To Catch A Thief

Williamsburg is full of valuable antiques (both human and wooden).

I must admit that I've little knowledge of or desire to learn about the merits of a Queen Anne table.

I plan to continue my nomadic lifestyle as long as possible, and the acquistion of nonpotable collectables doesn't stoke my desire.

Nonetheless, a healthy as a horse relative fears I'm hatching a nefarious plot to pinch her belongings.

Any small compliment I extend, regarding bling bling to the smallest thing, elicits a paranoid basso profundo honk promulgating plans to bestow this and that to so and so.

I found these fears amusing until I became aware that my riled kith believed I harbored a desire to raid her kitchenware, and quite likely, her worn tea towels (I'm certain no vintage Lady Di's or Queen Mums linger in a cupboard behind the cat food tins).

When I married my better half, I acquired access to a partial set of primary-colored Pyrex mixing bowls--bowls so garish that I'm sure a similar set probably graced the kitchen of John Wayne Gacy, and possibly inspired his famous clown paintings.

I'd no idea my spouse's riotously hued receptacles were worth a quid until we three family members were standing in my kitchen, and our suspicious kin decided to play Antiques Road Show.

Our flesh and blood then proceeded to prove that the apple-tree decorating gene is a worrisome chromosomal connection by spilling the beans that she, too, owned an ENTIRE set, revealed their impressive worth, and announced that she didn't know whether she would one day auction her colorful gems, thus allowing society (and perhaps Carmen Electra and Dave Navarro, who collect Gacy paintings) a stab at the set, or whether she might pass them on to (you guessed it) so and so.

Subsequent to her statement, bushy eyebrows bristled into what a reasonable person would have assumed to be impossibly pointed geometric arcs, and a filthy look flung itself my way. Obviously, someone mistook my shock, amusement and momentary inability to fold a napkin for Gacy-like greed.

What folderol! I have a Kenner Easy Bake Oven in my attic. What greater antique could a person want or need!? Forget Mr. Pibb and Red Vine: Those Easy Bake Cakes Are "Crazy Delicious."

Anyway, what I believed to be an insulting level of silliness (doesn't everyone know that I one day stand to inherit a cookie jar whose worth is ten times higher than an electric blue Pryex bowl large enough to contain the entire Mediterranean Sea AND Poseidon's trident) was probably my imagination (or maybe like "Nightmare on Elm Street", a bad dream).

I take full responsibility for my unlucrative, writerly tendency to fictionalize the smallest minutia in order to entertain my overindulged pampered self, AND for my borderline obsessive admiration of Billy Bob Thornon films ("Some calls it a Kaiser blade. I calls it a Sling blade.").

It's important not to allow little imagined misunderstandings to come between family OR gang members. That's how we get movies like Escape from New York, and a reality show featuring Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston ("Hell to the no!").

Anyway, since I haven't stepped foot inside this relative's house since 1997, and she's done major reconstruction on the place, I really should schedule time to case--I mean "visit"--her abode.

I hear she now has a mudroom and I'm curious to know if she owns a pair of Jeffrey Dahmler-style Paddington boots circa 1990 (priceless).

Galoshes and clear plastic ponchos were definitely needed for those attending Tim Kane's gubernatorial coronation--excuse me, inauguration.

Fortunately for those being annointed, politicians of either stripe are so greasy that water runs off them like rain from a duck's back.

The ensuing (and as a certain conservative evangelical leader might say--if he weren't busy eating crow due to his idiotic comments regarding PM Sharon's stroke--"heaven sent") downpour affected only those little people brave enough to wave valiantly while standing in the mud ("Oooo! I see some lovely filth down here!").

Although we went walkies on DoG Street that morning, and dodged friendly FBI agents, National Guard units, and local, county and state police, we did not grace the soggy event with our presence.

Why?

Because someone from the Kane parade committee decided to "uninvite" the DoG St. Bernese Mountain Dog Club and some other, local groups as well!

Since the invitations were rescinded via letter, without given reason, speculation abounds regarding why Williamsburg residents and canines were disprespectfully dissected from the bloated affair.

I choose to remain above the fray and refuse to spread rumor and innuendo. But I must say that the person responsible for breaking those dear, doggie hearts is a dabburn, double-crossing, two-timing, scum-sucking, Yankee-licking son of a muleteer.

Why the Beach Boys were hired to play the inaugural ball is beyond me, too, and at a cost of $78 per ticket. Was Gary Glitter still unavailable and incarcerated in Vietnam?

