Dysfunctional Christmas Village

Having been bred and buttered in the blue collar hamlet of Torrington, CT, by the gentle green and sometimes red waters of the Naugatuck River (home to one of The Captain’s favorite swimming holes in his youth, if you could call it that), yours truly, along with all the other children from Torrington and the surrounding towns, would make the annual pilgrimage to see the real Santa at Christmas Village.

Not only was St. Nicholas on site, but all 9 Reindeer as well. Rudolph, as fits his spectacular deformity, had his own pen. The others were together in stalls that ran along the eastern wall of the playground on which Christmas Village was constructed, shadowed by the multi-story low income housing complex where my eccentric Aunt Edna resided. And we musn’t forget the elves, who plied their trade with diligence and pride, not to mention brandy, in the onsite workshop. We were told that only “special” elves were transported down to Christmas Village, presumably on the “Short Sleigh” displayed in the center courtyard. Tucked away in the back of this municipal playground was a display of Dickens Christmas Carolers, complete with piped in Victorian Christmas songs, and an Unconstitutional Nativity scene with Nordic looking life size figurines.

The lines were long when I was a child, but the wait was always worth it to see the real Santa and get the substantial parting gift from Santa’s bag. Then out the back door and into the Toy Workshop with a really cool toy display, where the special elves were always jolly, flasks in front of each one at the designated work benches. Elves, we surmised, are apparently named after snacks – like Skippy and Jiffy and Jerky. I wasn’t sure until adulthood what Stiffy was named after. Then again out the back door and to the 8 tiny Reindeer. We always brought carrots to feed them – what a thrill for a child!

Then on to Rudolf, whose red nose was never ignited, since it wasn’t Christmas Eve. From there it was a few steps to Santa’s Sleigh and family photos. Finally, as if to intentionally sedate the children, you complete the tour with Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe and Scandinavian Jesus. A more idyllic Christmas appetizer could not be found!

Sadly, times change. As my offspring are wont to point out at every opportunity, I’m old. Whether the world actually changes qualitatively or the cynicism of age discolors the idealized nostalgia, it matters not. The end result is the same: happy memories are slowly but surely eroded away ‘til all that’s left is that same nauseous feeling you get when you empty your overripe Christmas stocking only to find 30 pounds of frickin’ coal. Here are my adult recollections of Christmas Village from taking my own children there:

· Waiting in line in subfreezing temperatures, people take turns warming their hands over the fire barrel placed there for the convenience of the police officer assigned to Santa duty. Far from being the benevolent public servant who stops traffic to let mother duck and her ducklings cross the busy intersection, our man in blue is just an even larger version of the fat, self-absorbed, uniform-obsessed kid you went to high school with. You pretend to ignore him but he’s conversing with the still unemployed bastard who stole your tenspeed out of your garage when he was a teenager. This guy would steal food from Oliver Twist – take that Dickens!
· After you’ve waited in line for an hour and you’ve lost all feeling in your extremities, you finally make it into the enclosed portico just outside the door to Santa’s room and who praytell is standing there manning the woodpile with a familiar goofy grin on his face? Another High School classmate who not only managed to earn a diploma but also a place on the National Sex Offender Registry – a pedophile on the town payroll working at Christmas Village!!!!!
· Into Santa’s room. The fake Santa suit actually wasn’t bad. But every inch of the wall behind ole Saint Nick was covered in various colors of garland, while the ornaments on the Christmas tree were overwrought with tons of tinsel. I think the town must have gotten a deal from the Torrington Company on its scrap metal after it closed down and 40% of the able bodied population was layed off. Merry Christmas! The substantial parting gifts were now little trinkets like the ones you win at the local arcade. I suspect there may have been layoffs at the North Pole as well.
· Next came the elves. I swear they were burning incense to mask the smell of cheap booze. The reality of sitting on a hard wooden stool in cramped quarters banging on the same wooden train for hours at a time set in, and the booze smell made perfect sense. Jiffy and Skippy the peanut butter twins were still there, but, as I read in the local newspaper, Stiffy, who was being detained by local authorities, was aptly named as he was, like his boss, fond of sitting little kiddies on his lap, but for all the wrong reasons (that was one choppy effed up sentence, in more ways than one!)
· A new building had been put up solely for Mrs. Claus. Feminism had made its way to Torrington!
· Next came the Reindeer. Unfortunately, I had to eat the carrot I brought with me as the large sign by the deer pens explained that the US Dept. of Agriculture has made it a crime to feed Dasher and Dancer. Not to be undone, the Centers for Disease Control had its own sign describing in extremely uncertain scientific terms that these visitors from Norway could quite possibly be carrying some exotic and potentially fatal disease – this explained the second fence creating a buffer between the children and Cupid.
· Same crap goes for Rudolf, only now he shared his special space with a hot little number called Snowflake. It’s good to be Rudolf.
· On to the Sleigh. Perhaps the only thing that hadn’t changed. Either it had shrunk or my ass had gotten fatter. You decide.
· Finally to the back and Dickens and the Baby Jesus. Still boring, though Jesus’s hair was now brown.

It’s amazing what age and a warped sense of reality can do to your memories!

Believe The Captain when he says: At least Mrs. Claus was hot!

Yours soaking my hands and feet in lukewarm water,

The Captain

OK. I lied. Mrs. Claus looks like a man (and could very well be one).

Yes, it really exists. I didn't imagine it.

Nonverbal Communication

My very first class in college was Communication 101. Like the vast majority of my classes, I retained very little of what was taught (chew on that oxymoron – if I can’t remember what I learned, how can I possibly know what I forgot?). But I do remember one thing, and it changed the course of my life forever: 75% of all human communication is nonverbal (note to all you anal avengers – I just made up that percentage because I can’t really remember what I was taught, so don’t bother fact checking because facts mean little to The Captain). Truth be told, I heard the same thing my senior year in high school, so I immediately switched my major to English. I knew straightaway that a Communications Major, though considered a BA, was really just BS (I have a doctorate in that). The shock waves from this explosive decision are still reverberating to this day, in the very words on this page – once an English Major always an English Major!!

Nevertheless (a word like this betrays my degree, don’t you think?), as simple and frickin’ obvious as the aforementioned aphorism may be, it does facilitate some pretty fun people watching. Observe the nonverbal language of a few humans for a while and you’ll see what I mean. Now I’ve heard it said that the beach is a great place for people watching, but I can’t say I’ve personally found this to be accurate; when there, The Captain tends to disregard humans who don’t fall into the “female and young but legal” category. Church, on the other hand, is a delicious smorgasbord of unspoken communication. A few examples to support my theory:

