"Who Killed John Galt?" (Rand)

In Williamsburg, eccentrics are a dime a dozen. Just when I think I've made the hallowed list of neighborhood "characters," someone comes along and rains on my parade.

Case in point, a Port Anne Walking Club member, who last week pounded the pavements while wearing a huge, feathered headdress. Since Thanksgiving is over, she's returned to her everyday set of silver alien antennas.

DoG St. is also daily entertained by the musical stylings of a twentyish Russian lad who strolls along accompanying his MP3 Player with tone deaf Slavic zeal.

The real Williamsburg question is "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"

In 1770, one of our downtown's most prominent sights was the Eastern Lunatic Asylum (America's first public hospital for the mentally ill). From 1841-62, the extremely progressive Dr. John Minson Galt, II (no relation, in case you're wondering, to the fictional John Galt found in Atlas Shrugged), headed the institution.

Although Dr. Galt held sexist ideas common during his day regarding the treatment of women, his colleagues considered him avant-garde because he chose to integrate African American and white male patients, and because he encouraged healthier men to mingle with polite society, and to stroll the city streets.

I can't think of another colonial-era town that would've freely associated with members of a psychiatric hospital without making a fuss, but apparently, this was the case.

Is modern Williamsburg open-minded and quick to embrace eccentrics because of Dr. Galt's work, and due to townspeople's healing dealings with the mentally ill, or was Colonial Williamsburg already open-minded, thus allowing Dr. Galt's "moral management" theories to be implemented? One wonders.

Unfortunately, speaking of treatments, I find myself once again in the cold, clinical clutches of "Dr. Seismic."

A routine EKG revealed tremors along my fault line, thus precipitating the need for a 24 hour charting. The lengthy test was accomplished by taping electrodes to my chest, and miles of tubing to my torso (a one-size-fits-all deal not friendly to the small or exceedingly hairy). The electrodes, quivering with important information, transmitted their data to a blackberry-like device attached to my clothing. Trust me, I attended to no banking, nor did I step into any airport, since I looked like a bomb-wielding maniac.

I've yet to receive any report regarding my test, although someone else may know what's afoot: "Dr. Seismic's" receptionist reported my last results to a wrong number's answering machine.

Not to be outdone by her staff's professionalism, "Dr. Seismic" handed me my initial EKG printout as she exited the exam room, and in her warm, monosyllable tone, encouraged me to get "Petunia" to make me a copy of the chart.

Surprised, I asked why, and with a flap of her lab coat, the harried, frosty physician (more rushed than Santa on Christmas Eve) said "People like to carry their EKGs around with them, everywhere they go."

They do?

This news caused me to experience the writerly, out of body scene, wherein I saw myself lying spread-eagle on DoG St., in my running gear, while well-meaning alien-antenna-wearing walkers stomped my EKG to shreds as they tried to render me assistance before professional EMT, wise to the knowledge that people are walking around with EKGs in their socks (my sweatpants are pocketless), could retrieve the vital information, decipher it, and declare, "Hoooeee! Your old ticker was a tockin' and a rockin' couple weeks ago, wadn't it? Did ya eat lunch at Pierce's BBQ? Kin ya fart for muh?"

One action I will take to maintain good health will be to avoid any future concerts featuring the sackbut, an historical instrument more torturous than being drawn and quartered.

We encountered the instrument during a candlelight concert--Music by and for Thomas Tallis (1505-85)--given by Wm. & Mary's Early Music Ensemble, in honor of Tallis's birthday.

The lutes, harpsichord, recorders, Renaissance flutes, cornettis, viols, and Botetourt Chamber vocals were beautiful, but were overshadowed by the string orchestra's dominance during the program's second half. Joanna's violin solo during one of my favorite pieces, Vaughan Williams's Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis, elicited a glowing Gazette review.

The sold-out show was part of Bruton's weekly Candlelight Concert Series, that draws locals and tourists to the historic district for evening entertainment.

Speaking of the historic district, CW Foundation announced that they'll be restricting non ticket-holder access to part of DoG St. for a limited number of hours, daily. Everyone knows that their grand plan is to close the entire area to anyone devoid of a pass, thus weeding out immigrants, minorities, the finacially disadvantaged, students, dog walkers, joggers, pram-pushing mothers, snotty-nosed tots and, if possible, stray cats.

Because, you see, certain CW Foundation executives want to turn Williamsburg into a spa/resort destination for wealthy, massage-addicted golfers. Visitors who do not want to have their construction of reality challenged by denim-wearing "Goobers."

Has CW Foundation not heard of the already established Greenbrier Hotel and Resort? Let them chopper into WV, I say.

The Greenbrier has its historic doomsday shelter. Let the affluent stuff themselves below ground with a few martinis while the Greenbrier staff assures Biff and Honoria that in case of disaster, they've a safe haven where they can continue their good breeding, and (to quote Hyacinth Bucket), since there's probably "room enough for a pony," their love of the equestrian life.

I don't know about you, but when I visit museum-heavy places, I always feel like something's missing. "I desire a rollicking good colon cleanse!" I think to myself, "Followed by 18 holes of golf, a massage, and a quick splurge at Williams & Sonoma."

If the folks who manage Egypt's pyramids really want to attract me back for a second visit, they'll construct a Restoration Hardware in case I feel the need to purchase some upscale ratchety--might want to start my own dig.

In response to CW's announcement, the Last Word is full of the sort of angry revolt not uncommon in the former colonial capital.

Money, money, money--more specifically, the lack of it--is always the official reason given for CW's actions.

My forward thinking spouse came up with a fantastic financial idea that could keep the historic district afloat:

"Many celebrities, like Madonna, pay top dollar for Kabala water. Why don't we sell Colonial water?"

"Hmmm..."

"Okay, maybe George Washington and his wooden teeth are not quite as sexy or trendy as Madonna."

"True, but if our town characters find your product refreshing, you'll have an insanely loyal, not to mention large, clientele."

Tony Perrottet's amusing book, Route 66 On The Trail of Ancient Roman Tourists, contains an introduction that aptly describes Williamsburg:

"'Don't you swelter all day in the sun? Aren't you all jammed in with the crowds? Isn't it hard to get a bath? Aren't you soaked to the bone whenever it rains? Don't the din and the shouting and the other petty annoyances drive you completely mad? But of course you put up with it all because it's an unforgettable spectacle. (Epictetus, describing travel to Olympia).'"

Huzzah!