David Thayer

Wellington Leg: Your reporter has returned from the mighty JFK to the Wellington Aerodrome recently refurbished with odd bits of stylistic musings from the Soviet school of opera frozen in stone. It’s really not a cathedral without a gargoyle or two and it’s really not an airport unless the baggage carousel, which, without baggage, is really just a carousel although austere and not very inviting, unless the baggage carousel spins faster and faster until the luggage flies through the air where lucky contestants can grab their belongings with Jeter like grace and style.

The Aerodrome has a functional fog machine operated by unemployed members of the Wellington Leg Light Orchestra. Fog creates an aura of drama and mystery whether of the low lying rising variety or the more traditional enveloping mist of the descending kind. Someone will inevitably remark that they can’t see their hand in front of their face and you wonder, to yourself of course, what their hand is doing in front of their face. Aren’t they in a hurry? Don’t they want to reach the promised land beyond security?

Or are they simply at the Aerodrome listening to the parking regulations: you can’t park, there is no waiting, violators will be ticketed. Hey, it’s all about waiting. Why not ban waiting indoors? In fact, passengers can wait all they want. Those retrieving said passengers ( meet me near the poster of Hillary Shooting Geese. Bring a pickup truck) they are not permitted to wait. So you have those who wait and those who may not wait separated only by the static filled observations of a disembodied voice insisting that there is no waiting allowed.

Air travel. I can’t wait for my next trip.

Wellington Leg: The race for sheriff grew heated as the Dowager Princess confounded pundits by throwing her crown into the ring. Not her good crown, but her everyday crown, the one she wears to the ballpark. Promising her constituents free beer and squalor The Princess leapfrogged the pack including arch nemesis Boris the Reformer. Boris’ campaign slogan More Radishes Than We Have Now reminds voters that his fourteen terms in the House did much to improve the soil in these precincts.

Separation of Powers? “If the Regent becomes Sheriff she may order herself to behead members of the House who oppose her free beer and squalor initiative,” warned Rosencranz from Stage Right. “With the combined strength of Regent and Sheriff the Princess will become more powerful than the Commissioner of Major League Baseball.”

The Voters are Idiots: Other than radishes it isn’t clear what Boris the Reformer has to offer. He recently observed that “voters are idiots” upsetting a delicate balance in local politics. His “Borscht for Babies” program came acropper after nine out of ten infants refused to eat Borscht. Boris was caught bribing a toddler with a Porsche Carrera Turbo, way too much car for a two year old. Still his promise of a windswept desolate literary landscape resonates with the Romantics whose voting bloc is essential to form a government.

Third Party Candidate Ethelred overslept on the campaign trail then flew his Learjet to Nova Scotia where he greeted Fisherman John who is his single supporter in the race. Ethelred and John shared a big dish of beef chow mein before shaking hands in the fog. “Bad photo op,” Boris observed. Still every picture tells a story.

With the Fighting Gastropods in Cleveland the Princess will hold a rally on the Great Lawn in straightaway center field. Peasants and serfs will be beaten if they forget to attend. A word to the wise.

T. Rex Love-Handles reporting.

Wellington Leg: There was a reference in a New York Times dispatch today describing American and Iraqi troops entering eastern Baghdad; the Mahdi Army uses carrier pigeons to communicate and the Iraqi commander asked if it was okay to shoot them. The American guy thought it was okay as long the Iraqis were pretty sure the pigeons were up to no good. As if on cue a flock or platoon of pigeons rose from the rooftops carrying their handlers’ urgent communiques.

Anyone who lives in an urban setting has mixed feelings about pigeons. They coo and rustle and flutter in buildings alcoves, on window ledges, above dark alleys and Fifth Avenue salons. Pigeons have little evident regard for humans and in return we aren’t excited by the majestic arrival of a pigeon on our red carpet; like the GIs in Baghdad we’re not sure if it’s okay to go ahead and shoot them.

