrown in honor of the valiant soldier who sacrificed his legs killing three hundred Japanese deep in the heart of enemy territory.
The Chester DuBois Chester name had lived up to its proud history.
Until two months later, when the truth was revealed (over a contentious game of bingo at the Veteran’s Hall) that in fact hero Chester lost his limbs not from storming Emperor Hirohito’s private bunker, but when a comrade accidentally dropped a grenade on him. Chester DuBois Chester had never seen combat. He had never so much as even picked up a rifle.
This was when Ole Cripple Chester got his nickname, and his sour mood turned rotten as a September pear left for deer to eat.
Save for the Grace of God, his childhood sweetheart, Mrs. Bethanny Atkins-Chester, had the soul of a saint and the patience of a mountain. She cared for him and loved him more than any person on the planet could.
Mrs. Bethanny would joke, “Well, some gals prefer flowers. I guess I don’t mind hugging on a cactus. Even a cactus has flowers if you get close enough.”
Mrs. Bethanny bore a tremendous burden at the expense of Ole Cripple’s temper. More than anything Mister Chester wanted a son to carry on his proud name, his family’s fourteen generation legacy. Bereft of his legs, with no joy in his life, that heavy name was all the poor, pitiful man had. Unfortunately, no boys would be born, only girls.
The Daughters.
In 1948 Bethanny and Chester had their first baby girl. They named her Cookie in honor of Bethanny’s widow aunt. Perhaps they should have considered a name like celery or carrot.
Cookie was born a skinny baby, but soon became a rather plump girl. She grew and grew. As the size of her stature expanded, so did the size of her personality. Cookie was the friendliest gal you ever could have met. The society ladies of the Women's Club always commented on "what a pretty face" she had.
Cedartown hardly believed such an out-going young woman came from the loins of such a bitter old coot. And that old coot sure loved Cookie. Her demonic daddy doted on his sweet-cream dollop of a daughter, even as he openly told the entire town how he regretted the fact that she wasn’t born a boy.
Mrs. Bethanny gave it another try (with the help of Chester) six years later. Marjory Chester popped from her oven. A baby sister delighted Cookie (she relished eating her pureed veggies) but infuriated Chester. Still no boy.
Marjory was a pretty enough gal, but soon proved to be the dullest young lady ever born in Polk County, Georgia, ever. Some folk privately questioned if she was a bit touched. She often sat alone. If ever a society lady asked young Margery how her day was going, she would stare blankly in the sky.
It was quickly assumed that portly Cookie had gobbled up all the family personality, leaving Miss Marjory starved of any womanly charm.
Chester formerly declared he would have as many babies as it took to get himself a son!
Shortly following, Mister Chester DuBois Chester was diagnosed as sterile. His job mopping at Cedartown’s chemical plant had exposed him to gases which rendered his soldiers “unfit for duty”. That was as dark a day as any he’d seen; darker even than that terrible night at bingo when the truth of his war deeds came to be exposed.
Chester DuBois Chester the Fourteenth was defeated. Many a night their gloomy home rattled with the sounds of his sobbing; mother and daughters quietly knitting downstairs as depressed daddy drank himself into a stupor.
By this point, Chester had given up hope of even a grandson to carry on his legacy. As mentioned, Cookie was a bit on the heavy side. Sure she knew how to cook and keep a neat house, but despite her sense of humor, was absolutely tongue-tied when speaking to boys. And poor Marjory, except for school and the briefest of appearances at the family dinner table, spent her entire young life in her bedroom tending to her collection of ceramic kittens.
Eventually Cookie went to beauty school and opened her own salon on Broad Street called Cookie’s Broadway Hair. Marjory went to nursing school and ended up working at Polk County General Hospital, suitably enough as an anesthesiologist’s assistant.Despite their successful careers, the two ladies continued to live with their parents in that sunken home on College Street well into their late twenties.
It was in 1978 that an unexpected spark ignited the old kindling boards of that dismal house. At the age of fifty-three, Mrs. Bethanny Louise Atkins-Chester was having a third baby! Like the Sons of the Confederacy, Mister Chester’s soldiers had never given up the fight. Chester DuBois Chester wheeled himself up and down Main Street crowing like a rooster. He bought a case of cigars in anticipation of the birth.
The cigars would never be smoked. In October of 1978, another daughter was born to Mr. and Mrs. Chester. Turns out Chester the Fourteenth’s “soldiers” were actually Amazons.
Mister Chester DuBois Chester would have tossed himself off the Rockmart Highway Bridge if he’d been able to roll himself to the top. People waved from their cars that rainy Tuesday morning as he sat in his government issued wheelchair, crying pitifully. For the first year of Caitlyn’s life, her elderly daddy refused to acknowledge her very existence.
Father’s opinion began to change as Caitlyn grew into a stunning young lady. She possessed the women of the family’s trademark blonde curls (except Marjory who always wore her dull flaxen hair in a severe bun). Caitlyn was funny too, some said funnier than big sister Cookie. And above all else, Caitlyn had a string of young, able-bodied boys snaked out the door eager for a date to the balcony of the Cedartown Cinema.
Daddy finally had a chance for a grandson and an heir to his vaulted name.
To be continued...
And although a right sinister novel could easily be written about Ole Cripple Chester, this ain’t it, exactly. This story is about his three daughters, and the contest to determine which lucky grandson would be heir to his very name.
That Damned Name.
In 1516, the original Chester DuBois Chester was accused of being a French spy in the court of King Henry the VIII. He was executed two years later for treason. His son, Chester DuBois Chester the Second was exiled to Paris with his mother. In 1541, at the age of 28, he met John Calvin. Many years later, following his friend’s death, he returned to Britain as one of the first preachers of Calvinism.
In 1628, Chester DuBois Chester the Fourth, a royal scientist, helped discover how blood circulated in the human body. A hygienic man, he lived to a then unheard of 90 years of age and bore six children, including the Fifth Chester DuBois Chester who became a lawyer.
In 1732, the Sixth Chester DuBois Chester sailed aboard the first ship from England when Oglethorpe founded Georgia on the sandy shores of Savannah. Ole Cripple Chester was always quick to point out that his ancestor was a naval officer, not a debtor. In 1780, Chester DuBois Chester the Eighth led a band of Creek Indians against the British during the Battle of Augusta. He died of syphilis.
