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Thursday, January 5th, 2006
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12:52 am - We Could Not Have Had a Better Dinner Had There Been a Synod of Cooks.
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It was a brisk eve in a windy city when Bob accosted me at the front door of a local imbibing establishment, saying warmly "Sir! You have stolen my black lead pencil and without it I cannot inscribe the passionate verses I was composing in my new incarnation as a balladeer! Only my black lead pencil is soft enough to leave indelible markings upon the blushing rosy skin of the wench within!" Such exact observations of human life were typical of Bob. In fact, were it not for his obliging eulogies on the flesh of the fair English maiden I daresay the girl would only be worth a half crown. Bob's inspired verse so neatly writ on her person nearly doubled her value, or at least so he whimsically claimed. He expatiated in praise of their frolicsome disapations which he said were "the most boisterous fourpence on the water since the Conquest!"
I doubted as to this last article. Afterall, just two years previous Bob and the entire Eton class of 17__ were seen playing not fourpence, but sixpence upon the water with the cast of Congreve's latest epic "The Viscountess: or, Five Cows Go A-Wassailing." Indeed, this fair spectacle, witnessed by my most devoted self and several members of the Duke of _______'s liveried staff, was the most boisterous since the Conquest. I believe I can make that claime without pretense or sentiment. I did shew the collected contents of my person so that Bob may see that I did not have his most beloved black lead pencil.
current mood:  amused
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| Saturday, November 5th, 2005
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10:50 pm
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I should think this account wanting, to myself, my illustrious readers, and my less illustrious readers, if I did not share this one, rather baffling moment in the life of our highly respectable subject, Bob. It seems that one evening in November, he did visit a publick house in London, a place of some repute, and well-known to the more common of our city's citizens. On visiting there, he did imbibe in much of the locale's fine beverages, of which several can still be purchased at taverns which also advertise the blue ribbon of Pabst. In fact, Bob did purchase a great number of these drinkables, which were served in pints, but may as well have been in quarts or gallons.
Being such a upstanding gentleman, these plebian spirits did not lower his facilities, but rather did sharpen them to a point. To such a high level did they take him that he became incomprehensible to the other patrons. "Nadruwrini," he said, with greatest sincerity. "Nadruwrini! Nadruwrini! Nadruwrini!" Indeed, that is all that our good friend Bob did say, over and over again. That and giggle, and, on occasions, snort, a sound that he made with the greatest of dignity.
I still do not know what he meant, but I am certain it was too profound for I, such a humble biographer, to comprehend. And also, it would appear, was it too profound for the house's proprietor, a man whose greatest profundity was in his slovenliness, and whose wainscot face did twist up in a most unappetizing grimace as he threw Bob onto the street which did, as it still does today, sit outside that establishment. It is my strongest, most deeply held belief that, if we had been able to understand Bob's insight of that evening, then it would have been greatly favourable to our community, and, indeed, our world.
current mood:  drunk
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| Friday, April 29th, 2005
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4:16 am
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I had the honour of joining Bob for dinner this evening, the guest list comprising, besides Bob and myself, four friends of Bob's from Eton and the ladies they had taken as wives. Bob as yet having been unable to find a woman capable of matching his towering intellect (and, one must admit, tolerating his towering smell), the conversation turned naturally to the topic of matchmaking, in which the ladies present engaged most merrily.
The women had been prattling on for nigh ten minutes when suddenly Bob slammed down his wine glass and shouted, "Leave off! I shall wed when I am ready, and I shall be ready when I wed!" This pronouncement was followed by a stunned silence, as the ladies looked demurely at their plates and the gentlemen, excluding Bob and myself, glanced from one to the other. As the pause grew to the point of discomfort, I interjected, "It is the new style of wit, you know, to employ this form of inversion." At which point the men relaxed, and one after another, often overlapping, ejaculated their own inversions: "When I dine on turkey, it is a Turk who dines!" cried one, and "Tomorrow I shall go down to Eton, and Eton shall go down to me!" The cacophany was quite painful to hear, and served to underscore once again how Bob is furlongs above his compeers in intelligence and wit.
Upon returning home and taking up my pen, I murmured to myself, "I shall set down my thoughts so that my thoughts may set down me," but no matter how I played with the words, I could not achieve the simplicity of Bob's wit, and when next I see him I shall have no choice but to ask him how it might be phrased to maximise its pithiness and its consequent chances for being quoted for generations.
