Pre-Politics:CRIME STOPPERS EPISODE #8,939,247 or Life on the Other Side of the Drawbridge

TIMELY REPOST, and remembering how to conduct real political business among real common folk, who rarely hang the day in a coffee shop... and, as I take a breath to fight hypoxia, it is always good to remember Tante Louise.

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As it was a hazy, lazy day and we were in a hazy, lazy frame of mind, La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore organized a hay ride. Sometimes we have to blow this Joint, Manor that it is, and get out amongst the Common Folk.

So Fred gave up dredging the algae bloom that has beset The Moat. The bazillions of pigmented cells have decided to be red, of course, in honor of our politics. We can't, despite the well-worn furrow in our collective brow (Get it? What a rapier wit.), figure how we overnourished this vast body of water. It's not like we have fertilizer run off from "the fields" -- not us! No, we three believe in extending the fallowed nature of The Back Forty to the Entire Property. Honest to God! Hommage to Captain Haddock's Ancestral Holdings Upon Which We Squat! We've not been tossing the phosphorus around all willy-nilly. The Schmitzia hiscockiana, "small, red, and rare," must have an unusual generative source.

As I said, we pulled Fred from the waterworks, and I put aside the last-minute grading from Fall Semester 1992 (Discuss: Lucky and Pozzo, Gay or Gay?). The Feline Four got all doodied-up, which involved straw hats, berets, and breath mints. After much to-do, I was convinced to brush and puff Marmy's tail, curl Uncle Kitty Big Balls' whiskers on the left side of his face (inexplicably, they droop a good 2 inches below the whiskers on the right), trim Sammy's nails -- he suffers from terrible split ends -- and repeatedly reassure Dobby that he would not miss dinner or any substantive snacking.

You've seen nothing until you see The Castafiore decked out in her HayRide Outfit. Think, if you are able, of a sexed-up Little Orphan Annie, although I believe she might have been going for more of a decadent Shirley Temple. Think spandex, think Pepto-Bismol pink. Think ringlets, think peroxide blonde.

Resist the urge to gouge your eyes... it will pass.

We finally made it out to the beautiful, winding country roads in the environs.

We finished the afternoon in town because we needed to pick up a few items at the supermarché, those things that we get in bulk. Having a wagon handy is a rarity. Finally, we are stocked up on my 6.80388 kg containers of lowfat plain yogurt. I like to have at least four of those babies available for midnight-to-4 am snacks, as well as for yogurt emergencies.

Bianca got her bulk mineral make-up supplies:

Matte Mineral Foundation
Mineral Resurfacing Veil (Fred and I chipped in for a few extra vats)
Mineral Eye Shadows (mattes, satins, and pure pigments)
Mineral Blush and Bronzers
Glo Mineral Luminosity Face Powder (Fred and I snuck almost all of it *off* the wagon)
Natural Lip Gloss
Wholesale Kabuki Brushes (to promote that "natural" look she's famed for)

The 12 kegs of Matte Mineral Foundation, alone, tipped the wagon, so we made sure their weight was evenly distributed in a kind of Stone Henge arrangement.

We stopped for ice cream and "parked" in the shade of an elm on a nearby neighborhood road. We were, without doubt, an odd sight, a bit of chaotic rustica mucking up ordered suburbia.

Entertainment happened along within minutes. We would have killed for a video camera. A quick sketch artist, even.

A bedraggled man in his 50s, a fierce look of determination on his face, struggled by us, trying to push a HUGE widescreen television, attached to some kind of -- equally HUGE -- console, down the road. Once upon a time, it must have had tiny, tiny wheels on it.

He stopped in front of a large house, just down from the corner. It dawned on him -- you could see the lightbulb light up over his hatted head -- that he just could not push this thing all the way to wherever he was going. So he left it and went running down the street. He ducked in between two cottages and shortly thereafter he came back with a shopping cart.

Yes, he had the bright idea that he was going to put this HUGE TV/console inside this TINY shopping cart.

We were having hysterics but we also were dividing into camps -- Pro-Dood-Stealing-The-Big-Screen-TV-With-BigAss-Console versus the ever-predictable Anti-Theft Sermonizers. Sympathies shifted back and forth, with each HayRider adopting, however briefly, a fierce law-and-order stance at least once.

The Four Felines are notorious for preferring risky fun to straightlaced behavior. Go figure.

Anyway, it was like watching a cartoon character have a really bad idea -- the coyote ordering Acme products in the vain attempt to blow the roadrunner to smithereens. One cartoon balloon after another popped up over this Dear Dood's head.

By the way, it was over 95 degrees out there on the mean streets of suburban Tête de Hergé. This was one *dedicated* audio-visualphile, working without a net, working without a clue.

