You: A young to mid-aged rodent lady, keen on short hops down the lane, veg tops (esp. beet, carrot, and radish), and have a special affinity for Chopin. Body size, color, and ear length is no concern, but a good dewlap just can’t be denied.

Would you like to share a life together? There are EVER so many things for us to experience. Namely, snuggling.

*B for bunny

FIVE IS A VERY GOOD YEAR

]]> http://www.greatergatsby.com/today-i-celebrate-five/feed/ 1 http://www.greatergatsby.com/adventures-in-siam-part-two/ http://www.greatergatsby.com/adventures-in-siam-part-two/#comments Tue, 25 Aug 2009 14:00:30 +0000 Gatsby http://www.greatergatsby.com/?p=501 I received a telegram to-day from Henrietta Penniweggs that I was QUITE overdue for the next installment of my tale of Old Siam. So true, so true. Let us re-enter that shadowy world of spice and ancient doings?

H. Penniweggs cannot be denied...

Let’s see, where was I? Oh yes! The moment I arrived at the port of Old Siam, most unsettled by a bad cask of wine and a devilish case of malaria from the foul insects that buzzed about, I ran SMACK into – who else? – Jerry Wombat. He had received a cable from that dastardly curr, Finch, that I had been sacked and trundled off for my role in accounts and ledgers with J. Theramungo. “But Jerry!” I exclaimed, “I’ve no doings with Theramungo since the Great War! However could Finch hold such a grudge against a fellow for such water passed?”

Jerry, stalwart and distractable sort he is, suggested we drown our sorrows in a pint of noodles before making our way to the steamer set back home. A fine fellow, but a little prone to bloat (on account of fried things – noodles and otherwise), so I ambled beside him.

We saw MANY things in our locomotion of Old Siam! The Siamese are a lovely and particular sort. For example, did you know that screaming is their preferred method of communication? Or that cross-eyes are QUITE the norm in Old Siam? Though I saw many things in the trenches of French those many years ago, I never quite experienced the otherness of travel until I found myself trying to keep up with a portly wombat in Old Siam.

UNCLE ROGER

As we weaved and dodged the funny little screaming Siamese, who should we encounter but my dear departed mum’s second cousin, Uncle Jerry. Jerry’s a bit of the black sheep in the family, you see, as he ran off with a Siamese lass of ill-repute nearly 40 years back – leaving a wife and 400 children behind to pick up his pieces. A right scoundrel, if you ask me, which you did. I made nice-nice with the gent, because that is what a true gentleman does, but I high-tailed it out of there post haste!

After tucking into four plates of noodles, Jerry decided that it was QUITE necessary that we visit a place of God. They do not have churches in Old Siam, but they DO have little huts with a golden man to worship. If you ask me, a sleepy chap like that isn’t up to the task of creation and it’s proper upkeep.

That is just this fellow’s most humble opine. What do you think?

He had gentle, albeit cold, hands.

Oh dear! There is EVER so much smoke coming from my stove just now! I do fear the shortbread, baking in time for the arrival of the most dear Hibiscus T. Porridge, is getting rather singed. More on Old Siam in due time…

Dear Friends: Have you ever had a dream?

No, no, not a night-time dream of fancy or glee. A fond wish to see something or somewhere unusual and fantastical? Well, I have! And that place is the MOON. When I was just a lad of 8 or 9, my dear old mummy took me to see a simply marvelous picture called Le voyage dans la lune* at the local theatre. My words, did I EVER enjoy that picture! My favorite portion, you see was that of the MOON. Ever since seeing that stirring film, it has been a life-long desire to picnic with a good friend upon the surface of that pocky surface, even… dare I say?… nibble on it’s crusty/cheesy surface.

I would spend hours as a lad gazing up at the MOON, sometimes wasting many hours which SHOULD have been devoted to studying Latin drawing her rounded edges on my slate. Quite the red knuckles and bottoms had I after the nuns caught on to that little diversion, I tell you! But time takes a young man’s fancy and turns it into so much dust in the wind, or so they say, and the dream of one day picnicking on La LUNE’s surface evaporated from my frontbrain as I matured through a difficult adolescence.

Then, when I was about 23 years of age, laying in a ditch one night in Belgium under a cloud of mustard gas**, I looked up at that beautiful globe above me and knew in my bones that I’d make it there one day. Many bayonetings and quite a few misunderstandings with the authorities about “just who exactly owned the villa,” I’ve come to fulfill my dream. This time next week, your fair friend GB will dine with his good-friend (and maybe more!), Ms. Hibiscus T. Porridge… on the MOON!

* This is French for “Fantastical Picnics Upon the Moon”

** What they do not tell you is that mustard gas is NOT a delicious, airbourne treat. It is quite foul, and causes gangrene of the testes – something of which *I* never recovered from!

‘Ahem.’ Where was I?

Hibiscus, my first love!

Oh yes, memoirs. But this latest heartbreak has left me morose, and harking back to a younger, more carefree day when love was still fresh, new, and cupid had not overshot his aim. Friends, I shall tell you the tale of my First and True Love. It was with, you see, a lady of most delicate taste and nature, Ms. Hibiscus T. Porridge.

Shocked, are you? Do not be! While we have a most understanding and mature friendship these days, Ms. Porridge and I go way back – almost 85 years, to be perfectly frank!

