Sep 092012
 

Okay, thought I’d have some fun and blog my day today as it unfolds …

6:40 a.m. Hey look, I slept in all of 20 minutes! And this with the bed (and house) all to myself as my wife has taken the boys to Massachusetts for the weekend to visit her parents while I paint the porch floor—do I know how to live or what?

The good news is that I finished painting yesterday afternoon, so now I have all day today to fret about, er, I mean, *ENJOY* the opening Sunday of the NFL season. The Jets kick off against the Bills at 1 p.m., so that means I have a little more than six hours to kill. Luckily, I have BIG plans for the day, you know, like the laundry and grocery shopping.

Like I said, living the dream.

7:04 a.m. Major problem already—I only have short white socks to wear! How could I have let this happen on game day—I’ve only had nine months to plan what I was going to wear today! And somehow I ended up with white socks instead of my traditional black ones?! Really?!

And if you think that I think that the color of the socks on my feet in my house over 80 miles away from where the game is being played today actually could somehow have a bearing on the outcome, then you’re clearly not a sports fan. Sure, I’m an atheist and don’t believe there’s any sort of overarching force that affects the universe—but when it comes to sports, all that goes out the window.

Hypocritical much? Absolutely. But what I wear on my feet affects the game as much as where I sit in my living room does while watching. You may (absolutely correctly) think that’s zero percent, but I will have black socks on my feet by the time kick-off rolls around. I just hope wearing the white ones doesn’t ruin it all anyway.

7:58 a.m. Showered and eating breakfast, I check my email and discover (via my wife) that the article about my book is in this morning’s New Haven Register. GAH! At least they took the time to make sure to have my profile picture match Benedict Arnold’s—jerks of a feather, flocking together. So much for wanting to finish breakfast.

Well, no one reads newspapers any more, right? Maybe none of my friends will notice.

Continue reading »

Sep 072012
 

It looks like the Connecticut Jerks: 2012 Tour is starting to kick into gear, so if you want to be part of the action, here are

Five Public Ways to Get Aboard The Connecticut Jerks Bandwagon

1. Tune in to “Leatherneck & Lace” on WDRC (1360 AM/102.9 FM) “The Talk of Connecticut” on Monday, September 10 at 9:15 a.m. – My first live radio interview for Speaking Ill of the Dead: Jerks in Connecticut History—what could possibly go wrong? It’s not like anyone has ever said anything wrong on the radio that has gotten them in trouble … right? Gah.

Actually, my biggest fear is that as I get nervous, I talk faster and faster, so there’s a good chance I’ll sound like this guy.

Great radio, right?

Seriously though, it should be entertaining. I may be a little nervous, but that’s good because I tend to crack more jokes to settle myself down. Let’s see if the kids can keep up with me!

Wait, this is already only three days away! I’m already sweating profusely … *gulp*

2. Or tune in to “Talk of the Town With Larry Rifkin” on (WATR 1320 AM) at on September 24 at 12:30 p.m. – Assuming I don’t get banned by the FCC, I should be a radio vet by this point, so I should be chattering at a rate only akin to playing a 78 rpm record backward. (Google it as you’re getting off my lawn, punks!)

I’ve actually been on Larry’s show once before for an article I had written in Connecticut Magazine about business in Connecticut—trust me when I tell you, I know a helluva a lot more about jerks than finance. Yay me!

3. Read the New Haven Register or Seasons Magazine – I’ve already done interviews with both of these publications about the book, but I don’t know the exact date either will be published, although the Register story may be either this weekend or next.

The funny part about the Register interview is that I got an email last Friday from reporter (and my new bff) Jim Shelton asking me if I was “in the area” and could talk? “In the area?” I responded. “I’m literally in the office upstairs!” I guess he had seen the book and thought it would be a fun story, not even realizing that the author was an editor at Connecticut Magazine, the Register’s sister publication housed in the same building. “Sorry, no corporate synergy,” he said. “I thought it was worthy on its own.”

Nice!

