How to Talk to Old Farts

Our friends at Family Connection have taken a chronological excursion to the far end of the human lifespan, having already taken a stab at adolescence and fired shots at adulthood with precious advice about marriage and parenting those pesky adolescents. So now it’s on to the Geritol set. I confess sometimes there is no better cure for writer’s cramp than my Friends at Family Connection. God bless shallow shows of feigned corporate beneficence. Keep ‘em coming Son of Sigmund! The Captain’s comments in Autumnal orange.

Many of us are reluctant to initiate what we imagine will be difficult conversations for our aging parents or other relatives. Yet postponing these discussions can make critical decisions about finances, health care, legal issues and physical or social needs much more difficult when the need is upon us. If you’re searching for tips on initiating these types of conversations, join us for the November Family Connection seminar – Talking to Your Aging Relatives about the Future.

Whenever I speak with someone about the topic of aging relatives – code for curmudgeons in the guise of blood relatives – I inevitably hear the same old and tired refrain (I can’t resist the opportunity to pun – it’s like crack cocaine for me): “Remember, you’ll be old one day yourself. Treat your aging parents like you want your children to treat you when you are old and incontinent (OK, I added incontinent).” But these words have no hope of eliciting their desired effect when Mom poisoned Dad and then, seemingly overnight, turned the inheritance into a private liquor bunker in the basement of the family homestead. We think Mom died there, but none of us children was ever given a key. I have looked into my future and I have seen cirrhosis.

Growing up, I treated my parents like an epidemiologist treats the ebola virus – from a distance with kid gloves sterilized by cheap booze. The Captain has vowed to be a far different Dad – I have already informed my brood that I will willingly share my booze with them. But as far as expecting them to take care of me in my elder days, I freely admit I have no delusions. Adult children are like Corporate Pension plans: they will be gone when you’re old.

But this view certainly does not preclude conversing with our chronologically advanced kin. As you just knew I would, I am offering my own Captainesque advice on how to speak with seniors.


Tips for starting conversations with aging relatives:

* Shout

* Carry around a copy of a blank Will and Testament – you never know when Mom will be drunk

* Bring pictures of yourself when you were still a cute child and flash them periodically throughout your plea for a loan; if that fails, pull out the polaroids of Mom you stole from her secret drawer when you were a clever little child – that oughta secure a loan with 0% interest!

* Consider bringing along your own kids (only if they’re cute) but keep them a safe distance from Grandpa just in case they remind him of you

* Always remember to start every conversation with “Do you know who I am?” If the answer is affirmative, ask for a name to be sure. If negative, ask probing questions about your crazy uncles and insist on details. Offer nips as you see fit to jog the memory.

* I agree that discussing legal and financial issues can be awkward. However, I have good news. Old people, by definition, have limited futures and will be dead soon enough, so you can save time – a valuable commodity for the geriatric crowd – and move straight to the finances. After sharing a few nips that is. If you discover in your inquiry that there is in fact no money left in the family coffers, save the nips for yourself.

* Don’t let senility be a deterrent; in fact, look on the bright side. You can cheer up grandpa by bringing along a young man who looks just like your Uncle as a young man, the same Uncle who disappeared forever after he was kicked out of the house by your Grandpa because he was a no good sonovabitch drug dealer. Have him dress in fancy duds and pretend to be a successful banker or football star. That’ll cheer up Grandpa for sure.

So Believe The Captain when he says: It’s not death that’s painful, but the living moments leading up to it!

Yours taunting time,

The Captain

Past Life Aggression

Being an armchair psychologist of the lowest order, I am always interested in hearing how my peers are profiting from unsubstantiated pseudo-psychological scams. My readers understand this and one of my original supporters alerted me to such a “peer”, one Dr. Brian Weiss, and the snake oil he is peddling. It is called “Past Life Regression” and from what I can tell, it’s little more than Woodstock redux for baby boomers. So see my commentary below in that red font I am so fond of. This fondness goes back to my school boy days. After several years of receiving my school assignments back littered with comments from my teachers in bright red ink, I asked my mother about it. She told me that this was the way my teachers acknowledged my “special gifts.” Armed with this knowledge, The Captain always went out of his way to accentuate his gifts in his school work – and it worked, because my High School Guidance Counselor once confessed to me that they had to order extra red pens to keep up with my “individuality”!