When I was a younger man, I briefly attended a university by the name of St. Olaf’s. While I may be a man of learning, I most certainly am not designed for such a staid and ASININE organization. Did you know that they actively dissuade a gentleman from consuming his own faeces? Travesties! In any event, I was walking across the most lovely campus greens, lost in thought over some quadratic equation or another, when I most rudely ran SMACK into a hurried young lady. It was Hibiscus, late again to Looming 201 (she is QUITE the loom’s mistress!), and in the kerfuffle we managed to mix up our handkerchiefs. After a bit of hunting ’round the sorority houses that evening, I found Hibiscus reading Woodsworth in the dusky summer twilight on a porch swing. Words cannot describe the turnings over of my heart at the sight of her in her pastel dress, but suffice to say that I was most smitten.

How can one describe the three perfect months we spent together? I could not summarize our morning walks between classes, the picnics by the river, or the midnight swims we took in Lake Tomato. It was beneath a tree at the side of Lake Tomato that I held her hand tenderly in mine and gave her the most gentle of kisses. What?! A gentleman does not normally kiss and tell, but these are Memoirs!

I cannot say why we ended our summer affaire, but perhaps it was over the objections of her father – a most upstanding local pastor – that she was far too young, and I of far lesser status, to consider marriage. And it was true then, I was a rank lower-class gent, and she a proper lady. Years later, surrounded by the acquisitions of a lifetime of trying to attain standing and status, I yearn to know how different my quiet life of solitude would be if I were born in her circle, or she in mine.

I was delighted to uncover two faded photographs of my most cherished mother and father. The two could not have been more different, and yet they produced a spry gentlefellow such as myself. Consider father:

My Father: Henry P. Wigglesworth III

Born in 1875, my father was the seventh of 24 children – all of whom were rapscallions of the HIGHEST order. At the tender and confusing age of nineteen, he was convicted of rabble-rousing and grandstanding and sentenced to fight to the DEATH with a stallion  by the name of Gruffin Peabody. A brute, a most horrible brute! But fate spared my gentle da’… or rather ten of his brothers did! After being rescued by those ten ruffians from the gladiator’s jail in Upsworthington, my father bandied about in various ill-mannered professions. He became a Worst Boy (which, incidentally is far better paid than the Hollywood profession of “Best Boy”), Stable Licker, Hay Dandy, until finally settling on the profession he had at the time of my birth: Professional Fighting Poser for Pictures. Quite.

Tragically, he was killed by a rogue flashpop after this picture was taken, and only mere months after I burst upon this world. Pity, pity!

I know little of how he and my sainted mother, Senorita Elizabeth

Franksmarks, came to court and marry, but there does seem to be a surviving record of my conception that shows they loved each other in the style of the ancients: Most Profoundly, and with GREAT Esteem!

‘Ahem’ As I was recalling…

The visage of an angel.

My MUCH sainted mother was of a different strata ENTIRELY! You see, she was the pearl of her family – a stunning jewel of refinement and beauty. Blessed with a lovely singing voice, my mother performed with the Metropolitain Royal Opera Touring Troupe, entertaining kings and Lamas alike! She taught me the finer things of being a gentlefellow, such as how to debeard a glistening oyster for a lady, or else how to curtsy Just So for a passing dandy. What upbringing! What grace!

Tragically, she was overcome by the Grips before I was into long pants. Terrible disease, Grips! It practically CONSUMES the pour soul, while encumbering the body with the most foul odors. She could not even enjoy consuming her own faeces towards the end. Tragedy! WOE!

I still have the many jewels and tiaras she left me as part of her family’s VAST estate. Her death set me on the path of discovery, voyage, and intrigue. Accompanied by her faithful manservant, Pierre, I carried forth the best traits of my beloved mother and storied father… but that is a tale for another time!

Until then, fair friends, adieu Adieu!

Yes, I’ve even managed to construct quite the cottage of the loveliest English oak, and planted the most delicious array of cabbages and root veg to indulge my culinary bent. But something has occurred that has sent me into a right proper TIZZY! What happened, you ask? Who could have made such an incursion on my lovely little manor that I felt compelled to take to the lightbox to send out such a missive?

Witness, my new neighbor: James P. Snufrump.

Then witness, it you will, what havok this garishly made-up gentleman NAY ponce, has wrought at my lovely little manner!

1. He loudly moved 12 of his obese relatives in late one evening whilst I was enjoying a scone. The sound of their hawking and squawking caused me to leap from my chair, leaving the scone to sit a trifle too long in the tea saucer. It was QUITE ruined.
2. My lovely pond and stream have been TOTALLY robbed of the many delightful little fishes that had leapt and frolicked in the waves just a mere month ago. Tragedy! Terrible tidings! Woe!
3. Mr. Snufrump prefers the vocal stylings of one Mr. Boz Scaggs to the exclusion of all the masters. What, pray-tell, could be the purpose of blasting “Jojo” at top levels at all hours of the day and night. I can barely hear myself chew once he and his rabble start in with the sing-alongs!

I am simply BESIDE myself and at my WITS END about how to deal with this loutish brute and his squabbling relatives! Whatever is a poor fellow of fine upbringing and tasteful manners to do?

Maybe a call to Gorden Ramsey is in order?

The following is both TRUE and terrible.

There once was a Scotsman named Sean C
Who came to my house to eat FLAN, see?
Six servings he ate
Including the plate
Then he ate my canary named Chauncy.

And he was never invited over again.

Rest in PEACE, old chum.