The Bob Corrigan

La Joconde de la Mobilité

Sun, 22 Apr 2012 14:57:08 -0400

La Joconde de la Mobilité

Coming of age in under 600 characters

Wed, 15 Feb 2012 16:50:00 -0500

Let’s go for a walk, she said. Why not, I agreed. I liked walks. I liked her. And I was sick of dancing.

When the chaperones weren’t looking we snuck out of the gym through a side door. I held her hand. We didn’t talk. At the edge of the parking lot I began to joke about the DJ playing ”Easy” by the Commodores twice when she pulled me close and kissed me.

What the hell was she doing with her tongue, I wondered. This can’t be what kissing is about, I wondered. Then I just gave up and figured, hell, it must be how they do things in Paris in 1978 and held on for dear life.

Rewriting "In which we meet Oliver Levant"

Tue, 10 Jan 2012 20:03:00 -0500

Let’s take a crack at tuning up that piece I shared with you yesterday, shall we?

He locked and barred the aluminum door and fed enough wood to the stove to keep it burning through the night. Brushing his teeth in the trailer’s closet-sized bathroom, he debated whether or not to bother switching the batteries out of the TV remote back into the carbon monoxide detector. Changing the batteries took five minutes. About the same time it took layer himself into bed under his collection of mismatched blankets. Moving bars of headlights cut through the shades covering the porthole window next to his bed, the same window that leaked cold air and road noise all night long.

He covered his face with his arm. Thursday was one phone interview and three hours on a computer at the library reading message boards and postings and six emails to recruiters and one call-back. One coffee from the library lounge, with enough Mini Moos and sugar packs to call it breakfast, calorie-wise. A baloney sandwich and an orange from the Lutheran kitchen after a thirty-minute pep talk. Two newspapers back at the library, then the long walk back home. Canned ravioli for dinner. He was getting sick of canned ravioli.

Another week of endless searching and not-finding was over. Tomorrow, Friday, he’d walk the town beaches at dawn looking for jingles and sea glass and driftwood and bones, then he’d scout the recycling station and the junk stores until noon, because Saturday he had to be ready for the flea market, and it took him time to assemble, label and package his creations.

On Saturday he’d hitch over to the police station where he’d shower and shave then change into his good clothes, the one pair of khakis he owned and the blue shirt with the button-down collar. Sergeant Faelan would give him a ride back to the trailer so he could pick up his folding table and his transport crate before heading back into town. He’d walk to the municipal parking lot at seven to set up, and if he was lucky, the Portuguese girl working Baroni’s food cart would sneak him some breakfast sausages on a potato roll.

Then at seven thirty the gate would open, and for a short while he’d become a real person again, not just another anonymous out-of-work early-middle aged retail manager living in a borrowed trailer. For five hours he’d be Mr. Oliver Levant, purveyor of unique objects of unusual provenance and remarkable quality, an artist, a salesman, joking and smiling and selling and taking numbers and emails and discussing trends and making plans until the whistle blew at twelve thirty and he became anonymous and invisible again for another week.

He pulled the stack of blankets up to his chin and smiled.

In which we meet Oliver Levant

Mon, 09 Jan 2012 16:20:54 -0500

He locked the door, fed wood to the stove, switched the batteries from the TV remote back into the smoke detector and brushed his teeth in the trailer’s closet-sized bathroom. It took him about the same amount of time to layer himself into bed under his collection of blankets.

The darkness inside the trailer was broken by moving bars of headlights shadowing through the paper shades covering the porthole window next to him, the same window that leaked cold air and road noise, mostly cars, but then a truck, a big one, he guessed, based on how hard the trailer rocked in its wake.

Another day. One phone interview and two inquiry letters cost one phone card and two stamps. Three hours on a computer at the library reading message boards and postings. At least that was free. Six emails. Also free. One coffee, not free, but the Mini Moos and sugar packs made up for it. A baloney sandwich from the Lutheran kitchen, free but only after a 30-minute pep talk.

He was no closer to work than he was when he woke up that morning.