PAST LIFE REGRESSION

For some, a “curiosity”! For others, a “valued therapeutic technique”! Yours truly has been called a “curiosity” so it’s really nothing to brag about. And I’ll give you some “valued” therapeutic techniques: drinking, playing practical jokes on your annoying neighbors, imbibing, consuming 3 packages of OREO double stuffed in under an hour, tipping (cows or booze), playing ping pong while on the table, and reading the disoriented musings of a deluded insurance “professional” on the internet. In this workshop, participants will learn about Past Life Regression and actually have an opportunity to be part of group regression sessions – providing everyone first-hand experience with this revolutionary approach to self-exploration (In my day they called this masturbation)! More than a decade ago, Dr. Brian Weiss, M.D. astonished the world of psychiatry with the theories of past-life regression detailed in his best-selling book, “Many Lives, Many Masters”. I have no doubt his “peers” were indeed “astonished”, just like my family was astonished when my Uncle Harry informed us that his chronic unemployment was the result of the traumatic effects of an alien abduction. Since that time, the therapeutic value of past-life regression has gained widespread recognition and Brian Weiss has become the nation’s foremost authority in this field. I need some clarification on “Past Life.” Is this, like, my metaphorical past life as a Heroin junkie? Or is it literally a past Reincarnation life, like the time I came back as a lug nut? Or does it refer to something as simple as my Witness Protection Program identity? You can see my dilemma. Your instructor has had the good fortune to study with Brian Weiss and promises that whether you’re one of the curious or serious-minded (What about us simple-minded??), this workshop will present you with plenty of food-for-thought and experiences to remember! I’d prefer just regular workshop food, even those pre-packaged lunch boxes with the microscopic portion of Pasta Salad and a double cookie pack. (Class size is limited - Wear loose comfortable clothing, and if you’d like, bring a floor mat or blanket.) Does it raise any red flags with you when someone asks you to wear loose clothing and bring your own floor mat? The cost for this workshop is $25. The Captain is offering his own Past Life Regression workshop in the rear parking lot. For the bargain price of $5 you get a large plastic cup, which I will fill with ice cold amber wisdom from the large metallic cylinder in the back of my vehicle. After partaking of enough wisdom, you will surely regress to some form of past “adolescence.”

Believe The Captain when he says: Be warned: Past lives can be embarrassing, or even felonious!

Yours from the 7th Grade,

The Captain

The Vocabularian Strikes Again!

Guarded as The Captain is about his personal history – an unnatural shyness and an overbearing parole officer are mainly to blame – there are kernels of my past which I scatter behind me as I wend my way through life to leave a trail for those brave or foolish enough to follow (and for myself to help me crawl back to my car after a riotous night on the town!). So brace yourself, for I am about to toss another crumb to get stuck between your teeth: I have a degree in English Literature - and I am neither Gay nor unemployed! I have at various times in my life mastered Latin, Koine Greek and Ancient Hebrew. Call me a Necrophilologist if you must, but living languages never appealed to me because it takes a shitload of work to actually learn how to speak a foreign language, thus my affinity for dead languages.

I once had a prickly professor who was a Chaucer scholar who made us all read the Canterbury Tales in Middle English, which might as well be a foreign language. In fact, there are many words in Middle English that did not make the cut to Modern English (which, by the way, is rapidly being replaced by the language of Instant Messaging – LOL!). The bastard actually included as part of a final exam a vocabulary test comprised solely of those Middle English words that didn’t survive; we were supposed to be able to provide the definition based on the placement of this gibberish in the context of the reading – wft?! Why do I reference this professor (let’s call him Dr. Douchebag because it has a certain ring to it)? Because he introduced me to one of the greatest works of the English language that you’ve never heard of, or should I say of which you’ve never heard: the Oxford English Dictionary, or OED, not to be confused with OCD. While FARKing around tonight, I ran across a news feature about a man named Ammon Shea, whose claim to fame is that he read all 59 million words contained in this 20 volume masterpiece. The Captain is not claiming to have done that. Nope. But I did peruse these venerable tomes for really cool words to use to complement my all-time favorite word: inebriate. More accurately put: I’d get hammered and throw out OED gems like they were cubic zirconia!

The article in question listed some of Mr. Shea’s favorite words from the OED, which I immediately stole, or purloined, if you prefer. Or if you’re like my cousin Milan, I stoled ‘em. LMAO! So without much further ado about nothing, here they are - the coolest words you’ll never use!

