Clowns

Too Many Clowns
Originally uploaded by Jiffy Cat

Clowns are wise to me. They know I dislike them. In fact I think there is a vast clown conspiracy to "get me." It all started back in 1970 when I attended the Clyde Beatty Cole Brother's circus. I'm sure that they heard me when I pointed out that it was the same clowns that kept emerging from the Volkswagen. They would run around the front of the car then jump into it from the other side and pass back through the car. It was plain to see,they were not fooling me, there was not a million clowns in there,only the same sorry lot. I did not find this funny, in fact I found it to be annoying and stupid.They heard me. I'm sure of it because they stopped doing that sorry trick and looked over at me. One appeared to mouth the words,"we'll get you." Over the years I waited and waited for clown revenge time. It took them 30 years but finally they "got me."

Mrs. Jiffy,my brother Joe and I were out and about in Harvard Square one fine summer evening. If you've ever been there in the evening you'll know that the place can have a circus like atmosphere at times. There was usually several buskers,including the woman who always played "Radar Love" on her Casio, the Machu Pichu guys and assorted guitarists. An odd collective of street people hung out there as well. There was the guy who would make you drop the money on the ground instead of taking it from you're hand and the Guilt trip lady who would ask for money then tell you snidely to "have a nice day" when you didn't give her any. I found out later that she lived quite comfortably in Mission Hill and took the Redline to her day job begging in Harvard Square. My personal favorite was a guy we dubbed "Father O'Gnarly." Father O'Gnarly would always ask you for "money for the kids." He carried a tambourine and wore a priest collar. I'm sure the money was for his bottle. Well in addition to these characters there was another one other that I was unaware of until I felt something bounce off the back of my head. One loud "honk" sounded in unison with the bounce. I turned around to see what it was and standing there was, a hideous clown/mime. I looked at him and he covered his mouth with one of his gloved hands,as if to say oops. Mrs. Jiffy burst out laughing in a co-conspiratorial way. The clown then performed a few more bits of creepy mimery before I got my wits enough to "get him." At that moment clown/mime took flight with a hop skip and a hitching up of his suspended britches. Off he ran into the crowd and lost me. I halted my weak attempt to chase after him after I realize that I had become part of the show. I had been had.

Hardcore Punk Rock on the Boston Common?

Hardcore Punk Rock on the Boston Common?
Originally uploaded by Jiffy Cat

You bet! The concert took place 25 years ago here at the Parkman bandstand. At the time there was no brick pathway , just a lot of dirt. Word of the concert spread by word of mouth a couple of weeks before the gig. The exact time of the show was unclear,only the date was known,because of this the day turned into one big punk picnic on the Common. We all congregated on the hill at the base of the civil war monument. From there we had clear site of the bandstand and any band activity that might be happening there. To pass the time we listened to boom boxes and skateboarded down the hill. There was to be at least 2 bands performing that day, DRI or Dirty Rotten Imbeciles and MDC, Millions of Dead Cops. Rumor of the bands arriving via van were confirmed at about 3:30 pm. At the sight of the van, kids ran from the hill and encircled the bandstand. DRI, started fast and furious playing 5 or 6 songs. MDC set up quickly and finished maybe 1 or 2 songs when the cops busted up the show. I would like to report that MDC got cancelled by the MDC cops (Metropolitan District Commission) but I'm pretty sure it was plain old BPD.

The Mysterious Allure of Bag Balm

The Mysterious Allure of Bag Balm
Originally uploaded by Jiffy Cat

The other day at work one of the ladies I work with remarked, "you smell good." I was surprised since I'm not a cologne guy and therefore smell neutral. I replied, "I do?" Then quickly pondering about where the smell might be coming from I could only think of two sources garlic or Bag Balm. I figured it would be easier to say ,"must be all the garlic I had for dinner," than to explain that it could be the Bag Balm I rub into my feet and hands on a daily basis in winter. Still it seems bizarre and maybe disturbing that a woman would find the smell of a man soaked in the aroma of a product designed by Vermont dairy farmers to rub on cows teats while milking them appealing. Were there are supple udders apparently there is also mystique and allure. So guys try some rub it on, rub it all over, girls dig it, I know.