Tomorrow he’d walk the town beach and gather jingles and sea glass in the morning - weather permitting - and scout the recycling station in the afternoon because on Saturday he had to be ready for the flea market, and it took him a day to assemble, label and package his creations. Early Saturday he’d shower at the police station, shave, dress in the one pair of khakis he owned and the blue shirt with the button-down collar. Joe Faelan would give him a ride back to the trailer - his trailer, actually - so he could pick up his folding table and his crate. Then it was back to the municipal parking lot before dawn to set up next to the kitchens and if he was lucky, the Portugese girl would sneak him some breakfast sausages on a potato roll.

At 7:30am the gate will open and for a while he will be Oliver Levant again, purveyor of unique objects of unusual provenance and remarkable quality, joking and smiling and selling and taking numbers and emails and discussing trends and making plans until the whistle blows at noon and he becomes anonymous and invisible again, a man of early-middle years living alone in a borrowed trailer, teetering on the edge of oblivion and redemption.

Joseph Francis “Buster” Corrigan, circa 1966.

Sat, 07 Jan 2012 21:45:00 -0500

Joseph Francis “Buster” Corrigan, circa 1966.

A Meeting of Agents

Sat, 07 Jan 2012 21:25:00 -0500

“Last order of business. The status of the premises at number four, whose previous tenant was his honor, Edward Coffin, of blessed memory.”

The nine men around the table crossed themselves slowly.

A man at the far end of the table let loose a barking cough. ”I hardly, excuse me, hardly think it can be occupied without the most comprehensive and expensive of restorations. The fire was quite damaging, and the subsequent flood only made matters worse. I saw the report. Damn shame, that. All those cases and mechanisms. Damn shame.”

“One would suspect it would be fairly carpeted with all manner of deadly molds and vermin and rusted perils and whatnot by now,” added one man.

“It has been quite a while,” noted another.

“It would be good to see that report again,” offered a third.

The man seated at the head of the table sighed and wiped his face with a faded blue kerchief.

“You all have a copy. Tab eleven in your binders.”

A rustling sound filled the room as the men turned mimeographed pages, then silence descended as they all read. The first to close his binder folded his fingers over the leather cover and nodded to the man at the head of the table.

“In light of the poor condition of the premises,” he intoned, “I move they be allowed to remain empty for another year, until such a time as a full and comprehensive assessment of…”

One of the dimpled brass pneumatic steam tubes rattled urgently overhead. With a hiss of steam and a sudden crack a battered white bakelite capsule fell three feet from an ejector port into the receiving bowl at the head of the table. The man seated there reached out and plucked it from the bowl before it had even ceased spinning. The other eight men were motionless as he opened it, removed a slip of paper from it, read it, then handed the paper to he man on his left.

“The chair…objects,” he said, slowly. “I have been informed that our lady wishes the property to be occupied again. Pursuant to part nine of the common lessee agreement, and consistent with the traditions of the Row, she has instructed me to entertain acceptable candidates.”

“…may I be so bold as to recommend…”

“…has distinguished himself in the Arcade, where for the last nine…”

“…undoubtedly she will grant me the privilege of introducing my master’s young…”

“…will do nicely…”

“…cannot seriously believe that…”

“…responsibility to uphold…”

“…a suitable heir to continue the work of our late…”

“…will be my privilege to…”

“Gentlemen, GENTLEMEN.”

With a rattle a second capsule fell steaming into the receiving bowl, where it spun from the force of its arrival.

“With your leave.”

The crinkle of the paper was unnaturally loud. His lips moved as he read the note, then he folded it and placed it in his breast pocket. He surveyed the eight men seated around him. Eight old men in eight old black suits, with red faces and clammy hands and cold eyes.

“Our lady will be prepared to receive candidates from her tenant’s agents following the next meeting of this body. She requests that they be presented in a manner consistent with the traditions of the Row and in keeping with the conventions described in part nine of the common lessee agreement. That is all for today. I thank you all.”

The eight men shuffled to their feet. Bent over to avoid striking the pneumatic pipes overhead, they filed out of the low-ceilinged room through its sole door to begin the long climb up the narrow and perilously steep switchbacked staircase to the street.