Accismus(n) An insincere refusal of a thing that is desired (as in “no, please, I really would like for you to have the last doughnut ”) The Captain’s sample sentence: “No thanks Tyra (Banks), I don’t have time for a quickie tonight because I have to wash my hair.”
Bayard(n) a person armed with the self-confidence of ignorance. The Captain aka The Bayard!
Deipnophobia(n) fear of dinner parties. The number two phobia of all males, right after matrimonyphobia.
Paracme(n) the point at which one’s prime is past. The Captain’s sentence: “If you have reached Paracme, then reach for Viagara!”
Petrichor(n) the pleasant loamy smell of rain on the ground, especially after a dry spell. The Captain’s sentence: “The Petrichor was palpable, as was the smell of dead worms.”
Somnificator(n) one who induces sleep in others. ME!!!
Unbepissed(adj) not having been urinated on; unwet with urine. The Captain’s sentence: “Any night that passes Unbepissed is a good one in my book!”
Wine-knight(n) a person who drinks valiantly. OMG. My new calling.
Yepsen(n) the amount that can be held in two hands cupped together; the two cupped hands themselves. The Captain to the bartender holding the bottle of Patron: “Yo barkeep: Yepsen me!”

Believe The Captain when he says: Floccinaucinihilipilification is a bitch to spell!

Yours Unbepissed!

The Captain

Dear The Captain

Dear The Captain,

Years ago we became friends after meeting at a party given by Paul McCartney. The three of us have all been good friends since the 70's, although nobody believes it when we tell them about it. Actually, we have so many famous friends it isn't even funny, and we could name them all for you, but we don't really see how that is important. However, this is our question: if John McCain wins the election and dies, and Sarah Palin becomes the president, how difficult would it be to move to another country? Canada is freezing cold, so we wondered if you had any suggestions for alternative countries where people speak English.

---The Betsies

Dear The Betsies,

Please name all of your famous friends, and spare no detail. Though I am famous in the fantasy worlds of 13 of my 14 personalities, this has done little to enhance my financial status in the world where I am required to exchange currency for beer. Perhaps by verbally cavorting with such luminaries as The Betsies, and by association Paul McCartney et al, I can gain some measure of fame, enabling me to sell ads on my blog for frivolous, overpriced non-essential trinkets. And please send pictures so I can Photoshop myself into the mix.

Now, to answer your question, I will take the liberty of examining your premise: that John McCain will die in office shortly after being elected. Lest people dismiss your theory as Oliver Stonean, to coin a new phrase, I must reveal that there is a titillating internet rumor, or at least there will be as soon as I make this up as I go along, that John McCain will die a violent, ecstatic death after role playing Salmon spawning with Sarah Palin. I believe this is vaguely alluded to in some bizarre imagery in that handbook of Armageddon, the Biblical book of Revelation. Since one in eight Americans believes Alaska is a country, I will lump it in with Canada, and cross it off my list of possibilities.

You might try England or Ireland, where broken English is spoken. The climate is temperate as the Gulf Stream blankets these island nations. And the beer is great. But knowing that we are talking about The Betsies, I believe the only country for you is Monaco, that tiny haven for celebrities such as yourselves. They have gambling, sunny topless beaches, and a Grand Prix, which, I am told, is a rather pretentious form of street racing. With all that, who cares if they speak English! I bet you have friends there already with whom you can crash.

Please don’t forget to include me on your guest list after you're all settled in and throw your first star-studded bash.

Believe The Captain when he says: swim John, swim!

Yours boning up on Salmon migration,

The Captain

The Captain and the Motorized Wagon

If riding the bus is like traveling in a parallel universe, then riding in your car is akin to attending a court ordered anger management class while strapped in a 4,000 pound metal block on wheels with the windows locked shut on a humid evening after working 18 hours straight as a telemarketer peddling dental supplies to deaf mutes…and you are the only participant!

What I love about the automobile is that it’s like disturbed magician – it can turn my docile Aunt Edna into a raging homicidal denture donning Gerontion maniac (Holy shit I’ve outdone myself with this sentence!). I could cuss up and down her cabbage smelling kitchen, pull the tail of each and every one of her thirteen kittys, chew tobacco and spit all over her faux Persian rug, and bite her ankle (only once, for the record…she shouldn’t have tried to stick that tube down my throat to fill me up with cod liver oil!), and the only discernable reaction I could elicit was moth ball tinged sigh. But get her behind the wheel of her GMC Gremlin and her hidden trucker’s vocabulary is unleashed on all the unwitting teen drivers who innocently wandered in her path, be it dirt road, highway or sidewalk.

Time for my signature non sequitur. Of all the people and animals, of all the animal like people, of all the mundane and bizarre topics against which yours truly has verbally trespassed, two in particular have generated disproportionately lively and heated debate: driving habits and breakfast cereal. Speed Racer vs. Count Chocula! OK. Time to get back in gear (I am so sorry for this putrid paronomasia).

