this day in history - September 28

1066

William the Conqueror invades England.

1901

Ed Sullivan born.

1934

Brigitte Bardot born.

1941

Ted Williams goes 6 for 8 to end season with .406 batting average.

1960

Ted Williams hits homerun in last career at bat.


This day in History According to Uncle Ray’s Diary

1963

Took suit to dry cleaners this morning. Pork chops for supper. Raked leaves.

a poet's tale

Last year around this time, Reverend Godfrey, The Unknown Poet and I took a little trip. We jumped in the Reverend’s red convertible and drove out to the beach. The Unknown Poet left his pen behind that day and instead brought along his camera to photograph the autumn scenery. The Reverend and I were both happy merely to enjoy a break from our daily labours. We often wondered how our idle friend managed to sustain himself and his artistic habits and, petty as it may sound, were sometimes jealous of his seemingly uninterrupted leisure.

But those thoughts were far from our minds as the red sports car that was the Reverend’s pride and joy raced along the open road. After a time we arrived at an idyllic and deserted beach. It was an unusually warm September afternoon and The Unknown Poet decided to take swim. Not having planned on swimming, The Unknown Poet hadn’t brought along his bathing trunks. But he was among friends so he felt comfortable enough to go skinny-dipping.

The water wasn’t nearly as warm as the sun and wind that day so, of course, The Unknown Poet’s genitals withered considerably. Standing on the beach with a clear view, Reverend Godfrey and I could not conceal our amusement and The Unknown Poet was mortified. He remained silent for most of the ride home while the Reverend and I attempted to stifle our giggles. As we reached the city limits, The Unknown Poet finally spoke.

He calmly advised us that, as an artist, he had dedicated his life to observation. In the course of his observations he had also made a detailed study of the human anatomy. There were, he added, certain anatomical clues as to the size of those parts of the male person that, as a rule, do not go uncovered in public. He soberly informed us that, given sufficient time to warm up, judging by our various physiques, he would certainly prove the best hung among us.

So we pulled over at a coffee shop on the outskirts of town and went inside and made ourselves comfortable. The Unknown Poet ordered hot chocolate which, he said, would bring him around in no time. The Reverend and I had coffee. We were unsure what to make of our friend’s strange boast but thought it only fair to give him a chance, considering how his day had gone so far.

In truth, the Reverend and I were, I’m certain, both secretly rooting for The Unknown Poet. Furthermore, what he said about physique made good intuitive sense. The Unknown Poet had the large hands and feet typically associated with an ample organ. Frankly, I was curious to see how big it really was.

After a few minutes, The Unknown Poet announced that he was ready. The Reverend, being a man of some stature in the community, suggested we repair to the washroom to conduct our survey but The Unknown Poet would not hear of it. He bade us rise and instructed us both to whip it out and lay it on the table.

Still stinging from the shame of our indiscreet chuckling, we did as instructed and laid our members on the table. I am unable to report on the magnitude of the Reverend’s pecker because, in that rather awkward situation, my gaze remained at eye level with my companions. The Reverend, to the best of my recollection did not look down either.

After a few moments contemplation the Unknown Poet stood up and the Reverend and I beheld an alarming bulge in The Unknown Poet’s pants. I thought it strange that I had never noticed the sheer enormity of his package before that moment. I watched with a mixture of horror and fascination as The Unknown Poet opened his fly and then, with a quickness and dexterity I never imagined him possessing, proceed to remove his camera from his crotch and snap our photograph.

The flash of the bulb caught the attention of our waitress as the Reverend and I hurried to replace our shlongs and recover what was left of our dignity. She strode to our table and told us in the firmest tone that if we did not leave the establishment immediately, she would be forced to summon the police. The Reverend and I both produced bills from our wallets and left what I’m sure was a generous tip for our offended server.

Once outside, The Unknown Poet hopped gaily into the back seat of the red convertible and the Reverend took his place behind the wheel. We drove along in silence for what seemed like hours and as we neared his domicile, I stole a furtive glance in the rear view mirror at The Unknown Poet. He smiled back contentedly and enlightened us as to what a gaudy and ostentatious vehicle the red convertible was, and that he would only be requiring it on the weekends.

