American Fez

Fishy Cephalophore

In the ancient myths, disembodied heads discovered in unusual places always have a lot to say for themselves. They really enjoy the sound of their own foreboding, portentous voices: on and on they drone about the various dooms which will befall their audience if specific instructions are not obeyed and certain tasks are not completed.

So I was suitably concerned when Lola came upon a disembodied fish head on the beach, since nothing looks more gloomily portentous than the frowning face of a disembodied fish head. If a disembodied fish head is speaking, you can bet your last bottom-feeding sand-dollar that its message is going to be unpleasant.

 

Fortunately, this particular disembodied fish head remained silent during the encounter with Lola.

Since such heads are endowed with supernatural powers, it probably knew that Lola only understands two words: 'chewy treat' and 'squeaky toy,' neither of which commonly appear in grim prophecies or baleful prognostications from the netherworld.

Consequently it must have decided that any attempt to converse with the dog was bound to fail. 'Not wasting my ectoplasmic breath on the stupid mutt,' the disembodied fish head probably muttered to itself. 'It will only pee in my empty eye socket.'

A reasonable conclusion in the circumstances. Still, it could at least have said hello.

If I Played the Violin

One of my ambitions when younger was to be the sort of romantic soul who plays the violin at an open garret window above an antique city square; my only audience the maid next-door; my only accompaniment the mewing alley cats. A moonlit virtuoso, my graceful silhouette would inspire sensitive Italian shadow puppeteers and German woodblock printers.

Alas, this ambition was never fulfilled.

At school, despite being the only applicant for an idle violin, I was denied instruction on my chosen instrument. The excuse given was my left-handedness. A rather prejudiced prohibition it seems now. Nevertheless, my youthful dreams were shattered and I was forced to play either the triangle or marimba during music class; percussion apparently being regarded as an ambidextrous section of the orchestra more suitable for a southpaw.

There was always the availability of private lessons, of course, but what self-respecting juvenile organises his own extra-curricular tuition in anything, except a budding masochist asking to be bullied?

And so the world is bereft of a potential Paganini: for if I played the violin I would call myself Americo Fezzerini; hair swept back off my forehead and hanging around my shoulders, I would wear a satin burgundy cravat and a black tailed coat with patent leather riding boots; perhaps a pince-nez, even.

Then again, there's always the possibility that some philistine ruffian from across the square, jealous of my virtuosity and gallant charm, would repeatedly beat the living daylights out of me if I played the violin in such a manner. So perhaps it's better that I don't. 

At the Mountains of Boredom (a fragment)

The toothless Eskimo, last of the penguin herders, grinned his blubbery grin and tapped his pipe against Igbert's wooden leg with rude insouciance. "Seven moons and half a sun," he rasped, grinning unpleasantly again, as if he had just revealed the world's most vulgar secret to a gang of rowdy children

"So next Friday afternoon, then?" Igbert replied. "Just in time for the weekend."

This was the ass-end of the world. Besides the eskimo's igloo, the only buildings were a public library, Starbucks and an elk vet's clinic. It was a white wasteland where endless clouds of ice blew down a single street, ushered along by relentless gales. Above the wind we could hear the baying of miniature wolfpoos; a misbegotten hybrid of poodles and wolves bred by Inuit dog fanciers for the purpose of pulling lumps of whale fat through the snow. 

What could Igbert possibly need for the weekend? And why the Hell were we staying for the weekend anyway? It was a question that would force any unemployed insurance underwriter simply along for the ride because he had nothing else going on at the moment to question his very sanity ....

I think this is going to be better than H. P Lovecraft if I ever get around to finishing the story.

 

The Farm Wages of Fear

I approach another working day with all the weariness of a sober person in a room full of drunks. Aimless conversations, incoherent shouting, people forgetting where they put things, weeping in the corners and terrible dancing (around the issues): it's all happening; partytime for the permanently insecure and professionally inept. The gang's all here, as they say.

Meanwhile, in the wider world, "analysts await jobs data." My company contributed two persons to the unemployment rolls last week. I wonder if they'll show up in the figures this month or next?