A Portrait Of Cristóbal Colón As A Young Man


I remember Columbus Day because I used to play music in a hundred and one bands anyone that would have me and try to make money to eat and get cigarettes and I don’t smoke and there still was never enough money and I played at a tee-totaling biker association party for two members’ wedding not gay a man and a woman that arrived on a motorcycle with the woman I think wearing a white Wedding Dress and no helmet and we played for one hundred sober bikers and ninety-nine of them were like accountants and one was like a serial murderer but they all looked exactly the same so you had to assume they all would kill you if they got the chance instead of the more likely thing that they’d do your taxes if you asked nice and I never played Born To Be Wild for a Wedding Song before and the bride’s father was in jail I think so she had to dance with the groom twice and the whole thing was held at the Italian-American Club on Gano Street in Providence but everybody calls it Guano Street for a joke haha and it’s a real long time ago but it might have been the Portuguese-American Club I don’t remember but I do remember it was Columbus Day and I went into the bar to get away from the sober biker accountants and that one serial murderer that were in the function room and it didn’t matter if it was the Italian-American Club or the Portuguese-American Club or the Knights Of Columbus Hall haha that would be funny but I don’t really remember but I distinctly remember a guy with a knife a real knife not a just a knife a dagger that came to a perfect point and didn’t fold or look like you could do anything wholesome with it it just looked one hundred percent like it was designed and made to gut a bass player and that guy held that knife right under my chin and explained to me in Portuguese that Cristóbal Colón was Portuguese and don’t you forget it and my Spanish was very sketchy and Portuguese sounds like Russian to me not Spanish anyway but believe me I understood every damn word he said and I advise you all to answer the question did you know Cristóbal Colón was Portuguese in the affirmative at all times.

The end.

Buxtehude Dude’s Guitar Goes To Eleven

Reader Arkadiy wants my boys to adapt some Buxtehude for guitar and drums. Nice music. Prehistoric Bach. It’s not a bad idea, but I refuse to carry a harpsichord up the stairs.

But, whoah; how much loot for that lute? That bad boy goes to eleven. You could moonlight on the weekend harpooning minke whales with that. I could change car tires using that for a lever. Joust. Our second floor windows could become secondary means of egress if we leaned that against the side of the house. I could pick apples on that thing. I could beat an elephant senseless with it in a pinch. It’s awesome. I want one.

No, I want two, so I could strap them to my legs and join the circus. 

Griffin Podiatrist/Woodworker Sure Looks Funny On Your Business Card

Carving the “Ball and Claw” leg.

Chippendale furniture is as dead as a Pharoah. It had quite a run. Thomas Chippendale was the fellow, 1718-1789, but he had a son named Thomas, too, who went into business with him, and went bankrupt. Welcome to the furniture business.

They were designers. They specified all the stuff in the rooms, and even the paint colors. More Ralph Lauren than Norm Abram. And the ball and claw foot is only a tiny portion of their furniture leitmotif, but it’s the thing most anyone can point to and utter: Chippendale.

I sat on Chippendale chairs, gone to seed, in my grandmother’s old apartment when I was a little kid. When the dirt poor end up with stuff, you’re near the end of the string. Next stop oblivion. Of course, right up to fairly recently, people still bought Chippendalish ensembles of furniture for the rooms they never went in in their big houses. The living room and the dining room in houses that no one ate in or lived in. Furniture museums, I called them back twenty years ago when I was still in the house business. The ladies of the houses were constantly asking what color to paint the rooms to entice anyone, including themselves, to enter them. I never did find that color. The husband wrote the check and went back in the family room where the TV was.

I have a copy of Chippendale’s Gentlemen’s and Cabinet Maker’s Director.  It’s around here somewhere. In a box. In a closet. I think. I guess. Never mind. I’ve got Hepplewhite’s book, and if you take out all the harewood inlay on everything it’s just farm furniture and everyone wants some of that.

Still. Look at how exuberant we used to be. We carved the feet of our chairs to resemble the feet of a mythical beast. Nowadays forty-year-old men and their doughy Slave Leias dress up like mythical creatures and go to conventions, where they sit in plastic chairs.