That warm September afternoon, Reverend Godfrey and I finally learned the secret of our friend’s mysterious and independent means. How many other unfortunate souls came before we cannot say. How many more unsuspecting pilgrims will be drawn in, we dare not imagine. We know with certainty only this: We are but two of the reluctant patrons of The Unknown Poet.

triskaidekaphobia

In my line of work, it pays to be a little superstitious. So, with that in mind, let’s get this 13th entry over with as quickly as possible.

Okay?

Good.

Bugsy

That Lisa woman from the highly entertaining Bugs Galore seems to have vanished from the face of the earth. Given that she’s the only one, besides you dear reader, who ever seems to visit my blog, this is a decidedly unwelcome turn of events.

Maybe she read that article linking diaries to depression and went off somewhere to cheer up. Maybe she got busy at work. Maybe she fell in love. Maybe she fell in the bathroom.

Whatever the case, I hope she returns soon. The Reverend tells me it’s not healthy to blog alone.

blogger blues

I got the low down dirty town fucked around drunken clown bathtub lager blogger blues.

I know, I know. Bathtub lager makes no sense. But the Unknown Poet doesn’t do custom work and I’m in a hurry to get to the point.

A Glasgow University study released this week seems to suggest that keeping a diary makes you depressed, or being depressed causes you to keep a diary, or both. The findings were unclear. What was clear is that students at the Scottish University who kept diaries were more likely to suffer from depression than those who did not. The authors of the study did not comment on the curse of self-awareness or the writing habits of those who are immune to it but did cite Virginia Woolf’s compulsive journaling and lifelong depression while failing to mention my Uncle Ray, who kept a diary for the better part of eighty years and is still happy as a clam as long as there’s beer in the fridge.

The authours admitted surprise at the lack of evidence of therapeutic catharsis, once thought to be the best reason for keeping a diary. Uncle Ray kept a diary mostly to help him remember where he left his car and that could be a telling difference. One possible explanation offered by the authours for their findings is that rather than producing the expected catharsis, writing in a diary may cause the diarist to concentrate on or “stew over” their problems all the more.

The study did not comment specifically on bloggers but the implications are troubling.

Blogging may be hazardous to your mental health.

I was born a poor black child

I feel like Steve Martin in the Jerk when he got his name in the phonebook. Google may be everyone’s favourite search engine but so far Google has never heard of Cicero’s Garage. However, a good old fashioned MSN search puts my very own blog at the top of the pile of all the weird and wonderful things that pop up when you type in Cicero’s Garage. I have arrived.

And so too has The Unknown Poet and Reverend Godfrey. No longer will the great Unknown toil in obscurity. No longer will the out-of-print Selected Quotations of the Rev. Dr. Theodore J. Godfrey be the only source of Godfrey wisdom available to those in need. No longer will I, Huckleberry Finnegan…

You know what? It’s really no big deal. I just haven’t updated the blog since Friday and I really don’t have anything else to say…I think it might rain.

pray for me St. Bibiana

The demon Alcohol has once again picked my pockets, emptied my stomach, beat me about the head with a cricket bat and carpeted my tongue with deep pile shag.

-Rev. T.J. Godfrey

A hangover is God’s way of telling you that you’re a fucking idiot.

-Rev. T.J. Godfrey attributed

doggerel day afternoon

You Get What You Pay For


I tried to write a poem once that didn’t rhyme at all
with rhythm that did not suggest a gaily bouncing ball

I had my doubts when I sat down but soon to my surprise
a little verse began to grow before my very eyes

I felt so liberated from the rigours of my style
I felt I could write anything and make it all worthwhile

My inhibitions vanished as the ink began to flow
I didn’t give a damn about where capitals should go

I threw out punctuation then I made up some new words
I tried to show an influence to satisfy the nerds

I scribbled where I wanted to wherever on the page
My words were full of beauty, truth and love and lust and rage

My sight grew dim, my hands did shake but on and on I went
until at last the paper tore and all my ink was spent

My poem was a masterpiece when finally I quit
My one and only free verse was a masterpiece of shit

-The Unknown Poet

cyberpulpit

A man wearing a wedding ring should be treated with respect. He is a decorated veteran of the battle of the sexes.

