JIMMY

jimmypercey
i'm in a quandry
Thu Aug 31 20:33:58 2000


alright, here's the situation
i'm making dinner and as an appetizer i'm preparing pan seared risotto cakes encrusted in a mild, semi-soft cheese;
this is where trouble arises, i have two suitable cheeses, brie and chevre, at my disposal. I'm at a loss as to which one to use. Any suggestions?

jimmyp
why don't we ask beebs, he'll know
Thu Aug 31 21:34:48 2000

***

jimmypercey
i've been thinking about ethan again
Fri Sep 1 16:28:19 2000


i was wandering the streets solitary and alone when i saw him sitting outside a caf; he was alone as well, drinking a latte and reading zola, we babbled and chattered for hours on end and he has me changing my mind about him yet again, i know he's just a man, but then weren't jesus and socrates just men as well; regardless of his deityhood ethan still enjoys a good time, he's more of a pagan god or demigod if you look at things from that respect; we ended up drinking at his appartment, ethan enjoys newcastle ale and i'm developing a fondness for it as well, especially in light of the positive associations it will carry for me from last night into unfolding eternity, we listened to the louvin brothers, "satan is real," i believe, ethan remarked that, indeed, satan IS real and i believe him too; he made a pun about the louvin spoonfulls and i laughed politely before playfully comenting that "the pun is the lowest form of humor;" it really isn't but don't tell ethan i said so

***

jimmypercey
a bit of unbound verse for...
Sat Sep 2 12:28:23 2000


ethan with an e

it's ethan with an e
and a superflous one tacked on to his surname
so decadantly
was this some misguided ploy
on the part of his mother
to make her beautiful boy
into a living breathing deity
i saw ya hanging round london's hethrow
i shouted to you what's up etho
you were wearing a suit looking unusually sharp
and you waved from the back of a virgin airlines cart
then you dissapeared into the lonely night
and never awnsered me
ethan with an e

***

jimmypercey
i felt that ethan
Tue Sep 5 01:21:16 2000


was a little hostile to thurston moore. I just don't get it. They're both the top of the pops in my book. Why does ethan have to get so jealous all the time. And sometimes he'll just explode with rage over the most trivial matters. He once tried to dismember a man who cut him off in traffic. It's a side of him i'd rather not see.

* * *

After st. francis, using a cryptic italian koan, exhorted ethan and i to head to sri lanka, it seemed only natural that we invide our sometime friend and always resident mongoose expert, the bbc. We called him on the phone and he was more than willing to go. It seems that beebs is a bit of a melancholy spirit and, owing to said temprement, doesn't have a terrible amount of things to do. He came prepared, wearing a turban and 7 veils of finest silk stitched and patched all about his shall we say, statuesque, frame. It was a grand time as we headed to that island so fondly termed the teardrop of india, all tea and imperialisim in the more chic parts of bombay. We boarded a raft down the ganges and, with the expert navigational skills of one ethan hawke, we found our way to old ceylon. the island flowed and writhed with cobras
quite apparently it was our task, as bequeathed by good francis,
to drive them out
and we routed the cobras with our mongoose/geese pack
at its helm was old matthew
on an ind'n elephant's back
we arose in triumph
celebrating our bold victory over the snakes
to the fawning masses beebs ironically shouted "let them eat cake"
now it's back to new york, or connecticut at least
for the bbc, our hero
who slew the serpentine beast

* * *

With a little wrangling, in French of course, we were able to extract the beeb from his canadian prison predicament. It was a cold and windy day when ethan hawke and I drove up into the outskirts of Montreal to save the bbc, but it ended on a heart, and stomach, warming note when ethan, beebs, and I rode the ferris wheel in an amusement park in lower saskatchawan while partaking of some of the best, steamingest hot chocklet on that side of the border. It reminded me of the ferris wheel just outside the louvre in paris, except it was rather small and dangerous and in the woods. But that was ok, the bbc was on the outside again. He was looking astonishingly healthy. He'd actually put on weight in jail; apparently he developed an unquenchable fondness for real canadian bacon. Couple that with the tins of cream chipped beef we'd been smuggeling him, and mat perpetua was a happy boy. The story of his release was a rather remarkable one. It seems that, shortly after beebs arrived in jail, there was a prision wide talent show to be held. Beebs, the natural preformer that he is, just had to grace his fellow inmates with a rousing rendition of "I Chewed My Lip SO Good!," which was actually a minor hit on canadian top forty radio when it was first released. The inmates rioted. It was as if the Beatles were there, preforming Help! for the very first time. Beebs was surrounded by guards hoping to preserve his special talent by throwing themselves into the onslaught of rollicking jailbirds, leaving beebs, he of the ever so weak bonestructure, to wiggle and shimmy in peace. By the time etho and I arrived, the combined total of etho and beebo's star power, as well as the occasional bon mot from me, was enough to get matthew released, no questions asked. So here we were in an amusement park situated on a quaint quasi-english stretch o'heath. Matthew had fought the law and won, now there was only one challenge left for him to undertake, bobbing for SPAM...