Finally, we regained our habitual sobriety and Fred whipped out his cellphone to call the Tête de Hergé version of 911. In Europe, the emergency phone number is often 112. Here, in our very unique area of Tête de Hergé, it often suffices to call up Tante Louise -- who is a story in and of herself.

We could see neighbors begin to peek out their windows , and a couple of people came out for an unobstructed view of the action, iced sweet-tea in hand, watching the man's progress.
This was what passed for free entertainment on that slow, hot day.

While Fred is chatting up Tante Louise, who on her end is directing all the CentDouze law enforcement, I gave a shriek. Our guy, former treasurer of his high school AV Club, manages to tip the mammoth TV over, after failing to get it safely lodged in the cart [surprise!].

He stands under his thought balloon, scratching his itchy head, while the cart slowly gathers steam and proceeds to roll down the hill. I could not calm myself and gave up trying -- hooting and hollering like the Hayride Hayseed that I am.

Apparently, by then, *everyone* in the neighborhood was watching and had called Tante Louise, who promptly put *everyone* on hold and poured herself a finger or two, so as to better survive the Crime Wave.

Back at the epicenter of the action, Our Guy sprints (about 400 meters, a straight shot out of the starting blocks) and recovers the recalcitrant cart. He drags it up the incline, back to its proper position next to the humongous television. {Il prend donc une petite pause} -- and we on the wagon break out the aftermeal mints and diaper wipes. Always bring a bin of diaper wipes on your hayrides. In these days of green, you might consider Seventh Generation's "only non-chlorine bleached cloth baby wipes."

After the short break in the action, during which Bedraggled Dood perched birdlike on the curb, a timely, helpful soul came slowly driving by (just the first of the rubberneckers) and decided to stop and assist AV-Man in the orderly theft of this TV and console. Together, they managed to *balance* the thing across the cart. The Good Samaritan got back in his truck -- in a confused sort of rush -- and drove away, shaking his head, making odd gestures in the air, talking to himself, apparently realizing -- too late -- that Our Guy was not all there and that he, a Good Samaritan, was now complicit as one-half of a crime wave.

He must have noticed the ronronnement of multiple conversations with Tante Louise, the cell phones everywhere, and concluded that exiting the scene before the cops' arrival was the better part of valor.

As previously noted, the street had a pretty serious incline going on.

We watched SumDood as he first began a fast-paced walk, then broke into an uneven trot, and finally was flat out running like a man chasing Usain Bolt. He managed to keep at least a pinky on the shopping cart, which, honoring the laws of momentum, gathered up its mass and velocity and sped downhill.

We were really sad when he finally flew out of sight.

The cops came pretty quickly and the last we heard, they were trying to match up the HUGE now-wrecked TV set with its heartbroken owners.

We turned the wagon around and began the trek back to Marlinspike Hall, not at all anxious to face the worries that doubtless were waiting for us: the red swarm of algae and the many holes left to chink in the medieval wing (and in some outbuildings -- the more ancient of the gazebos, for example).

Audio-Visual Man, wherever you are tonight, God bless.

© 2015 L. Ryan

A YEAR AGO TODAY: One Roseville Rozane Morning Glory Vase, Shattered

On this date last year, the denizens * of Marlinspike Hall played host to a not-so-dashing duo of home invaders. Whether mere thieves or professional hitmen on the run from Interpol and the Orange County Sherriff's Department, their identity and true purpose remain a mystery.


The Castafiore thinks she knows. They were after her, of course.
But she doesn't know, not really.


The Manor incident was the second home invasion to which I've been witness. There was no theft, just substantial breakage (of things, of confidence). The first time around, some odd 20 years ago, there was theft, but not of my stuff, just of Fred's stuff, as my sole valuable was too large to load into a pillowcase. Fred lost several Leicas, most of his Nikons, and a mountain bike -- a handy getaway vehicle. My pen and ink triptych entitled "Quand Salomé danse" in a specially commissioned antique gilt frame? Not taken.  Not damaged.


Go figure!


Anyway -- I will be on high alert later today, especially when Fred tootles off to congregate with the Militant Lesbian Existential Feminists, just in case those Break-In Bozo Bastards are anniversary freaks. The Indentured Domestic Staff has the day off. They've been working very hard in preparation for the opening of ManorFest next weekend. La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore has two performances of Faust, one a matinee, so she will not be in residence either. It looks like it's me and the Feline Remnant against the Sentimental Evildoers.


* And mavens, don't forget the mavens!

*******************************************************************************

Just minutes before Universal Worship Time, somewhere around 10:56 AM, without even the benefit of fortifying coffee, poor Fred scratched off down the unpaved country road, late for Sunday morning services with the Militant Existential Lesbian Feminists.