The man at the head of the table waited for the agents to leave before loosening the silk cravat around his neck. Then he removed the message paper from his breast pocket and smoothed it out on the table in front of him. He made a few notes at the bottom of it with a black fountain pen and initialed it with a few lazy scratches.

He loaded the capsule, opened a small round hatch at the bottom of the receiving bowl, and fed the capsule into it. With a twist of a small knob and a percussive blast of steam it was gone, rattling overhead for a brief moment before it plunged into the heart of the Row to its final destination.

She was not going to enjoy this, he thought. Hunched over he side-stepped to the door and twisted the light switch off.

10 Facts about Snuggalo, a Clown.

Sat, 07 Jan 2012 20:28:00 -0500

What do we know about Snuggalo?

He has a law degree.
He enjoys romantic dinners with his wife Barbara every other Wednesday.
He wants to be loved, but sometimes wonders what it would be like to be feared.
He can’t whistle.
He left a Russian circus under suspicious circumstances.
He is best friends with Freon the Dog Handler.
He has a 19th century Louis Vuitton steamer trunk that no one has ever seen open.
He can apply his makeup in 3 minutes, and remove it in 2 minutes.
He always knows where to get breakfast, no matter what time of day it is.
He is a childhood friend of Lady Lillian Coffin, the Owner of Peddler’s Row, and is currently moonlighting as a scout for Annabel Weir.

You may now enjoy my voice-over demo reel. Next, you may...

Fri, 06 Jan 2012 16:54:00 -0500

You may now enjoy my voice-over demo reel. Next, you may contact me to record things for you.

Eric Idle Presents Radio 5: Were There Seven Episodes in Season 2?

Mon, 02 Jan 2012 22:30:00 -0500

Ok, Pythonites and Olde Tyme Radio fannes, riddle me this.

Conventional wisdom says there were six episodes in the second (1974) season of the “Eric Idle Presents Radio 5” show. They are described here.

Please note the sixth show titled “A Sad Moment”, aired May 4, 1974.

Now look here. Scroll down (or search for) “ERIC IDLE PRESENTS RADIO 5 (Series 2, Show 6)”.

You will find a show that has nothing to do with the sketches featured in the episode “A Sad Moment”. In fact, it opens with a sketch about “Starship Free Enterprise”.

This show is also advertised as being aired on May 4, 1974.

So. Given the provenance of the “Starship Free Enterprise” episode, I am tempted to believe it is the 6th and final show of the 2nd series. That leaves me wondering when “A Sad Moment” aired.

Ideas?

Yes, I have ENTIRELY TOO MUCH TIME ON MY HANDS during vacations.

Donald O'Van, a Peddler Tenant

Tue, 20 Dec 2011 16:29:00 -0500

Donald O’Van runs the bookstore. His shop looks a bit like an empty living room, with those few books he keeps on display set out on a coffee table between two couches at the center of the shop. A massive square oriental rug covers the entire floor, a pool of red that consumes the sparse 40 watt light from the wall sconces.

Donald is an older man of smaller proportions, with thinning white hair and over-large black framed glasses. He tends to keep his hands in the pockets of his tweed jacket as he talks, his head tilted slightly to the right. There’s a vague smell of Ivory soap about him.

His assistant, a young lady from Singapore named Pinny, offers visitors tea and shuttles books from the back room to the front at a signal from Donald. It’s not her actual name, but that’s what Donald calls her. It’s what he’s always called his assistants.

Pinny is currently holding a leather backed solander box in her tiny white-gloved hands. It is the box Donald asked her to find last night down in the stacks. The Sibyllenbuch something-or-other. Donald said a visitor would be wanting it. He’s talking to a visitor right now, in fact, an even older man with watery blue eyes and hands like paper claws that shake slightly as he tries to balance his teacup and saucer.

Donald O’Van is a tenant of Lady Lillian Coffin, the Owner of Peddler’s Row. And he is most definitely a magician, Pinny decides, when the visitor asks whether Donald has the Sibyllenbuch something-or-other, and Pinny is there to place it gently on the coffee table between them.

"Hold the newsreader’s nose squarely, waiter, or friendly milk will countermand my trousers."

Wed, 21 Sep 2011 16:57:00 -0400

““Hold the newsreader’s nose squarely, waiter, or friendly milk will countermand my trousers.””