* * *

We drove on and ended up spending the night at a grand hotel on chicago's southside. Ethan, matronly chap that he can occasionally be, took it upon himself to retire early and enjoy the luxury of fine choclates, a soft bed, and a dip in the whirlpool. That left just beebs and myself. Not knowing the town very well, we hung around the hotel lounge and bar. Steve Malkmus was on the mic, struggling through a horrendous version of "Dankashane." It was somewhat sad. Beebs was living the fast life, downing gin and tonics like there was no tomorrow to wash down the raw bacon on which he was feasting. It occoured to me at this point that matthew bears an astonishing resemblance to a cleanshaven henry VIII. Zounds! Within the hour he was well at it, looking bloated and inebriated and starting off on a bit of a crying jag. He went on some long speil about how he "just wants to know (his) body, is that so wrong." "No beebs, no," I'd say, that's allright, and you're allright. The conversation developed from there and for some reason I mentioned that dressing up in authentic glam rock garb would help him achieve his goal. I had just the ticked, an actual "halloween jack" era bowie costume. I lent it to him and he's been wearing it ever since, though, frankly it's a bit tight on him and, coupled with the deep purple mascara he's taken to wearing, makes for a rather horrendous sight. He went on stage to preform a duet on "fashion" with the malkster. The two of them seemed to really enjoy it, though I have a slightly different opinion of there preformance. From what I can tell, leave it to beebster has been posting as david bowie ever since.

* * *

Wu Meek Interview! Matster P. and GZA
Fri Nov 24 00:59:47 2000


MAtthew P.: How do you do Mr. GZA. I've several vinyl versions of your latest "joint," and I must say I'm quite impressed. Well, let me drop this fack in for ratification,The Source refers to your release as a "hip hop opus," do you think you've done for hip hop what Pearl Jam did for post-arena rock with Yield.

GZA: No.

MattheW P. : on and on then. You're a fairly outstanding member of the Wu tang Clan, even of your genre as a whole. Would you consider yourself to be a Malkmusesque figure in the rap world, a pinnicale of musical standards and post-ironic witticism?

GZA,: No man. I think you're thinking of my boy Jeru the Damaja.

Matster P. : Jeru is exemplary! His hard face stylings and magnetic persona certainly turned the world of underground, underworld beats on its toes. I'm quite the aficionado of Jeru's art, in fact, I sample him on my own work, "nOw we MusT WeAr PrOtEcTive GEAR." Let me get it for you. I've got the tape near at hand.

Matt P. waddles over twoards his stereo and produces an elaborately decorated tape from his sweatpant's pocket.
He puts the tape in and raises the volume. "Now we must wear Protective Gear!" blares out, repeated ad infinitum in a winy, snide faux British accent. GZA's expression graduates from confusion to horror to utter disgust as the tape continues. In one fluid movement GZA rises from his seat, approaches the stereo, presses the stop button, and lightly pushes matthew onto his back. A large stack of rare vinyl albums falls on matthew, traping him on his back like an overfed tortise turned upside down. GZA walks out the door saying, "see you buddy. I've got business to attend to."

* * * ** * *

james percey
the all too frequent follies of Hecate
Fri Dec 8 23:27:56 2000


The Scene: a small caf on the north side of London's South Kennsington district

The Players: Ethan Hawke, sporting a long grey frockcoat, a frilly dress shirt, and velour pantaloons;
Lord James Percey, wearing a tasteful black and white ensemble with thin tie tied around a turned up collar, a look reminiscent of the fashion in 1930's Parliment;

various and sundry other minor players

Ethan and James sit in the back of the Cambridge caf, sipping black coffee and munching on mediocre burberry scones.