4. Come to my “book launch” party at Written Words in Shelton on September 30 at 2 p.m. – Yes, I know that is right in the middle of Jets game—sorry, I haven’t reached the stature of The Bloggess, so I have to take the slot whenever they want me to show up. (I’ll be DVRing the game, so please, don’t text me or tell me what happens—and that means you, Senior Smoke and Steve!)

If things go to plan, I’ll give a 20 minute or so talk, answer a few questions, and then sign some books. Easy peasy lemon squeezey, right? I will also be happy to sign anything else anyone brings—t-shirts, posters, subpoenas, copies of the Constitution, old Partridge Family albums, very small rocks, churches, live badgers …

I assume that on a Sunday afternoon in the fall, there will NOT be a lot of NFL fans in attendance, but that’s okay—they can always just order the book via Amazon and read it during halftime.

5. Check out the “Lunch & Learn” program at the Guilford Public Library on October 16 at noon. Just booked this one yesterday. Apparently I’m going to talk for like EVER (or 40 minutes) and then answer questions.

I’ve been told they get good crowds for this—I’ll make sure to put an end that!

No seriously, this will be another good event at a great place. They asked if I had any A/V requests—I don’t suppose a tape of the greatest matches in the history of the Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling playing in the background is what they had in mind, although it would add …. uh … another dimension to the proceedings. (For the record, my favorites were Chainsaw and Spike, The Heavy Metal Sisters)

Anyway, as always, thanks for checking out my stuff and I hope you get a chance to enjoy one of these!

 

 

Sep 052012
 

How about a little musical accompaniment for this week’s jerk?

Ah, Midnight Oil … who *is* going to save you?

Certainly not this week’s JERK OF THE WEEK, who thinks there’s nothing as precious as a hole in the ground …

GINA RINEHART

If you’re not familiar with this charming sheila from the land down under, Rinehart is one of the richest women in the world, earning an estimated $600 PER SECOND from the mining concerns she’s inherited from her father, the late Lang Hancock. She currently has a net worth of about $18 billion, but that number continues to increase rapidly. She’s single, for what it’s worth … which apparently is quite a bit.

Anyway, simply being rich doesn’t make one a jerk—if it was, to paraphrase Rep Tavier from Fiddler on the Roof—I should be so cursed. No, Ms. Rinehart earns this week’s title for apparently not having enough money.

From NPR:

Nothing ignites controversy like having one of the world’s richest women tell her fellow Australians that they need to cut labor costs in order to compete with Africans who are “willing to work for less than $2 a day.”

Georgina “Gina” Rinehart, who the BBC says earns about $600 a second from the mining company she inherited, says in a video she posted on the website of the Sydney Mining Club that Australia is just too costly for businesses such as hers and that she worries “for this country’s future” because it’s so much less expensive to mine and manufacture elsewhere.

“Business as usual will not do,” she says, in the pitch for lower taxes and creation of a special economic zone.

Apparently, the 1 percent isn’t confined to the good ol’ U.S. of A.

Here’s the full video where she essentially tells Australians that she’s may not be able to afford to do business in their country any more if workers insist on being paid living wages. Nice.

Well, she has clearly struck jerk gold here in rayality. Enjoy!

And if you want to mine for jerks, can I recommend Speaking Ill of the Dead: Jerks in Connecticut History, which comes out on Sept. 18. Dig deep in your pocket and pre-order it now at Amazon.com.

Sep 032012
 

So as another summer fades into the golden glow of my memories, it’s back-to-school time, which (on some level) means a renewed call for learnin’ stuff.

Now, unlike my 13-year-old son, I don’t profess to know everything. As best as I can tell, the universe appears to be an infinite place, and as such, comes limitless opportunities for gaining knowledge. Therefore, it only stands to reason that in the next few months, I should learn lots of new things.

Between now and the end of 2012 (or the end of the world, slated for December 21st), I hope to learn:

• the joys of physical education that allows my favorite NFL team to go undefeated.

• enough Korean to understand this song since I will not be getting it out of my head any time soon—

—or at least enough dance theory to get down all moves for it.

• the true meaning of “criminal justice” when a convicted pedophile is raped to death in prison.