- Stephen Fry

“A unique child, delivered of a unique mother.”

Thursday night, and it’s time for some Hillbilly...

Thu, 30 Jun 2011 21:28:24 -0400

Thursday night, and it’s time for some Hillbilly Beatboxing.

Thank you, ECC.

I am pretty sure I could totally groove on sitting in a duck enclosure with a rifle, waiting for the...

Fri, 03 Jun 2011 16:58:03 -0400

I am pretty sure I could totally groove on sitting in a duck enclosure with a rifle, waiting for the wee beasties to flapflap by, but I’m not sure I want to hang out with a wet dog.

My son responded to news of a super-dangerous e. coli outbreak in Germany associated with fresh...

Fri, 03 Jun 2011 11:13:21 -0400

My son responded to news of a super-dangerous e. coli outbreak in Germany associated with fresh vegetables by saying “I told you vegetables were bad for you”.

My basement has many boxes full of books. I know I don’t have room upstairs for all of them. ...

Tue, 24 May 2011 15:29:00 -0400

My basement has many boxes full of books. I know I don’t have room upstairs for all of them. But the idea of letting any of them “go” fills me with a combination of sorrow and dread. Would having e-book copies of any given book make be feel better about getting rid of its physical counterpart? Not Sure.

It is becoming increasingly clear that living in the Metro DC area will, come summer, bear a strange...

Mon, 23 May 2011 14:40:41 -0400

It is becoming increasingly clear that living in the Metro DC area will, come summer, bear a strange similiarity to a non-stop schvitz.

Today the Tree People came, and Did what they Do. I installed a mailbox, shelves in the guest room...

Sat, 21 May 2011 16:19:47 -0400

Today the Tree People came, and Did what they Do. I installed a mailbox, shelves in the guest room closet to make an ersatz linen closet, installed a coat rack, and reorganized furniture. My head feels like it was the crash pad for a squad of boozy ice weasels.

One of the lesser-known pleasures of moving is opening up mis-labeled boxes and finding treasures. ...

Tue, 17 May 2011 20:31:34 -0400

One of the lesser-known pleasures of moving is opening up mis-labeled boxes and finding treasures. Like your journal, or your favorite sweater, or your cat.

"[Angry Birds] is successful because everyone, whether they admit it or not, understands that in..."

Sun, 13 Mar 2011 15:11:00 -0400

“[Angry Birds] is successful because everyone, whether they admit it or not, understands that in order to eat pig, you must first kill pig.”

- Something I left as a Facebook comment and decided was too insightful to not share with you.

You’re *welcome*.

Does a one-legged man wear a trouser?

Mon, 07 Mar 2011 12:48:34 -0500

Does a one-legged man wear a trouser?

The Bob Corrigan

La Joconde de la Mobilité

Coming of age in under 600 characters

Rewriting "In which we meet Oliver Levant"

In which we meet Oliver Levant

Joseph Francis “Buster” Corrigan, circa 1966.

A Meeting of Agents

10 Facts about Snuggalo, a Clown.

You may now enjoy my voice-over demo reel. Next, you may...

Eric Idle Presents Radio 5: Were There *Seven* Episodes in Season 2?

Donald O'Van, a Peddler Tenant

"Hold the newsreader’s nose squarely, waiter, or friendly milk will countermand my trousers."

Thursday night, and it’s time for some Hillbilly...

I am pretty sure I could totally groove on sitting in a duck enclosure with a rifle, waiting for the...

My son responded to news of a super-dangerous e. coli outbreak in Germany associated with fresh...

My basement has many boxes full of books. I know I don’t have room upstairs for all of them. ...

It is becoming increasingly clear that living in the Metro DC area will, come summer, bear a strange...

Today the Tree People came, and Did what they Do. I installed a mailbox, shelves in the guest room...

One of the lesser-known pleasures of moving is opening up mis-labeled boxes and finding treasures. ...

"[Angry Birds] is successful because everyone, whether they admit it or not, understands that in..."

Does a one-legged man wear a trouser?

Eric Idle Presents Radio 5: Were There Seven Episodes in Season 2?