There are pigeon people in every major city who keep rooftop aviaries and train the messengers who, being pigeons, are often shot at the earliest opportunity, if not literally then metaphorically. This is happening on a grand scale during the US presidential campaign as the pigeons are picked off one by one until two remain to confront one another in November. The final pigeon will fall and the survivor will become President. This person, this victor, will not be viewed as a pigeon or a lame duck until time and distance transform them into a swan or a Golden Goose. This person can give an executive order to shoot the pigeons of their choice or, with noblesse oblige, spare the pigeon whose wings flutter too close for comfort.

So, by all means, shoot the pigeons. Remember to gauge their intentions first, and once the threat assessment is complete, open fire. If the pigeon takes evasive action, then rest assured you made the right decision in the first place. If the pigeon shoots back call headquarters. Call collect. This is big news.

Wellington Leg: During a writers retreat at Canary Slough a mechanical owl was observed in the woods south of the campus not far from the Wallop Upgrade on Highway 61. The majestic bird flew over Maggie’s Farm before alighting close to Fourth Street. “It might have been Third Street,” said birder Marjorie Mayhew. “I’m not positive it was Fourth Street.”

If the owl has returned to the Leg it would confirm the migratory nature of Wellington Leg’s signature bird. The mechanical owl is a rare species with a white face and matching gloves, which, like a rolling stone, travels here and there in search of mechanical food.

Back on the endangered list? Great changes to its natural habitat have forced the owl to hitch rides rather than fly. “We saw one from a Buick 6,” noted Ms. Mayhew. “It may have been driving a small bore Lotus.”

Mechanical owls are quite large some weighing over twenty kilos. They favor leafy environs although a cave dwelling owl with a penchant for aluminum siding was studied by the forty third earl. “They left the caves,” he said. “They may have been suffering from subterranean homesick blues.”

Some believe the development of Vertiginous Pines, a condo community, may have influenced the sudden departure of the owls several years ago. The vast new tract called Desolation Row was suspended after Ophelia was observed “neath her window.”

Geraldo reporting for Wellington Leg Science and Birding.

Wellington Copse: Our latest television reality show fared poorly last night among city dwellers who rely on public transportation. “Copse” features a group of trees identified only by garish purple ribbons affixed to their lower branches. The highlight of the two hour opener: some of the copse bend slightly in the breeze. A hint of suspense came when Dick “Chainsaw” Cheney, a local lumber magnate, wondered aloud if clearcutting might enhance the otherwise barren hillside.

One of the writers for “Copse” is Waltraut Frothingmunster retired postmistress of Wellington Leg. Tanked up on Leonard Cohen lyrics Waltraut wrote the entire program in a single ten hour sitting. “I’m like a bird on the wire,” she said. “A drunk in midnight choir.” VP of Development Wilfredo Tagesblatt concedes the show is doomed. “Trees are boring,” he said. “But don’t quote me.”

The insertion of a forty minute infomercial livened things up but by then the vast majority of Legians were sound asleep. “The image of the forty third earl doing one hand pushups lingers still,” noted DCI Borchardt who watched the entire program in the swank loft conversion he recently purchased from My Hedge Fund.

In defense of the two hour drama it should be pointed out that an alien spacecraft landed near the copse shortly after a paid political announcement. Creatures not of this earth picnicked under the canopy of branches studying an “Obama 08″ poster. “We may have missed a dramatic interlude,” concedes Mr. Tagesblatt.

Several Leonard Cohen CDs were pirated by the intruders from deep space, sources report.  T. Rex Love-Handles reporting for Wellington Leg After Dark.

Wellington Leg: Tiring of the Goldilocks Economy the Dowager Princess declared a State of Siege this morning after learning the Yankees home opener had been rained out. Among her fiats and directives she ordered chief meteorologist Carl Icon beheaded and unveiled a plan to wrest control of Wall Street banks from local schoolgirl Eugenia Phaeton. Eugenia’s show and tell project My Hedge Fund now has a controlling interest in Lehman Brothers.

Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson believes that Wellington Leg may hold the key for a revamped oversight of the troubled banking industry. “We’re looking into an alternative reality approach to the crisis. But the White House will not accept alternatives that clash with the current alternative whatever that may be.”

Eugenia Grounded: adding to the angst comes word that Eugenia forgot to do her homework last night sending the futures market sharply lower, the dollar plunging against the Euro, and commodity prices through the roof. Trading curbs were imposed by noon and poetry readings held on the floor of the Piltdown Exchange. The Live Hogs Pit, always a source of trouble, enjoyed a respite after a foray by the Decima Fulminata Legion camped near Goth. “Roman troops apparently wanted to play dice with the traders and wrestle the hogs. ” Mall Security used Dr. Pepper Spray to end the melee.

The Footsie and the Dax collapsed briefly in morning trading perhaps unnerved by the return of Kathy Lee Gifford to the small screen. “You know when New York and Wellington Leg begin to resemble one another, it’s time to sell,” noted Gareth Panic of Number 44 Crutched Friars, the City. Mr. Panic has cornered the rutabaga market for April 1 delivery.

T. Rex Love-Handles reporting.

Wellington Leg: A week’s hiatus from blogging leaves your reporter both behind the curve and ahead of the political Sweet Sixteen in the sense that many in Wellington Leg are now calling for a do over in the Towne Council election won by an illegal alien from outer space. I think if people failed to recognize they were voting for a giant squid, maybe it’s their fault. Ray Legler pours Budweiser through valves in his head and that sets him apart from the other candidates, as I see it.

Ed Champion has an article about literary blogs over on his new site. He announces the demise of the Litblog Co-op and heaps praise on Maude Newton and Bud Parr. He bemoans the lack of community among lit bloggers and correctly points out the travails of multi-headed cooperative blogging. Ed’s a thinker and an observer of human folly in all its forms but in this case he’s pressing his nose against the display window on Fifth Avenue. I’ve done this myself only to have the Harry Winston sales rep remind me that the big rock is out of my price range.

Let’s look at it this way: writing books is about discipline. Writing reviews, reports, postcards from Tahiti ( wish you were here) letters to the editor ( my neighbor is from Alpha Centauri) all require great regard to form and presentation. Cooperative blogging feels like work. When I’ve attempted it I feel weird and out of sync; it’s like playing basketball in your socks, you can’t stop sliding toward the frazzled grownups in the bleachers.

Blogging is where the wild thing grows. That’s what I think.

Wellington Leg: At some point in the recent memoir scandal I began to wonder if fact checking is the problem. Journalists believe that publishers are simply too cheap to hire the professional eyes and ears required to perform the task of verifying an author’s credentials. In the latest example of faulty workmanship Margaret B. Jones hoisted Riverhead high above the dance floor with her memoir LOVE AND CONSEQUENCES. Misha Defonseca lied about her holocaust experience in her memoir wherein she claimed to be raised by wolves; not since Romulus and Remus founded Rome have wolves figured in a literary scandal.

I’m not sure how a fact checker might have approached a family of wolves to check for human offspring. Perhaps the telltale high school yearbook kept over the years by a sentimental wolf might prove revealing, a photo circled by a proud parent as if to say “that’s my girl the valedictorian.”

The ugly truth is we want to believe. Books are now an arrow in the self improvement quiver and if they don’t make us feel better about ourselves they have no value.  This explains why these books cannot be acquired as novels; when based on actual events memoirs are better than amphetamines but when they are sold as fiction the promotion machine grinds to a stop.

Novels may or may not make us feel better. They could make us feel worse or use our imagination to interpret an allegory. Some of the best allegorical writing is reserved for assembly instructions and we’re tired of assembling bicycles at one in the morning: we want lives so ravaged by improbable tragedy that, by comparison, we’re having a fabulous time here on earth.

I imagine this scenario will play out again and again. Money is seductive and the memoir is the elixir we crave. If you were raised by a family of polar bears or a school of tiger sharks you better find a typewriter immediately. We want to be fooled again.