You can read the Gentlemen’s and Cabinet Maker’s Director here, if you  think you’re going to live to be a thousand and have time to spare.

Too Many Notes



Hey, Mozart’s got a new tune out, and it’s got a beat and you can dance to it, I’m tellin’ ya.. He was about ten when he wrote it, so I don’t know about you, but I’m prepared to forgive the hint of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles I picked up in there.

Mozart’s latest. 

Never Liked Old Beetle-Brow Much



Most popular music is designed to annoy you. Raucous, maybe, or tedious, or teased into an undynamic drone. I cannot pass the time with it for long. I often have music going in the shop, quietly, to mask the buzz of the fluorescent lights, but I’m apparently not as interested in being told that everything sucks in 4/4 time by someone that’s never gotten up before noon and has their M&Ms sorted for them as I used to be. Life does suck — or at least sucks the life out of you. Why make it worse?

My wife likes the Pastoral Symphony. I never liked old beetle-brow much myself. He was having a resurgence back in the seventies when I played an orchestra instrument, and he rubbed me the wrong way. And what was that little shite’s name in Peanuts that was always sawing away at him? Linux or Schroedinger or Sloppy or something. Who cares? Peanuts always sucked, too. Discerning grade-schoolers read B.C. .

But my wife wears me down in the most pleasant ways and I find myself softening on the old, deaf, dead Napoleon bumkisser. He sounds at least 14 percent better than the fluorescent lights to me now. That’s a damn sight better than Looking Glass or Sugarloaf ever was.

Caleb’s Coins



From Wethersfield we went out, about half an hour before sunrising, for Quabaug. We lost our way in the snow, which hindered us some hours. Having neither house nor wigwam at hand, we lay in the woods all night. Through mercy, we arrived in health to the proceedings. JosephBradford, appraiser, had begun calling out the Probate Inventory of our beloved departed Obadiah Dickinson, father of my bride, recently deceased of apoplexy in the yeare of our Lord 1750.

My bride was in distress, and Mr Bradford, spake quickly, and the words tumbled out and gathered and split asunder again without warning, and we were content to let them go past without signifying. Mr Bradford paused, with force, and called my name most clearly, and approached to take my hand. He placed in my hand six coins, of no value, worn and dirty with much handling.

“It was the earnest desire of Mr Dickinson that these be returned to you, sir. “

I was adrift.

“I know not of these coins, sir. That cannot be returned which was never given. “
My wife pressed my arm, and looked at me with with such emotion, I did not spake further, hoping until such time as she could explain this mystery.

For my wife’s father, who was a good man, and true, did not care for such as myself. He tolerated me only, and watched over his girl as a bear watches his cub. I felt always his look over my shoulder, even betimes he was not present.

We hired a team to bring such belongings as were meet over the frozen Connecticut River to our lodgings, Methinks the villein charged more than the lot was worth to transport them, but he avowed he would not hear the frozen river cracking under each footfall for less than a treasure. My wife could not do without what little was left of her father, and I grudgingly gave way.

“Why should your Pater, who knew no rest in minding me, make me this present? He did not care for me.”

“You are harsh, Caleb, and wrong in the bargain.”

“I speak the truth woman, Bless his soul, but he did not care for me. He has given me this trifle to shame me afore the appraiser.”

“Nay, Caleb, they are your coins, and it is his love which it displays, not scorn.”

“How can this be?”

“You are older now Caleb, and forget the things of your youth. But my father, and I, did not forget.”

“What do I forget?”

“You would call on me Caleb, with your hair in place and your clothes brushed. “

“Yes?”

“And my father would let us sit alone in the room, while he smoked outside; do you remember?”

“Just so, I had forgotten.”

“Father would say he would come back inside when the candle flame could not be seen on the candle shelf anymore.”

“Through mercy! I would put the coins under the candle to raise it up and prolong the time. “

“Yes Caleb. He knew. And now it is time you knew- Father did not smoke.”

Tag: 1700s

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