• The chubby prepubescent boy scratching his butt crack on his way to receive the holy bread (an irreverent pun) screams, “My flabby ass is itchy!”
• The rapt expression of the attractive, svelte, middle-aged widow in the front row whispers, “I’d like to get that dreamy young friar alone in the sacristy.”
• The tiny stream of saliva from the corner of the priest’s mouth as he takes the wine from the cherubic alter boy is a billboard with “LAWSUIT” written all over it.
• Teenage girl forced to attend church by her Holy Roller parents, gets stuck sitting next to the homeless guy who hasn’t bathed in forever. Her contorted facial expression represents the inner conflict between her suicidal and homicidal thoughts: “Either way, someone’s gonna die.”
• Cute little toddler boy four pews ahead of cute little toddler girl. Boy catches Girl’s eye. Girl smiles = “I think you’re cute.” Boy smiles and ducks behind pew = “I’m gonna play with your feelings.” Girl also ducks behind pew = “You men are all such amateurs.” Boy jumps up from behind pew with big smile = “Get a load of me, bitch!” Girl, anticipating the Boy’s maneuver, stays hidden behind the pew = “I think I’ll make him squirm in his diaper a bit.” Boy loses smile = “Why are women always late?!” Girl jumps up with big smile = “I bet your diaper’s wet.” Boy laughs = “They always come back for more.” Girl grabs female doll and waves it at the Boy and laughs = “This doll’s got more brains than you!” Boy, feeling as though his masculinity has been challenged, grabs his metallic toy fighter jet and waves it at the girl with fanfare and cute little jet noises = “I’m gone launch a heat seeking love missile straight at your heart.” Girl laughs and tosses doll aside = “This is child’s play.” Boy, in an uncontrolled burst of testosterone, sends the jet flying straight into the back of the shiny bald head of the old man sitting in front of him and draws blood = “Oh yeah, watch what I can do…oh, f*&K, my fine motor skills aren’t fully developed!” Girl grins and ducks down into her mother’s lap = “Works every time.” Boy sheepishly smiles with puppy dog eyes at the angry old man = “I just wanted to play with you – you remind me of my favorite dead grandpa.” Girl laughs = “What a Momma’s Boy!”

There’s no way I can top that last bullet point, so I think I’ll just do some nonverbal communicating to put an exclamation point on this post. You can’t see me communicating but rest assured, it’s freakin’ hilarious!!

So believe The Captain when he says: I do so have more brains than that doll!

Yours nonverbally (you wish!),

The Captain

Guest Blogger: The Captain's Daughter!!!!

Not only do I have a six foot two male heir who knows better than me and a seventy pound ginger who may as well be on a Lucky Charms box, but I also have female offspring--one, a teenager, and a blonde at that. Send your condolences via email.

However, she is f**king brilliant. I am betting that she will write the great American novel and support me in my not so old age. For real, she is fourteen and she is my legitimate child. So without further ado, here is the guest blog by the Captain's Daughter--I hope the first of many!

CODE RED

Hi, my name is Code RED. Apparently, I’m an outspoken liberal and feminist who loves to debate with beings less intelligent than me. (You know them as teenage boys.) Once in English class, I got so worked up about whether or not the short story “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” by James Thurber took place in a sexist time period (the 1950s), that one of my friends held up a piece of paper on which the following message was scrawled frantically in messy blue ink: “CODE RED!!” Thus, the name.

Debating what to write about for my first official blog entry was a lengthy and excruciating process. I lost countless nights of sleep, just sitting in my bed, thinking about possible topics. (Did you catch the subtle sarcasm?)

Should I write about the distance formula I recently learned in my Geometry class? Or about the new wing of lockers with that oh-so irresistible scent of a football player’s cleat after a long day of practice on the hottest day in September. (Our football program is still evolving, but the local farmer, Old McDonald, is kind enough to allow the team to share the pasture with his prize-winning cows, Daisy and Elsie.) For a half a second, I thought about explaining the scientific method, but then I realized I’d just had an aneurism. Finally, I settled on writing about the fascinating, action-packed event of the school day: lunch.

Here’s the cast of characters:

The jocks: they can’t go five minutes without throwing or kicking something at someone’s head, so because basketballs and soccer balls aren’t allowed in the cafeteria, they move onto chucking soggy goldfish and punting half-eaten PB and J sandwiches.

The fashion police: their idea of flirting is squealing when half-eaten chunks of food are launched their way from the jock table. They say things like, “Oh, Jeremy, don’t throw that at me, you’re going to stain my $350 scoop neck t-shirt.” Then seductively they’ll add, “Dry clean only.”

The drama freaks: Their table is the loudest—all those self-centered people talking—and acting—at once takes over the cafeteria.

The goths and the emos will compete to see who is more deathly. Are the goths actually suicidal, or do they just like wearing black? And do the emos actually listen to Linkin Park, or are they closet Mariah Carrey fans?

The stoners: They converse in deep, mellow tones about who has the best price for pot and the new tie-dye t-shirts they just got at the Trading Post.

The nerds: This lot discusses the mathleete competition on Saturday morning. (Yes, I’m talking about the highlight of the weekend.)

The popular, bitchy ones: They’re used to battling it out to discover who can dig up the worst dirt on the helpless girl in need of a haircut who used to be in their group but is now so whatever.

The misfits: Leftovers.

If any of the above content hurt your feelings or made you say, “Hey, that’s mean!” my response is, you must be a braniac! Or a jock that just slammed the basketball against the wall, or a stoner that just said, “Hey man, it’s all about the love, don’t be a-hatin’.”

GET OVER IT. How’s this: you’re all losers in your own special way. Now don’t you forget it! *Insert cheek-pinch here*

The other day, as I munched on a tuna fish sandwich, I rolled my eyes as I listened to my friends (those people who you sit with at lunch and go to the movies with but can't stand in reality) as they went on an on about guys. No don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan, but what is the point in wishing hopefully for a boyfriend if you’re not even in college yet? Dating can be fun, and having a serious relationship seems glamorous at times. Just don’t be desperate. The fact is, if you date someone in high school, chances are, you won’t marry them. Even if the relationship seems serious, you’ll just go to different colleges. OR, you’ll go to the same college. Then the little lovebirds will break up and the rest of college will be really awkward. And if by the tiny possibility you get married, you’ll probably get divorced because it just doesn’t work out. But good for you for trying. (Sorry if I just ruined your life plan…it was obviously going somewhere. Didn’t mean to crush your spirit or anything.) And for the .000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000001% of the population that actually marries their high school sweet heart: hope life’s fantastic.

Of course, this isn’t supposed to discourage high school dating all together; it’s only supposed to make fun of people who sit at home, twirling their hair thinking, “if only a boy would like me.” That, or girls (and the occasional guy) who think, “if only Chad Michael Murray moved to my school.” (And was about 10 years younger.)

So anyway, back to my point: I’d rather be talking about something of importance, considering I’m a freshman in high school and dating is not on the top of priority list. It’s right below watching the Disney Channel but just above getting a manicure. Okay, maybe not THAT low…

(Can’t. Wait. For. College.)

So I’m sitting there silently when one of my friends—let’s call her Susie—says “Code Red, what do you think?” Of course, I would love to respond with “Stephen Colbert for president 2012” but that would only leave confused looks. Or more likely the “Oh, it’s just Code Red being her weird self” look. So instead I replied with, “Um, I’m a lesbian,” which got me a classic couple of eye rolls. “Code Red, be serious.”

“Honestly? This is the most pointless conversation. I don’t care that much about having a boyfriend, or about who’s dating whom, or the fact that Sharon made out with Bobby over the weekend. This town is made up of a bunch of freaks.”

That left me with the “Why do we ever ask her about anything?” question: close enough to my prediction.

At that moment, I decided I needed to hang out with the drama freaks more. They’d be too wrapped up in role-playing with each other my existence would go un-noticed. Oh, to live in a world where I was ignored. Wait. I forgot. After I answered the question, my dream came true; no one asked me my opinion on the new dress code (NO SPAGETTI STRAPS???!!! WHATEVER WILL I DO???) or the latest gossip (JENNIFER BROKE UP WITH DANIEL FOR HIS BROTHER??!! WHAT?? I’VE NEVER HEARD OF THAT HAPPENING BEFORE!!). I can’t exactly say I minded terribly.