Scratching off in a Honda is an accomplishment, you know!

That left me all alone in Marlinspike Hall -- except for a Slumbering Castafiore. La Bonne et Belle Bianca is worn to a frazzle with all the rehearsing and costume fittings involved in the new mounting of Gounod's Faust. [All I know is that the new set designs approximate some sort of New Wave, 1980s nod to Miami Vice.]

It is Manor Tradition that domestics have [the daylight hours of] every third Sunday off, barring the presence of The Captain, of any of the Haddock Clan, which dictates full staffing at all times -- and usually, we have to bolster the blue-blood-to-hireling ratio by employing local temps. Fortunately, there is a robust Domestics 'R Us franchise a few towns over, in East Tête de Hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs).

Anyway, I was essentially alone. Just me, the Manor Petting Zoo denizens, a small herd of Miniature Buffalo -- and the Three Felines.

Of course, being inside manor walls, with the drawbridge up, it seemed like it was just me and the cats.

{cough}

I had just decided to begin the intricate process of settling down up in the Computer Turret * for some juicy DM-action with an internet buddy when the loud sound of glass breaking destroyed Sunday's silence.

We don't have windows in the traditional sense, of course. Not glass, is what I mean. No glazier in his right mind would undertake to install panes of actual glass in any of our Fresh Air Access Modules. We did try, once, putting in a dual-paned insulated unit in one of the more regular-sized FAAMs in the Spinet Chamber -- 78-3/5″ wide and 121-1/2″ tall (never mind the depth -- we had to put in a sash and frame assembly to somewhat normalize the process -- that was tricky, let me tell you!) Darned if we didn't spend all our time trying to keep our one and only window defogged enough to see out. You would think the Spinet Collection, which includes three attributed to Hieronymus de Zentis, himself, would show signs of harm from all the moisture but oddly enough, these 370-year-old, poor-man, stripped-down harpsichords have held up better than the finer instruments in the Haddock Clan's holdings. They're a big hit during ManorFest!

You are probably wayyyyy ahead of me in this narrative. I guess that I tend to ramble, inchoate, à la H. P. Lovecraft, under duress.

It was not mere glass that broke, unfortunately, but rather a Roseville vase -- from the (Rozane) Morning Glory Collection. There are hundreds of such things that decorate The Manor, but I was particularly fond of this relatively unknown American Cousin.

Yes, we had an intruder, a particularly young and clumsy one, possibly still in training (I imagine there is some sort of apprenticeship for these sorts of métiers). He managed to traipse across the property unheeded, swim the moat (we found his carefully rolled and stored wet suit), and stroll through an entire wing of Marlinspike Hall before meeting another soul, and then, only because he knocked over that beautiful vase from Ohio.

Listen to the names of all the Roseville lines from the same period of production -- 1930 to 1939; It's pure poetry, buckeye, conker, ohioan:

Baneda, Blackberry, Bleeding
Heart, Cherry Blossom, Clemana, Crystal

Green, Dawn!

Earlam, Falline, Ferella,
Fuchsia, Iris, Ivory Two,
Ixia, Jonquil, Laurel.

Luffa, Moderne, Monticello,
Morning Glory,
Moss!

Orian, Peony, Pinecone,

Poppy,
and Primrose.

Russco, Sunflower, Teasel, Thorn
Apple, Topeo, Tourmaline...

Velmoss and Velmoss Two:

Windsor,
Wisteria.

I used this chant to calm myself, once our intrepid, young (and clumsy) intruder had fled.

Once I tracked down a fully-charged phone, I called the local version of 911. In Europe, the emergency phone number is often 112. Here, in our very unique area of Tête de Hergé, it often suffices to call up Tante Louise -- who is a story in and of herself. I gave a good description of the guy, proud of myself for having noticed his missing left pinky and the tattoo of a wall-eyed parrot on his right forearm. Still, I was frustrated at my inability to estimate height -- something definitely compromised by the vantage point of a wheelchair.

I also reached Fred, via The Church Lady, The Mousse, the only Straight Female in the Militant Existential Lesbian Feminist Congregation, managing to stifle a snide remark when she LOUDLY whispered, "Fred, oh yes, Retired Educator, he's right here... next to me..."

Having made the necessary calls, I went about the business of making sure La Bonne et Belle Bianca and The Felines were all safe and sound. The Castafiore cursed at me in French and Italian, not comprehending my protestations of an intruder in The Manor, and the cats all gamely meowed.

I found no further signs of damage, and noticing nothing missing, I started to relax. But as I headed into the closest kitchen to start some coffee brewing, the unmistakeable dulcet tones of someone banging on an exterior door rang out. Rang out, insistently.