Speaking of exclusive events, my beloved is treating me to another splendid Valentine's Day extravaganza: Yo-Yo Ma's Silk Road Ensemble, Chrysler Hall performance.

I'm thrilled beyond words to see one of my favorite, living artists (won't everyone be glad when Mozart's 250th birthday celebrations are donzo).

Well, a small part of what I'm feeling is excitement, and a large part is ticker-shock: $100 PER seat (no new evening togs), plus the sobering knowledge that traffic dictates a departure time two hours prior to the event (no cocktails). BOO! HISS!

Perhaps I should write the famous cellist a fan letter and offer to show him my Pryex.

What a shame Yo-Yo Ma couldn't perform here in Williamsburg, where we know how to arrange things properly, and where people appreciate fine antiques like Mr. Ma's 1733 Montagnana, or his 1712 Strad.

Not that I have my eye on them for anything other than educational purposes...Williamsburg does have a stockade, you know.

Notorious New Neighbor

Attention Jodie Foster look-alikes: thanks to the decision of U.S. District Court Judge Paul Friedman, attempted presidential assassin John F. Hinckley, Jr. is coming to a Williamsburg resort community near you!

Although the Secret Service, James City County police and certain tax paying citizens are disgruntled about the arrangement, let me be the first to say that it's totally thrilling to know that Hinckley (under the watchful eye of his wealthy, spry parents, collective age: 250, and quite likely a spunky African American maid named "Florence") will be able to enjoy this year's LPGA tournament from his cushy, St. Elizabeth-free environs.

Hopefully, anticipation of similar Williamsburg vacations are not compelling Lynnette "Squeaky" Fromme to knit a new floppy hat (The BoHo Manson Family look is SO yesterday--the edgy, emaciated Edie Sedgwick look is totally today), OR encouraging "Mr. Long Island Railroad" Colin Ferguson to consult AmTrak schedules.

Because neither of those shall I dare use the term "inmates" are of the correct, Williamsburg-style, socioeconomic/racial group. Only top-drawer by reason of insanity types need apply.

Since Colin Farrell couldn't attend Kimball Theater's The New World Williamsburg-based world premiere (I'd also enter a drug rehab clinic rather than endure two hours in that acoustically-challenged venue, or watch the film's historical hatchet job), it's a shame our judicial soothsayer didn't release the notoriously famous Mr. H. in time for the red carpet event.

I can just envision some busty blonde from Entertainment Tonight competing with Access Whatever It's Called' Billy Bush for an exclusive interview with Mr. H.

BB: John! John! Did The New World's ingenue cause you to experience any pathological urgings that might prompt you to gun down my uncle Dubs in order to attract her attention?

BUSTYB: John! John! Our audience wants to know if you've put Taxi Driver on your Netflix reservation list?! And how do you feel about Lindsey Lohan?!

Oh my. It's amazing what "new money types" will do for attention.

I won't be very surprised or impressed if I encounter Mr. H. lurking in the shadows somewhere on William & Mary's campus.

Because, you see, I've met Prince Charles.

It's true. I spoke to and shook the royal hand of the "man who would be a tampon" when I lived in England, during the early eighties.

I wish I could remember the exact month and date I met Camilla's Charles Philip Arthur George, but then, if I could, I wouldn't have enjoyed the early eighties nearly as much as I obviously did (a great book to read about the seventies and eighties is Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain's "Please Kill Me The Uncensored Oral History of Punk").

My favorite eighties band may be Echo and the Bunnymen. I doubt that many Yanks remember their Doors inspired sound.

Good listening via reverb, as was the noise made during my recent echocardiogram, which very thankfully revealed that my aortic valve and other valued chambers are fine.

It's difficult to describe, and perhaps there's nothing quite like, viewing a screen and seeing that pounding, fist-sized muscle powering your entire existence. Makes the brain and its always appreciated analytical abilities seem inflated.

I suppose I'll hit the progesterone and estradiol, as well as an occasional beta blocker and, due to my murmur, an antibiotic prior to dental procedures. I've been assured that I'm in a small percentile that experiences temporary, non-damaging cardiac symptoms. Hooray!

I'm healthy and happy and will see this situation pass like other sentences life places my way.

Good things come to he who waits. Just ask Mr. Hinckley

Happy New Year, Williamsburg! Huzzah!