Chester DuBois Chester the Tenth, was a successful Dahlonega miner who in 1828 discovered the richest vein of gold in Georgia’s history. It was during this time the family settled permanently in the north Georgia area. In 1865, the twelfth named Chester DuBois Chester was present at Appomattox Court House when General Lee surrendered during the War of Northern Aggression.
His son, the Thirteenth Chester DuBois Chester, moved to the Cedartown area and established the town’s first gun store in 1899 where once there existed a Cherokee Indian pow-wow site.
War Hero.
In 1921, our Chester DuBois Chester was born. They say he was so mean he bit the doctor and spanked the nurse. Chester was drafted to fight the Japanese in 1941. Six months later he received a hero’s welcome home. A Purple Heart was awarded for his injuries received during battle. A parade was thrown in honor of the valiant soldier who sacrificed his legs killing three hundred Japanese deep in the heart of enemy territory.
The Chester DuBois Chester name had lived up to its proud history.
Until two months later, when the truth was revealed (over a contentious game of bingo at the Veteran’s Hall) that in fact hero Chester lost his limbs not from storming Emperor Hirohito’s private bunker, but when a comrade accidentally dropped a grenade on him. Chester DuBois Chester had never seen combat. He had never so much as even picked up a rifle.
This was when Ole Cripple Chester got his nickname, and his sour mood turned rotten as a September pear left for deer to eat.
Save for the Grace of God, his childhood sweetheart, Mrs. Bethanny Atkins-Chester, had the soul of a saint and the patience of a mountain. She cared for him and loved him more than any person on the planet could.
Mrs. Bethanny would joke, “Well, some gals prefer flowers. I guess I don’t mind hugging on a cactus. Even a cactus has flowers if you get close enough.”
Mrs. Bethanny bore a tremendous burden at the expense of Ole Cripple’s temper. More than anything Mister Chester wanted a son to carry on his proud name, his family’s fourteen generation legacy. Bereft of his legs, with no joy in his life, that heavy name was all the poor, pitiful man had. Unfortunately, no boys would be born, only girls.
The Daughters.
In 1948 Bethanny and Chester had their first baby girl. They named her Cookie in honor of Bethanny’s widow aunt. Perhaps they should have considered a name like celery or carrot.
Cookie was born a skinny baby, but soon became a rather plump girl. She grew and grew. As the size of her stature expanded, so did the size of her personality. Cookie was the friendliest gal you ever could have met. The society ladies of the Women's Club always commented on "what a pretty face" she had.
Cedartown hardly believed such an out-going young woman came from the loins of such a bitter old coot. And that old coot sure loved Cookie. Her demonic daddy doted on his sweet-cream dollop of a daughter, even as he openly told the entire town how he regretted the fact that she wasn’t born a boy.
Mrs. Bethanny gave it another try (with the help of Chester) six years later. Marjory Chester popped from her oven. A baby sister delighted Cookie (she relished eating her pureed veggies) but infuriated Chester. Still no boy.
Marjory was a pretty enough gal, but soon proved to be the dullest young lady ever born in Polk County, Georgia, ever. Some folk privately questioned if she was a bit touched. She often sat alone. If ever a society lady asked young Margery how her day was going, she would stare blankly in the sky.
It was quickly assumed that portly Cookie had gobbled up all the family personality, leaving Miss Marjory starved of any womanly charm.
Chester formerly declared he would have as many babies as it took to get himself a son!
Shortly following, Mister Chester DuBois Chester was diagnosed as sterile. His job mopping at Cedartown’s chemical plant had exposed him to gases which rendered his soldiers “unfit for duty”. That was as dark a day as any he’d seen; darker even than that terrible night at bingo when the truth of his war deeds came to be exposed.
Chester DuBois Chester the Fourteenth was defeated. Many a night their gloomy home rattled with the sounds of his sobbing; mother and daughters quietly knitting downstairs as depressed daddy drank himself into a stupor.
By this point, Chester had given up hope of even a grandson to carry on his legacy. As mentioned, Cookie was a bit on the heavy side. Sure she knew how to cook and keep a neat house, but despite her sense of humor, was absolutely tongue-tied when speaking to boys. And poor Marjory, except for school and the briefest of appearances at the family dinner table, spent her entire young life in her bedroom tending to her collection of ceramic kittens.
Eventually Cookie went to beauty school and opened her own salon on Broad Street called Cookie’s Broadway Hair. Marjory went to nursing school and ended up working at Polk County General Hospital, suitably enough as an anesthesiologist’s assistant.Despite their successful careers, the two ladies continued to live with their parents in that sunken home on College Street well into their late twenties.
It was in 1978 that an unexpected spark ignited the old kindling boards of that dismal house. At the age of fifty-three, Mrs. Bethanny Louise Atkins-Chester was having a third baby! Like the Sons of the Confederacy, Mister Chester’s soldiers had never given up the fight. Chester DuBois Chester wheeled himself up and down Main Street crowing like a rooster. He bought a case of cigars in anticipation of the birth.
The cigars would never be smoked. In October of 1978, another daughter was born to Mr. and Mrs. Chester. Turns out Chester the Fourteenth’s “soldiers” were actually Amazons.
Mister Chester DuBois Chester would have tossed himself off the Rockmart Highway Bridge if he’d been able to roll himself to the top. People waved from their cars that rainy Tuesday morning as he sat in his government issued wheelchair, crying pitifully. For the first year of Caitlyn’s life, her elderly daddy refused to acknowledge her very existence.
Father’s opinion began to change as Caitlyn grew into a stunning young lady. She possessed the women of the family’s trademark blonde curls (except Marjory who always wore her dull flaxen hair in a severe bun). Caitlyn was funny too, some said funnier than big sister Cookie. And above all else, Caitlyn had a string of young, able-bodied boys snaked out the door eager for a date to the balcony of the Cedartown Cinema.
Daddy finally had a chance for a grandson and an heir to his vaulted name.
To be continued...
