Me and Dave

I have an announcement to make. I intended to go to the grave with this information known only to me and to one other. Not my own grave, mind you, but the grave of Fatty Arbuckle, until I remembered that he was cremated, and his ashes were spread over the Pacific Ocean. I suppose I could have gone to the Pacific Ocean with the information, but it just wouldn't be the same without a headstone upon which to unleash my mourning and reflection. I wonder if they make floating headstones for burials at sea. If they don't I have dibs on inventing them. Don't even think about stealing my idea. Blogs are legally binding in patent court. You can look it up. I don't expect to have a grave of my own, choosing instead to fall from a cliff to be left in anonymity and natural disgrace as the wild boars of Dover feast on my corpse.

I can no longer keep my secret to take to anybody's grave, even convenient ones like that of Wally Dandrel, who put his grave on the Internet (www.wallylieshere.com). The circumstances surrounding my secret have become too volatile to hold dear, thanks to that blabbermouth, David Letterman. Since, as you may have heard in the news lately, the ex-weatherman late night funny man seems determined to scrub his dirty laundry on national television using the ancient art of monologue, not unlike the Sophoclean King Creon as he set forth a course for the demise of his own insouciant little world, I thought I had better fess up before I ended up in another Top Ten list (the other time was March 6th, 1989: Top Ten Microbial Disinfectants Used by the Supreme Court).


I had an affair with David Letterman.


There. I said it. I'm not proud of it, but I'm also not ashamed of it. He was good to me. Although our affair never made it to the orifice compromising stages many people associate with affairs, the emotions were the same, because there was magic in that hand shake on that bus that day. And like Oprah, he was gentle and tender with me and held me afterward as I wept.

I admit this now in the hopes of saving my family from further embarrassment and to keep the tabloids and paparazzi at bay. That, and I want to ensure they get my part of the story correct when the very special made for TV movie about the David Letterman Affairs is released in time for the February sweeps this television season (starring the caustic Danny Bonaduce as the ambrosial Moist Rub). I'm sure they will offer a generous royalty package for those of us who have become victims of Letterman's lechery as we are splattered across television sets worldwide. Also, look for a cameo by Richard Simmons as an anonymous shopper at Rupert Jee's Hello Deli. He's fabulous!

To Roderick From Maggie May

Maggie May stopped by for a visit earlier this week. I was surprised to see her, since I had no idea who she was. After I made some tea and we caught up with what each of us has been doing the past sixty years, I asked her to explain her presence in my abode (I ask the same thing of my children each day when they come home from school. The first few times they would answer something like, “I live here”, but eventually they grew tired of my interrogation and now simply give me the ignorant look and head for the snack cabinet.). Maggie told me she needed my help to contact Rod Stewart so she could tell him something about the song he wrote about her. She has not been able to regain contact with him over the years. I informed her that I was not acquainted with Rod. She explained further that Barbra Streisand had referred her to me because of Leper Pop. Apparently, Ms. Streisand is a regular reader and knows for a fact that Rod checks in a few times a week. So, Maggie asked me if I would help her and post a note for Rod on the blog. Below is her message.

This is a personal communication between two ex-lovers. I would appreciate if everyone else would respect their privacy and not read it. Thank you for your cooperation.

Hello Roderick,

It’s been quite some time since I’ve talked to you. The last time I saw your face in person, you were grimacing in ecstasy, chucking your muck on top of me. It is an image that is etched upon my mind. I’d like to say I hope you have been well, but I can’t.

I appreciate that you had written a song about me. While I do not think you depicted our relationship accurately, I understand that you were very young and confused at the time. What I do NOT understand is why you chose to make a comment about your perceived impression of the aged state of my face (in case your decrepit mind does not recall the line: “the morning sun when it’s in your face really shows your age”). There was no need for it as it relates to the rest of the song, unless you felt the urge to let the world know how superficial you really are. I was only 29 years old at the time, for crikey sake! You didn’t seem to mind my aged face while I was giving your tadger a tongue bath, now did you? Besides, you went on to state in the song that my face didn’t “worry you none”, so why even bring it up?

You can’t imagine the ridicule I’ve dealt with over the years because of that lyric. Men would chide me in the street. “Maggie, could you please step into the shade so we don’t see your age?” “Maggie, would you mind wearing this burlap sack on your head until dusk?” “Maggie, can we finish this conversation at night or at least in a closet?” It got to the point where I would only go outside or near a window at night. And even then, some guys would shine a torch in my face and tell me how old I looked. I know I was no Felicity Kendal, but I was no trog, either, even at the still young age of 29.

I don’t know if you have looked in a mirror recently, but it doesn’t take the brightness of the morning sun to show your age lately. Blimey, a full solar eclipse in a dense fog could do the job. Maybe I should write a song about it. Tell me, what rhymes with crag?

The song was a nice little earner for you. I wish I could say the same thing about me. There are no royalty laws on the books governing the compensation for the muses of popular, lucrative art. Otherwise, I would not have had to spend the last thirty years heaving pollocks in a Newlyn fish market and living in a caravan underneath the wharf. I know you are a very talented man and deserve your riches. Still, it would not have killed you to send some of that crust my way.

I’ve said my piece. But, before I go, I do have to question another lyric in my song. “Oh, Maggie I couldn’t have tried anymore.” I think you quite possibly could have. Instead of writing a song about the feelings you had about our relationship, maybe you could have, I don’t know, maybe talked to me about it. Unless your definition of “trying” is sneaking out before I woke up without saying a word or leaving a note. Heavens, if you had written, “Later, bitch!” on my mirror with your lipstick, that would have been considered trying harder than what you actually did. But, I’m not bitter. I will leave you alone now.

Good-bye, Roderick.

Maggie May

p.s. what is that thing on your face by your mouth, by the way? Is that a button you installed to make your wanker go up and down? Just wondering. But, I’m not bitter.

This has been a public service announcement brought to you by Leper Pop and the Council for Aged Faces.