So I guess this is the point where I should wrap this thing up. Let me just say it’s been a blast and I’d like to give a shout-out to my homegirl Stacy—you’re my life, girl, I love you, xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo TO THE THIRD POWER! (Yeah that’s right, there’s no space between ‘home’ and ‘girl.’) Thanks for allowing me to be your guest blogger/getting you really pissed off at me. It was really fun.

Believe The Captain when he says: Teenage girls are aliens.

Yours oh so proudly!!

The Captain

The Captain Interviews Kitty Kong

In Community Theater, it is a common practice to stage an after show Q&A. After performing some cryptic post-modern one act play about the dangers of alien corn mazes, the actors sit on the front of the stage ostensibly to answer audience questions about what in hell was that all about; either that, or to allow regular patrons to pose rhetorical questions which serve no other purpose than to allow these intellectual dilettantes to publicly state their personal theories on the hidden but non-existent meaning of the play (I’m getting my Henry James on with that rambling sentence!)

In the spirit of such sharing, The Captain has graciously invited Kitty Kong, that frighteningly cute kitten from my prior post, to be part of a blog roundtable, so to speak, to ask him what it was like to be a 6 foot kitten in one of my dreams. Another first for The Captain, as I doubt very much that any writer in history has ever conducted an interview with a man sized tabby from his dreams! At first he declined, but since I own the exclusive rights to characters who appear in my dreams, I made him do it.

TC: Good morning Kitty Kong! How does one say Good Morning in Feline?

KK: Good morning.

TC: Thank you, but could you please answer the question.

KK: That was my answer. We say Good morning.

TC: Oh, right. Well, what was it like being a major player in one of my dreams?

KK: Very disconcerting, actually. You probably couldn’t see this, but from my perspective inside your dream state, I could see disturbing phantoms and hidden shadows lurking on the edge of your dream reality. Quite frankly, I felt at times as if you really aren’t clear about the distinction between fantasy and reality and that scared me. I shed some extra fur for sure.

TC: Oh Kay. We can move on…so was it difficult for a creature associated with pink ribbons and soft cuddles to play a violent murderer?

KK: Oh not at all. Most actors relish the opportunity to play a villain. It’s fun, edgy. Plus I’ve always been intrigued by risky characters. When my agent Johnny the Weasel told me there was an audition to play a serial killer in one of The Captain’s dream productions, well, I jumped - that’s pretty darn risky!

TC: Sure, but, er, you do realize that you’re just the bizarre offspring of my unstable unconscious and that there never were any interviews?

KK: Absolutely. But being a by product of your psyche, I can’t help but embellish.

TC: Seems logical. Any tricks of the trade you can share about getting into character?

KK: Just good, old fashioned homework. For this part, I wanted to observe violent animal behavior, which is problematic for a tiny, cute little kitten like me. I had to find a safe way to do it. I eventually figured out that I could sneak into the Dog Pound and parade up and down in front of the inmates to elicit the desired response. I spent hours observing, though I did need to wear a face mask to protect myself from the canine foam spittle flying around.

TC: Holy shit, that’s first rate embellishment.

KK: Thanks. That means a lot coming from you.

TC: Here’s a question I agonized over – I have to admit I’m a little afraid of what the answer might be, but I just have to know. In the dream, when I saw you kill the old lady and the two popinjays who pinched the ping pong paddles (how’s that for alliteration?), were you really killing or was that just dream special effects??

KK: Which answer will help me get another role?

TC: Damn, you are definitely one of my dream visions. OK. The truthful answer.

KK: As a manifestation of your subconscious, I’m not sure I can give a truthful answer.

TC: Arghh! I hate it when I indirectly use my psychological insights about myself against myself! Just answer the damn question Kong.

KK: Hmm. I guess I’d have to say that it was real fantasy killing. With the claws of a six foot kitten, it’s reasonable to conclude the old lady bled out after the first gash. The rest was all for dramatic effect.

TC: And very well done, I must add.

KK: Thank you.

TC: And the same is true for the burglars?

KK: Yes, but first I had to disarm them. Kittens, normally being 5 inches tall, have a natural fear of ping pong paddles. After I swatted those away, it was cake.

TC: You mentioned phantoms and shadows lurking in my head. Can you elaborate on that? I’ve tried medication, prescribed and otherwise; I’ve tried Yoga and Pilates; I’ve even tried hypnotists, but they just got frustrated because they couldn’t get me to focus long enough to get me under. I just can’t get rid of my cranial ghosts. Any insight would be most appreciated, as well as guarantee you the starring role in my dream sequel.

KK: How do I say this? Dear The Captain, I think you should consider these shadows to be your Muses – your creative inspirations. Honestly, your knack for blurring reality and fantasy is frickin’ entertaining.

TC: Wow, Kitty Kong. If it was something I was capable of, I’d be speechless right now. All those years of expensive therapy and no answers. Five minutes with a six foot dream kitten and all my problems are solved. You better get back down to the Dog Pound, you’ve got to get ready to star in tonight’s dream.

KK: Thanks The Captain!!!! Meow!!

Believe The Captain when he says: Everyone should have a 6 foot Kitten!

Yours buying Kitty Litter in bulk,

The Captain

The Captain Dreams: How I Captured King Kong

Dreams are strange to begin with. Let’s amplify that statement by talking about The Captain’s dreams. I don’t mean utopian, fantastic, fairy tale visions of an ideal future state I can only hope to experience through drugs. No. I mean what you do when you sleep, apart from all that other stuff you do. And I don’t mean the standard dream 101 shit where you fall from a height and get a pit in your stomach and wake up just before you are splintered and splattered on jagged rocks, or one of those recurring dreams with Pamela Anderson in it which are so real you could swear you are actually awake. I’m referring to those dreams that are so bizarre and disjointed that they make The Captain’s waking state seem mundane and normal (think about that statement!). I had this dream last night, so I have to write about it this morning on the bus because: 1) I might forget the details and 2) I will confuse the dream with visions from my OCD imagination, which, by the way, requires no artificial “enhancers.”

So before I lapse into my imaginary world, here it is – What The Captain Dreamed Last Night!

The dream started as a contemporary version of that famous scene from the original King Kong movie. A dark rainy night. My dream mind pans in like an exterior camera on a woman inside her high rise apartment. I think she is standing, preoccupied by the routine task she is performing (brushing her hair? Undressing? You vote). The camera eye moves in. It’s like I’m King Kong or something. She turns around with a nervous look, sensing that someone or something is watching. I am now expecting for the camera angle to suddenly switch to inside the apartment, bracing myself for a glimpse of a giant, incredibly fake looking gorilla. But wait! The woman screams and the camera angle widens just enough see…a giant kitten on two legs…

The scene changes swiftly to a house I lived in a dozen years ago – the kitchen. Still pouring rain. I look out into the dreary night toward my next door neighbor’s house and King Kitten appears out of nowhere on the neighbors front porch, which is probably not an easy thing to do for a kitten the size of a fully grown human male. He mews and jumps, smashing straight through the front door. Through the window I can see our neighbor, a reclusive, chain smoking wisp of a woman, cowering in fear at the site of the upright kitten. There is a hiss, followed by a whir of flying fur and splattered blood.

I am suddenly distracted by my son running up from the basement, followed by two laughing, well dressed burglars carrying the ping pong paddles they chose to steal (leaving behind the PS2 – remember, this is 12 years ago – and then bolting out the side door. They head straight toward our neighbors house, presumably to steal some balls to go with the paddles. Son and I briefly debate whether or not we have a moral obligation to warn the burglars about Kitten Kong. We conclude, “F*&K No!” and simply watch as Thing 1 and Thing 2 enter the house, apparently not the least bit curious about the smashed in door. They spy our dismembered neighbor and before they can overcome their stupor, King Kitten does what’s expected and mauls them both on the spot.