May 09, 2006
Assaulted Cracker
Stephin Merritt is not a racist. Thought provoking article nonetheless. Can a racial prejudice be determined based upon what kind of music a person listens to?EDIT 5/10/06 12:39 pm: You have to read Bryce's take on the entire debate. He's so awesome.
Packing Heat
The two plain clothed cops began a litany of questions. I answered each. A patrol car pulled along side their unmarked van. Shortly after, an NYPD van slowly stopped alongside the deli where I had been buying flowers. As I quietly gave them answers, I had a question of my own.Was Gayest Neil going to jail?!
Again?!
Yesterday’s commute home was innocent enough. I jumped on the C train, managed to get a seat for the long ride into Brooklyn. A young mother with a pointed nose harshly shushed her baby as he playfully screeched. Recent graduates in purple and white sat laughing, holding their folded, shiny robes.
To Kill a Mockingbird was in my rugby bag, at home, so I stared at my feet the whole way home. I was simply content to have a seat after twisting my ankle during Saturday’s game.
The train stopped at Lafayette Avenue. I toyed with the impulse to get off and go buy flowers rather than ride to Clinton/Washington, my usual stop. It was a nice day. A slow stroll down Greene Avenue would do my ankle well.
And I wanted to give Bryce daisies.
I stepped from the train, my first time getting off at that particular stop. I remember the ledge between the train and platform was a weathered board with nails in it. I ascended the subway stairs, took an immediate left and found the deli with the brilliant display of fresh cut flowers. A psychedelic “Fresh Juice” sign hung overhead.
Cash. Inside the deli I withdrew sixty dollars and stepped back outside to buy my flowers. No prices were listed. A quick consult with the Hispanic cashier, “seeex dollars and up”, and I was all set to brighten my apartment.
Yellow daisies. I took the flowers and turned to reenter the deli. In my peripheral vision two men in sweatshirts and jeans quickly entered my personal space. I glanced up. One was a beefy Italian man, young. The other was a short Asian man, young as well.
“Can we talk to you sir?” The beefy Italian, lets call him Bruno, asked.
Great. What do these guys want? Donations for charity? To save my soul?
“I’m busy…” I mumbled something evasive. These two guys were still encroaching on my personal space.
Now the exact events are a little hazy at this point. Suddenly they were both within kissing distance of me. They revealed badges around their neck. They informed me they were NYPD and asked if I had a concealed firearm.
A concealed firearm?!
Bruno asked if he could pat me down. Sadly, my wit was diffused by sheer police-in-my-face panic. I numbly complied. Bruno softly manhandled my chest, waist, pockets and legs with the delicateness of a kitten making a bed on a feather pillow.
And I quipped not a single word. No concealed weapon was found. It was at this time the questions began. Name? Address? Do I live in the area? Can I see a picture ID?
The backup arrived at this time.
The Asian police officer, let’s call him Sam, spoke into a radio to “call it off”. He told me an anonymous caller tipped off the NYPD that he/she saw a man matching my description with a concealed gun. Somehow discussion of my “description” came up.
“Bald, white male, black jacket, khakis, mid-forties.” It was certainly a match, except...
“I’m thirty one!” I declared with mock disdain.
My wit had returned. Sam and Bruno chuckled and asked a few follow-ups like had I argued with anyone on the train, had anyone looked at me funny, etcetera. They told me the call had been placed only a minute and a half ago. Roughly the time it had taken for me to disembark the train and peruse the flowers.
I think it was a prank call. After a few more minutes the officers bid me goodbye, and apologized. I think they apologized. I remember telling them my heart was beating. I dumbly walked into the deli to buy flowers following my good cop/bad cop frisking.
I was a Clinton Hill folk hero for fifteen seconds as people in line quizzed me concerning what happened at the flower stand. An older black lady in a fashionable skirt and matching hat expressed surprise that they thought I had a gun. The Latina cashier told me the same thing happened to her cousin. I was still numb from the whole experience.
I’m still a little spooked by how quickly they had appeared from nowhere and cornered me in seconds.
May 08, 2006
Red Window
I imagined myself peering from inside a glowing red bulb on a decorated Christmas tree. A lonely, gaily decorated cedar among a field of stark white trees powdered with December snow. Regardless of the time of year, it was always the holiday season in my jeweled jail on Penn Avenue.I peered beyond my hued windows to the vast emptiness outside. I knew there existed locales beyond that empty field (bars, dinner, theatre, movies, friends, a social life, a dating life) but nothing in my strength could coax me to grip the doorknob and simply turn. Beyond the copse of trees there were eyes spying back at me.
The siren of too many glowing screens enchanted me oh so willingly. Lashed to my own mast, the fog swirled and her song kept me happily alone. My weekend's sole interaction: the cold repetition of my location to the Chinese girl answering the Mexican take-out hotline.
The shuffle of feet, the opening and closing of doors, comings and goings of roommates into the night, as I sat inside my genie's bottle waiting to be rubbed. My paranoia became my own mythology. Eager to grant wishes, yet panicked at the world outside my colorful pot, synonymous with bottle.
That was years ago. He was a different dandy. So I thought. Suddenly I sense those eyes peering back to me from outside the windows. High above the ground, a fourth floor flat, those phantoms float. My apartment is turning red. My safe space already splashed with so much red.
Too many distractions threaten to keep me inside, to keep me away from libations and forced conversations. Those ghostly eyes fixate on me as I quietly stand, like a museum’s armor in the corner of the bar.
“Is he angry? Why is he so quiet?”
Or as I try too hard…
“Is he a buffoon? Why is he laughing so loudly?”
That’s my voice speaking, however.
And though the gentlest soul, a soul I love and trust, has managed to coax me from my window, there are nights my chest physically vibrates from the anxiety and the tension as the clock strikes twelve and the night becomes morning and more and more I’m peering at the world through a hexagonal casement of melting ice-cubes, as much a prison as that paralyzing red window once was.
The anticipation of his weekend departure leaves me filled with trepidation. A weekend alone and I’m again prepared to chain my ankles, to lock myself in Hannibal’s cage and wheel myself onto my big green sofa, waiting for him to return and set me free. With the utmost sincerity, he’s asked his friends to take me out while he’s away.