Unless they were camped out down the road at the Cistercian's place -- our equivalent, I guess, of cops at a donut shop -- there's no way that could have been the police, thought I.

There's no such thing as a peephole when you are dealing with massive medieval doors, especially when they are made of bronze and cast as single units -- not just bronze panels decorated and secured to a flimsy wooden frame, no! Scholars generally divide the History of Medieval Bronze Doors into those made in Constantinople and those made in Italy. Symeon of Syria is presumed to be the maker of the doors in question, as he is famous for adding inlays of silver to his decorated story-panels depicting Lives of the Saints.

These were some heavy, dense doors, is what I am trying to say. I did my best to decipher the muffled responses to my shouted queries, but it was hopeless. Thinking that maybe some Festival Hounds were under the impression that we were open for ManorFest, I heaved open the doors.

There stood Intrepid Young Intruder, even more dirty, sweaty, and panicked-looking than the last time I saw him. Next to him was an older man, neat as a pin and grinning a leering grin my way. "Is Hassan home, Decrepit Lady in a Wheelchair, whose neck I could snap, like *that*?" he asked.

Okay, all he really said was: Is. Hassan. Home. Lady.
All the while, Intrepid Young Intruder was on the verge of Spontaneous Combustion, his four digit-hand crossed over his body, gripping his inked arm so tightly his four fingers blanched white.

"The Police are on the way," was the only thing I could think to say. And I said it as I was swinging those damned doors closed, as my heart occupied my throat, as my life flashed before my eyes, and as annoying worry about the well-being of the Somnolent Diva and the Manor animals asserted itself in my forebrain.

What I would have given for a normal house window to peer out of...

And... how could it be that Leering Old Guy was bone dry and cool as a cucumber if the drawbridge was up? (and the submarine disabled! I forgot about the submarine.)

I kept yelling optimistic yells about the police, the cops, the fuzz -- and how I thought I heard 'em coming, how I had 'em on the phone, how amazingly prompt they always were to the inhabitants of Marlinspike Hall.

I might have implied, at one point, that the Haddocks *owned* the police.

Fred made it to my side in under 20 minutes. He saw no sign of the pair, though he did find Tools of the Burglar Trade and an empty knapsack near where Intrepid Young Intruder had stashed his wetsuit.

There was a hammer by Symeon of Syria's bronze doors.

The Tête de Hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs) Metro Police? Sixty-seven minutes. After two phone calls. Sixty-seven minutes.

It took us hours to find Our Little Idiot, Dobby -- he finally issued a small squeak that led us to a cherry wardrobe in a rarely-used bedroom off of Bianca's Suite in the West Wing. He had carefully pried the door open, using the floral frieze molding for good paw grip.

It's almost evening, now, and his pupils are still shot wide in terror, poor thing.

So that has been my Strange Sunday, and really I was doing quite well, having made a police report, and served tea to The Detective. I listened, shaking my head, trying to laugh, as Fred swore that I must assent to having a gun. I calmed a hysterical Castafiore who is now convinced that the two men were obviously after *her* and that she had only barely eluded their grasp.

Yes, I was doing quite well.

Until The Detective licked his lips, casually crossed his legs, and said:

"So... why do you think they came back, hmm?"






*We get more questions about The Computer Turret than about any other architectural feature of the architectural conundrum that is The Manor:

The only way in or out, up or down, the pesky turret is via a thick rope ladder, dyed caution yellow, that extends down (but mostly sideways) out to the Manor Stables -- a remarkable outbuilding that is an alarming replica, as we pointed out in our last post, of the Knoppenburg Manor Stables. The proper term today is "agricultural building." You won't catch me calling it a barn if there are any prying ears about. Of course, the last outsider who dropped by was The Technician Overlord of Our Telecommunications Bundle, which he so wisely decided was best centered in the Hobby Room at the top of the Turret Tower. We had concocted a cover story about the rope bridge ("It's more a bridge than a ladder," Fred just said), which consists of the baldfaced lie that we are a new off season venue for those Cirque du Soleil performers who are fresh out of rehab. So the hefty diameter of that hemp monster, see, is easily explained away as necessary gear for these poor, troubled acrobats.

I'm usually not subject to such heights of embarrassment (heights, and, lately, riches) but I just don't want anyone to think that I have to zig zag my way from one Manor Wing to another, make it to the Grand Ballroom, out the entrance, patterned after Brunelleschi's bronze baptistery doors, over the drawbridge (Provided it is down! Men!), across the moat, down the lane, over the hedge, into the damned agricultural outbuilding, up the custom wheelchair ramp into the hayloft, and then, lickety-split, go hand-over-fist on the rope bridge for a good half mile... all just to get my email.