King Kitten, with a full tummy and blood matted fur, retires to the front porch. Son and me watch him stand contentedly licking his paws clean and then, true to his feline pedigree, sits down and sets to work on his balls. Cats will be cats! Son and me marvel at the meticulous manner in which KK grooms himself (I ask you. Who else writes a sentence like this?!!)

Suddenly, the hair on Kitty Kong’s back stands on end and his ears begin to twitch. Something has him scared. He stood up and bolted straight for our house! A dark shadow was chasing him. Son and me hugged each other goodbye. Our time had surely come. KK gamboled straight in through the side door (apparently the front paws of felines that haunt my dreams have developed the fine motor skills needed to open doors). Before we had time to piss our pants a second giant, mature female Cat followed KK through the kitchen and down into the basement! Not wanting to press our luck, we ran out the door and hid behind the bushes on the side of the house.

For some strange reason, even though only several dream minutes had passed, it was now daylight. Overcast, but the rain had stopped. Oh, and half our neighborhood had decided to gather there as well, theorizing about the strange and dangerous turn of events. The apocalypse perhaps, only no one could recall any mention of giant cats in the Book of Revelation. Maybe government experiments gone bad. LSD, suggested another. This seemed to have some promise in my opinion, but before I could make my case, the side door was violently kicked open and the Mature female was carrying Kitty Kong in her jaws by the scruff of his neck. She marched straight past us, looking pretty pissed and disappeared into the woods with Kitty Kong, immobile in her vice grip and looking nothing like the dangerous panther from earlier in the dream, in tow.

Now there is bright sunlight and laughter as one of the neighbors explains that Kitty Kong was nothing more than a giant, upright unruly kitten who needed to be disciplined by Mommy Cat, who took care of that – the neighborhood was now safe again. Of course, this made no sense whatsoever, but, heck, I was dreaming so I bought it. It’s interesting how the shades of light and the weather represented the primitive emotions I was experiencing. OK. I made that up. But the way we figured it, KK had taken care of a couple of knucklehead burglars for us. And since nobody really cared for my next door neighbor, no tears were shed.

For some inexplicable reason, the entire neighborhood decides to take a walk together in my backyard, which has expanded magically into lush green meadows being overrun by the floodwaters from the earlier rain. I have to admit that somewhere deep in my subconscious I was afraid I might wet the bed with all this freakin water! I think this is the reason I decided to head back home with son. And when we arrived at our side door, who did we find waiting for us?? Mommy Cat and Kitty Kong, only this time they were cute, cuddly normal sized pussies. I scooped up Kitty Kong and held him in my arms. I had captured King Kong – and he was purring!!!

Believe The Captain when he says: Cats are master groomers!

Yours petting the pussy…cat,

The Captain

Why Is It??

Why is it that:

· I always get a dirty look when, in a public place, I ask someone how his case of Herpes Simplex 1 is doing??
· I am existentially bothered by the fact the word “Gay” is no longer in my literary arsenal just because no one these days knows the original meaning of the word? I’m just dying to write a sentence like “As we celestial travelers wend our way through our temporal bonds, we flit forward with minds nimble and hearts gay!” but I can’t!
· I’m OK with the use of the word “Lesbian.” Perhaps because it has remained more or less etymologically pure, as all you armchair Philologists out there can attest (for all you armchair imbeciles, this means its meaning has not changed much over time). But the more likely answer is: because I’m a guy!!
· I even know what the frick a Philologist is in the first place??! Hint: a Philologist is someone who, due to some social maladjustment or congenital defect, is interested in knowing how and why a slang word like “frick” comes into being.
· You’re still reading this?
· People think Lucille Ball is funny but Curly is not? (For the answer to this and many other questions, see my post “Boys and Girls are Different” http://thefloorcaptain.blogspot.com/2009/06/boys-and-girls-are-differentreally.html)
· My sarcasm didn’t register, because you are still reading this??
· I write?? (That’s easy. My insurance stopped paying for my therapy, which should be obvious by now.)

Believe The Captain when he says: Desi Arnaz was a masochist!

Yours sniffing my nosegay (hah, I snuck it in!),

The Captain

Ways to Drop the F Bomb

Warning: The following passage contains very naughty words, phrases, idioms, and sentences. If you are offended by profanity, you probably aren’t reading this. But if by chance you are, you might want to navigate back to redbook.com.

Still reading, eh? Well, it feels good to be naughty every now and again. Enjoy!

The Captain has a degree in English Literature. If you haven’t noticed (this is for my comatose readers), I wear my diploma like a badge of honor, which gets really uncomfortable at times since its fairly large and permanently cemented in a stiff cardboard frame by some unidentified sticky substance. All substances aside, I do love words. I could propose a cheesy contest and ask you all to guess what The Captain’s all-time favorite word is. This would be a trick question, though, because most of you would guess the “F” word. However, the real answer is “The,” the definite article, mostly because it is a word that I have usurped from the English language and used as a clever and emphatic prefix for my Pseudonym. I am no ordinary captain; I am THE Captain, the genuine and most definite article with an obsessive compulsion for alliterative punning (see what I mean!). That being said in way too many words, my second favorite word is the incendiary F Bomb, because it’s the most f*&kin’ versatile word ever. Let me write to you about this.

Ways to Drop the F Bomb

1) Verb in an Exclamatory Sentence: “F*&k You!”
2) Noun in a Declarative Sentence: “She’s a cool f*&k.” Note: Simply interchanging adjectives dramatically changes the meaning of the above sentence and effectively illustrates the incredible diversity of our favorite word. For example, replace “cool” with “great” and you see what I mean.
3) Noun phrase modifier in a Declarative sentence: “He is f*&ked up.” Drop the itty bitty word “up” and we once again have a completely different reading.
4) Expression of awe in an Exclamatory Sentence: “F*&k.”
5) Adverb in an Interrogative Sentence: “What are you f*&king doing?”
6) Simple adjective in an Exclamatory Sentence: “F*&king b*&ch!”
7) Verb in an Interrogative Sentence: “Wanna f*&k?”
8) Expression of extreme anger in an Exclamatory Mono-word Sentence: “F*&k!”
9) Inflection matters. The subtlest change in inflection can dramatically alter the meaning:

She’s a good “f*&k.” or “She’s a good f*&k.”

“F*&k me!” or “F*&k me.”

10) Multiple uses in a tongue twister: “The f*&cking stupid f*&k who f*&cking f*&ked that f*&cking idiot is f*&cked up.”

Believe The Captain when he says: Never screw when you can f*&k!

Yours from my B 52,

The Captain

The Captain's Geology Lesson

Even the nerdiest activity becomes an adventure when The Captain is involved. Why just yesterday yours truly went on a Geological hike on Land Trust property with 10 year old Son of the Captain (SOC). The only thing standing between this event and the Geek Hall of Fame was the lack of Wizard and/or Dragon costumes. At first glance, I thought we may have had some but then I realized by the smell of moth balls and the numerous canes that the surprisingly large crowd was composed mostly of senior citizens – those weren’t costumes, just the latest fashions from the prior century. But no biggie; father and son swore an oath never to tell anyone we were there and all would be good.