-Rev. T.J. Godfrey

I'm a pragnostic. I believe in God when it suits me.

-Rev. T.J. Godfrey

(The views expressed by Rev. Godfrey do not necessarily reflect the views of Cicero’s Garage or any of its affiliates)

general delivery - parts unknown

Fan Mail


Who is The Unknown Poet
We really want to know
We want to make you famous and advance you lotsa dough

And shower you with honours
and lavish you with grants
and all the other poets wanna get into your pants

I am The Unknown Poet
and you really are too kind
but alas I am forever to obscurity resigned

For nothing is so fleeting
as a minor poet’s fame
You’d write me off and ne’er look back if e’er you knew my name

-The Unknown Poet

thought for the day

From Selected Quotations of The Rev. Dr. Theodore J. Godfrey, edited and compiled by Huckleberry Finnegan:

If you love someone, set them free. If they come back to you, you can hold it over their head for the rest of their life.

the great unknown

My good friend, The Unknown Poet (that’s not his real name of course) has reluctantly agreed to allow me to publish a few of his poems on my blog. I am very pleased with this turn of events because I believe Unknown has been hiding his light under a bushel for far too long. I ask only that any posted comments take my friend’s retiring and sensitive nature into account. Feel free to be generous with your criticism, but no less generous with your praise. Otherwise, I fear that not even I will hear from the great Unknown again.


Requiem for a Rough Draft


This was once a yellow pad,
a yellow pad with blue ink on it,
blue ink and blue lines,
faint blue lines running horizontally across the page.

The i’s are dotted now
and the t’s are crossed.
The arrows indicating where this very line should go are gone forever.
Whole words have disappeared.


-The Unknown Poet


Anon's Resume


I am The Unknown Poet
I'm sure you've heard of me
I've written in all languages
since 4000 B.C.

I've written of the Roman
and I've written of the Turk
The fire at Alexandria
destroyed all my best work

I've written on papyrus
and on the subway walls
I'm all over the internet
and inside toilet stalls

I've scribbled reams of sonnets
and my share of haiku
a wagonload of limericks
and a country song or two

I even wrote an epic once
C'mon you know the one
I don't think I'll try that again
It only sounds like fun

I'm not assuming credit
where credit isn't due
If you want disputed authourship
I'm not the girl for you

Did Moses write the Pentateuch
I really couldn't say
But Shakespeare was from Stratford
and wrote his own damn plays

I am The Unknown Poet
for I've shied away from fame
I'm very pleased to meet you
but you'll never guess my name

-The Unknown Poet

now what

I woke up this morning and remembered that I’m a blogger now. But what does a blogger do? Having investigated a few of these blogs out of professional curiousity, and having opened my own blog in order to post a reply to one of the more entertaining blogs I encountered, I should have a better grasp of my new blogger responsibilities. But I’m still at a bit of a loss. My research indicates that blog is short for web log, which indicates that a blog may be some kind of online journal. The blogs I perused yesterday evening certainly bear that out. Many of them read like diaries. I don’t keep a diary myself because I’m afraid that someday I might find it and read it.

Perhaps I’ll use this exciting new venue to publish the overlooked works of my good friend, The Unknown Poet. I’ll have to ask him first. He’s a very private individual.

I think I may know what Cicero’s Garage is supposed to mean. Unfortunately, if my autopsychoanalysis is correct, I have to keep that a secret too - one of the drawbacks of working for a clandestine government agency.

bed time

There, that's done. Now all I have to do is figure out what Cicero's Garage is supposed to mean. I think I'll sleep on it. Goodnight bloggers.

work work work

All this work just to post an anonymous reply to another blog.