• the language arts required to distinguish between the terms “legitimate” and “illegitimate” rape, and why anyone in their right mind would even think there could be a difference.

• the political science that will guide the American electorate to not be distracted by inane comments and instead demand that candidates run mud-free campaigns where they actually tell us their specific, detailed plans for our future.

• what would happen in a renewed national driver’s re-education where everyone suddenly put down their phones and obeyed the rules of the road.

• that through social studies the theory that reality is broken and that my kids’ video game skills will really somehow evolve into marketable problem-solving skills before they graduate college.

• that “The Jersey Shore” has been an dramatic experiment for years, that Snooki is this generation’s Meryl Streep, and that she didn’t really reproduce.

• that biological evolution prevails and that there really are people out there who care about children, and will step in so that we’ll never, ever, EVER again hear the name Honey Boo Boo.

• the economics that drive up the price of gasoline literally overnight on nothing but pure speculation, yet allow it to take weeks to drop down despite actual lower demand and an overabundance of supply.

• the science behind continued climate change that will make for another winter where I only have to break out my snow shovel twice.

• more Spanish, so I can communicate with my wife’s family beyond asking them directions to the library.

• the arithmetic necessary to be able to pay off my new car, save for college and retirement and yet find a way to install central air conditioning.

• the biology and physics involved with losing 15 pounds without having to run 10 miles a day.

• how to write an entertaining presentation before a book signing—actually, the deadline for this one is even sooner: I have to learn this before Sept. 30 at 2 p.m. when I’ll be at Written Words in Shelton. (Please come down!)

• the economic impact of becoming a writer who sells a bajillion books.

• the home economics of still being able to feed my family after not actually selling a bajillion books.

 

Aug 312012
 

Short and sweet this morning as I stayed up late last night—it was my annual fantasy football league draft (“Draftmas,” as it’s referred to in fantasy football circles). It’s a magical time, one of my favorite nights of the year as I get together with my eight of my good friend and Senior Smoke, immerse ourselves in football and eat a lot of food.

And even though we’ve been doing this more than a dozen years, I still am learning things, such as these

Five Things I Learned at My Fantasy Football League Draft

1. We’re all going blind. Okay, I’ve been fortunate to have 20/20 vision my entire life, but now that I’m 107, it’s been getting tough for me to make out small type in low-light situations. Apparently, I’m not the only one as both my buddy Bob and Senior Smoke both had reading glasses last night. Even sadder, when I tried their glasses on, I pretty much realized that I might benefit from having a pair of my own. Ugh.

2. We’re getting old. Yes, we’re all going blind, getting thicker around the middle and grayer on top, but just listening to some of the banter and jokes around the table, I realize that a lot of it is based in 1970s & ’80s pop culture, which according to those damned pesky, clearly lying calendars I keep around, were somehow more than two decades ago. I felt bad for the whippersnapper in the league, Easy E, who was born when most of us were in high school, I think—he had to have no idea what the hell all these old fat guys were laughing about most of the night: “Why in the name of Bieber H. Christ do they keep singing ‘It’s the final countdown,’ every time someone says, ‘you’re up’?”

3. Still, boys will still be boys. I don’t care how old we all are, there were still plenty of gross comments, bad jokes, foul language and farts—and we liked it!

4. My buddy Pisci—our gracious host of the evening (thanks again!)—is a terrific cook. All right, I already know this, but it’s always great to be reminded. In case we weren’t manly enough with all the football, random grunting and raunchy humor, Pisci grilled bacon cheeseburgers and whipped up some of his awesome chili, which is so damned good that Channel 8 actually had to have him in to the studio to make it. To paraphrase “Talk Soup:” Sooooo meaty!

5. The New York Jets may be the worst offensive team in the NFL this year. As you no doubt know by now, I’m about as big a Jets fan as there is out there, and even I couldn’t convince myself to take any Jets offensive player. I even purposely left them off my draft lists just so I wouldn’t be accidentally tempted to take any of them. I mean, I hope I’m wrong, but after they went through the entire preseason—four games—and scored only 1 touchdown (which came last night with their backups against the Eagles’ backups), let’s just say I’m not expecting to see a lot of Tebowing on the field this year.