The Hike Leader was a second career insurance professional who in a former life was a real geologist (I kid you not!!). He gave an introductory speech, showing us a multi-colored geological map that was supposed to somehow help us understand the gobbledygook that was flowing like magma from his piehole. One of the canes raised his, er, cane, and asked our guide if we might possibly see some fossils on our hike. I whispered to SOC that this was easy - all he had to do was turn to either side and look at his neighbors. SOC shushed me. I get that a lot. He also had that “Oh my god I can’t believe my father roped me into doing this!” look on his face, which I instantly recognized and fearlessly addressed: “Don’t write it off just yet. Don’t you wanna see how the Geritol Gang is gonna hike up the side of a mountain?” Came the swift reply: “What for? I’ve seen you try this a dozen times before.” Chip off of the old block, that SOB… I mean SOC.

Watching this geriatric train get rolling brought back fond memories from my freshman year in college, when I lived in a dorm room that overlooked the train tracks that run along the majestic Hudson River. The freight trains would stretch for miles and occasionally stop in the area. It took a good 15 minutes to get that one of those suckers rolling again from a standing position, much like our “Walks on Three Legs” tribe trying to loco mote out of the gravel parking lot and down the steep, narrow path into the woods below. Slippery leaves covered the path down to the rocky stream bed, where the path meandered through damp, treacherous rounded rocks which, I learned from our guide, had been “moved” there by a glacier some millions of years ago, about the time some of our party had been born. Our route was the perfect storm for a tidal wave of senior disaster. Good thing I had the local EMT Rescue company on speed dial, courtesy of the injury prone SOC.

Our Geologist stopped at a large rock by the stream and took out his little hammer tool to break off a chunk of this glacial deposit to illustrate the composition. He muttered a bunch of stuff that didn’t register until I heard the phrase “size matters,” at which time I perked up and began listening. Apparently the size of the something or other “mites” means something, which to me meant I lost interest again. After assisting a dozen or so folks over a bridge, we began our ascent up the hill. Our guide told us that millions of years ago, there were mountain peaks in Connecticut that surpassed those in the Himalayans today. Looking at our crew, that little hill in front of us might as well be Mount Everest. But up we went. I got stuck behind an emaciated 90 year old guy with ski poles and black spandex pants, so I quickly ducked off trail to protect my son from this gruesome sight.

Apparently the rocks of geological interest were a good ways above, so as we inched our way up, SOC and I began to pass the time by whistling through acorn caps or blades of grass. A hippie graybeard saw this and came over to share stories from his youth. SOC especially liked the one about how the children of mountain men used to fashion pipes out of acorns and pack them with special herbs and smoke ‘em all day long. Three beautifully crafted pipes later, we arrived at the peak. Apparently we’d missed the right turn we should have made and wandered off the path clear into the next town over. A middle aged woman with a thick German accent then decides to pipe up and tell the group that she saw the yellow trail marker about a half hour earlier. “I knew there vos somethink wrong!” Dozens of angry, droopy eyes stared up at her from this pack of arthritic coyotes. I swear I heard someone mumble “Damn Krauts” under his breath. I’m sure the pack would have been howling if not for the wheezing. So after an impromptu lecture from our fearful guide, we scuffled, scraped, and slid back down the hill, canes awhirling, ‘til we made it to the trail marker our Deutsch tourist identified.

By this point in the hike, SOC was now seeking out hippie graybeard, as he was the most entertaining and educational part of this event for him. I had no idea how many natural herbs there were right in our own backyard that one can eat, brew, and stick in an acorn pipe! Note to self. Add the following items to SOC’s Christmas list: Bowie knife, hemp, very tiny glass vials, and a package of Zig Zag.

At last we arrived at a cliff formation which, we were told, was the geological mother lode. These rocks were “in place,” which is to say not moved by glaciers, and were almost a billion years old, as evidenced by the fact they had more severe edges and tilted to the southeast, which is also an excellent description of my late, chain smoking grandmother, who might also accurately be described as “glacial.” So amusing myself by imagining us as Lilliputians planning to steal cigarettes from a fiending Grandma Gulliver, I was able to daydream through the last lecture of our hike without the aid of alcohol. SOC was till chatting excitedly with Grizzly Adams, so all was good.

Miraculously, each and every creeky car of the Little Train That Wheezed managed to make it back to the parking lot without derailing. Who says all rocks stay in place?! Pockets stuffed with all manner of souvenirs from nature, courtesy of Hippie Guy, we made our way back to the car and, eventually, civilization.

Believe The Captain when he says: Now I know the real reason squirrels collect acorns!

Yours from the comfort of my motorized Lazy Boy recliner,

The Captain

The Roof Monkey

This is my idea, so no one steal it. Since most of the time people treat the sewage that spills from my brain as if it’s radioactive, this declaration would not normally be necessary. But in this case, my idea is so freakin’ good that I want to patent it – only I don’t yet have the slightest idea how! Until then, hands off!

I am not ashamed to admit that the concept was borrowed from an invention called the Roof Robot, a mechanical device spawned by Insurance companies to handle roof damage claims. The robot climbs onto roofs and takes measurements and photos to assess the damage on pitches far too dangerous for the average, overweight claims adjuster. Well, the thing breaks down a lot and is expensive to build and repair, so the Roof Robot has yet to catch on.

While discussing the merits of such a machine with coworkers one day, I had my Eureka moment – the Roof Monkey! Same basic idea as the robot, only cheaper and more versatile. I am talking a cute little monkey similar to the Organ Grinder monkey or Rally Monkey (I hear he’s been layed off and is available but a bit of a Prima Dona). Absolutely no chimps, because Focus Group studies seem to indicate that creatures known to maul human beings could frighten the customers. But think of it. Monkeys are already being used as home companions for Quadriplegics; so climbing on a few roofs and taking a few measurements and photos should be a piece of cake – or should I say banana – for the Roof Monkey. And you can do all this for peanuts – literally! I understand that the countries where these little suckers come from are dirt poor and chock full of poachers with hungry children, so they should come cheap. I’m also told they potty train well and can be a blast at parties or when you are out drinking with friends or strangers. Plus, they’re Babe magnets! Puppies are cuddly and adorable, I’ll give you that. But can a puppy dance and pick pockets? Can a puppy install a hidden camera? Can a puppy make a Martini to order? Can a puppy, on queue, amble up to an attractive woman at the bar and flash the “please pet me” puppy dog eyes and wait there obediently until you show up with a complimentary drink??!! I think not!

Now I’m not saying that there won’t be pitfalls. Primates, in general, can’t always be trusted. But I’m guessing the pros outweigh the cons. But just to be sure, The Captain has drawn up Pro and Con lists to help make my decision.

Roof Monkey Pros

· Climbing is second nature to monkeys. Enormous savings potential for Insurance companies by completely eliminating the need to purchase expensive, safe ladders for their employees; factor in the reduction in Workers Compensation payout, and this is a financial boon.
· Monkeys are cute, which is not something that can be said about many Insurance Adjusters.
· Unlike those lying Homeless bastards at Highway exit ramps, monkeys really will work for food. Plus, a monkey’s idea of a fringe benefit is a ripe yellow banana or a good de-lousing.
· Dogs may fetch balls and sticks, but Monkeys can fetch tools, laptops, car keys, not to mention beer, ice, Doritos, and party favors.
· Roof Monkeys have prehensile tails, which can hold an extra tool or beverage. Can you say “Three fisted drinker!”?
· Monkeys can be trained to “borrow” product from Liquor stores and have an uncanny knack for eluding curious law enforcement professionals (conveniently, monkeys are not fingerprinted and thus will never show up in the FBI criminal database).
· Monkeys will always have worse breath than their owners.
· Monkeys are not fussy about who they live with. They have even been known to cohabitate with grown men who wear bright yellow cowboy suits to match their giant yellow 10 gallon hats.