I’m a puppy who needs walking…
Not a big deal, seriously. Much appreciated, but awkward, nonetheless. An act coming from kindness, but still awkward. Everything he does comes from kindness. I’m the one who perceives the awkwardness. No less awkward, I suppose, than cementing myself behind a wall of discarded pizza boxes for five days.
My Cask of Amontillado is a liter of Fresca. It is certainly easier to write fantasy instead of non-fiction: a simple tale about a man in his red window, unlocked and free, still unable to leave.
May 05, 2006
When Casey's Burned
When Casey’s Food Store burned to the ground every resident of Cedartown had an opinion regarding who the pyromaniacs responsible were.The assumed culprits were “the blacks”. For most larcenies in Cedartown, Georgia the go to villains were always “the blacks”. Even as a tween, I approached such racially fueled notions with skepticism. Why exactly would “the blacks” burn their own grocery store to the ground?
Casey’s Food Store was located on South College Street near the train tracks. It was the closest grocery store for both Cedartown’s African-American community as well as my own, "the country folk".
Thus as a suspicious member of "the country folk”, and a bit geeky, I was convinced “the grunge kids” had set fire to Caseys. The “grunge kids” wore black, were fans of Seattle rock music and smoked doobies behind the bowling alley. I never participated in any such misbehavior. My brother and I were too busy feeding quarters into the best video game ever, Gauntlet.
“Valkyrie needs food, badly!”
And of course "the Baptists" were convinced it was "Devil worshippers". Nothing happened without "the Baptists" blaming "Devil worshippers". Nowadays there's alot less random finger pointing in Cedartown. Everyone, regardless of race, class or religion, pretty much blames "the Mexicans" when things go awry.
Happy Cinco de Mayo, ya'll!
Who did the deed soon gave way to what was to be done with the resulting burned rubble. The only thing that mattered was the aftermath: Casey’s enormous clearance sale of the fire damaged food.
Nothing inspires a rural Southern community to join as one like a good ole-fashioned clearance sale.
All of Cedartown, the rich and, especially, the poor, descended on the smoking husk of that 60’s era grocery store for a half day of bargain price, blackened sundries. People of all races came together that morning to browse over the scorched edibles in the hopes of finding a pearl among the ashes.
Not much was salvageable. Despite that, my thrifty mommy procured eight cases of what came to define that enitre summer: TaB. The familiar pink cans were burned as black as tar.
I never drank TaB as a kid before that summer. Our neighbor, Monie Landrum, would drink TaB’s as she and my mom sunned at Johnson’s Lake Swimming Pool. For hours they’d slather on sunning lotion, smoke a carton Pall Malls and drink TaBs. This fact, combined with the pink can, instilled the instant impression that TaB was a girly cola. I never drank the stuff.
But now that lispy, lavender label was scorched the color of death. Also, many of the aluminum cans were bloated as though the contents had exploded due to the extreme heat.
Neither my brother or I had any concept of how the fire damaged diet soda should have tasted. Monie refused to taste test for us, no matter how hard we pleaded with soot covered hands and charcoal ringed mouths.
"No tellin' what that fire did. You gonna get cancer drinkin' that mess." Monie would warn between long drags of her Pall Malls.
The ashen residue over every can of TaB was the most pleasurable aspect of our fire-damaged summer beverage. Smudges of soot and coal coated everything a distended can of the blasted TaB neared. My brother and I, eager for a sugary fix would drink two or three and chase one another around the yard. We resembled a 1920’s flicker film about Africa, tossing bamboo spears with our blackened faces and hands.
Only recently I told my mom how much I had loved that summer with the burnt TaBs; how neat they were. She told us how embarrassed she had been buying the second hand soft drinks. It was all she could afford at the time.
They never caught who burned down Casey’s.
May 04, 2006
Consequences
To read Part Three.
I had been too late to stop the Kinachi assassin from firing on JFK's motorcade. My final desperate lunge came up several feet short. There wasn't enough time. I wilted to my knees. Ahead of me lay the discarded shell casing and the prone body of the fourth assassin. He was slumped on his side. Electricity crackled from a jagged gash through it's metallic spinal structure.
Behind its crumpled form stood a pair of familiar leather shoes and brown khakis. My eyes trailed up the pressed, short sleeve button down and to a face I knew very well, my own, the Handler.
Consider the temporal universe as an infinite number of highways running side by side, but never crossing. For the most part the highways are identical. Occassionally one car will be of a differnt color or a traffic jam will clog up several lanes in one, but not the others. My job is to traverse my "highway" backwards and forwards cleaning up roadblocks and fixing flats, so to speak. That's the easy part, travelling backwards and forwards.
The hard part is crossing from highway to highway. Its rarely done, only as a last ditch effort to save a failed mission involving outside influence. Doing so requires a tremendous amount of resources and results in a timestream bereft of a Handler. There is no going back from where you crossed.
The Handler was holding an ion dagger. He still glowed green from his emergency cross-jump. My clone regarded me disdainfully. A hole marred the wall above the window, that history-changing bullet lodged in red brick.
“You failed in your task Handler.” He admonished me.
“I wasn’t fast enough Handler. I’m sorry. Please don’t.” Marilyn lumbered to my side. He put his mammoth hand on my back and gently kept me from standing. I shuddered with his touch. I could feel his breath on my neck.
“You know I must. You have cleaned up an alternate's mess on one occassion in this timeline just as I'm cleaning up your's now. This comes with the job.”
The cheering continued outside. The thirty-fifth President of the United States had been saved, but not by my hand. He was saved at a tremendous cost by one of my many alternates. Or was I his alternate? For so long, time had little meaning. After a century of patrol I had forgotten that a few seconds can take everything away.
"I'm sorry Handler." He regarded me with apologetic eyes, “Marilyn. Maneuver Delta Echo Delta.”
In one quick motion Marilyn snapped the failed Handler’s neck.
In my submitted field notes, I remarked that the Handler before me served his timestream proudly for one hundred and eight years. He was an inspiring leader to his animal agents and during his term of service saved forty seven temporal dignitaries from certain assassination.
It was with great respect that I time-tossed his corpse to Handler Prime for a hero's cremation. The Kinachi bots were sent as well. Oswald's body was arranged to appear as though his death was a suicide. How exactly he cut his throat with a rifle will be left to this era's conspiracy theorists. The Handler before's report regarding the First Lady's uncanny prescience will be of interesting note for our temporal researchers. I included it for review as well.
