Tuesdays Child
|
Tuesday’s Child It is a confused morning, thunderstorms beckoning, rain for sure. The clock radio has conspired to let me sleep; the terrorists on the television have joined the conspiracy, hooking me once again on Keifer Sutherland’s quirky television show with the strange hourly format �24.� I approached oblivion last with the weak, vacillating President character with the uncanny resemblance to Richard Nixon surrounded by evil security men. The African American former President was murdered in the first reel, shot from afar just like Dr. King whose holiday I observed by going to work. It is getting hard to separate the fantasy and the reality; the Park Service appears eager to purchase the bones of Dr. King, as the children of the charismatic leader have squandered his patrimony. I suppose the Park Service winds up with all the bones, eventually. They have George Washington’s, after all, in the tomb down at Mount Vernon, and Jefferson’s at Monticello . Or perhaps there is a consortium of well-wishers and descendents who will maintain custody. I am comforted that if I wind up in Arlington , my bones will be consigned to the tender mercy of the United States Army. Or perhaps it will be the Park Service, ultimately, since death is very much a core mission of the military, but the custody of the dead is less so, and is thus a likely candidate for outsourcing. I decided to defer consideration of the ultimate disposition of my earthly remains for later in the day. The cursed clock radio’s failure had placed me squarely in the second half hour of the BBC update, and I had no idea what the overnight madness at the top of the hour might have been. I frantically made the bed as Dan Damon artfully turned a question to a distinguished American visiting London regarding the birth of Benjamin Franklin to a discussion of the Abramoff influence scandal. Franklin would have been 300 years old today, and I do not know where his bones are located. I do think he would have been a fine specimen of a Tuesday’s Child, I thought, though he was a man for nearly every day of the week. I thought hard as I shook out the duvet in the darkness: Monday’s child is fair of face, I had to look up the poem, later, since I was not sure which day was �woe� and which one signified �good looking.� I have always believed it to be more important to be lucky than smart, and knowing seemed to be important on a day in which I have to deal with the mortgage company and a Major Meeting to discuss expenses. On my way to something else I saw that someone claims his favorite day of the week was Saturday. There is no doubt that he worked hard for his living, but for my part, I will chose Friday evening as my choice. I noted that the Golden Globe awards had been presented in the night, and I was completely oblivious. I think the Globes are contrived tokens of what the foreign press in America thinks about the annual Hollywood offerings. Much of the market is overseas these days, so I guess it is important. Two of the winners were � Brokeback Mountain ,: and �Transamerica,� both films with important but unsettling themes. I had time for a Google search before I left Big Pink to find out on which day of the week I had appeared. I punched in the date, hoping to find a perpetual calendar. Instead, I got the log of the Royal Mail Ship Coronia II. I was able to find my birthday, and the ancient notations indicated the ship had been in transit on the day of my birth from Southhampton to New York , via Le Havre . I scrolled down to the correct day, and what the menu had been. It figures, I thought. Sunday. Fair, Wise, Good….and happy. I thought I would make a note for the Park Service. What with the times, you want to ensure the translations are up to date. Copyright 2006 Vic Socotra www.vicsocotra.com |
