Monday, July 23, 2007

The Past is Another Country

I was intrigued by First Nations fascination with the 1920's. I can imagine her in full flapper gear, swigging back the gin and lusting after the dude riding the Big Chief Indian motorcycle.

I feel a bit out of time myself. I would be much more at home in 1950's Soho. I can imagine myself sipping whisky from a chipped tooth mug in some dingy bedsit, waiting for the pubs to open at midday. An afternoons liquid refreshment in the company of the wastrel bohemians would be crowned by a tongue lashing dished up at the Colony Rooms by the formidable Muriel Belcher. My liver wouldn't last long, but it would be well worth it.

Other bloggers strike me as belonging in other eras than the bland one we inhabit today.

Arabella is definitely a 1930's kinda gal. In the British context I can see her in a cloche hat, decorously sipping tea from a china cup in a Lyons Corner House. In the American context, she would most probably be perched on a barstool in a Chicago speakeasy, smoking a cheroot in a long cigarette holder and diggin' dat jazz ting.

Sid would be most at home as a 6th century monk in an isolated Irish monastery. His days would be spent adding fine calligraphy to the Book of Kells, batting off oversexed nuns, and taking crafty swigs of poteen from the flask artfully concealed beneath his cassock.

April would be an 1830's backwoods Injun, scalping intrepid Scots explorers and boiling them up in a big pot.

MJ would be perfect as a huge shoulder padded uber bitch in the dog eat dog world of 1985 Wall Street.

For Jungle Jane and Betty it is forever 1973. I can see them wearing enormous spangly boots and queuing up to see David Bowie's last performance of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars.

Bronwen would be 'Goody Bronwen' in Salem, Massachusetts during the witch hunts. Notable for her good sense and scepticism she would escape burning at the stake, just.

Tina, I imagine, would make a perfect suffragette. I don’t know how she’d cope with the corsets and crinoline, but I have no doubt that she would be more than happy to throw herself under a racehorse.

Lets face it folks, we just weren't made for these times.


MJ said...

I'm envisioning you now as an east coast version of Charles Bukowski. We could all be your barflies.

Don't make me relive the 80s. And I have a swimmer's build. No extra shoulder padding required.

I WOULD like a swig of that poteen though.

First Nations said...

smoking a thin, opium-soaked black cigar and absentmindedly carrying a dog-eared copy of Kant you roam the evening streets of Soho at a sensual saunter, looking for 'where it's at'.
meanwhile mj is downsizing entire midwestern states, outsourcing vital jobs and horking cocaine up off the battleship deck of her corporate desk with a 100$ bill!
dang, I like this! *rouging knees*

MJ said...

I am SO misunderstood.

garfer said...

A flaneur in a shabby old tailor made suit cadging drinks and smoking filterless cigarettes.

Life expectancy, 32.

Betty said...

Probably fairly accurate as far as I'm concerned, apart from the big spangly boots. I always had problems wearing those stack heels.

I could imagine MJ as tough but good hearted madam in a Wild West bordello in the mid 19th Century.

*runs away as quickly as possible from MJ, despite wearing stack heeled boots*

MJ said...

Betty's got me pegged.

Although given the choice it would have been a bordello in New Orlean's Storyville, late 1800s, early 1900s. Free flowing booze and Jelly Roll Morton playing piano.

Funny, as I was planning to do a posting on this today had I not been "overserved" last night.

Understood at last.

garfer said...

Forty petticoats, a bottle of Bourbon flung along the bar, and a revolver at the ready.

Don't mess with the MJ.

Arabella said...

An evening in the Club being called a "darling old cunty" after standing a drink or two for an old flame who has hit the skids, Garfer walks back to rooms in Fitzrovia, lights the fire and opens the engraved cigarette case she gave him years ago.
Blimey I'm welling up just thinking about it.
Or between the wars somewhere in Country Antrim:
a morning of mist and frost. He walks down from The Big House toward the wood, shotgun across his arm....
Woops, that could end in tears too. I seem to visualize you with a melancholy tinge.

garfer said...

I put it down to the Celtic twilight Arab. That and my propensity to cry over spilt milk.

I don't dance, although I can shuffle in a convincingly shambolic fashion.

What I need is a chaise longue and a bottle of laudanum.

suburban wonder said...

Oh, goody.

Frankly, I see you in 19th century France, hanging out with Rimbaud & Verlaine (would that be Piggy & Tazzy, now?). Have a penchant for Baudelaire?

MJ said...

A diamond handled revolver.

garfer said...

Rimbaud and Verlaine...hmmm.

Nah, Froggies the pair of them.

A diamond handled revolver with silver bullets.

S.I.D. said...

Garfy, you have me spot on!

Filthy habits and all.

*runs to vespers*