A Snowball's Chance in Hell

Sno-Cones
Originally uploaded by Jiffy Cat

However evil it might have been,when I was a kid no one could resist throwing snowballs at moving cars. Often the brazen daylight shots were the results of dares. There had never been a brazen attack upon a car that did not end in the angry motorist pulling over and chastising us. That's why one night we decided to take cover behind a row of 30 foot pine trees that were a good 50 feet from busy Elm Street. To actually hit a car from this position would be next to impossible. The ball had to be lofted first over the pines then through the branches of the maple trees that lined the street. There were also power lines to shred the balls. What I'm talking about is a one in a million shot, not impossible but highly improbable. It took about 20 minutes but finally I was able to let fly a tremendous arching majestic throw. It went over the pines,through the maple trees while avoiding the power lines and landed with a loud thud right on the wind shield of the targeted car. We heard the squeal of the brakes and then the screams of the enraged motorist. He got out of his car and screamed bloody murder. "You God damn kids I'm going to kill you when I find you!" We had hit the wrong car, still the driver was clueless as to our where abouts until a terrified comrade yelled out, "RUN!" We were off to the races and we had a 50 foot head start. Our goal was to make it either to the woods where we could lose him for sure or to make it to the safety of my friend's basement in his house just to the right of the woods. I tell you it was Scooby Doo running or at least it seemed like it. Our big clunky rubber boots were heavy and made us slower. We could hear the angry man gaining on us but no one dared turn around to see how close he was. My friend and I managed to just make it into his house as we heard the angry man run past us and into the woods after the others. It wasn't until the next day that we learned everyone had managed to escape somehow.

She that Lived Across the Street

The Little Mermaid - Ursula - Parade Of Dreams
Originally uploaded by cigarettesandheartbreak

We called her Mrs. A. because that was her name. Other neighbors would call her entirely different names, most of them unprintable in a family publication. Somehow we were immune from her torment. Perhaps it was because we had a French last name like hers. It's hard to say now. One thing for sure is that she was a monster and a demon to the other neighbors. Mrs. A. looked a lot like Ursula the sea witch from the Little Mermaid. Just add a fake leopard fur coat and and a loud boat of a car. We had a ringside seat to all the drama as our house was right across the street from hers. She had a husband named Clarence who she beat and abused. He died before his time probably to escape from her clutches. Most of A's escapades I have to recount are second hand stories from before I was old enough to remember.
She could be charming when she wanted to be. In fact if you asked her co-workers at the hospital she used to empty bed pans at what they thought of her, I'm sure to a man they would say she was wonderful. We in the neighborhood knew differently. Where to start, well there was the time she made Clarence paint one side of the house black in the middle of the night. The neighbors on that side of the house had said or done something to offend her, of what that was the neighbors had no idea. Then there was a report on how she smacked one of the neighborhood kids over the head with a metal rake for the offense of throwing a tar ball at her newly painted garage. She was know to taunt and torture her neighbors on the non black side of the house as well. Reportedly she once followed the pregnant pedestrian house wife down the length of the street in her boat car, screaming from the open passenger side window things like; "I hope your baby dies."
She had one son who made the mistake of asking an Italian woman to be his bride. That set off Mrs. A. into a full fledged tizzy. Somehow she thought the bride to be was connected to the mafia and she swore that she would kill her. It's the only wedding I've ever heard of where the groom's mother was barred from the ceremony by armed guards posted at all doors of the church. Son of A. had also made the mistake of taking his car out when he wasn't supposed to one school night. Mrs. A. confiscated the keys to the car and it never moved from the driveway again. It sat there for years rusting and rotting. The tires sank into the pavement and created four sink holes. The car would later become the home run maker for our whiffle ball games. Most of the things in the house started to sink as well, like the floors and the roof. Years of neglect had started to turn the house into a full fledged haunted witch's house.The house was nearly uninhabitable about the time that a kid from a few streets over made the mistake of knocking on her door only to be chased down the street, through the field and all over the neighborhood by a surprisingly quick enraged A. This was the last of the events that I could remember personally. In fact I can remember telling the kid not to knock on her door but he did it anyway. I can still see her chasing that kid. I was on my bike following closely behind A. as she waddle ran in her leopard faux fur coat after the boy shouting curse words unbeknownst to mankind up until then.
Years passed and she moved out to her sister's house on the other side of town. Meanwhile the raccoons moved in thorough the hole in the roof. We would often call her phone number just to hear it ring, she never disconnected it for some reason. She still received her mail there too. The garage was the first structure to collapse followed shortly thereafter by the rest of the house. The city condemned the property and demolished what remained of the house. The only things left now are the slab foundation and the broken face of the gnome that she had in the backyard. Up until a few years before her death my parents always received a Christmas card wishing them a Merry Christmas from Mrs. A.

