Cicero's Garage

Cicero’s Posse

2007-03-28T09:54:00.000-07:00

My lack of blogging expertise prevents me from editing my profile to acknowledge my fellow contributors to Cicero’s Garage: Reverend Godfrey, The Unknown Poet and dear Uncle Ray.

Unfortunately, other circumstances also prevent me from elaborating, even here, on their whereabouts. I am able, however, to provide some information with regard to their occupations and interests.

The Reverend Doctor Theodore J. Godfrey

Occupation - clergyman

Interests – soteriology, sabermetrics

The Unknown Poet

Occupation - poet

Interests - mergers and acquisitions

Uncle Ray

Occupation - retired

Interests - meat and potatoes

The Confessions of Huckleberry Finnegan Part I

2007-03-27T14:04:00.000-07:00

Dedicated followers of Cicero’s Garage will have noticed that while I bid adieu to the blogosphere some time ago, citing coercion by my employers, I have continued to tender the occasional entry with no explanation either for my reappearance or for my long absences between posts.

Having sought the counsel of my spiritual advisor, Reverend Godfrey, I would now like to set the record straight.

I lied.

The reason for my premature retirement and subsequent periods of inactivity is nothing so sinister as the threat of death or dismemberment. While my employers would certainly prefer that I have no contact with the outside world, they remain unaware, as do most people, of the existence of Cicero’s Garage.

The real reason is far more commonplace. Like so many bloggers before me, I merely lost interest.

So why, you may ask, am I making this confession? Is it because I intend to resurrect Cicero’s Garage and commit myself to daily updates? Not at all. My intention, dear reader(s), is simply to clear the air and restore whatever level of trust you may have once had in me – an anonymous employee of an unnamed government agency.

I swear, I never meant to hurt you.

What I Know

2007-03-22T09:28:00.000-07:00

When I was still young enough to care about how smart I was relative to other people, I remember having difficulty fathoming the Socratic maxim “the more you know the less you know.” Amazing what a few years can do. My ignorance has become my greatest if not my sole certainty. I think, though not particularly well, therefore I am, I guess.

What I wasn’t prepared for by the philosophers or anyone else was the dullness of other people. After all those years spent thinking I was smart but not nearly smart enough, I discover that I’m not really that bright but I’m still about as bright as anybody else - a disillusioning but strangely comforting thought.

Now I’m not saying I’m Einstein or anything, but I’ll bet if I was just a little bit smarter, I’d be smart enough to say that Einstein wasn’t all that.

So I would like to tread for a moment with the great and the wise and dare to amend the old saw that so puzzled my younger self. Here at last is my long awaited (by me) contribution to the canons of human understanding.

“We’re all daft.”

-T.J. Godfrey

observation

2007-01-31T06:51:00.000-08:00

Has anyone besides me ever noticed how the shadow of a parking meter bears an eerie resemblance to a silhouette of Mickey Mouse?

The Jealous Husband Theory

2006-11-22T12:06:00.000-08:00

Call me paranoid but no one has ever explained to my satisfaction where Arthur Miller and Joe DiMaggio were on November 22nd, 1963.

Two Poems - No Waiting

2005-08-23T13:14:00.000-07:00

The Competition

Behold the modern poetess
All rhyming words forsaking
Expounding on her sex life and
Her great grandmother’s baking

-The Unknown Poet

Reflection on Timing

I might’ve made a bigger splash
If I’d preceded Ogden Nash

-The Unknown Poet

Felt, W. Mark

2005-05-31T13:34:00.000-07:00

If Deep Throat was indeed Mark Felt, then Woodward, Bernstein, Ben Bradley and Deep Throat himself were not, as has been commonly reported, the only people who knew the informant’s identity. The casting director of Warner Bros. All The President's Men was clearly in on the secret.

Mark Felt and Hal Holbrook may not be identical twins, but there is a strong resemblance. The same can be said for Carl Bernstein and Dustin Hoffman, as well as for Ben Bradley and Jason Robards. Bob Woodward and Robert Redford may be a bit of a stretch but if it’s 1976 and Robert Redford wants to be in your movie, you let him.