I did, however, take the Jets defense as my fantasy team defense because I think that unit will be among the best in the NFL. Not that it will matter.

As always, after the draft was over, I hated the team I assembled, but that’s how it goes—there’s always the team you want to draft, the team you do actually draft and then the team you wished you had drafted. I only hope the team I actually drafted provides me as much entertainment as hanging out with my buddies, although I don’t it’s possible.

 

Aug 292012
 

Here’s one you really can’t make up, a person who will no doubt also win a Darwin Award in addition to being named JERK OF THE WEEK!

This week’s “winner” is:

RANDY LEE TENLEY

I don’t have a picture of the late Mr. Tenley, so this will have to do.

What is this, you ask? It’s a ghillie suit, a 3-D camouflage outfit sometimes used by military snipers. Apparently, the 44-year-old Tenley was wearing one at the time of his unfortunate demise. And no, he wasn’t mistakenly shot by a hunter—he was run over by two cars out in Big Sky country.

I’ll let the NBC news affiliate in lovely Kalispell, Montana, tell the story.

Troopers say [Tenley] was in the right-hand lane of Highway 93 South when a 15-year old Somers girl hit him.

“He probably would not have been very easy to see at all,” said Montana Highway Patrol Trooper Jim Schneider.

Another car swerved, and a third car, troopers say driven by a 17-year old Somers girl, ran him over.

“It appears the pedestrian was well into the driving lane,” said Schneider. Officials closed Highway 93 for two hours on Sunday night, as firefighters directed traffic and officers investigated. What they found is troubling.

“According to his companions, he was out there in the ghillie suit attempting to incite a sighting of Bigfoot, to make people think they had seen a Sasquatch.

But, dispatchers received no calls of the sort, just the one that sent emergency crews rushing to the scene. Sunday night’s investigation is ongoing. Troopers say Tenley likely drank alcohol yesterday, but they’re still waiting on toxicology results to see if he was impaired.

Poor Sasquatch—why do we continue to besmirch your noble name? Somewhere, Bobo weeps …

Seriously, although your first impulse is to laugh about how this possibly drunken idiot got himself killed—and really, you probably should—the tragedy here and why Tenley is the jerk of the week is because not one, but two teenaged girls are most likely absolutely traumatized for life by accidentally killing another human being with their motor vehicles. Yeah, it was a joke gone awry and certainly neither one’s fault, but I’m pretty sure they’ll never forget that nightmarish, sickening feeling of hearing a body slam against your car as the life is knocked out of it. Just an awful experience.

It can’t really compare, but I ran over a woodchuck on the Taconic Parkway about 15 years ago and I can still vividly recall the sick thuds as it bounced between the pavement and the car floor as I passed over it. Ugh.

And yes, posthumously calling Tenley a “jerk” is absolutely a case of “speaking ill of the dead,” which is ideal as my Speaking Ill of the Dead: Jerks in Connecticut History comes out in on Sept. 18. Rather than wait for a Bigfoot to show up with it, you may just want to pre-order it now at Amazon.com.

Aug 262012
 

Okay, this little fictional jaunt was inspired by a dream that I had recently …

Looking back, it wasn’t exactly the best decision I’ve ever made.

But if we had to do “another Saturday night” aimlessly killing brain cells with whatever was on tap at Fat Man’s, I’m pretty sure my head would’ve exploded on the spot.

So when Billy said that a few girls from Ellenville he knew had invited him and a couple of his friends to a prison party, we were all in before any of us thought to ask what the fuck a prison party was.

Turns out it was pretty much what it sounded like: a party at a prison.

Well okay, not exactly a prison—an old, abandoned juvenile detention facility on the outskirts of Grahamville, which is already out in the middle of nowhere. Sure, now it doesn’t sound like such a good idea, but at the time, we were (a few months) younger and stupider and desperate to do something different. Although engaging in the recreational use of alcohol, pot and sundry illicit pharmaceuticals wasn’t really all that different than anything we’d been doing for the past few years, it was at least a new way of going about it, or so it sounded. What could possibly go wrong?

