OH! Until just now to your immediate left, I forgot to show you the statue of Roger Conant, Salem’s town founder, who, as Brunonia Barry pointed out in THE LACE READER, is, from certain ANGLES, what the Victorians might have called, “A Pity.”
What is he doing, you might wonder. And I answer…Going blind?
As you may recall, Karen Abbott and I have a long standing tradition of texting each other pictures of unintentionally filthy thats-what-she-said style objects/monuments/arts/crafts/signage we see in our travels.
She started it when she and her husband went to Paris, sending me a street sign with a name that sounds SO naughty-awful in English that I can’t even SAY it here.
BUT! This statue of dear old Roger! Well, I think he has edged me ahead; she didn’t find ANYTHING dirty to send me from East Hampton. Which I don’t know if that means East Hampton is stuffy or she has out-matured me….I suspect it must be East Hampton.
Is it wrong for me to be amused that the statue is named Roger? Probably. But there it is. I have an un-quellable 12 year old boy living in my occipital lobe, and will probably go to my grave laughing at fart jokes.
THIS IS JUST HUMAN. You know the medieval cycle plays? Wagon trains of plays showing the whole BIBLE in play form front to back, at all day festivals? It was like the Bible, but, yes, with fart jokes. So. Precedent.
Ancient sculptors kept the faces of their marble figures smooth by regularly chiseling off weatherworn features, which is why most statues lack noses, eyes, and their original corncob pipes.
There is no good way to swing that that will make me want to try Botox.
Like, in my head, the next line is already, “So REALLY, having needles jabbed under your skin injecting pig botulism ALL UP INTO YOUR PERSONAL HUMAN FACE is kinda MILD, really. If you THINK about it.”
In case you were wondering:
YES I AM STILL SICK.
YES I AM STILL BORED OF IT.
YES I STILL FEEL THWARTED.
YES I AM GRUMPY ABOUT IT.