The Internet Movie Data Base (IMDB) lists Alan Shayne as the casting Director of All The Presidents Men. So far, Mr. Shayne has neither confirmed nor denied Mr. Felt’s extraordinary claim.

R.I.P. HST

2005-02-21T13:49:00.000-08:00

Dr. Thompson is dead.

The man whose obituary of Richard Nixon included terms of endearment like liar, bastard and war criminal is remembered today by friends, family, fans and fellow writers, the latter of whom are all hard at work this very minute composing for posterity their own memorials for Hunter S. Thompson, and facing a strangely daunting task in doing so, not simply because of the temptation to let a little Gonzo drift into their sentences and paragraphs, but also because of the manner of his death.

Inevitable comparisons will be made to Earnest Hemingway. I won’t make any comparisons myself until I find my copy of The Great Shark Hunt and reread Thompson’s take on Hemingway’s exit. As I recall, it was one of the few pieces on Hemingway’s death that didn’t read like bad psychology or, ironically, the insecure bravado of another would be suicide. Uncharacteristic in its thoughtful, straightforward admiration of its subject, this piece, as I remember it today, was a far cry from Hunter’s Nixon eulogy.

Which is no statement on the much-discussed erosion of Thompson’s talent. For reasons that may become clear, I haven’t read any of Thompson’s books since Generation of Swine. As far as I’m concerned, at that time, he hadn’t lost a step. He still made me want to turn the page. He still made me want to read aloud to anyone who would listen. He still made me wonder how much of his raving was strictly for his own amusement. For example, Res Ipsa Loquiter.

Not knowing any Latin, I had the uneasy feeling for years that one of Thompson's standard postscripts, Res Ipsa Loquiter was in fact his running joke at the expense half educated showoffs just like me. I imagined him grinning an evil grin every time he thought of some drunken, semiliterate college student pumping his fist in the air and declaring in a dead language, I am a shameless and compulsive masturbator.

Writer, journalist, counterculture hero, subject of two major motion pictures, scourge of law and order politicians and bane of moralists everywhere, Hunter S. Thompson lived by the pen, and died by the sword. He leaves behind a dozen or so books, hundreds of articles and thousands of rounds of ammunition.

The creator and sole master of gonzo journalism has left an imposing legacy. Unfortunately, the largest part of that legacy is a bit dubious, and I’m not talking about his conscious or unconscious promotion of reckless lifestyles or even his capitulation to suicide. The shadow side of Dr. Thompson’s gift to the world is darker and more insidious even than that and can be summed up in one simple, unadorned, declarative sentence.

Hunter Thompson inspired more bad writing than anyone else who ever lived.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas has been required reading for contributors to campus newspapers since Johnny Depp was in grammar school. And now half the bloggers that clog the Google searches of people like me who are just looking for a little information this morning are typing away like little Hunterites, complacent in their belief that none of their readers are hip or well read enough to know who’s being plagiarized. Poor dumb bastards. They don’t realize that the only people who read blogs are other bloggers. Just like the only people who read short stories anymore are other short story writers carrying on like demented survivors of an arctic plane crash – their activities a cannibalistic orgy of government funded, sadomasochistic, literary narcissism.

I like to think that’s how it’s done, if one must make the attempt. But that last paragraph took me longer to compose than all those that went before it put together and required the kind of monumental editing job normally reserved for state of the union addresses. I made up my own mind years ago that emulating Hunter Thompson is a fool’s errand, and stealing from him outright is to court contempt from people whose prose you wouldn’t stoop to read if you had to spend eternity in a waiting room or grunting on the toilet.

But it’s an awfully hard habit to break.

Hunter Thompson’s unique talent was just that, unique. He was either the best-read American journalist since A.J. Liebling or the most shameless collector of quotations since John Bartlett. He was the inventor of a style that no one has successfully copied or improved upon. At its best his writing, like the writing of the romantic poets he admired, produced genuine narcotic like symptoms – real adrenalin rushes and a bizarre kind of pathos flavoured it seemed by a curious blend of hardboiled detective fiction and the King James Version of the Holy Bible.

