October 7, 2012


So anyway, everybody has figured out this politics thing actually can be interesting, especially since George Bush proved that it really does matter who gets elected, if only for the legions of imbeciles and wharf rat personalities that can get ushered into power over the rest of us behind the principal figurehead as happened during GWB's benighted administration, which even the most died-in-the-wool Conservative realized needed some serious repudiation long before Year 8 of that extended national catastrophe the fallout from which shall be trickling down on our heads for years to come.

Over at the mansion fronted by stone lions on Grand Street our main man and the deceased Mr. Howitzer's footstool, Dodd, was engaged in a lively session involving a computer and that new fangled technology, Skype.

When Dodd got the news that Mr. Howitzer II had gone to meet, if not his maker in heaven then his master in a far different place, a sort of heady euphoria thrilled him and he had, after proving suitable condolences, gone straight to the cellars to there retrieve a bottle of cognac which had been retrieved from the shattered hold of the Titanic and sold at auction to the first edition of Mr. Howitzer.

He got on the horn and called up the "missus" who headed right on over for delightful little celebration. The facts may be that Dodd was post-Howitzer now out of a job, but seldom has a former employee felt so blessedly released, for Howitzers I and II both had used and abused the poor man for thirty years, with the first keeping the man firmly tied to indenture and the Second by means of the old Company Store stratagem, for it was from the Howitzers that Dodd and the missus had leased their digs.

Howitzer v.2.0 had gone sailing out into the abyss during the ill-fated Mountain Sabbatical

Now Howitzer v.2.0 had gone sailing out into the abyss during the ill-fated Mountain Sabbatical, an endeavor to which he had neither been entitled nor invited, but which had included him of necessity by means of ledger dexterity. Everyone stood in debt to the man by way of the leases to his Corporation so the man would have his way, and his way vectored the course of the Expedition from the bucolic Les Montagnes des Papillions to the ferociously manly Abuelta de Diablo.

With consequences as previously described.

Hence Dodd and the missus roistered and even Eisenhower the dog got to play with the bones laced with South African port from the larder. Never before did that hound reek so aristocratically. All was grand until there came a phone call.

Of course there had to be a phone call. Followed by the incredulous Skype session in the chambers of the former owner of the place.

The Skype session was timed to start right at the start of the business day. In London.

Dodd gasped when the screen came up to display the spitting image of his deceased employer.

"Dodd! I want to to prepare the manse for my arrival!" barked the apparition.

"You! You . . . you're dead!"

"You! You . . . you're dead!"

"No I am not!" snapped the ghost in the machine. Which paused a moment before delightedly thrusting its bushy Howitzer-eyebrows upward, its Howitzer mouth forming first an 'O' before settling into a wicked grin. "I say, folks say I am the spitting image of old Harry! Heh heh . . . ".

"You are . . .", Dodd began.

"I am Harrold Howitzer III. Heard I just inherited a bit of American baggage across the pond. Well then. I am coming to have a look. Stay a while. Make the place ready. O, I say is that a portrait of His Majesty I see behind you?"

"Yes sir. Mr. . . uh, your predecessor had his chambers done up in the style of King George III."

"Perfect! I shall so love this! Make the place ready, O and there is bottle of brandy. Stands on the inventory. Fetched from the Luisitania or somewhat . . .".

"Titanic, sir."

"Titanic, Luisitania. Whatever. All the same to me. Have that one ready for I mean to have guests."

"Where have you been all this time," blurted Dodd.

"O fiddling about. Learning how the Commons should behave. Make the place ready for I fly out direct tomorrow."

"Oh dear . . .".


"Yes sir! Yes sir!"

"Fix your tie. Smarten up and be ready." Click.

"O my o my o my!" the missus burst out. "Whatever shall we do?"


"The cognac! Nothing will ever come close to that!"

"Nothing to be done. Lets get to bed and start cleaning up the place tomorrow morning.

As the couple went down the hall to the guest bedroom where they had been having the time of their lives for the past fortnight they passed by the dog lapped up his vittles from a silver plate which first had seen the merry sun of ye olden times in France before being set before the Sun King himself in his court at Versailles.

Dodd went back to fetch the now drained cognac bottle.

"I say, Eisenhower! Let's go for a little walk outside. . .".

Right then the long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the blue water, over the waves of the estuary and the Buena Vista flats as the locomotive glided past the dark and shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, headed off on its journey beneath the mountains' majesty to parts unknown.

That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.