Ethan: Let's be off now, Lord Jimminy, South Kenn's rise in fashionability has been coupled with a decline in taste.

James: Where to, then, Etho? I would suspect that, by those standards, all of London has become a bore.

Ethan: Yes, but my standards, much like my morals, are singularly malleable. I adjust them to suit my whims. I suggest we head to Soho, where the crass has by virtue of time and circumstance, been elevated to the level of highest art.

James: Oh you're wicked. Let's pay then.

Ethan takes the check, leaving a distinctly modest tip.

James: I'd think one of your position could afford to be more generous.

Ethan: You must understand, dear James, that miserleyness is the luxury of the very rich. The lower orders feel inclined to flaunt their wealth, the higher, to disregard it.

James: A convoulted set of reasoning if ever I saw one. You and Hume must get on splendidly. Let's be off.

They taxi over to Soho, and enter one of the many bars.

Ethan:(flailing his hands in an attempt to grab the waiter's attention) Waitkeep, bring us three Caffery's ales.

James: Why three ales, Ethan?

Ethan: As a show of decadence. Decacadance, if done in the proper fashion, is more indicative of breeding than the most stingy of spending habits. The lower orders never do such things properly, the bourgoise fail to grasp the sort of lan required to do such gestures justice. Besides, I'm making a point to our waiter, he's Eustace MacGraves, the disgraced Guiness heir.

James: Why would a Guiness heir be working at a bar in London's soho?

Ethan: Oh, that means nothing these days. It's along the lines of your title, Lord James, it raises others' expectations of one's wealth without actually producing any.

James: It's a curse for him indeed. My Lordship has brought me nothing but taxes and trouble.

They continue to drink for an hour or so. Ethann tries to inflict shame on Eustace MacGraves by ordering several rounds of Guinness. This raised the ire of MacGraves, who eventually escorted Ethan from the establishment. Lord James followed Ethan out, but first paid the bill, leaving a substantial gratuity.

Ethan: That sort of indignity will not go unawnsered. I'm to meet young MacGraves in Slone Square tomorrow at three. This besmirchment of my reputation will be avenged by his death. I've proposed a gentalmanly duel, something I doubt that vulgar wretch is able to comprehend. Tomorrow then, Ethan, now we'll dine at Hassan's in south London. (motions for a cab) Driver...

The scene: Ethan's flat in South Ken.; Trafalgar Square

The players: The always dapper Ethan Hawke
Lord James Percey bedecked in his best cashmere riding frock
Eustace Macgraves,a long-jowled, rather raggedly dressed Guinness heir
Stable Geek: a corpulent young miscreant with a penchant for blood pudding and a pencil thin moustache

Inside Ethan's Flat
enter lord James into room with ethan already sitting, smoking west-indian tobacco in his pipe and lounging in his lounging chair

Ethan: Anon, Lord James. Today I duel and play the part of cruel fate in bringing death upon the head of Eustace MacGraves!

James: I'll second that, Etho! I trust that fate shall not reverse and bring death upon the hand it enlisted to bear it.

Ethan: James, you're a pessimist through and through.

James: Quite the opposite Ethan, I'm an Anglican.

Ethan: My condolances James. There's one matter to be setteled before I take up honorable arms against young Macgraves. He's in no position to find a suitable second, I'll play the gentleman and send him one.

James: Who, praytell, do you plan to send him.

Ethan: Our stable boy of course, it shall be the quite the slap in Macgraves face. He'll know we don't think him fit to have a proper gentleman as a second, and there's not a thing he can do about it.

James: Rousing!

Ethan: Indeed.
(speaking to butler,Algernon)Algy, do fetch me some stationary.
(He scribbles a note on the silvery paper)
Make sure this matter is attended to.

Scene: later that morning in Trafalgar Square

Ethan: Well, MacGraves, I'm quite pleased to see you've come to defend you're dignity.

MacGraves: If duels are fought to preserve one's dignity, I hardly see why you've shown up at all.

Ethan: Clever, MacGraves, but I think you'll find your flourishes of wit as useful as French lan proved against the Prussian onslaught. Let's be on with it!

Ethan and Eustace pace twords their respectiv sides, 35 aces each. As their seconds march out to present them with their revolvers, the Stable Geek fires a shot that just grazes the tip of Ethan's boiler cap. Lord James makes a run in the direction of the stable Geek and, in a miraculous feat of stregenth, pins his much larger opponent to the statue of Lord Nelson in the square's center. Ethan and Eustace run over and secure the Stable Geek to the statue, using a large amount of rope they just happened to have on hand.

