The Whistler
Some of you may recall my blog of April 27th 2005--Which reminds me of The Whistler--a recollection that will have to wait until after my daily classes. Or, more realistically, never. If you are having difficulty recalling it, you could find it quite easily on this blog. If you do recall that entry, then I salute your superb memory. If you do not, I sympathize.
Now that we're all more or less on the same page...
The date was February 24, 2004. I was, in those days, an unshaven man-beast haunting the Purple Line of the "L". I rode with California Rolls--there's no better way to travel. Halfway to Chicago from Evanston, I accidentally ate a fingernail sized chunk of wasabi paste. It seared my nostrils and my eyes poured forth their protestation. Through the tears, I saw an ordinary fellow with two bags board the train. He was in his mid-40's and had tousled curly hair. I began to relax in my seat. Then, the man began to whistle. He whistled no tune I had heard before; he whistled no tune I have heard since. He whistled a haunting requiem that chilled my blood and brought desperation to my soul. Who was this foul Whistler? He reeked of sulphur and his luggage brimmed with brimstone. He was Satan's homosexual son, a demonic whistler to torment commuters.
Being the unshaven man-beast that I was at that time, my intellect was not entirely affected by his evilly whistled dirge as it was directed at average mortals. I was something more and something less; the sorrow held between his notes was deep in my heart and could do no more harm. I dedicated the time before the next stop to devising a way to offset his most-potent spell.
"Zipper", I intoned.
I paused to see the effect. Nothing
"Woodchuck? Cinder Block...SOUP CAN!"
People were starting to look at me, but not yet the Whistler.
"Sasparilla. Succotash. SUCCULENT LEAVES!"
I dropped nouns into the air with varying emphasis and emotion.
All the appearance of a conversation with but a single conversant. The Whistler had ceased whistling and was now eyeing me with fear.
"Peanut", I said knowingly. "Cilantro", I teased.
The Whistler put his hands on his luggage and averted his eyes.
"Parsley", purred the lovely Goth girl opposite my side of the car. She was on to the Whistler's ploy and had decided to aid me in my quest against evil.
"Cardamom?", I inquired.
"Sage. Rosemary. Thyme."
She couldn't break out of Scarbourgh Fair. She was of no use to me so I hit her with a barrage of spices.
"Ginger. Nutmeg. Aniseed. Fennel."
The Whistler disembarked the car. The Spice Chant had vanguished him and driven him back frome whence he came. Or to whence he was going. Or whatever.
"Um...I don't know any other spices."
The Goth Girl was done too. I popped my last piece of sushi in my mouth.
"Calamari is an animal. If you know what I mean."
"I don't", the Goth Girl lamented.
"Suit yourself." I got off the train and walked into the morning sun.
There is actual photo-documentation of this inhuman calamity, This repugnant Whistler and I feel that I would be remiss in my duty to you, the unfortunate readers of my unfortunate journal to not share it. So please, enjoy the Whistler, his repulsive behavior captured in mid-note.
Now that we're all more or less on the same page...
The date was February 24, 2004. I was, in those days, an unshaven man-beast haunting the Purple Line of the "L". I rode with California Rolls--there's no better way to travel. Halfway to Chicago from Evanston, I accidentally ate a fingernail sized chunk of wasabi paste. It seared my nostrils and my eyes poured forth their protestation. Through the tears, I saw an ordinary fellow with two bags board the train. He was in his mid-40's and had tousled curly hair. I began to relax in my seat. Then, the man began to whistle. He whistled no tune I had heard before; he whistled no tune I have heard since. He whistled a haunting requiem that chilled my blood and brought desperation to my soul. Who was this foul Whistler? He reeked of sulphur and his luggage brimmed with brimstone. He was Satan's homosexual son, a demonic whistler to torment commuters.
Being the unshaven man-beast that I was at that time, my intellect was not entirely affected by his evilly whistled dirge as it was directed at average mortals. I was something more and something less; the sorrow held between his notes was deep in my heart and could do no more harm. I dedicated the time before the next stop to devising a way to offset his most-potent spell.
"Zipper", I intoned.
I paused to see the effect. Nothing
"Woodchuck? Cinder Block...SOUP CAN!"
People were starting to look at me, but not yet the Whistler.
"Sasparilla. Succotash. SUCCULENT LEAVES!"
I dropped nouns into the air with varying emphasis and emotion.
All the appearance of a conversation with but a single conversant. The Whistler had ceased whistling and was now eyeing me with fear.
"Peanut", I said knowingly. "Cilantro", I teased.
The Whistler put his hands on his luggage and averted his eyes.
"Parsley", purred the lovely Goth girl opposite my side of the car. She was on to the Whistler's ploy and had decided to aid me in my quest against evil.
"Cardamom?", I inquired.
"Sage. Rosemary. Thyme."
She couldn't break out of Scarbourgh Fair. She was of no use to me so I hit her with a barrage of spices.
"Ginger. Nutmeg. Aniseed. Fennel."
The Whistler disembarked the car. The Spice Chant had vanguished him and driven him back frome whence he came. Or to whence he was going. Or whatever.
"Um...I don't know any other spices."
The Goth Girl was done too. I popped my last piece of sushi in my mouth.
"Calamari is an animal. If you know what I mean."
"I don't", the Goth Girl lamented.
"Suit yourself." I got off the train and walked into the morning sun.
There is actual photo-documentation of this inhuman calamity, This repugnant Whistler and I feel that I would be remiss in my duty to you, the unfortunate readers of my unfortunate journal to not share it. So please, enjoy the Whistler, his repulsive behavior captured in mid-note.
posted by jw at
11:52 AM
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