Roof Monkey Cons

· Monkeys will always have worse breath than their owners.
· Some Roof Monkeys will smoke in the house and there’s little an owner can do about it because monkeys know you won’t ever be able to catch ‘em.
· Sometimes, Roof Monkeys are confused about work monkey time and play monkey time. You have to be careful about this. The last thing you want to have happen when visiting a customer’s home is have an attractive young female answer the door and have Roof Monkey pull out a wad of dollar bills and attempt to tuck them into the customer’s thong.
· Roof Monkeys stink worse than my Aunt Edna and, just like puppies and Aunt Edna, hate to bathe.
· Roof Monkeys have sharp teeth.
· Like humans, Roof Monkeys are individuals with a wide variety of personalities. Always have a psychological profile conducted on a Roof Monkey before committing to one. If not, you might wake up one day and realize you are living with the monkey version of your mother or ex-spouse.
· Monkeys are natural mimics, so you will need to train your monkey never to mimic any behavior he may have seen you exhibit at 3 AM on any given Saturday morning. It would not do to have a customer witness the Roof Monkey playing with his “tool” or fashioning a loin cloth out of the bathroom curtain.

Upon further review, the tally is a bit closer than I originally thought it might be. Nevertheless, The Captain believes that, with proper training, inviting a Roof Monkey into your home is, on balance, a worthwhile endeavor. After all, if he does something untoward to a customer or drinking colleague, you can simply flash him the secret signal to pull the sad puppy face and all will be forgiven!

Believe The Captain when he says: Wearing a bright yellow suit is suspect!

Yours researching Patent Law,

The Captain

On the Road to San Antonio

The Captain was recently abducted by aliens and taken for a ride in a spaceship. OK. I exaggerate. The truth is I went on a business trip to Texas and drove with a colleague in a space blue Lincoln Town Car from Houston, where NASA HQ is located, to San Antonio, where there are droves of aliens of the illegal variety. The trip was indeed a long strange trip and one worthy of The Captain’s blog. What follows is a running account of my perceived reality, no doubt hijacked by my extraterrestrial imagination.

5 PM Wednesday. Blasting off with a coworker from Houston in the Lincoln via the mega beltway on our way to San Antonio, a city everyone in Houston promotes as being nicer than Houston, which is kinda like saying a Mule is better than an Ass because it was bred with a Pony. Hoping to catch a glimpse of an Armadillo, a creature that looks like it would be perfectly comfortable foraging for glow worms on Mars. The hotel gift shop was selling Armadillo Beanie Babies, so my hopes were high. 6 PM. Still leaving Houston, I think. Hard to tell, though. It all looks the same – oversized industrial buildings rubbing elbows with “used” tire shops, strip clubs, and the odd attractive brick house with bars on the doors and windows. Houston is now behind us as we venture through fields of scrub trees and cows. We are determined to find an out of the way place to stop for some authentic Texas ribs. Huge billboards everywhere. There’s one for a place called Buc’ees, which boasts it possesses the taste of Texas – 100 miles away. Must be good. More cows. No freakin’ Armadillos. Big billboard for something called Schlitterbahn. My coworker and I theorize that this is some cheap Czech or German beer. There seem to be a lot of billboards with Czech or German sounding names, like Czhilispiel. How did so many Czechs end up in south Texas? Must have gotten schlitfaced drunk in Minnesota and took a wrong turn and realized – holy shit, it’s warm down here, let’s settle! More Buc’ee the Beaver signs. Can’t tell if they sell food or indulgences, or both. Wait! I think the worst seller of indulgences was a Czech. 7 PM. Large building looming ahead on the left. A meat packing plant! That’s not normally exciting, unless your heading down a long, straight highway that cuts through a cow field. Across the way there’s an exotic animal farm. Curious. Wonder what kind of meat they’re packing across the street?? Wonder what Giraffe tastes like? Finally some road kill. Looks like a partial torso of an enornmous rabbit. Must be a Hare. Where are the f*&kin’ Armadillos??! Blah, blah, cows, grass, blah, blah, blah. 7PM. Sign for Mike Mikeska’s BBQ!! This could be worth checking out! Fifty miles and 4 more Buc’ee signs later, we spy Mikeska’s and decide to go in and have a look; it appears authentic (grimy with every square inch of wall covered with a stuffed animal head). They were…cough, choke…out of ribs!! I suppose that’s what you get for trying to procure BBQ ribs from a Czech…We decide to climb back in the spaceship and continue west toward Buc’ees. Which makes me wonder…it’s dry here, no water for beavers. Why a beaver for a mascot? I have my theories, which are naughty and will remain unstated. Hold on…approaching another BBQ joint, this time with an American sounding name. My coworker and I debate the prudence of stopping again and before we notice, we miss the exit and are now downwind of the rib joint, tortured by the heavenly wafting of hickory scent for several miles as we curse our indecision. We have now been conditioned to look for Buc’ees signs…red flags waving in my mind – could this be an alien plot? Is Buc’ees a front for a real alien abduction center? Seems to explain Texas…Must…push…away…thoughts. There. Much better. 8 PM. WHERE ARE THE F*&KIN’ ARMADILLOS???! My coworker and I are getting impatient and hungry. Thank god for the Lincoln and its heat massaging seats. OMG. There it is! The exit for Buc’ees!! As the sky is now darkening, we can see the neon for miles as we approach. What we found was shocking: Absolute proof that life forms from another planet have indeed landed on earth and built a secret headquarters – a giant Rest Stop with a “convenience” store that sells 67 varieties of beef jerky, along with Ciabatta Ham sandwiches. Apparently not sure what to sell to humans to lure them into their lair, the aliens must have broken into a TV satellite signal and started watching commercials, using this stolen (a federal offense, mind you) info to build giant human traps. And what was the final piece of evidence that confirmed that our theory was correct? Enormous, well-lit, CLEAN rest rooms!!!! For decades, the brightest human minds at NASA have tried to build one of these without success. It has to be Aliens!! After peeing, we fled. And satisfied our hunger at the next exit with some very affordable Chilis dinner specials and our fear with likewise affordable Margaritas. 10 PM. Sated, we drove the last 15 miles to San Antonio. Upon entering the San Antonio Loop, we soon learned the grim truth. Buc’ees was just a scouting outpost. The actual alien HQ was in San Antonio and the brand spanking new highway loop complex a veritable Hotel California Expressway– you enter and drive endless loops (we did for at least an hour) and but you can never get off. I kid you not – there were numerous exits that did nothing more than take you off one loop and put you on another. We must have driven past our hotel a dozen times before we managed to escape! Midnight. We got to our hotel, a structure with a lush green open air courtyard fenced in on all four sides. We looked up into the dark Texas sky, ready to exhale and congratulate ourselves on having eluded the aliens, only to notice a faux sky overhead. ..those alien bastards had us after all.

Believe The Captain when he says: you haven’t lived until you’ve peed in an alien restroom.

Yours from the brig of a Flying Saucer,

The Captain

Ps: Czhilispiel is Czech for Chili fest. And the Schlitterbahn is not, as we guessed, a type of beer or a highway for drunk drivers, but a world class waterpark. I bet Buc’ee lives there!

Why Is It?