Ethan: Well MacGraves, it appears that the duel is off, you're second has proven to be of lower morality than yourself. I suppose James and I will take a small luncheon at Pret A Manger near St. Paul's. Goodday, sir.

James: That saga serves to prove one thing, that one cannot trust the lower orders. That stable boy, Perpetua, turned out to be of a most unsavory character.

Ethan: How I long for the gilded days of Metternich! Yes, it's a shame that one can no longer trust the very middle of the middle class, they lack a sense of social responsibility. I pity MacGraves, the ignominy of being seconded by one of such low morals, and a commoner at that, will forever keep him out of the House of Lords.

James: The scandel! I suppose that MacGraves recieved his proper comeuppance. What else can come of forming friendships with an enemy's help. If one must upset the social order, one should at least be properly dressed for the occasion, that, if you ask me, was MacGraves tragic flaw.
You couldnt get a cab in Paris, or, at least, you couldnt get one at this time of day during this time of year. I was in I stood in front of the Place de la Concord, waiting in a long line in front of the Hotel Concorde for a taxi. I was supposed to meet Ethan for dinner in a half hour, but our hotel was miles away, tucked into some quiet enclave of the Champs-Elysees district. I should have had ample time to get back to the hotel, but Id frittered the hours away riding the Ferris wheel in the park in front of the Louvre. The weather was of no help as well. The cold ran unfettered through the windswept city, taking every opportunity to chill the weak frame of any climate sensitive American tourist it happened upon. Half an hour passed; I was freezing and now properly late, and I knew that impatient bastard Ethan Hawke was going to throw a fit. Drama queen! Just then a strangely colored cab pulled up to the line of taxis that had formed to accommodate the even more numerous line of tourists, but, instead of pulling up and moving with the line, this one stayed back, waiting for something. I was cold and desperate and couldnt pass this opportunity up, so I jumped into the taxi and announced where I was going. I sat in welcome repose and savored the taxis heat. After a few minutes of driving, though, I was roused out of my state of tranquillity, something was amiss, the cab was headed in the wrong direction. "Pardonez moi, monsieur, mais etes vous certain que cest le raison manner daller a les Champs Elysees," I asked. "Oh oui monsieur," said my noticeably hefty cab driver in a voice that was oddly, eerily familiar, "nous prenons un chemise tres especial, huua, huuua, huuuuua". That peculiar laugh, stifled by a third chin, resounded in my mind like the Liberty Bell. This was no French cabby, it was my old nemesis, Matthew Perpetua, cleverly disguised in a beret and borrowed mustachio. I was in for a wild cab ride. "Je sais qui vous etes, Perpetua, I announced." "Perpetua, ce nest pas moi," he responded, "je suis un eleve de Cordon Bleu, jaime manger les lapins et jaime manger vous, pour ce soir je vais prepare un crepe de Jimmy Percey." After unveiling this cryptic scheme, Matthew clubbed me over the head with a crusty baguette he had in his back pocket, which left me in a state of temporary paralysis, I could see, hear, and think, but could not move. Matthew drove on until we arrived in the Marais. He parked the cab next to a snow covered city park, carried me out of the cab, and tied me to a bench with an assortment of Twizzler brand licorice. It was a horrible, sticky situation I found myself in. Matthew drove off, exiting a hackneyed "au revoir Percey." I laid prostrate on the bench, helpless and in terrible pain. The cold had begun its cruel, efficient march, rendering my bodys best defenses useless against its callous, unrelenting onslaught. Within a few moments I fell into the depths of a hallucination in which I saw that same fair park as it had appeared on a summer day not six months earlier. It came in one grand, green poetic vision that allowed me to temporarily forget the cold and the rather shabby situation I was in.