Yeah.

Anyway, Toby volunteered to be the designated driver, which no one contested. When 11 p.m. Saturday night rolled around, the rest of us—Billy, Katie (Toby’s “girlfriend,” although neither will ever formally acknowledge that they’re been exclusive for the past four years), Katie’s bff Kelly (“Every party needs a Kelly,” as she likes to say), my bff Fred and I—all piled into Toby’s beat-up Suburban and headed out to Grahamville.

Even though I’d have to (begrudgingly) describe them both as “attractive,” and neither makes me want to stab my eyes out when I’m alone with them, I’ve never really been all that big a fan of Katie or Kelly. Fred has been crushing on Kelly for years, but his reluctance to make a move had backed him into “just a friend” purgatory, and he hasn’t been able to escape it (yet). With them along, the good news was that we weren’t a total sausage party rolling into the place.

Or what we thought was the place. Toby had the GPS and Billy appeared to have gotten the directions right for once, but when we pulled up to the gates of the former Sullivan County Juvenile Detention Facility, it certainly didn’t look like it was a happening party spot. In fact, it pretty much looked like the overgrown, broken-down, vandalized and undoubtedly tetanus-infested blight that it would turn out to be.

Continue reading »

Aug 242012
 

So this past week, we loaded up the family truckster and headed out on the holiday road—

Unlike the Griswold clan, however, we weren’t headed across country to Wally World (nor did anyone die and get strapped to the roof), but instead we went a bit south on I-95 to a different sort of vacation playground, one that we had previously never visited.

That’s right, we went to the lovely Jersey Shore!

No, not that part of the shore—no tan, laundry, gym—we actually went to Spring Lake, which is an upscale, well-to-do respectable family place. And we had a great time!

Actually, it provided

Five Things I Learned During My Summer Vacation

1. All the televised stupidity aside, there’s a reason why people go to the Jersey shore. Nice beaches with real waves, long, well-maintained boardwalks ideal for strolling, lots of entertainment options, plenty of waterfront access and all very easy to get to. Even with multiple bathroom stops (someone’s wife likes to drink a big cup of coffee before every long car ride—don’t ask me why), it’s less than a two-hour ride from Shelton to Spring Lake (just south of Asbury Park), which is about an hour-and-a-half less than a trip to Cape Cod. The beaches are just as nice and the ocean is the same, and with more places open to the public and a bigger coastline, there’s just more to enjoy.

Speaking of Asbury Park, my grandparents took me there once when I was a kid, and I was happy to see the same kind of cheesy arcades with skee balls and other games of chance are still available along the shore (we went to Point Pleasant boardwalk, just a few minutes south of Spring Lake). We even got authentic frozen custard, which I remember my grandparents raving about but, to be honest, wasn’t all that impressive this time. Still, it’s always fun to indulge in a bit of nostalgia.

2. Spring Lake, New Jersey, is a lot like Connecticut’s gold coast . . . in that it’s full of really huge houses and very wealthy people who want nothing to do with anyone. Seriously, it was midweek before anyone said “hi” to us on the street. It was also a bit of a ghost town—one of our friends who lives a few towns over says most of the large, well-manicured houses in Spring Lake are only weekend retreats for the rich. It also has pretentious rules that sound like they could be straight out of Greenwich: “No parking on streets at night!”

Our inn was on the edge of gorgeous tree-filled park in the middle of town, with a scenic pond, paved walkways and a kid-friendly playground. If it was in the middle of Shelton, you probably couldn’t get near the place on any given evening but when we went for walks at night, we were practically the only ones enjoying the park. Weird.

3. Even if it seems like another world, it’s still New Jersey. That means lots of Jets fans (good by me!) but also times where you can see—as I did—impatient drivers lean on their horn and out of their car window to shout, “WHAT THE FRACK ARE YOU FRACKIN’ DOIN’, YOU FRACKIN’ IDIOT?!”