The Captain has an idea for a semi-regular feature that accomplishes two important objectives:

1. Empties the intellectual compost from my brain before the fumes expand and my brain explodes;
2. Saves me the time and trouble of thinking of a topic or theme to butcher.

So here comes the experiment, a brain dump Captain style I call “Why is it?” which allows me to patch together the divers and disparate hobgoblins of my mind, known most commonly as “random thoughts.” I think it would be fun if any of you, my readers, shared your “Why is it?” thoughts to be published as part of this series. I know many of you to be clever and funny and I encourage you to share. Just email your random thought to thefloorcaptain@gmail.com.
Why is it…

· That 9 times out of 10, the person who yells “Don’t say hello” at you from the other side of crowded room while you cover your face with your hood (or newspaper, or whopper, or decorative Chinese hand fan) is the one person you don’t want to say hello to?
· That Women can’t read my mind?
· That Women don’t even bother listening when I take time out of my busy day to verbalize the thoughts in my mind they fail to read in the first place??
· That the only time I can read a woman’s mind is when she’s thinking about a time I screwed up?
· That Ostriches can’t fly? This shouldn’t bother me but it does. Large wrecking ball body, long, oversized neck and legs, dinky little wings like you get from one of those pre-packaged Halloween fairy costumes for little girls, big goofy grin and vacant expression closely resembling the one I see in the looking glass every morning– talk about an argument against Intelligent Design!
· That fish are considered dumb while humans who hunt fish by impaling an earthworm on the end of a half inch hook and casting it randomly into hundreds of thousands of gallons of water in search of (if we’re “lucky”) 12” to 24” prey are considered intelligent? (There is a simple answer, which applies to many a human endeavor: alcohol!)
· That Old Spice aftershave didn’t die out with my father’s generation?

Why????!!!

Believe The Captain when he says: women know!

Yours practicing Occlumency,

The Captain

Why do women always know???

The Boy Who Cried Wolf

My friends from the proverbial slow pitch beer league lobbed me another fat softball for my literary field of daydreams. It was a link to a website that sells, among other things, fake insurance cards. Though extremely tempting, I must decline to go down that path. Creating false legal documents is fun I agree, but as I learned in Junior High, they are actually illegal documents, or so says my PO. Note to aspiring criminals: never try to pass mimeographed counterfeit bills to the cafeteria cashier, especially in $1,000 denominations. Also, do not underestimate the risk of stealing a license from your buddy’s older sibling – the one with the facial hair - to purchase alcohol at a neighborhood package store, especially if that sibling works there behind the counter. “Can I see some ID please? What’s this? You little punk!!” Boy was she pissed. But I digress.

One teeny little lapse in judgment and no one ever believes you again! This haunted me through my 6 and ¾ years of High School. Any note from Mom, any plea for an extension for a term paper, even a love poem written in the throes of despair and drunkenness – all viewed as forgeries by significant players in my childhood. No matter how authentic the document, no one ever believed this beleaguered author. Allow me to illustrate.

· Missed a week of school tending to my dear, ill mother. The devil’s fire whiskey once again ravaged the home of The Captain. On Monday afternoon, Mom started to write a letter excusing her cherub from school – with lipstick on a napkin, only to trip and fall over the invisible rabbit that haunted her days. When she came to on Wednesday, she resumed writing, but the red letters were now indecipherable, lost in the crimson of the bloodstained napkin. By the time I managed to get her into her Depends, it was Thursday, and someone missed me enough at school to call and inquire about my whereabouts. It was the cafeteria cashier – I still owed money. When I finally got my chance to speak to the Principal (on hold for over an hour), I told him I had a note for him, but he just told me where I could stick the note and informed me that my presence was not required anyway.

· Then there was that poem I wrote to my first love, that new girl from California who once sat next to me on the bus before she knew she shouldn’t do such a thing – an entire 28 seconds elapsed, maybe even 29 - before someone noticed and whispered something into her ear, causing her to wretch and jump off the seat and hit her head on the ceiling. I was in love! And I immediately produced some very moving iambic pentameter and slipped it into her cubby at school when no one was looking. At the end of the day I saw the note back in my cubby with a handwritten reply. My heart skipped a beat! It read: “Don’t ever talk to me. I can’t believe you did that with a gerbil!”

· And perhaps the worst experience. When I produced a signed note from my caseworker explaining my tardiness due to him transporting me to visit my mother in rehab, the Principal threw the note back in my face and laughed, “Tell that lying bitch of a mother of yours that she needs to do a better job forging notes. This one’s almost as bad as the one on the bloody napkin!”

Believe The Captain when he says: don’t bother smashing that empty vodka bottle on your temple and let the wound bleed into an inkwell and use it to scrawl “Dog ate my homework” on eggshell white linen stationary – it’s a waste of time and money.

Yours writing to Mom,

The Captain

What Kind of Animal Are You?

Were you ever mandated to attend one of those hokey HR interventions just because you offended a few hypersensitive coworkers? Invariably, whether the topic is wild monkey sex or sensitivity, the instructor leads with one of those lame ice breaking activities they recycled from some paramilitary Bible camp they attended as a kid. (Non sequitur – it has been suggested that The Captain is obsessed with monkeys; I suppose that all depends on what your definition of “obsessed” is. Lest any reader take this in the wrong direction, as I KNOW some will, I want to set the record straight. To echo the public declaration of a famous politician: “I did not have sexual relations with that primate!!”) My favorite is always the one where you secretly write down personal qualities and pick an animal that best represents those qualities. It’s my favorite because, in the hands of a true imaginative (for you grammar know-it-alls who are snickering right about now, I know that “imaginative” is an adjective and not a noun. It’s called poetic license. Get over your anal self already!) as yours truly, this exercise can be good, dirty fun!

Let’s play. OK. I’m the one writing this, so you really can’t play along, so I’ll play with myself. This last sentence is an example of how words can unintentionally offend the thin-skinned. I love language!!!!!

There are no rules. I function better that way. I will pick as many animals as I like until I can’t think of anymore or get bored. So here we go. If The Captain was an animal, he’d be…

Otter: Spends the day playing around in the water, stopping only to eat and perform necessary and pleasurable bodily functions. Loves to taunt other animals for no apparent reason. Sound like anyone you know?

Pig: Is reportedly intelligent but you can’t tell by looking at it, especially when it is rolling around in the muck and eating slop at the same time. How many animals do you know who use “muck” and “slop” metaphorically in the same sentence??

Capuchin Monkey: The Captain has referred to this monkey as “God-like” – that is, if you are able to suspend belief and consider a hyperactive creature who makes agitated noises to be divine. Please forgive…………the PUN!

Badger: Fiercely independent, with razor sharp wit, er, I mean teeth, foul breath and a cool racing stripe down the middle of its hairy back. Or maybe just what the bullies in high school called me because they couldn’t pronounce my last name but yet somehow managed to shave a racing stripe right down the middle of my hairy back after I passed out after an afternoon of drinking a case of Kronenbourg beer with my geek friends playing Dagorhir while pretending to be Vikings. Remember Kronenbourg beer? Not me.

Ass: No explanation necessary!!

Believe The Captain when he says: Bray, Bray, Bray!

Yours performing a bodily function (take your best guess),

The Captain

Sharing My Succeses

The frustrated writers at the impersonal behemoth for-profit corporation where I work publish propaganda pieces called “Sharing Our Successes.” I have found that the arrogance of the individuals running the corporation blinds them to the basic selfishness of human nature at which they excel, evidenced by their misguided belief that their low level employees are actually willing to accept gilded compliments as a legitimate substitute for cold hard cash. We want ours, too; the only difference is that we just aren’t willing to screw others to get it.

