Hello internets, I’m Bill McMorrow. Bill McMorrow of billmcmorrow.com fame, you ask? Yes, that very same Bill McMorrow. I want to lead off this post with a couple of caveats.
I don’t live in Boston. I actually live in the Town of Whitman, about thirty minutes south of Boston.
I can’t stand when people refer to Boston as Beantown.
But I also can’t resist a good fucking rhyme. So you can see it’s quite the conundrum I’m dealing with.
When I was asked to host the Magnificent™ Le Clown for a day, I was taken aback. So many questions raced through my mind. Why was Le Clown traveling to my neck of the woods? Was he coming to Boston to take advantage of our world-class hospitals and have his back examined proper like by medical-type doctor guys instead of relying on his traditional Canadian witch-doctors? Was he coming to take in some of the historic sites that Boston is famous for? Like Cheers, or that other place? Will the language barrier between his outlandish Frenglish, which I can only imagine sounds like Inspector Clouseau (Sellers not Martin) and my thick, sexy Boston accent, think Diane Lane in ‘The Perfect Storm’, be too much for us to overcome? Did he bring me any presents?
He showed up at the crack of dawn, apparently. I didn’t wake up for a whole bunch of hours after that, but by the time I did get up and find him out there, he was not happy.
“Oh, bonjour, The Bill. How splendid of you to finally answer the door.” , Le Clown said dismissively.
“Holy shit” I screamed, “you scared the hell out of me, man. How long have you been standing out here?”
“Since the, how do you say, crack of fuck?! I had told you I would be here today, why were you not ready to greet me in a personable and timely fashion, hhhhhhhmmmmmmmmm?”
“I apologize Clown. It must be the time zone difference”, I said.
“But Montreal and Boston are in the same time zone”, LC replied.
“Sacre Bleu, you are correct!”, I blushed.
we I laughed.
“Well, Clown, what is it that you would like to do while your here? Besides take over the world and what not?”
“Bill, I have come to America to smell the sights, see the sounds and taste the odors of democracy in action. First off, I want to go see this Plymouth Rock that your dirty pilgrims landed on when they first arrived here. You know, before they forcefully removed the land from its rightful owners with small pox infested blankets and a campaign of genocide and then gave their descendants casinos in return? Even after they showed the pilgrims how to grow corn, or maize as it was known to their people.”
Shaking my head, I said, “No you don’t. Nobody willingly goes to see Plymouth Rock. Not unless you’re on a third grade field trip or something.”
“I am a guest in your land, and I want to see your Plymouth Rock! Drive me there immediately, if not sooner, or I shall call the Canadian Consulate post-haste!”
I decided that arguing with him would be futile, after the seventh or eighth time he told me arguing with him would be futile. We got in the car and made the half hour drive to Plymouth. On the way there, Le Clown instructed me on how to handle the throngs of admirers we were sure to encounter once we left the relatively safe confines of my car and mingled amongst “The Dirty Commoners” (His words, not mine)
Rules for Fan Interactions With Le Clown
- No direct eye contact is to be made with Le Clown, unless first pre-approved in writing.
- No personalized autographs are allowed. Le Clown is far too busy as it is to have to spend time spelling out your name. Unless it’s on a boob. Then it’s cool.
- Le Clown will not pose for photographs, unless you ask him to. Then he will.
- Le Clown reserves the right to change the rules for interacting with Le Clown at any time, without notice. Even right now. Or now.
- Le Clown reserves the right to make up rule 5 at a later date.
We arrived in downtown Plymouth and made our way to the most important piece of rock in American History, next to Guns N Roses debut album Appetite For Destruction. Naturally.
Le Clown looked perplexed. “The Bill”, he said, “This is the mighty boulder that the Pilgrims first set foot on when landing in your country of America, or what my people call “Upper Mexico”? This boulder is nothing more than a shoddy marketing gimmick to get people to part with their hard-earned loonies. Much like The Pet Rock or White Baby Jesus. I poop bigger than Plymouth Rock.”
“I told you that Le Clown, or I tried tell you. But you just get so gosh-darned excited with your love of history and learning things that you wouldn’t listen. You’re so fucking inquisitive, it’s adorable.” I tried to make it better, though. “While we’re here in Plymouth, why don’t we get some food? Maybe some lobsters or some clams? Let’s enjoy some of the delicious seafood that this region is known for.”
“No thank you, Bill. Before I left the Land of Candy I packed a duffel bag full of smoked meats. I also have this fanny pack full of gravy fries and cheese curds. I will just sit here quietly chewing away at my typical Canadian fare and staring at the side of your face whilst you whisk me away to another culturally significant landmark that will underwhelm me.”
His chewing wasn’t all that quiet, but the staring was nice.
We stopped by the house I grew up in, but nobody was home. Le Clown suggested breaking into the house and checking shit out. Maybe go all fruit loops and write disparaging shit about Barnum and Bailey‘s on the walls. He doesn’t like them, especially Barnum. Something about a stolen birthright and a missing heirloom or something. It’s a very convoluted story. He said if the cops come, he would just claim diplomatic immunity. I said, “Like that dude in Lethal Weapon 3?” Le Clown replied, “You mean the dude from Lethal Weapon 2, but exactly.” I totally meant the dude from Lethal Weapon 2. Sometimes I forget which Lethal Weapon I’m talking about because I love them all so much. But I wasn’t sure that I would be covered under LC’s diplomatic immunity plea, so we decided not to commit a B&E. ‘Cause I’m getting to old for that shit.
It was getting late and Le Clown needed to make it to Logan Airport for his flight back to Narnia. On the way into Boston, we took a detour to Causeway Street and “The Building That They Call The Boston Garden, But We All Know Ain’t Boston Garden” so Le Clown could see where his beloved Bruins play. He was incredibly happy, talking about Raymond Bourque, and Bobby Orr, and Cam Neely, and Vladimir ‘Rosie’ Ruzicka. He told me it makes him sad to have to pretend to be a Montreal Canadiens fan just to fit in at home.
“Bill, I bleed black and gold”, LC said, “But if anybody back home found out that I think Patrick Roy was a below average goalie who smells like poop and skates like a girl, I would be shunned. Much like the Amish, but with a little less beard. But if given the appropriate amount of time, I could grow a beard that makes a really Amish dude look like a less Amish dude. Promise me you will never tell my horrible secret to anybody. Even if they threaten to waterboard you or force you to watch five minutes of Two Broke Girls?” I promised Le Clown that his secret was safe with me, and I’m proud to say I kept my word.
We arrived at Logan and I dropped him off at Gate C. We waved goodbye and I pulled away from the curb. I shall never forget Le Clowns final words as he grew smaller in my rearview mirror.
“Hey asshole!! You were supposed to drop me off at Gate A!!”
Have a safe trip home, my friend. I hope you don’t get stopped at the border.