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| Monday, March 28th, 2005
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8:27 pm
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I happened upon the illustrious Bob one festering evening in Spring, madscrabbling through a dusty old chest, tossing all and sundry behind him across the room to slam into the wine-stained wall. "Begone! Begone!" he cried into the chest. Flinging object after object arcing into the air, his cries eventually abated into fremescence, until he finally stood, panting and disheveled. That was when he noticed my presence for the first time. "Feel the fremitus!" he gasped, placing my hand on his chest. Then off he staggered down the dark hall, leaving me to wonder whether he would even remember I had been there. I have never felt closer to him.
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| Saturday, February 5th, 2005
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1:15 am - Epistilatory depilatation
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I wrote to Bob in February, complaining of having been troubled by a recurrence of the perplexing question of Harmoniae and Kangaroos;-- and mentioning that I hoped soon to meet him again in London.
"TO BOB, ESQ.,
DEAR SIR, --When late we met in the village of S-----, you spoke to me with great hypocrisy. What have salt in the sugar to do with Harmoniae and Kangaroos? Or what more than to watch the Kangaroos go at it? Do not doubt but I shall be most heartily glad to see you here again, for I love every part about you but your affectation of distress at the perfectly natural deeds of the kangaroos. For with ruth, I must insist to you that all strapping lads born of woman, and all strapping Kangaroo lads born of she-Kangaroo, do behave in like fashion. And similarly the Koala-lads, the Lemur-lads, and I hear tell from my acquaintance Lord P-----, a traveller who has of late been in Madagascar, that boy-Emus do also behave suchly.
Plus the Harmoniae make a pleasant counterpoint to the squeaking.
I have at last finished my Lives of You, and have laid up for you a load of copy, all out of order and written in Pig Latin, so that it will amuse you a long time to set it right. Come to me, my dear Kate-I-Mean-Bob, and let us be as happy as we can, like two clams in the coddling cup. I am, dear Sir, yours peevishly,
'March 14, 1781.'
'JAMES BOSWELL.'
Our accidental meeting in the street after a long separation was a pleasing surprize to him as well as to myself, as I attested from the shock that made him blanch and attempt with good humour to hide beneath a pickle cart when he saw me hail him. He happily joined me in the Buttery when I accosted him and had a burly officer ask him kindly to join me for a drink and a discussion of the thruppence and a florin he owed me. As we were in a hurry going different ways, I promised to call on him next day; he said he was engaged to go out in the morning. 'Early, Sir?' said I. BOB. 'Why, Sir, a fish can never scratch where the eels are young.'
As I understood not a word, I let him go, only later discovering I was missing a guinea and my favourite pocket watch.
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| Wednesday, December 15th, 2004
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12:20 pm
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As Bob, in my company, perambulated through the town of a winter's afternoon, a ruffian of unkempt aspect, clearly in need of employment, approached us. It seems that this creature considered it necessary that Bob answer some sort of questionnaire, lest an unpleasant fate befall him. He, by which I refer to the importunate questioner, left unspecified whether the fate was to consist of violence offered by himself, or of a more general displeasure on the part of Fortune.
Bob, showing the singular presence of mind that had served him so well along the waters of Africa, quickly summoned a constable to deal with the vagrant and we continued upon our rounds.
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| Sunday, October 17th, 2004
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11:19 pm - miasma of caerphilly
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It must undoubtedly seem strange, that the indigestion and clammy taste of which Bob complained, and which were expressed in terms so desponding, when it is considered that the gentleman was discussing an over-abundance of cheese, which is, of course, a concept without philosophical meaning. But we must ascribe his gloom to that miserable dejection of spirits to which he was constitutionally subject, and which was aggravated by severe gaseous pains. I have heard it ingeniously observed by a lady of rank and elegance, that after Bob had eaten an excess of dairy products one could truly say of him, 'I smell you in the dark.' His 'vile melancholy' was then at its meridian, and such gloom that had descended upon him was most likely of purely emotional capacity, piteously his father's bitter legacy, and not actually from the cheese at all. For how could it be said that there could be too much cheese? Really, how?
It couldn't, that's how.
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| Thursday, December 25th, 2003
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11:38 pm - literary contributions
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I have recently been asked to donate some of my lesser poetic compositions in honour of my beloved Bob and his odiferous acumen to a a literary journal of surpassing sweetness</a>.
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| Monday, December 8th, 2003
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7:34 pm
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Monday. Bloody cold, as usual, and an odious little shopgirl refused to wrap my parcels in the watermarked Belgian double-waxed linen as I requested. She insisted that they stocked no such animal, despite my protestations that I had seen them receive a shipment hidden in a cask of smuggled brandy just the week before, in a dream-vision that came upon me after eating too many boiled chestnuts with my after-dinner port. This chapter in the life of Bob, therefore, will be succinct, as the repulsive smell of haddock transported while wrapped only in a bit of handkerchief I claimed as a favor from a passing recalcitrant charwomen still clings to my defiled hands.