A weird mixture of Lord Byron, Raymond Chandler and St. John the Evangelist, soaked in liquor and hallucinogens and fired out of the greased barrel of an overheated howitzer at an unsuspecting world.

That’s the sentence I’ve been trying to write all morning.

In the final analysis, I believe that Hunter Thompson should be remembered not so much as a counterculture icon or an outlaw or a tragic figure or even as the godfather of a generation and a half of bad writers but simply as a great writer himself. And ultimately he will be. I offer as proof of my thesis Hunter’s favourite excerpt from what was clearly one of his favourite poems, In Memory of W.B. Yeats by W.H. Auden.

Time that is intolerant
Of the brave and innocent,
And indifferent in a week
To a beautiful physique,
Worships language and forgives
Everyone by whom it lives;
Pardons cowardice, conceit,
Lays its honours at their feet.
Time that with this strange excuse
Pardoned Kipling and his views,
And will pardon Paul Claudel,
Pardons him for writing well.

Which leaves me with only one question. Who the hell was Paul Claudel?

Res Ipsa Loquitor

Huckleberry Finnegan
General Delivery – Parts Unknown
February 21, 2005

adieu

2005-01-10T13:55:00.000-08:00

My cover has been blown and I’ve been ordered by my superiors to cease all communication with the outside world. If this job didn’t pay so well or failed to endow me with a frightening amount of power, I’d quit in protest. Of course, they’d have to kill me, but I knew the risks when I signed up.

Farewell bloggers.

-Huckleberry Finnegan

p.s. Messrs Godfrey and Poet will also be unable to contribute as they have been detained by my employers and are facing months of debriefing and re-education as a result of their involvement with Cicero’s Garage. All things considered, I got off relatively easy.

question

2004-12-06T13:23:00.000-08:00

Does anyone really believe it was Helen's face that launched a thousand ships?

am I blue

2004-11-04T19:45:00.000-08:00

November 4, 2004

Dear disenfranchised, left-leaning Americans:

While meditating on your electoral map, I was struck by what I thought at the time was an unusual idea. But I consulted my superiors and they have instructed me to pursue the matter.

Consider that the geographical integrity of the blue states in which you reside and their proximity either to Canada or to other blue states bordering Canada may provide the solution to your increasing alienation from the rest of your country.

The deep divide in American politics may prove a fortuitous development. I propose you take advantage of what may or may not be a geographical coincidence and allow yourself to be annexed by the Dominion of Canada.

Before formally extending the invitation, the Government of Canada would have to know your intentions are serious. We don’t need another situation like the one that currently exists in Quebec. Each state would have to hold a referendum and a clear majority of electors would have to choose to join Canada. If you’re uncomfortable about the Queen being your head of state, we can fix that. We’re not as fond of her as you might suspect.

Our union and subsequent withdrawal from the British Commonwealth would provide an excellent opportunity for us to print new currency bearing the images of Wayne Gretzky and Michael Dukakis and worth, according to my own calculations, approximately 86 cents on the dollar.

We must insist on retaining the name Canada, an Iroquois word meaning peaceful, beautiful and relentlessly polite. Of course, this arrangement would not be a merger so much as a takeover but you would all be welcome to participate fully in our political process, with the possible exception of Wisconsin.

To avoid bloodshed, something that your current Head of State seems to enjoy, we are prepared to offer, in exchange for all the blue states, the province of Alberta, which contains most of our oil and all of our most strident conservatives.

We would also offer Quebec, in a heartbeat, but that would raise suspicion that the whole plan was an elaborate ploy to simply unload our problems on someone else and it’s not. We are very serious.

Our operatives tell us that for some time now, youngsters in Minnesota and Michigan have been playing ice hockey with almost as much skill and enthusiasm as Ontarians and Manitobans. It is therefore in our national interest to annex you at this time. The Russian bear is only sleeping and the Finns are unpredictable.