On a personal note: adjusting to this new timestream will be difficult at first. The nostalgia-wave resulting from an emergency cross-jump can be disorienting, to say the least. In this job, nostalgia is a curious condition.
How does one know that for which we’re nostalgic even really existed?
Marilyn Monroe and I had no time for such philosophical notions as my chronometer began to beep. The display read July 13, 1793, France, Jean-Paul Marat.
“Ah. The French Revolution! Marilyn, how do you feel about a corset?” My gorilla comrade roared approvingly as we leapt into the green glow of our next mission.
The End.
Or was it the Beginning?
I had been too late to stop the Kinachi assassin from firing on JFK's motorcade. My final desperate lunge came up several feet short. There wasn't enough time. I wilted to my knees. Ahead of me lay the discarded shell casing and the prone body of the fourth assassin. He was slumped on his side. Electricity crackled from a jagged gash through it's metallic spinal structure.Behind its crumpled form stood a pair of familiar leather shoes and brown khakis. My eyes trailed up the pressed, short sleeve button down and to a face I knew very well, my own, the Handler.
Consider the temporal universe as an infinite number of highways running side by side, but never crossing. For the most part the highways are identical. Occassionally one car will be of a differnt color or a traffic jam will clog up several lanes in one, but not the others. My job is to traverse my "highway" backwards and forwards cleaning up roadblocks and fixing flats, so to speak. That's the easy part, travelling backwards and forwards.
The hard part is crossing from highway to highway. Its rarely done, only as a last ditch effort to save a failed mission involving outside influence. Doing so requires a tremendous amount of resources and results in a timestream bereft of a Handler. There is no going back from where you crossed.
The Handler was holding an ion dagger. He still glowed green from his emergency cross-jump. My clone regarded me disdainfully. A hole marred the wall above the window, that history-changing bullet lodged in red brick.
“You failed in your task Handler.” He admonished me.
“I wasn’t fast enough Handler. I’m sorry. Please don’t.” Marilyn lumbered to my side. He put his mammoth hand on my back and gently kept me from standing. I shuddered with his touch. I could feel his breath on my neck.
“You know I must. You have cleaned up an alternate's mess on one occassion in this timeline just as I'm cleaning up your's now. This comes with the job.”
The cheering continued outside. The thirty-fifth President of the United States had been saved, but not by my hand. He was saved at a tremendous cost by one of my many alternates. Or was I his alternate? For so long, time had little meaning. After a century of patrol I had forgotten that a few seconds can take everything away.
"I'm sorry Handler." He regarded me with apologetic eyes, “Marilyn. Maneuver Delta Echo Delta.”
In one quick motion Marilyn snapped the failed Handler’s neck.
In my submitted field notes, I remarked that the Handler before me served his timestream proudly for one hundred and eight years. He was an inspiring leader to his animal agents and during his term of service saved forty seven temporal dignitaries from certain assassination.
It was with great respect that I time-tossed his corpse to Handler Prime for a hero's cremation. The Kinachi bots were sent as well. Oswald's body was arranged to appear as though his death was a suicide. How exactly he cut his throat with a rifle will be left to this era's conspiracy theorists. The Handler before's report regarding the First Lady's uncanny prescience will be of interesting note for our temporal researchers. I included it for review as well.
On a personal note: adjusting to this new timestream will be difficult at first. The nostalgia-wave resulting from an emergency cross-jump can be disorienting, to say the least. In this job, nostalgia is a curious condition.
How does one know that for which we’re nostalgic even really existed?
Marilyn Monroe and I had no time for such philosophical notions as my chronometer began to beep. The display read July 13, 1793, France, Jean-Paul Marat.
“Ah. The French Revolution! Marilyn, how do you feel about a corset?” My gorilla comrade roared approvingly as we leapt into the green glow of our next mission.
The End.
Or was it the Beginning?
May 03, 2006
Second Thoughts
To read part two.
Now was the time for fists. The interior room of the dusty book depository imploded as Marilyn Monroe ripped through the locked steel doors; the chain and padlock security might as well been made of dental floss when matched against Marilyn Monroe's brute strength.
“Quickly! To the sixth floor, eastern side!” Marilyn roared and charged up the stairs. I followed behind calibrating my chronometer to allow for a proper transition from the established timeline into an alternate temporal reality. Assuming we get to Oswald in time. Only four minutes remained. This was going to be close.
Missions of this magnitude always are.
As I dashed up the stairwell I could hear the roar of the crowd outside. The frenzy of cheers confirmed my worst fear: the Presidential limo was on its way toward the corner of Houston and Elm street. My thighs burned as we made it to the sixth floor. Images of the First Lady scrambling backwards, grabbing parts of her husband's head rushed through my mind. No.
Those were ghost images. The temporal reality was resisting change. History actually prefers to repeat itself.
I concentrated on the stairwell and did a quick scan with my chronometer. A heat signature registered behind the wall. “Marilyn! Manuever Alpha, Gamma, Echo!”
Marilyn rolled into a compact tumble and using his immense body weight slammed a gaping hole straight through the warehouse wall. As the dust and plaster settled, I saw a body firmly beneath the gorilla’s massive feet. It was would-be assassin Lee Harvey Oswald.
And he was dead!
“Marilyn, you killed him! That wasn’t part of the plan.” Marilyn howled in defiance. I looked closer. His throat was slashed. It was a fresh kill. This mission was going to be tougher than I had anticipated. “Marlyn! Prepare for incoming!”
Perhaps mankind has more instinct than I sometimes give credit. Marilyn and I immediately assumed combat stances back to back as we were assaulted by a trio of robot-ninjas!
“Handler…this…timeline…will…not…be…saved!”
This spinning android assassin thrust its katana arms in my direction as I deftly deflected the blades with a found biology textbook. In my periphery, a robot ninja with a high powered rifle took aim out the window and waited for the perfect angle for a precision kill.