This reminds me of the time that Bob ate plaice. "Oh my, my dearest Boswell," I recall him saying. "What funny eyes this fish has!" Unlike plaice, haddock does not have funny eyes. It does, however, have a hideous odour, which even now permeates my consciousness and revolts my Muse. O, sweet Thalia! Forgive me my disgraceful stench, and do not desert me, your humble supplicant, as my pen attempts most feebly to sing your praises. For such breaded morsels, though cleansed of unclean thoughts by heated oil bath, and softened, made charming, by the accompanying tenderness of tuberous softness, do nonetheless pollute the air with piscine humours.
And now I'm brought to recall that marvelous occasion when Bob learned from the houri that snuff causes vapours. But I'm afraid I shall have to leave that story for another time, as this short tale of our most noble Bob has already filled the available sheets. Another time, most admir'd readers.
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| Saturday, September 6th, 2003
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1:30 am
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| Saturday, August 2nd, 2003
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1:45 am
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Among the members of that superior race whom God has blessed with both kippers and powdered wigs, the desire to travel abroad, once initiated in a mind both noble and passionate, can be a dangerous urging that leads to fervid and limpid mésalliances among the children of the Feathered Snake. Young Bob knew this more personally than many, for by his courtesies and demeanour, he had once persuaded his father's mistress, the redoubtable Mrs. Carteblanche, to accompany him on a tour of the Southern Isles of America. My honoured readers have surely remembered Mrs. Carteblanche as the infamous pickler of Wittard Street, and so she became in later years, long after the incident with the florid assault amphibian which left her with scrofula, three glass insulators, and a daughter by the name of Harrietta. But while I have only spotty information about the months immediately preceding what we affectionately call the Spotted Dick incident, I can say with authority that when young Bob called on Wittard Street to bring his father's fancy lady to America del Sud, she was as yet unscarred by the experience, and by the pox.
Together they travelled, whither and thither, here and anon, whence and thence, wheresoever Bob's caprice did lead them, until at last he was fell'd in an incident of singular depravity. I had joined them in Panama, and did greet Bob with the gravitas which was his due, saying "Sir, I would that you would allow me to join you on your remarkable journey, for my regard for you is very great, and I find my affectionate imaginings of you are untainted by my knowledge of the presence of your father's capricious and brazen wench." So saying, I led the way through the jungle, with which I was most familiar due to my extensive reading and the persuasive sensibilites of the ship's navigator. As I cut down another vine with my machete, I heard Bob say from behind me, "Hey, watch out for that jararaca," but no sooner did the forlorn cry reach my tender ears that I most helplessly lay outstretched and senseless upon the most uncaring ground. And whilst I thus slept, unable to act as protector, the shamless hussy did persuade Bob, by means inexplicable, to part first with his clothing and then with his money, after which she most uncivilly demanded he partake of her blockade-run brandy, and left him there senseless beside me, where he lay in morbid and exposed melancholy, far from his usual youthful vigour, until I awoke to find myself, not wholly disturbed by the uncommon turn of events, by his side.
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| Wednesday, May 28th, 2003
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1:18 am
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In his later years, between periods of great melancholy, Bob was sometimes possessed of grand fits of ebullient joy. When thus taken, he would bound outdoors and across the meadow, leaping like a fawn. The buttercups suffered slightly from the event, but I could never bring myself to rein in the bouncing Bob. I merely watched out the picture window, tears trickling down into my beard, as Bob, thoroughly unaware, recalled to my mind the fresh-cheeked tyke he had been when we frolicked together in the Meadow of Medea, lo those many years ago.
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| Sunday, April 20th, 2003
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11:28 pm - my diary is in a rhythmic mode
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I've been informed by cryers in the town
That celebrations under way this week
Commemorating for the honor of
The Bard's own natal day, ordain forthwith
Insist that all my writings be in verse.
Perforce, to tell the sordid tale of he
Who deemed that Bob (Dear Bob! Great Bob!) was yet
Too young to be allowed to drink his ale
And thus told wretched tales around the town
Attempting to get Bob forbidden from
The taverns, pubs, and alehouses therein
Is apropos. Beginning on the morn
I'll tell this tale, so suited to the tread
Of daily serials. And if my voice
And tone and style appear to change, as if
These lines were written by a multitude
Of voices, that, I can assure you here
Is merely your imagination's trick.