Since it’s impossible to talk about driving without discussing the serpentine network of roads that allow maniacs to motor over amber waves of grain, majestic purple mountains, speed bumps and whinos, it behooves me to document some of the more provocative features of our roadway system. When The Captain wrote about riding the bus, he had no idea his little foray into vehicular traffic would create such a firestorm of email exchanges on company time. The lion’s share of the vitriol was reserved for that oddity of the road: the Rotary, sometimes referred to as a traffic circle or roundabout. If you think the Red Sox - Yankees rivalry inspires hatred and loathing between the New England border states of Connecticut and Massachusetts, then ask a friendly Nutmegger or Bay Stater what they think about this circle of rage. Think Pedro Martinez versus Don Zimmer, only even more ugly, if you can believe it. With all due respect to the Battle of Lexington and Concord, the true shot heard round the world was the utterance of a solitary, rather naughty, made up imprecation: Masshole. Fifty emails later, The Captain realized he’d stumbled onto a hidden undercurrent of trivial pathos, which is a rather contentious way of saying that you, my readers, share The Captain’s disjointed and distorted view of the world. Good for you! I will not kick the dead horse of the Rotary any more, mostly because its corpse is virtually unrecognizable after the deluge of blows it received during the commentary subsequent to my latest post. However, as you may or not have noticed, depending on your tolerance for alcohol, I now have a blog! This allows you to post comments on line and away from prying corporate eyes, so I encourage, nay, egg you on to post your comments for all to read. Many of you are more funny than me. Many of you aren’t but think you are, but your comments will still provoke laughter, only for different reasons.

Oh, and one final comment on the bane of my driving existence: speed bumps. They suck.

So believe The Captain when he says: Cars are evil.

Yours with my muffler dangling,

The Captain

The Captain Rides the Bus

For several years now, The Captain has sailed the good ship Hartford Express to work. For the uninitiated, that’s the public bus. And though my metaphor is indeed cheesy, there is still an ounce or two of truth in it, for riding the bus is like entering a dark and dank box of stinky, moldy gorgonzola crammed with mice.

Like quantum particles, the parallel universe of bus travel is invisible to the waking world and operates with its own separate and distinct set of laws. Emily Post would not last 30 seconds in the world of public transportation. The Captain, with his keen powers of observation, enhanced by a healthy imagination, has attempted to chronicle the unique mores and customs of this itinerant sub culture. So pardon my mixing of metaphors as I proclaim: All Aboard!

Written Rules

• There are no free rides: you must pay the fee or feel the wrath of the masculine looking female driver;
• No smoking, or fume prohibito (I now butcher the Spanish language thanks to bus travel!);
• No eating (is that a food stain on that seat?);
• If you are one of those who prefer to sit up front, you must relinquish your seat to the mean “elderly” bitch with mothball breath – it’s the law.

Unwritten Rules

• One ass, one seat;
• Fat ass, still one seat;
• Halitosis, any seat you like;
• If the bus is crowded, you must keep your carry on items on your lap and off of the seat next to you; there are several exceptions: If you carry a mannequin onto the bus, you may set it down in the seat next to you – this gives everyone the chance to whisper side conversations, making the trip fly by; for audible outbursts, ride with a mannequin on your lap or, better yet, set it down in an open seat next to a complete stranger; cute puppies are also allowable exceptions.
• No cutting – PERIOD! And why is it that all the jerks who do this are so well dressed?
• Have your cash or bus pass ready when exiting the bus and not at the bottom of a Gargantuan purse or man bag;
• Check the seat before depositing your keester on it; you never know when there may be a fresh unidentifiable stain, or moisture, or a lap, on it;
• Lack of eye contact on the part of the person sitting next to, or across from, you is not an invitation to strike up a conversation (boy, was that one choppy sentence);
• If you tell a joke in a voice loud enough for all to hear, you better be damned sure it’s funny;

The Captain’s Rules

• Just because the cash machine takes nickels doesn’t make it OK to pay the entire fare in 5 cent increments!
• It is not acceptable to stretch your legs into the aisle, unless, of course, a cutter is speeding past and then all bets are off;
• If you ride the bus with me and tell a funny joke, please share so I can steal it and pass it off as my own;
• The following words and idioms should never cross your lips in bus conversation:
  • Bunion
  • Bowel Movement
  • Rash
  • Canker
  • Puss
  • Lawyer
  • Claim Adjuster
  • Root Canal
  • Scabies
  • Skivvies
  • Fire

• It is never a good thing when your bus is pulled over and a cop asks the driver where the blood on the front bumper came from – not a rule exactly, but this really did happen once; our driver was too lazy to serve around Bambi’s carcass;

Believe The Captain when he says: Bus riders with IBS should identify themselves!

Yours just waiting for that cutter to cross my path,

The Captain