I happened upon
the one cool place
separate from the heat and sweat
of the parched Parisian day

a green beacon just past
the ins and outs and alleyways
of that sweltering swamp Marais

I stretched out on the prim, trim grass
and watch a swirling scene
unfold upon that pleasant green

it was three or so
the last late lunch hour
and the overhot town slid into repose

the genteel masses flocked
to this insulated wood
which sat misplaced in their opulent town
dwarfed by gold and spires

housewives carried their children to the park
to sit on blankets and watch the infants
as the older ones
run tumbling out
kicking up dust
and scattering to the corners of their park
in some newly commenced game

well dressed men arrived to hide
from the heat and their work
they looked absurdly dignified
in their dark suits and hats and ties
as they slip eastward
toward suburban homes

and the old men laid out lazily like myself
simply watching the weather
from an alcove in summer

the picture continued in cycle
with each group replaced by
a group of similar people
the children and mothers at play
cleaned up, moved out, and passed
their own counterparts on their way
marching in to fill their vacant place

I felt as if Paris
were putting on some farcical show
as the coming night rose up
and drew the scene to a close

After this vision I blacked out. Upon waking up, I found myself back at the hotel, sitting in a warm bed as Ethan Hawke served me hot tea from one of the hotels silver services. I drank. I could move again. Joy!
I asked Ethan what had happened and how Id arrived. He promised to tell me the whole tale later, but left me with one key, "always know, young James, that you have a most exceptional friend in one Gerard Depardieu." I then fell into exhausted sleep.

Translations:Pardon me, sir, but are you sure that this is the way to the Champs-Elysees," I asked. "Oh yes sir," said my noticeably hefty cab driver in a voice that was oddly, eerily familiar, "we're taking a very special path, huua, huuua, huuuuua". That peculiar laugh, stifled by a third chin, resounded in my mind like the Liberty Bell. This was no French cabby, it was my old nemesis, Matthew Perpetua, cleverly disguised in a beret and borrowed mustachio. I was in for a wild cab ride. "I know who you are, Perpetua", I announced. "Perpetua, that isn't me," he responded, "I am a student at the Cordon Bleu academy, I like to eat rabbits and I'd love to eat you, for tonight I'll prepare my famous crepe filled with onions, cheese, and Jimmy Percey."

Les jouers des roles:
James Percey; the dapper and always cheerful lord of Kenniswich Manner
Mr. Percavial Toppins: an uncommonly dignified penguin, one of high standards of manner and dress and even higher morals, Mr. Toppins has taken to sporting a monocle as of late
Ethan Hawke: one who defies description
Millicent Perpetua: a servant boy, until recently confined to the stables, uncouth and ill mannered, his pantaloons overflow with magnificent girth

La scne: Percavial Toppins apartment, an opulent and well furnished anomaly in Londons financial district which is so charmingly referred to as the city
James, Ethan, and Toppins sit in the drawing room, smoking pipes of West Indian tobacco, a task to which only Toppins is fairly accustomed, and on which, perhaps consequently, he performs with an aire of much greater verisimilitude than Ethan or James, who look much like that which they are, actors.

Ethan stands up and announces in a ceremonial fashion: Well there, doffers, I suspect that Ill have to make all haste to leave you fine fellows and arrive at Pret Manger for a little meeting with an actress friend.
Mr.: Toppins: Aye, mboy, I fear that, when you leave our company for such pursuits, youre eschewing civilization and rushing into the arms of vulgarians. On that note, let me call for Millicent, who I might refer to as our resident vulgarian, that is, of course, if my sense of Crowleanitian piety did not prohibit my pointing out the faults of others, even amongst the lower orders. Millicent!

Enter Millicent Perpetua

Mr. Toppins: Fetch young Ethan his overcoat.

Millicent does so and shows the greatest of deference to Ethan as he shows him out.

Mr. Toppins: Terrible boy, that Millicent. Hes only recently disgraced himself through nefarious conduct in a duel. It pains me to associate with him.
James: Then why, Mr. Toppins, do you keep him in your home? Frankly, James, there was a time when I felt a modicum of pity for him, he is an unsightly thing, and dimwitted to compound his poor lot.
James: Astounding! I never thought of sympathy as being your bread and butter, or even your crumpet and marmalade.
Mr. Toppins: It is neither. I must admit to having a less admirable reason for allowing Millicent Perpetua to defile my home. He is, it pains me to say, my son, a bastard child born out of my passion for a German girl of ill repute.
James: But, Toppins, it cant be possible, youre a penguin!
Mr. Toppins: Its entirely too true. What else could account for the unsightly and disheveled figure he casts as a human being?
James: Scandalous, Mr. Toppins, youll never make the House of Lords if word of this gets out. We must take action.
Mr. Toppins: My thoughts precisely! I have considered a plan, and have now concluded that it must be carried out. Ill furnish explanation as we go, but first he must be sedated. Here, hit him with this bottle of Shiraz, and do take care to see you knock him flat.