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| Wednesday, March 19th, 2003
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11:42 am - The Diet of Bob
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Despite his youthful appearance, his firm and muscular thighs, his toned chest, and the blush of down on his peach-like cheek, young Bob was singularly concerned with his diet. Not for him mutton and ale, not for him porridge and tea. No, Bob was a student of the classics, and meticulously designed a diet which emulated, as best it could, that of Euripides. Through careful study, Bob determined that Euripides beginning each morning (with the exception of Thursdays) with a single serving of quail braised in port wine, delicately dusted with nutmeg. On Thursdays, Bob's research revealed, Euripides did not break his fast until three hours after the noon bell had struck, at which point he began his day with a cup of chocolate, a roasted haunch of beef, and a parsnip.
Through this diet, Bob hoped to attain the brilliance of the great playwright.
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| Wednesday, March 5th, 2003
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3:43 am - But I digress
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Certainly I do not wish to get ahead of my story, though in my years of knowing Bob, he was known to have an effect on me, drawing my thoughts away from the task at hand, rendering me speechless for hours at a time with the awesome strength of his will and the aphoristic nature of his speech. If, therefore, in his biography, I begin to wander, speaking now of his birth, now of his life in school, now of his old age, now of his ill-fated marriage, then I cannot but beg the indulgence of my readers, and pray that any confusion they may endure will only help them understand better my own mindset in the presence of the greatness of the man of whose life I now write.
Therefore, I find my thoughts drawn from the moment of his birth, to the accident with the zarf and the almost inevitable suberic nature of its solution, and now to his third year at Eton. I myself had been a student there, naturally, and I was living not far from the school, in part for the bucolic setting with its convenience to London, in part to keep an eye on Bob as he grew to manhood, and in part to keep an eye on all the other fresh, young boys on their way to manhood.
Bob, at the time of which I now write, was fagging for one of the Seniors, a handsome blond boy named Palmondersonshireson, which was inexplicably pronounced "Paulson." Palmondersonshireson was a decent fag-master, looking after Bob as he struggled through some of the challenges of life in a boarding school, among them Latin, mathematics, and sleeping on a bed instead of his accustomed bale of hay. I was lucky to be passing by the cricket field, where Palmondersonshire was just then batting, and Bob was just beyond the boundary, blacking his fag-master's boots. Having finished the left, preparing to start the right, I chanced to overhear Bob say to himself, "Having finished the left, I must now start on the right."
The insight he showed at such a tender age! To utter those words, which would prove so prophetic, and would inspire, if not countless generations after him, at the very least his own valet, twenty years later. Palmondersonshireson has been forgotten by history (though he was a fine batsman at Eton, and I believe there is a plaque in a corridor somewhere; and I wonder now if that was the same Palmondersonshireson who distinguished himself in the House of Commons), but the words and deeds of Bob endure.
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| Friday, January 17th, 2003
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12:45 am
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Another memory of my time with Bob rises to the surface of my mind like a stone rising to the surface of a pond. I remember that sad day as if it were yesterday. Bob was at the age when all young men begin preparation for Eton, when they will be shaped into the gentlemen who will create the world. Young Bob didn't understand why he could not have a tutor like other boys, but was forced, instead, to stay inside his pen with a bale of hay. How could his grieving parents explain that he, dear Bob, was not like the other boys? How could they explain that the tragic accident with the zarf and the too-hot coffee had left him ... different?
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| Wednesday, January 15th, 2003
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4:53 am - The Early Years of Bob
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I, Boswell, had the great fortune to be present at the birth of Bob. From his first moments there was never any question that Bob would be a man of greatness, a man of character, a man of a three-letter name. This last was true because, upon gazing at her son, the bawling infant's mother swayed back and forth a little, said, "Bob?", and immediately fell unconscious. (We would later learn that she had not been naming her son, but in fact had been addressing the doctor, Bob Landon, with whom she had been carrying on in a most unbecoming way for a number of years. The manner in which this revelation came out may be taken up at a later point in my text.)
How could we know, looking at that crying, rather purple, somewhat lizardlike thing cradled in the midwife's arms that this would one day become the man who would inspire us all, whose words would fall before us like pearls before swine, whose every breath would descend like the morning dew over our heads, and who, ultimately, would not get the proper sepillation he deserved? All that I can say is that, just as those three wise men must have once stood in a barn so many centuries ago, looking at the young infant, knowing that He was something special brought forth into the world...just as they knew, we knew, although we didn't have the overpowering smell of sheep manure to contend with.
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12:21 am - Life of Bob
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