My First Pervert

       So I'm reading the last item in the latest New Yorker "Talk of the Town" section.  Some lady is walking around the part of Manhattan where she grew up.  "Here's where the Woolworth's was and that building there is where we used to get 25 cent pizza slices." etc. etc.  Then she turns and points to another building and says to her companion:  "And that's where I met my first pervert...".  My devious little pea brain immediately started to dissemble:  A little girl is walking down the street.  Approaching her is an older, slightly seedy looking man wearing a raincoat.  Suddenly, like a giant bat unfolding its wings, he whips opens his raincoat revealing his horrible adult male nakedness.  The lewd image of his turgidity is soldered into her memory forever.  "Look at that, little girl!"  Yes, Virginia, you never forget your first pervert...  Another reason it's good to be a guy.  If you were not an Acolyte in the Catholic church in your youth, chances are that you never had to endure that kind of trauma.  We may have to endure the nuisance of our naughty bits bouncing around between our thighs, but we'll never have to remember our first pervert.

I may have to get myself an alarm clock for my bedroom, which currently has no time keeping device of any kind in it.  I figured with my leisurely life as mayor, I had no early morning appointments to keep as I generally don't grant audiences till early afternoon...  If for some reason I did have to get up early I'd just get the resident early bird, Matt, my downstairs housemate, to give me a soft knock on the door.  I used to get up up when my body felt like it which was usually a reasonably 'relaxed' hour of the morning.  If I could see a silver outline around my bedroom curtains, signaling "the dawn's early light" I would either get up or dive in for another brief snooze.   Lately however the full moon has been playing tricks on me.  I wake up and I see that silver outline around my curtains and I think 'wakey-wakey time!'.  I get out of bed; empty the chamber pot; refill my water bottle; put on my loafs and go upstairs to begin the morning's ablutions...only to find out it's three o-fucking-clock AM!!  It's too late to go back to bed so I sigh; start my tea water and roll my morning cigarette.  I know I'll be drool napping later when the real morning rolls around...

     The last alarm clock I had was set to turn on some radio station.  In its decrepitude it took to emitting bits and pieces of the radio broadcast at random times in the middle of the night.  In addition, the numbers on the clock were so bright, that if I turned on my right side they had the power to wake me up.  It made it hard to get back to sleep as I could see their evil red glare suffusing the humble little cloister of my bedroom.  And why is it called an 'alarm clock' anyway?  Is it responding to some 'alarm' when it goes off?  BUZZ! BUZZ!  Wake up!  There's a fire in the house!  There's a time bomb under your bed!  A pack of wild dogs is biting its way through the screen door!  If I had my druthers (what is a 'druther' anyway?  Anyone?  I just looked it up in my Random House Unabridged Dictionary--thanks for the posthumous gift Katie, RIP--it's a contraction of 'would rather'.) the alarm clock would be called a 'Wake-up' clock.  Instead of some klaxon suddenly blaring in your sleeping ear, instantly spiking your blood pressure and bringing you close to stroke territory, there would be a soothing maternal voice loop recorded on a chip that said "Wake up.....wake up honey.  C'mon sleepy head.  It's time to rise and shine!"  There would be a lot less early morning grumpiness, to say nothing of strokes...  Unfortunately nobody thought to consult me when the alarm clock was invented...

Nicole and I went into Golden Gate Park yesterday to be treated to an intimate (only seven people showed up--two were sisters, one was his roommate...) classical guitar recital by one of her former co-workers.  Hearing him noodling away quietly on his nylon stringed guitar took me back to my guitar playing days.  Michael, the musical host of this little gathering, used to play professionally before he realized there was no future in trying to be a professional classical guitarist. (about the same prospects as a typewriter repair person).  Instead, he got into the travel business where he was Nicole's 'underling'.  "Michael!  Get me my coffee, my croissant and yesterday's daily rushes!".  "Yes, mistress".   Actually I'm just ribbing my dear old sidekick.  Anyone who knows Nicole knows she gets her way with crafty kindness, not imperiousness...  Talking to Michael after the recital I told him about the time I was sitting on our patio playing my first guitar.  My dad came up to me, leaned down, and said quietly, and wisely, "Mike, music is a great avocation".  And he let it go at that.  The 'recital' Mike nodded somewhat sadly and said yeah, he was right about that. (so, you're saying he was wrong about other things?)...  Sorry, I just discovered the italics option in my e-mail.  Well, ladies, I see that I've gotten to the four paragraph limit.  Nicole says my stuff starts to get tiresome and verbose at this stage so without further ado I will sign off before Nicole gets tired.  (I'm sticking out my tongue at you Sneedy!)

Have a swinging Sunday matinee, Mickey da Mayor