James confronts Millicent, who can be heard to sing, ere now ye fell in the lorry in the most pompous and horrible of accents. James, of godlike frame, has no trouble in wrestling Perpetua to the ground. James stands up, dusts himself off, and cracks Millicent on the head with a bottle of wine.

Mr. Toppins: A fitting omen, for soon well send him packing to the isle of the Aborigines from whence that Shiraz came. Do help me cram him into this crate.

Jimmy and Toppins succeed in fitting the corpulent serving boy into a gigantic crate, and have him shipped off to Sydney Port. They celebrate with a ride in a hot air balloon.

Mr. Toppins: I say, Ethan, this is in all truth an incredible view of fair London town.
James: Agreed, Mr. Toppins, but no earthly beauty can compare to the joy of packing vile Millicent away in the knowledge that one will not soon see him again. The thought of his absence warms my heart with joy. A rollicking day its been!
Mr. Toppins: Agreed! Altogether Rousing!

Mr. Toppins raises his monocle to the sky in a gesture of ebullient delight.

Finis

james reginald percey
Into the fray, Ahoy!
Mon Feb 19 21:55:08 2001

It was a cold february morning. Ethan and I had gotten up early to partake of strong black coffee, or weak con leches in Etho's case, and boisenberry muffins. We sat inside the oxford street cafe, which was walled in by grand bay windows on three of its sides. The light which diffused through the windows on a cold, cloudless day such as thisglimmered and blazed as if there were no windows at all, and produced, in one who was perceptive and spend a fair amount of time inside the cafe, the unnatural sensation that one was actually outside, yet somehow insulated from the icy cold. Ethan, who is rather dull, noticed none of this. Around eleven thirty we were graced by the presence of Candice Wilder, his newest romantic interest. Candice was the daughter of one of those increasingly rare, american ducal families who time has so firmly established that the vulgar origins of their wealth have been all but forgotten. She was insipid and I detested hewr, so i left stupid ethan to endure her alone and walked the winding path toward the local sandwich shop. The great intensity with which the sun bore upon me as I walked the quarter mile to the deli was nearly unbearable, but in persevered, as my personal philosophy of stoicism called upon me to do. I finally reached the sandwich shop and entered, pulling the doors and surveying the scene as Cool Hand Luke might have done if faced with the similar situation of entering a sandwich shop. As I observed my sandwich kingdom my eyes fell upon a most distressing sight. There, at the counter, was my old nemesis the BBC, petuantly begging his mother to let him order both a sailor and a reuben sandwitch. Mrs. P. is a hardliner, a regular mussolini by some descriptions, and she was having none of it. I admired her fortitude in the face of her son's ever so determined greed, and decided to assist her in curbing his enormus appetite. I produced the silver tipped cane which i was in the habit of carrying and handed it to the good woman, saying " i suspect This will serve you well madam perpetua." She nodded a gesture of thanks and proceded to beat young matthew with unmatched savagery. He sought shelter under one of the tables, but it broke under the mighty force of his mother's cane. The thrashing that ensued is one which it is not within my literary powers to describe. One who has seen the very face of hell is not eager to relive or recreate such a harroweing experience. I walked away before the full extent of the damege was done. There are other canes and, I trust, there will be other sandwich shops.

Anonymous
p. toppins
Wed Apr 2 23:21:54 2003
160.39.145.11

-Idle reader, before embarking upon my tale, which I hear to be much anticipated and hope will be much worth the anticipation waiting it, I find myself compelled to disabuse you of certain notions that have been propagated regarding my own character. Upon finally reading the set of tales regarding the adventures and follies of Sir James Percey and myself, I noted that I was not infrequently depicted as something of a short, round, foppish wag clinging absurdly to the vestiges of a decaying aristocratic tradition. Slanders! I am the scion of one of the most noble clans in all the degraded current world, my left side descended from Saxon dukes and my right from Pict warrior kings, and my own constitution bears all the marks of said nobility. I am far from short. In fact, I have a deserved reputation as one of the most statuesque penguins in all Antarctic France. And I doubt any who sees me would find me stout- I possess a hearty figure that would compare quite favorably with that of my most unworthy rival, the effeminate Ethan Hawke. As for foppish, I deny the charge. My typical wardrobe, though admittedly of highest quality, tends to consist of little more than a velour fedora (a necessity for any man of breeding) and a necktie, rich and modest, yet asserted by a simple pin. Regarding my politics, if striving to maintain a modicum of dignity in this fallen post-French Revolution world constitutes clinging to a moribund tradition, than I am guilty of doing so, and cling with gusto and delight. Having set straight these most pernicious fallacies, reader, I turn my attention to the matter at hand.