You see. Changing timelines is a dangerous business. Not only does time itself try to fight you, but there are many players in the temporal game with invested interest in how mankind's future turns out. The Kinachi Robot Ninja Clan is but one of humanity's persistent enemies. For Empress Kinachi to dispatch four assassins was as much an honor as it was a royal pain in my ass.
I needed more than a text book for defense. The robot ninja caught me in the jaw with an aluminum roundhouse kick. I rolled backwards with the kick's momentum into a squatting position and tossed a magnaton marble. Even the robot's hyper processed reactivity matrix couldn’t adjust fast enough to save it from the marble's detonation. The electric explosion filled a precise radius of one foot and caught the ninjabot square in its chest leaving a gaping hole of sizzling circuitry. The ninja robot collapsed inward. My jaw would certainly have a bruise in the morning.
The iconic image of JFK Jr. saluting his father's casket flooded my senses. I felt dizzy. Ghost images. I took a deep breath and staggered to my feet. I had to focus on the mission.
“Marilyn, you ok?” I glanced over to see Marilyn. His white satin gown was shredded to ribbons. He gripped the crackling, inert forms of two ninja robots in its beefy hands and smashed their heads together like beer cans. Marilyn roared in triumph.
“Good boy!”
I dashed toward the final assassin who held the rifle. The din of the crowd below the depository was deafening. John Fitzgerald Kennedy's motorcade was in position. The alarm on my chronometer beeped. It was 12:30!
“You…are…too…late…Handler!” The emotionless robot ninja seemed to mock me.
Indeed. I was too late.
With an expansive forty feet between myself and the final assassin, I watched helplessly as the assassin's trigger finger flexed. A sudden green flash filled the sixth floor room. The assault rifle fired one shot. The delicate tinkle-bell of the shell casing hitting the plywood floor seemed much louder than the explosive bang of the firearm.
I had failed my mission.
To be continued...
Now was the time for fists. The interior room of the dusty book depository imploded as Marilyn Monroe ripped through the locked steel doors; the chain and padlock security might as well been made of dental floss when matched against Marilyn Monroe's brute strength.“Quickly! To the sixth floor, eastern side!” Marilyn roared and charged up the stairs. I followed behind calibrating my chronometer to allow for a proper transition from the established timeline into an alternate temporal reality. Assuming we get to Oswald in time. Only four minutes remained. This was going to be close.
Missions of this magnitude always are.
As I dashed up the stairwell I could hear the roar of the crowd outside. The frenzy of cheers confirmed my worst fear: the Presidential limo was on its way toward the corner of Houston and Elm street. My thighs burned as we made it to the sixth floor. Images of the First Lady scrambling backwards, grabbing parts of her husband's head rushed through my mind. No.
Those were ghost images. The temporal reality was resisting change. History actually prefers to repeat itself.
I concentrated on the stairwell and did a quick scan with my chronometer. A heat signature registered behind the wall. “Marilyn! Manuever Alpha, Gamma, Echo!”
Marilyn rolled into a compact tumble and using his immense body weight slammed a gaping hole straight through the warehouse wall. As the dust and plaster settled, I saw a body firmly beneath the gorilla’s massive feet. It was would-be assassin Lee Harvey Oswald.
And he was dead!
“Marilyn, you killed him! That wasn’t part of the plan.” Marilyn howled in defiance. I looked closer. His throat was slashed. It was a fresh kill. This mission was going to be tougher than I had anticipated. “Marlyn! Prepare for incoming!”
Perhaps mankind has more instinct than I sometimes give credit. Marilyn and I immediately assumed combat stances back to back as we were assaulted by a trio of robot-ninjas!
“Handler…this…timeline…will…not…be…saved!”
This spinning android assassin thrust its katana arms in my direction as I deftly deflected the blades with a found biology textbook. In my periphery, a robot ninja with a high powered rifle took aim out the window and waited for the perfect angle for a precision kill.
You see. Changing timelines is a dangerous business. Not only does time itself try to fight you, but there are many players in the temporal game with invested interest in how mankind's future turns out. The Kinachi Robot Ninja Clan is but one of humanity's persistent enemies. For Empress Kinachi to dispatch four assassins was as much an honor as it was a royal pain in my ass.
I needed more than a text book for defense. The robot ninja caught me in the jaw with an aluminum roundhouse kick. I rolled backwards with the kick's momentum into a squatting position and tossed a magnaton marble. Even the robot's hyper processed reactivity matrix couldn’t adjust fast enough to save it from the marble's detonation. The electric explosion filled a precise radius of one foot and caught the ninjabot square in its chest leaving a gaping hole of sizzling circuitry. The ninja robot collapsed inward. My jaw would certainly have a bruise in the morning.
The iconic image of JFK Jr. saluting his father's casket flooded my senses. I felt dizzy. Ghost images. I took a deep breath and staggered to my feet. I had to focus on the mission.
“Marilyn, you ok?” I glanced over to see Marilyn. His white satin gown was shredded to ribbons. He gripped the crackling, inert forms of two ninja robots in its beefy hands and smashed their heads together like beer cans. Marilyn roared in triumph.
“Good boy!”
I dashed toward the final assassin who held the rifle. The din of the crowd below the depository was deafening. John Fitzgerald Kennedy's motorcade was in position. The alarm on my chronometer beeped. It was 12:30!
“You…are…too…late…Handler!” The emotionless robot ninja seemed to mock me.
Indeed. I was too late.
With an expansive forty feet between myself and the final assassin, I watched helplessly as the assassin's trigger finger flexed. A sudden green flash filled the sixth floor room. The assault rifle fired one shot. The delicate tinkle-bell of the shell casing hitting the plywood floor seemed much louder than the explosive bang of the firearm.
I had failed my mission.
To be continued...
May 02, 2006
Pre-hysterical!
To lessen the gravitas of my four part, time-travelling, cross dressing gorilla, sci-fi/espionage novella, I offer the following brief interlude:
What dinosaur are you?!
I'm an iguanodon. How lame is that?
Pink Pill Box
To read part one.
Marilyn and I were in Dallas, Texas on that fateful day, November 22nd 1963 to save a man's life, but not just any life. We were there to save the President’s life; President John Fitzgerald Kennedy.
As we dashed further away from the crowded parade route and towards the infamous Texas School Book Depository, my mind recounted the dead end which had led us to these perilous seven minutes counting down to history.