As a sign of good faith we pledge to not use our newfound military might to invade Alaska, although that’s always been a bit of a sore spot with us.

However, once we have the United Nations headquarters located securely within the borders of Canada, we’ll make sure your former country pays its membership dues or it’s out.

There will of course be some adjustments. For example, our laws are different. We don’t have misdemeanors; we have summary offences, like jaywalking, littering and drug trafficking.

Furthermore, we’re not at all sure we want Arnold what’s-his-name to stay on as the Premier of California. Recall elections are not in our nature. We would have to work that out.

On the other hand, we will not compel you to spell honour or colour the way we do. Canadians believe in celebrating our cultural differences.

As for Washington D.C., we don’t think this would present an insurmountable problem. The Republicans may even appreciate an excuse to move their capital to Kansas.

And our preliminary analysis indicates that the prospect of fewer Democrats voting against Jeb Bush in 2008 would be received favourably by your current administration.

The situation would require inevitable compromises on both sides but if you can get used to our strong beer, we promise to relax our gun laws.

We don’t want you to feel overwhelmed by the change. We can make further accommodations on such items as our national animal. Rather than the beaver or the eagle, allow us to suggest - the beagle.

A few miscellaneous rules are beyond negotiation:

In Canada, capital punishment is a no-no. Anyone caught executing a prisoner will be charged, tried and convicted – but not executed.

In Canada, gays and lesbians get married, adopt children, teach elementary school and run for public office. Heterosexuals are also encouraged to participate in society.

In Canada, a quarterback only gets three downs to move the ball ten yards but they are actual yards, not metres, so it’s not as difficult as you probably imagined.

In Canada, we don’t worry so much about the separation of church and state. You can pray pretty much wherever you want provided you do so in a peaceful, orderly fashion and excuse yourself afterward as if you had burped.

And this may be a more recent development but, in Canada, it is now customary to laugh with, rather than at, Newfoundland. What you do with New Jersey is your own business.

In conclusion, we believe this arrangement would be of mutual benefit. You get universal healthcare. We get Hawaii.

Aloha,

Huckleberry Finnegan
International Liaison
Department of -CLASSIFIED-
Government of Canada

posted as comment on Hairshirt

2004-11-01T19:45:00.000-08:00

I enjoy your blog very much and you seem like an astute fellow so I have a couple questions for you.

The conventional wisdom suggests that most Americans believe John Kerry beats George Bush on every issue except national security. But Kerry enjoys tremendous support in both New York City and Washington D.C. Is it possible that voters in the two cities that were attacked on September 11, 2001 have not examined the issue of national security as closely as the rest of the country? Isn’t it more likely that they have examined the issue of national security more closely than anyone else and come to different conclusions? I think your party’s campaign ought to highlight this.

As the election approaches, I understand that residents of Manhattan and D.C. live under an orange security alert as opposed to yellow in the most parts of the U.S. If these citizens are satisfied with or even prefer John Kerry’s national security credentials, shouldn’t the Kerry campaign be making that point to the rest of America?

I recognize that regional antipathies exist in the United States and that Republicans are more prone to exploit them but wouldn’t Americans in the South or the Midwest respect the assessment of the people who A. suffered most from the terrorist attacks and B. continue to live under a greater threat of future terrorist activity?

Or is the oft-repeated sentiment that George Bush makes America safer just code for something more sinister?

What say you, Joe?

joy in mudville

2004-10-28T07:53:00.000-07:00

Lord, I believe. Forgive thou my unbelief.

And Go Cubs!

-T.J. Godfrey

the player to be named later

2004-10-25T15:30:00.000-07:00

Well I believe in the snow – the goose – the beaver – the smell of flannel pyjamas, the rolling puck, high taxes, universal healthcare, that the novels of Margaret Atwood should be read aloud by anyone but her. I believe Don Cherry should stick to hockey. I believe the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Montreal Canadiens ought to be Crown Corporations. I believe in strong beer, public broadcasting, attaching the booster cable to the frame rather than the battery and I believe in short, hot, dry summers that last three weeks. G'day eh.

prelude to a curse

2004-10-22T13:58:00.000-07:00

Any theologian worth his salt has a little streak of pantheism in him. God is in everything. Any theologian wishing however much to be not of the world but still in it should always read the sports pages.