-Percevial Toppins, esq.

Some mornings ago, I found myself attending a lecture on the history of Republican Rome- held at Columbia University, in a building on 116th street and Broadway, for those who crave details of local color. The lecturing don, a fellow by the name of Carnes, was an entertaining enough, though with a bit of a paternalistic streak (during the water fountain water pressure protests of a few weeks before, he’d cautioned rioting students to make a considered analysis of their feelings about water pressure before joining in the violent fray.) James was enrolled in the course as well, but had fallen into the habit of arriving rather late. His unpunctual entrances tended to provoke quite a bit of disruption, especially since spring had started. Sir James, overjoyed at the shifting weather, had taken to attending morning lectures dressed in a tank-top (of the sort I’ve heard colloquially referred to as a “wife beater”) and bathing suit. Walking in each day half an hour behind schedule, the festive young lord often caused the entire class of two hundred to gasp in mixed astonishment and horror. The lecturer seemed especially troubled, and this display of youthful degeneracy often drove him to lose track of his talk and veer towards subjects of the most outlandish sort. It was quite a scandal.
At half past eleven I was diverted from the uplifting tale of Cincinnatius by the sight of young James careening through the large hall doors and cockily sauntering down the aisle. This time he’d gone too far. The speaker Carnes, more out of confusion than anger, ejaculated the query “What, exactly are you doing?” in the direction of Mr. Percey. Now take heed, reader, that James had of late been much taken by the warming weather. I dare say he’d caught spring fever. If anyone doubts it, listen to how he responded.
Turning towards the lectern, Mr. Percey, raising wild, big eyes towards the professor, began to sing, with a voice robust:

“O I’m the spirit of spring
And I’ve come to you to sing
My ship comes in with the equinox
And ‘til solstice I am king.”

This went on for twenty lines or more, all of which were sung as Sir James Percey moved down the row with all the alacrity and grace of a Renaissance English dancing bear. He only paused once, stopping midway down the hall to deal with a certain rotund interloper by the name of Mathieu Parpetua, who, not actually there for the course, had been diverted from his morning jog to Kentucky Fried Chicken by the smell of stale Entemann’s doughnuts left over from a conference that had been held in the hall the night before. Having earlier sat down in the hall to devour a case of iced, glazed pastries, had failed to notice students pouring into the lecture hall. Once the lecture had started his doughnuts were devoured, but he did not have the self-assurance to stand up and leave. (Now, reader, do not think me omniscient for presenting this particular tidbit of information. I am as humble about the extent of my knowledge as Socrates. The truth is that I am a thorough historian and have researched much about the day’s affairs, even to the point of conducting interviews.) Alack, then, on with the tale! Now, as Percey sauntered by Perpetua (who has not aged well, at all), he, though singing beautifully all the while, stopped to hand the redolent, roly-poly fellow the buttered scones out of a bag he held in his left hand. Being out of doughnuts, Perpetua was much in need of some source of glycogen. It was truly a generous act. To cap it off, he offered a grand mug full of coffee, which (by chance or by design I have not yet deduced) ended up poured over Mathieu’s delicate head. The stuff was heavily milked and sugared, merci a dieu!, so it did not scald Perpetua, but only added to the general stickiness of his flesh. Before the coffee and sugar soaked miscreant could react, however, Lord James was already nearing the back of the room. The lecture hall was on the building’s second floor and had regal bay windows cracked slightly open to cool the room. Finishing on the lines

“O I’m the spirit of spring
And too quickly I am gone
Yet don’t lament
For to flea I’m meant
Au revoir- filles et garcons”

He acrobatically slithered himself out the window- the opening could not have been more than a half foot wide, and getting through it was no mean feat, even by penguin standards, which are naturally rather high. Then he somersaulted out onto the college lawn, righted himself and set out to replace the buttered scones and coffee he’d rid himself of. The room let out a general gasp, and good professor Carnes, always one to make best of the worst, gathered himself after a half-minute of stunned silence and carried on with Cincinattius, as if nothing odd had happened at all.


P. Toppins

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