Earlier that morning we had attempted to gain entry into Fort Worth’s Hotel Texas. The President and the First Lady were enjoying a chamber of commerce breakfast following a speech in the adjacent town square. If Marilyn Monroe could create a media frenzy at the breakfast, perhaps the disturbance would cause the President's ensuing Dallas trip to be delayed. We could sufficiently reroute the timestream without resorting to violence.
No such luck.
Marilyn and I padded quietly, as quietly as a mountain gorilla can, across the service parking lot towards the delivery bays. We were almost there when the grey door opened and a silhouette in bright pink stood before us. It was Jackie Kennedy, and she was alone.
From my vantage point she resembled a cherry blossom fallen on a vast concrete sidewalk.
“And what are you doing here, you pill popping harlot? Here to destroy my husband's presidency? Here to terrorize my children? Here to ruin my life?!” Jackie Kennedy wasted no time screaming accusations at the blonde-bombshell-undercover-gorilla-agent.
Marilyn Monroe lumbered forward menacingly. His gorilla's arms pulled the door from its hinges. He hurled it behind him, almost hitting me. Jackie Kennedy stepped in front of Marilyn, unconvinced of the starlet's strength.
I had to act fast to stop the ensuing pummeling. “I’m sorry First Lady, but we’re here to see the President, not you.”
I stated the fact with calm urgency.
“Neither of you are welcome. Especially not her. Please leave. Or I’ll have to remove you myself.”
Marilyn bristled at the challenge, his silver back fur stood on end completely burying his opalescent pearl necklace. A low growl rumbled from deep inside Marilyn's chest.
The First Lady blushed the same hue as her iconic pink suit and matching pill box hat. She pursed her lips. Her narrow eyes squinted as she scrutinized Marilyn's simian face. Had she sensed something was amiss? Blowing Marilyn's cover would result in failure.
“Marilyn! Down!” I hissed and pulled the gargantuan beast back to my side.
“OK First Lady. You win this round. But we won’t give up trying to contact the President.”
Jackie Kennedy disappeared from the doorway, as though in a slight daze. She was promptly replaced by two secret service agents. Their identical suits seemed to morph together forming a wall of navy pinstripes topped by two heads. Our opportunities to delay the Presidential motorcade indirectly were exhausted.
Marilyn and I sat out of view to determine our next course of action. A light drizzle misted the crumpled leaves on the pavement. The silver-back directed his soulful, brown eyes towards me.
I scolded in return, “Don’t you give me that look. Sometimes words succeed where fists don’t, Marilyn.”
Inwardly, however, I admonished myself. As the Handler I know better than to second guess my animal friend's instinctive choices. But I resorted to intellect. I had to. Sure, punching Jackie Kennedy would have delayed the motorcade, but part of our job includes subterfuge. Absolutely no one can know we exist.
The First Lady had sensed something was amiss. She was obviously relinquishing her torpor. I couldn't risk her seeing Marilyn's true form. I also wondered how she knew we would arrive at that particular door. Curious.
Nonetheless, I concluded we should immediately make our way to Dallas. Now was the time for animal instinct. Marilyn Monroe and I would take the fight to JFK's would-be assassin!
To be continued...
Marilyn and I were in Dallas, Texas on that fateful day, November 22nd 1963 to save a man's life, but not just any life. We were there to save the President’s life; President John Fitzgerald Kennedy.As we dashed further away from the crowded parade route and towards the infamous Texas School Book Depository, my mind recounted the dead end which had led us to these perilous seven minutes counting down to history.
Earlier that morning we had attempted to gain entry into Fort Worth’s Hotel Texas. The President and the First Lady were enjoying a chamber of commerce breakfast following a speech in the adjacent town square. If Marilyn Monroe could create a media frenzy at the breakfast, perhaps the disturbance would cause the President's ensuing Dallas trip to be delayed. We could sufficiently reroute the timestream without resorting to violence.
No such luck.
Marilyn and I padded quietly, as quietly as a mountain gorilla can, across the service parking lot towards the delivery bays. We were almost there when the grey door opened and a silhouette in bright pink stood before us. It was Jackie Kennedy, and she was alone.
From my vantage point she resembled a cherry blossom fallen on a vast concrete sidewalk.
“And what are you doing here, you pill popping harlot? Here to destroy my husband's presidency? Here to terrorize my children? Here to ruin my life?!” Jackie Kennedy wasted no time screaming accusations at the blonde-bombshell-undercover-gorilla-agent.
Marilyn Monroe lumbered forward menacingly. His gorilla's arms pulled the door from its hinges. He hurled it behind him, almost hitting me. Jackie Kennedy stepped in front of Marilyn, unconvinced of the starlet's strength.
I had to act fast to stop the ensuing pummeling. “I’m sorry First Lady, but we’re here to see the President, not you.”
I stated the fact with calm urgency.
“Neither of you are welcome. Especially not her. Please leave. Or I’ll have to remove you myself.”
Marilyn bristled at the challenge, his silver back fur stood on end completely burying his opalescent pearl necklace. A low growl rumbled from deep inside Marilyn's chest.
The First Lady blushed the same hue as her iconic pink suit and matching pill box hat. She pursed her lips. Her narrow eyes squinted as she scrutinized Marilyn's simian face. Had she sensed something was amiss? Blowing Marilyn's cover would result in failure.
“Marilyn! Down!” I hissed and pulled the gargantuan beast back to my side.
“OK First Lady. You win this round. But we won’t give up trying to contact the President.”
Jackie Kennedy disappeared from the doorway, as though in a slight daze. She was promptly replaced by two secret service agents. Their identical suits seemed to morph together forming a wall of navy pinstripes topped by two heads. Our opportunities to delay the Presidential motorcade indirectly were exhausted.
Marilyn and I sat out of view to determine our next course of action. A light drizzle misted the crumpled leaves on the pavement. The silver-back directed his soulful, brown eyes towards me.
I scolded in return, “Don’t you give me that look. Sometimes words succeed where fists don’t, Marilyn.”