Is Mark Maguire’s bat a holy relic? How about Brooks Robinson’s glove?

Scholars and writers more learned and eloquent than myself have certainly made the connection between religion and baseball. They invoke the timelessness, the rhythm, the mystery and the simplicity of the game to elevate baseball from mere sport to holy ritual.

As a theologian and a baseball fan I can’t help but subscribe to parts of this philosophy. I won’t go so far as to say that I am a Christian today because of Carl Yastrzemski, but I do understand the martyrs better because of the Boston Red Sox.

All of mankind’s religions have their dark tales, tales of floods and plagues and even curses. If baseball is not simply a sport but some kind of peculiar latter day religion, the darkest tale in its canon is the Curse of the Bambino.

The legend is not complicated. The Boston Red Sox have not won a World Series, despite four game seven appearances, since they traded one George Herman (Babe) Ruth, Jr., the Bambino, to their arch enemies the New York Yankees for money in the dark year of 1919. In that time, the Yankees have won the Series 26 times.

The mishaps, meltdowns, bad trades and bonehead plays are too numerous to be disregarded as coincidence. The Red Sox haven’t been a bad team or a poorly run organization. Bad trades are part of every franchise’s history including the Yankees. But the Red Sox trades historically come back to haunt them like no other club in baseball.

Are they cursed? Yes, they are. Are they the only ones? That bears some examination.

What about the other Sox, the White Sox who haven’t won a World Series since they conspired to lose one, for money, in 1919? The White Sox drought has lasted longer than Boston’s and is surpassed only by their cross-town rivals the Chicago Cubs. Is the entire city of Chicago operating under a baseball curse? Sportswriters don’t seem to think so.

The truth about the Cubs and the White Sox is they haven’t been successful ball clubs. There have been a few great players and some good seasons for both. The Cubs may have very well been robbed last year of a World Series appearance by the poor judgment of one unfortunate fan who now finds himself in the FBI Witness Protection Program.

That bizarre incident notwithstanding, Chicago teams have never been victim to the sustained barrage of spooky last minute acts of God that have shot down the otherwise competent Red Sox, the single most famous example being the shocking error of the otherwise competent Bill Buckner.

Most religions have a scapegoat or two as well and poor Bill Buckner, with a lifetime batting average of .289 over 22 seasons, wears the horns in this pantheon.

That established, who are the other mythic figures in the Red Sox tale and can we, by identifying them, find a hidden prophecy?

Bearded Johnny Damon - batting average six feet under the Mendoza line and needing an extra base hit even more than a haircut - was he the unlikely instrument of God against the despised Yankees? He may have been.

But he is not the Messiah. His unkempt appearance holds the clue. He is the one who goes before, the one who makes clear the path. He is the voice of one crying in the wilderness of Red Sox Nation, “Make straight the way of …”

Who is the Red Sox saviour? Martinez? Ramirez? Has he even been born yet?

That is the mystery of Red Sox faith.

As for this year the St. Louis Cardinals, the best team in baseball this season, may have some say in the outcome, curse or no curse.

-T.J. Godfrey

haiku to you too

2004-10-18T11:23:00.000-07:00

For a good time call
Huckleberry Finnegan
Cicero's Garage

poetic justice

2004-10-13T13:22:00.000-07:00

Muse Blues

I haven’t wrote a single verse
in over thirty days
My fickle muse is playing me
in not so subtle ways

My best friend wrote a ballad and
my brother wrote an ode
The seeds of my suspicion now
beginning to be sowed

I went to see my doctor who
for diagnosis said
in iambic pentameter
it all was in my head

So I ran off to find the priest
and he confessed to me
that limericks were helping him
spice up his homily

I hired a detective then
to find out where she slept
When he reported back to me
I bowed my head and wept

The milkman signed a book deal and
he’s getting good reviews
while I stay up alone at night
cuckolded by my muse

-The Unknown Poet

let us give thanks

2004-10-12T11:32:00.000-07:00

The Unknown Poet, Reverend Godfrey and I hopped in the red convertible (Unknown drove) and went to the old folks home to spring Uncle Ray and take him out for Thanksgiving dinner. On the way, we tried to determine whose uncle, Uncle Ray was. The general consensus was that he was my uncle and that nobody else in the car was related.