There’s also lots of goons looking to hook up, as my wife can attest to. I won’t embarrass her with the whole story; let’s just say that anything ever happens to me, she won’t want for baked goods if she moves to Jersey.

4. The sun is still hot. We had perfect beach weather this week—low 80s and almost no humidity—which lulled me into a false sense of security. Usually, I lather on about a gallon of sunblock before venturing out just to cut the lawn, but for reasons I still don’t understand, I didn’t fully apply lotion to my stomach and freshly waxed back. My shoulders and nose didn’t burn, but those other spots—a nice bright summertime lobster red. Well, I guess that just gives something else for Dr. Noonan, my dermatologist, to slice off somewhere down the line. Yay for that.

5. Even with all the sand, I still love the beach. As I’ve previously detailed, I enjoyed large portions of my youthful summers at the shore in Connecticut, but Long Island Sound just can’t compare to a true ocean beach. With more powerful waves and smoother white sand, I had an absolute blast just playing in the surf with my sons, watching them learn the fine art of bodysurfing and generally just goofing about in the water.

It’s amazing how the smell of the ocean and the taste of salt water on my lips can evoke such simple happiness, but it does. There truly is no vacation like a summer beach vacation.

 

Aug 222012
 

This week’s JERK OF THE WEEK is a no-brainer—

Todd Akin

Like, in that it takes no brain to say something as idiotic about pregnancies from rape as, “It seems to me, from what I understand from doctors, that’s really rare. If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down.”

Yeah …. not much more to say about that. I mean, if it’s “legitimate” rape—as opposed to that pesky “illegitimate” kind—then somehow a woman’s body will figure it out and not get pregnant. That’s Health 101 stuff right there, that is …

Sheesh.

Unless you live under a rock, you’ve probably already know that the six-time Republican congressman from Missouri has now become the new poster child for “Open Mouth, Swallow Leg.” But what really cinched this week’s “Jerk of the Week” for Mr. Legitimate Rape Face—running for U.S. Senate in Missouri, lucky them—are comments like this from Akin’s Twitter feed:

“We can’t be intimidated by the liberal elite. I will continue to standing for life. Will you?”

“Donations are pouring in. Thank you for standing up against the liberal elite.”

And my personal favorite—

“I apologized but the liberal media is trying to make me drop out.”

Really? Didn’t realize that Mitt Romney is part of the liberal elite, but hey, I guess a Republican like Akin would know better than us. You know, unless he had no brain.

In case you’ve misplaced your brain, let me remind you that Speaking Ill of the Dead: Jerks in Connecticut History comes out on Sept. 18. If you’re worried about forgetting, then pre-order it now at Amazon.com.

Aug 192012
 

So as we count down to the launch of Speaking Ill of the Dead: Jerks in Connecticut History—why yes, it’s still available for preorder via Amazon, thanks for asking—I’ll be continuing to ramp up the jerk promo machine. In addition to “Jerk of the Week,” I’ll have a few other CT jerk goodies.

In that vein, I couldn’t include every bit of research and every jerk story in the book, so there’s some bonus material, so to speak. And no one who I wrote about provided more great material than William Stuart, who it turns out, is *by far* my favorite jerk. If you decide that you only want to read one chapter, then I implore you to make it Chapter 15, “William Stuart: The (Allegedly) Most Celebrated Jerk in Connecticut History.”

My primary source for Staurt’s story is his autobiography, modestly titled Sketches of the Life of William Stuart: The First and Most Celebrated Counterfeiter of Connecticut, As Given by Himself. I read the entire thing from cover to cover, and it’s just wonderful as he’s an amazing storyteller. I don’t know if everything he wrote is true—and I’m sure there’s more than a healthy amount of embellishment—but even if a tenth of his stories are true, that’s enough. A true “rogue,” as he constantly refers to himself.

I was able to find a photocopied version of the original book, which was published in 1854—apparently there was a project where someone took old texts, photocopied the pages and bound them together. It’s okay for reading, but I needed an image of Stuart, and there’s one on the cover page. In the photocopy version I have, it’s blurred beyond use, but I found out that the Connecticut State Library had an original version in its archives; I arranged to take some pictures of it—

Ol’ Bill was a handsome devil, no?