R-udon?

Bokeh of Gull
Originally uploaded by Jiffy Cat

It's the Japanese restaurant on the right on Wikenden Street in Providence Rhode Island as you travel up the hill and not the one on the right as you journey down the hill. I forget the real name of it. We call it R-udon. Mrs. Jiffy and I had ordered a plate of sushi for us to split and a bowl of udon for Jiffy Boy. Our sushi arrived first and we had to wait about 10 minutes more for Jiffy Boy's udon to arrive. We picked at a few pieces while we were waiting. Jiffy Boy likes to steal the ika so we nibbled not wanting to wait until every piece turned hot. When they delivered Jiffy Boy's udon the waiter with a sight accent asked, "are udon." I thought at first that she was announcing the arrival of the udon but she was actually asking if we were done with the sushi. "We're still working on the sushi," I said. When she left we discussed the situation. We found the question bizarre but figured she just screwed up or something. After about 5 more minutes she came back again. "R-u-don?" She asked once more. Here we were sitting with a third of a plate of sushi left and Most of Jiffy Boy's udon. "No we're still not done I said." She left in a bit of a huff. I can remember thinking, what the hell kind of service is this? I need time to eat sushi properly. I plot out the order in which I will eat each piece in advance, saving some of my favorites for last. When the waiter came back a third time 5 minutes later and just grabbed the plate with a couple of my favorites still on it, enough was enough. "I'm not "don" with that" I said as I grabbed the plate back. We all agreed that we were "Don" forever with R-u-don Japanese restaurant.

Hockey Mom

Gateway to Hell
Originally uploaded by Jiffy Cat

Hockey Moms are getting a lot of attention these days what with the foolish selection of Sarah Palin by John (by cracky) McCain to be his running mate. It got me thinking back on my days of playing youth hockey at the Boy's Club rink in Pittsfield and about a rather unusual hockey Mom whose son happened to be on my team. We wore the black and gold that year and just like the Big Bad Bruins we would go on to win the championship. Our loudest fan was the Mom of #9,whose real name was Robert. We called him Bobby. Number 9 was a new comer to hockey and as a result was not very good. He played on the third line, also known as the C line. Most of the time he spent in a horizontal position splayed on the ice. Hardly a threat to score a goal at any time Bobby gave it his all. Hockey Mom cheered exclusively for number 9. She was loud. Real loud. "GO 9" was her favorite cheer, second only to "Go Bobby."Her cheers could be heard throughout the mostly empty arena every time Bobby, number 9, stepped or splayed as it were onto the ice. The opposing teams' hockey parents would turn to see the source of the racket if they had yet to play us and ears would be plugged if they had. She was that loud.

One night the strangest thing occurred. It could not have come at a better time. We were playing our arch rivals the 2ND place team. The game was knotted at 1 goal apiece with time running out. A loss would land us in second place and a tie would keep us one point ahead of them in the standings. We needed a win and the goal would come from a most unexpected source, that's right #9. I can still picture it. Bobby was upright at the top of the circle just to the left of the goalie. Somehow the puck slowly slid right to him. Number 9 wound up big for a slap shot. As he was falling to the ice he swung wildly barely glancing the puck. With all the speed of a Bugs Bunny change up the puck slowly but surely started it's trajectory towards the goal. Perhaps fooled by the tremendous swing, the goalie stood there puzzled and unaware of the approaching puck. Before we knew it the puck skittered between the goalie's pads and came to rest barely over the line for the winning goal. The team erupted with shouts of glee. The traditional salute of the pounding of our sticks on the boards was over powered by the ruckus in the stands. Hockey Mom was in a state of rapture. The howls and hoots for Number 9 were amped up way beyond what they had ever been before. She jumped up and down in her fake fur coat while clapping her hands. It took a while for her to wind down. We kept turning to watch the bizarre scene as the final seconds ticked off the big timer. We had won thanks to the goal of the century by number 9. He would not score another goal that year or in fact even come close to it. Hockey Mom would never again get to yell at those decibels but she did try.