I’m not exactly sure how I’m related to Ray. I don’t remember whether he’s my Father’s brother, my Mother’s brother, my Mother’s sister’s husband or just an old friend of the family. I don’t think he remembers either.

But he made the unusual decision of nominating me family historian when he gave he me his old diaries, dating back to 1945. The diaries hold no clue to Ray’s personal or familial relationships. But they are informative in other ways.

My favourite entry, one of Ray’s longer entries, is also his final entry, dated appropriately November 11, 2002 – Remembrance Day.

I’m in an old folks home now and everything is taken care of - groceries, dry cleaning - the works. My Power of Attorney is some preacher named Godfrey. I don’t even have to sign cheques anymore. I don’t have to remember anything at all. Why keep a diary?

I’ll give them all to Huckleberry. He’ll know what to do with them.

And indeed I try to make use of them. But I struggle to know how. It may be fascinating to me to know that Ray washed his car the day Kennedy was shot or that he ate corned beef for lunch the day man first walked on the moon but most people wouldn’t care.

When we got to Ray’s favourite restaurant, Mac’s on 5th, and had ourselves comfortably settled, I decided to broach the subject.

“Ray,” I said. “I’ve had your diaries for two years now and I enjoy reading them very much. I particularly like your perspective on the 1960s. But I’m not sure what exactly you want me to do with them.”

Ray thought this over for a moment and asked, “What diaries?”

Our food arrived. Unknown, the Reverend and I all had Mac’s Thanksgiving Day special, turkey and the customary trimmings. Uncle Ray had the liver and onions. I thought at the time it was important to note that.

The Reverend asked the blessing. It went something like this.

Dear Lord, thank you for the fellowship of friends and family. Thank you for this food we are about to receive and thank you for Mac, if that is her real name.

Amen.

As we ate, the topic of conversation turned to the occasion. The Unknown Poet announced that he had laboured most of the day to compose a poem with a Thanksgiving theme but had failed. He asked each of us to tell him one thing specifically that we were particularly thankful for.

I indicated that I was particularly thankful that day for God’s gift of cranberries. Unknown told me I could do better than that. So I said I was thankful that Uncle Ray enjoyed good health, a good appetite and was able to join us for dinner.

The Unknown Poet seemed satisfied with that and turned to Reverend Godfrey. The Reverend said that he too was grateful for Ray’s company and added that he was also thankful for the post-season success, thus far, of the Boston Red Sox.

Unknown jotted that down on a table napkin and turned to Uncle Ray.

“Ray,” said The Unknown Poet, “what are you most thankful for today?”

After some consideration, Uncle Ray spoke. With clarity and resolve he stated unequivocally that blessing for which, at his age, he was most thankful.

“Thank God,” he said, “I haven’t lost my marbles. Merry Christmas.”

this day in history - September 28

2004-09-28T07:47:00.000-07:00

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

2004-09-25T16:32:00.000-07:00

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

2004-09-23T07:30:00.000-07:00

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

2004-09-22T15:52:00.000-07:00

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

2004-09-21T16:46:00.000-07:00

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

2004-09-20T08:04:00.000-07:00

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

2004-09-17T07:22:00.000-07:00

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

2004-09-16T14:35:00.000-07:00

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

2004-09-16T07:03:00.000-07:00

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

2004-09-13T15:01:00.000-07:00

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

2004-09-13T10:41:00.000-07:00

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

2004-09-10T11:14:00.000-07:00

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

2004-09-09T16:37:00.000-07:00

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

2004-09-08T20:24:00.000-07:00

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

2004-09-08T20:14:00.000-07:00

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