Inwardly, however, I admonished myself. As the Handler I know better than to second guess my animal friend's instinctive choices. But I resorted to intellect. I had to. Sure, punching Jackie Kennedy would have delayed the motorcade, but part of our job includes subterfuge. Absolutely no one can know we exist.
The First Lady had sensed something was amiss. She was obviously relinquishing her torpor. I couldn't risk her seeing Marilyn's true form. I also wondered how she knew we would arrive at that particular door. Curious.
Nonetheless, I concluded we should immediately make our way to Dallas. Now was the time for animal instinct. Marilyn Monroe and I would take the fight to JFK's would-be assassin!
To be continued...
May 01, 2006
Gold! I Tell Ya! Gold!
Preamble: What originally was a tiny paragraph, based on a silly notion, suddenly became a four part opus.
My chronometer read 12:22. We were running late!
Marilyn Monroe and I pushed our way through the throngs of cheering Texans, most of whom dumbly stared as the star of Some Like It Hot sent the crowd flying on their flabby keisters. I hated to rely on shoving, but the future of the United States, nay, of the world, teetered in the balance, and we only had a scant eight minutes to change a great man's fate.
“Holy cow. I think that was Marilyn Monroe!” a lady in a pointed beehive gasped from alongside the parade route.
“She sure has got some hairy arms.” offered a man with a thick Texas drawl.
We’d made it this far in our mission without the civilians catching on to our deception. I was actually quite surprised. On such a drizzly November morning, I had expected Marilyn's makeup to have washed away hours ago.
My associate wasn’t actually the movie star everyone thought “she” was. Marilyn Monroe was actually a 5 foot 6, 400 pound, silverback mountain gorilla disguised as Marilyn Monroe.
An improperly disguised animal companion can ruin a mission from the very start. I thought we had failed when we disembarked our airplane and Marilyn immediately began thumping his chest and tossing waste at a bomb-sniffing German Shepherd.
In my line of work there is a harsh penalty for failure.
Luckily, “celebrity” carried a different weight in 1963 than it does in the 2000's. The guards at the airport ignored Ms. Monroe's quirkiness when I, as her “publicist”, told them the sex symbol’s nervous exhaustion from a recent coo-ing tour had prompted her misbehavior. Fortunately, the fools bought it. Unfortunately, the misunderstanding had cost us critical minutes. If I've learned one thing from this job its to always view the glass as half empty. That and women's wigs were never designed to be worn by gorillas.
“Marilyn, adjust your hair!”
I was thankful for my rugby legs as I charged ahead of the lumbering gorilla. He pulled the golden wig into place over his tiny ears and followed behind me. The Texas School Book Depository loomed ahead of us.
A glint of metal was barely visible in the sixth floor window. I ran faster.
Instinct: it’s the tangible that separates the beasts from mankind. Geese migrate because of instinct. The cheetah hunts because of instinct. Even the platypus does stuff because of instinct. Instinct keeps the animals humble.
Mankind has no instinct. Our intellect changes us. With every generation intellect makes us weaker and weaker. As we move further away from our animal natures, we become more dependent on technology; the world of man, the world of intellect. Great men die because of intellect and the power that corrupts them.
Instinct will keep animals here for many millennia long after mankind destroys itself. Trust me. I've already seen humanity's fate. And it really, really sucks.
You see. There are crucial points in mankind’s thread where a little outside assistance is needed to straighten things out. Think of it as a knot. Well that’s where I come in. I’m the guy who unties those knots with the help of my time-traveling, animal friends dressed as cultural icons.
I am the Handler!
To be continued...
My chronometer read 12:22. We were running late!Marilyn Monroe and I pushed our way through the throngs of cheering Texans, most of whom dumbly stared as the star of Some Like It Hot sent the crowd flying on their flabby keisters. I hated to rely on shoving, but the future of the United States, nay, of the world, teetered in the balance, and we only had a scant eight minutes to change a great man's fate.
“Holy cow. I think that was Marilyn Monroe!” a lady in a pointed beehive gasped from alongside the parade route.
“She sure has got some hairy arms.” offered a man with a thick Texas drawl.
We’d made it this far in our mission without the civilians catching on to our deception. I was actually quite surprised. On such a drizzly November morning, I had expected Marilyn's makeup to have washed away hours ago.
My associate wasn’t actually the movie star everyone thought “she” was. Marilyn Monroe was actually a 5 foot 6, 400 pound, silverback mountain gorilla disguised as Marilyn Monroe.
An improperly disguised animal companion can ruin a mission from the very start. I thought we had failed when we disembarked our airplane and Marilyn immediately began thumping his chest and tossing waste at a bomb-sniffing German Shepherd.
In my line of work there is a harsh penalty for failure.
Luckily, “celebrity” carried a different weight in 1963 than it does in the 2000's. The guards at the airport ignored Ms. Monroe's quirkiness when I, as her “publicist”, told them the sex symbol’s nervous exhaustion from a recent coo-ing tour had prompted her misbehavior. Fortunately, the fools bought it. Unfortunately, the misunderstanding had cost us critical minutes. If I've learned one thing from this job its to always view the glass as half empty. That and women's wigs were never designed to be worn by gorillas.
“Marilyn, adjust your hair!”
I was thankful for my rugby legs as I charged ahead of the lumbering gorilla. He pulled the golden wig into place over his tiny ears and followed behind me. The Texas School Book Depository loomed ahead of us.
A glint of metal was barely visible in the sixth floor window. I ran faster.
Instinct: it’s the tangible that separates the beasts from mankind. Geese migrate because of instinct. The cheetah hunts because of instinct. Even the platypus does stuff because of instinct. Instinct keeps the animals humble.
Mankind has no instinct. Our intellect changes us. With every generation intellect makes us weaker and weaker. As we move further away from our animal natures, we become more dependent on technology; the world of man, the world of intellect. Great men die because of intellect and the power that corrupts them.
Instinct will keep animals here for many millennia long after mankind destroys itself. Trust me. I've already seen humanity's fate. And it really, really sucks.
You see. There are crucial points in mankind’s thread where a little outside assistance is needed to straighten things out. Think of it as a knot. Well that’s where I come in. I’m the guy who unties those knots with the help of my time-traveling, animal friends dressed as cultural icons.
I am the Handler!
To be continued...
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