For the record: I’ve never had an urge to steal anything in my life … until I had this book in my hands. I truly wanted to run out of the library with it, I love this story so much.

Anyway, as it’s now in the public domain you could probably find some versions of it around, but I thought I’d share a little excerpt from it to give you an idea of what a rascal Stuart was. This passage comes right after he was jailed for being caught trying to swallow one of his counterfeit bills and sent off to the jail in Danbury.

I was kept here through the winter, and all of the succeeding summer, until September. Of a truth I was active in something, and proved to be a great annoyance to Mat. Curtiss, the jailer. I would hoot in the night season, rouse him from sleep by hideous noises, and disturb him in any way I could. I contrived to cheat him in diverse ways, and he often told me that he wished I was out of sight and hearing. The rats annoyed him beyond measure, and they would gnaw all night, making as much noise as a dozen buzz saws. Curtiss told me that for every rat that I would catch, he would give me a gill of rum.

Through the plank floor of the prison the rats had gnawed a hole, and every night they would come out and work about the room. I set an Indian trap by the rat-hole and tied the bait upon on long stick in the middle of the room, and the first evening the rat came out, went to the bait and sprung my trap so as to shut the rat hole. Next morning I called to Curtiss that a rat was caught, and he brought me the gill of rum, requested me to kill it, and throw it out of the grates’ window. I had a box stove in the room, in which I put the rat, fed him well, and next morning, let him in the room and cried out to the jailer that I had caught another rat. He told me to kill it and cast it out of the window, and then brought the gill of grog. I put him into the stove for the next morning, and then reported another rat, and received my gill of rum. So I managed with the rat for a whole month, had my grog regularly every morning until one night I left the hole open and the rat escaped.

I tried in vain to trap another, but this old fellow had given his rat brethren the hint, and not another entered my cell. I had become attached to the roguish creature, and he was good company and enabled me to cheat the jailer out of my grog, although I had money enough to buy with. Men in confinement are always pleased with any living animal; their presence seems to while away the tedious hours. Perhaps I valued my rat friend more because the whole race of them get their living by roguery and cunning. At any rate, he was a favorite, and I would not have lost him for money.

I contrived further to busy myself  by constructing an Indian bow, and made an arrow to fit it, with a hooked barb in the end. When Mrs. Curtiss washed the clothing of the family, she suspended them on the line in the rear of the jail. I fasted a cord to the arrow and shot it into the clothes, then drew them in through the grates. In two hours I brought everything from the line, and put them under my bunk.

In the morning there was a great outcry that the clothes were stolen, and Curtiss raved and spoke harshly. While he was in the yard swearing, I asked him, “What will you give me to tell you where they are?”

Said he, “I will treat you.”

“No, no,” I replied, “Give me a gallon of rum and I will tell you.”

“I will give you a pint,” said Curtiss.

“Give me the gallon and I will tell you, nothing less.”

With much reluctance he brought it in, and poured it in a tin pail, saying, “How do you know who stole them?”

“Ah,” said I, “I keep guard about your house while you sleep, for the rogues would have carried you off long ago, and given you your desserts, had it not been for me.”

“Now,” said the jailer, “tell me where the clothes are, or pay me for the rum.” I lifted up my bed, and there they lay. Curtiss said, “Oh, you devil you, who handed them in to you?” I showed him my bow and arrow, and the string attached to it, and gave him a specimen of my Indian skill. Said he, “You are the greatest curse that ever lived.”

But not, I replied, “the greatest fool in Danbury.”

Curtiss said, “Stuart, I will chain you!”

“That’s right,” said I, “I hate to be neglected!”

“Blast you,” you said, “I will not let you go on in your way.”

“That’s right, that’s right,” said I. “You are a good, kind man, and ought to be in Congress instead of staying here in this old rotten, stinking jail.”

He took up the bundle of clothes and went out with a loud laugh saying, “I never heard of such a provoking devil as you.”

Or such a wonderful jerk.