Furthermore, which here means I don’t care if you are interested in my thoughts, I am most definitely interested in my own thoughts and, in fact, much prefer them to the thoughts of others, so it follows that what I really want to share with the world are my successes.

So here they are, a lifetime of The Captain’s milestones!

· Before I could speak, I was writing little love notes to Mother of The Captain. Notes like: “What in the name of Gerber was that? Oatmeal or Sawdust? Take this back to the chef!” Or “I’ve got an aromatic package for you in my diaper. That’s what you get for feeding me lumberyard waste!” And “Please take me to visit the Nursery school teacher with the large chest and low cut blouse; being bottle fed, I yearn to snuggle up with the real thing.” And on many an occasion with puppy dog eyes: “Mummy Dearest, a Bowie knife is not on the American Academy of Pediatrics approved toy list, so why is that the only toy you ever leave in my crib? And why is that razor wire still woven around the top of the railing?”
· Kindergarten. Brought home my first report card to my reclining mother (or was she supine?) – straight Cs! I was so excited - I knew these must be outstanding grades because my smiling teacher sent me home with the words, “I can’t wait ‘til you show your mother that!” Unfortunately, mommy was feeling under the weather again and taking her medicine, which was amber colored and came in 2 liter bottles and dispensed PRN (as needed), and she just mumbled something about Captain Morgan, which I took to mean that “C” stood for Captain, a tender, touching and prophetic analogy for my academic rank.
· Lost my first tooth on my sixth birthday opening Dad’s beer bottle – no twist offs for this little guy!
· I learned to ride a bike on the very same day I was potty trained. Year seven was an eventful one for The Captain!
· Age thirteen, a lucky number for yours truly as I reportedly lost my virginity during my first blackout!
· Age 14 – 29, the “lost” years, defined by vague recollections of significant achievements, like graduating college, where I learned to drink beer upside down or through an IV, or upside down through an IV, or using an IV to expedite some substance or other into my bloodstream.
· Age thirty – sex while conscious…wooohoo!!!
· Age forty – conscious…wooohooo!!!
· Age 41 – I discover Gin – it’s all downhill from there!

Believe The Captain when he asks: “Dear Mom, who was it? The milkman, the Maytag man, the plumber, the Old Spice traveling saleman??!!”

Yours measuring success in liters,

The Captain

Uber Toddlers

A coworker sent me a neat video today during work hours – an Evian commercial featuring freakishly coordinated, athletic, and rhythmic toddlers. (Watch the video http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQcVllWpwGs) Even with dementia stalking me, I can still muster enough mental wherewithal to distinguish between reality and fantasy and realize that it was just special effects. But damn it looked real…and let me tell you, the thought of a tribe of physically advanced uber toddlers overrunning our homes and neighborhoods like some unstoppable invasive species of plant sends chills down my spine!

These Mini Mes were dancing and leaping and prancing and breaking dancing and skateboarding and weaving their way through traffic and I could go on and on but you don’t want me to – all around an unwitting metropolis. Yes, they were still cute, much in the same way a pit bull puppy is cute – big, bright eyes, a hint of slobber under the chin, and an adorable little grin to mask the fearsome and deadly jaws, which nicely complement the soft, pink, pinch able baby fat rolled sweetly over the flesh tearing toddler limbs.

I am reminded of the movie trailer for “Surrogates,” a new sci-fi movie about cyborgs taking over the world. I think my pulse rate actually lowered as I yawned through what passed for movie highlights. Cyborgs just don’t frighten me. But then the image of a break dancing cherub who looks just like my know-it-all cousin’s kid popped into my head and I shuddered. Chest thumping, I reminded myself that toddlers cannot do the things they do in this video, but it was no good. There is something existentially disturbing about a chubby little cutie pie flying around like Tony Hawk turned vampire. I keep expecting the little guy to jump out like the white rabbit from “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” and sink his little baby teeth into my neck!!! Chucky, what are you doing? Chuck…..y? CHU......argghhhh!!!!!!

Still shuddering. OK. I was just walking down the street and passed a fawning mother taking her unsteady toddler for a walk. I gave Uber Boy a firm shove in the small of the back and he fell right over and began to cry. I watched nervously, bracing for a sudden assault…nothing. The wimpy little mench just cried as he waited for his apoplectic mother to pick his punk ass off the pavement after she finished bludgeoning me with her 30 lb. Louie Vuitton knock off. Despite the deep contusions, I’m feeling much better.

Believe The Captain when he says: Never serve your children pure bottled water – always mix it with something, preferably barley and hops.

Yours soothing his swollen face with an ice-filled Louie Vuitton,

The Captain

Drinking Helps the Brain

It’s been some time since The Captain commented on the contents of a news article, but when a Myrmidon first class made an impassioned plea (my words, my embellishment, my unreality) to provide my keen, coy yet bizarre take on a New York Times article about a scientific study that threatened to topple the paradigm of social drinking, I couldn’t refuse. It seems they know about The Captain at the Jewish Home for the Elderly, because that’s where this all started. I quote from an email from the Director of Day Services at the home to said Myrmidon: “The Captain may enjoy this report. Anything to prevent Alzheimer’s Disease.” Naturally, I was flattered, being called upon to do the serious work of finding a cure for a disease I dare not try and spell, a task for which I am underwhelmingly qualified. For posterity, here is the dramatic plea for help from my loyal reader: “The Captain, I think this just supports your cause on drinking. Although I think ‘moderate’ is not in your vocabulary. Anonymous.” Anonymous understands I am not a literary icon without a cause, especially when that cause involves drink. Sidebar: Anonymous is becoming a very popular name, as I am receiving a good many emails from Anonymous’s – I think it’s Greek name…But Anonymous is correct about one thing. The Captain knows not the meaning of “moderation.” I know you all agree that I live far from the moderate norm on the fringe of society, not to mention sanity. So now onto the art of healing, Captain style!

Aging: Moderate Drinking May Help the Brain
By NICHOLAS BAKALAR
People over 60 who consume moderate amounts of alcohol have a reduced risk for Alzheimer’s disease and other dementias, according to a large review of studies. Why wait 'til you're 60? Start moderating today! Conversely, if you are over 60 and have been dry your whole life, screw moderation and go straight to excess before it's too late.
The analysis, which appeared in the July issue of The American Journal of Geriatric Psychiatry (I bet if I read this periodical when I was drunk I'd find it funny. I think I just dared myself - do you ever do that?), reviewed 15 studies that together followed more than 28,000 subjects for at least two years. All the studies controlled for age, sex, smoking and other factors. It's a twofer. Studies indicate that having sex regularly is good for your health; since consuming alcohol increases your odds of having sex in proportion to the amount of alcohol consumed, it follows that the more you drink, the healthier you become. The studies variously defined light to moderate drinking as 1 to 28 drinks per week. Let’s extend the far limit of moderate to 28 per diem and call it a day! Compared with abstainers (Alcohol? Sex? Both? Note to conservative religious groups who are keen on abstaining: your religion may be dangerous to your health. So stop abstaining and start partaking!! If I have offended folks with this statement, who cares? They all likely have dementia!), male drinkers reduced their risk for dementia by 45 percent, and women by 27 percent.
The researchers acknowledge that studying the effects of alcohol on dementia is complicated by issues like beverage type, standards of quantity and individual behavior that may interact with alcohol to affect mental acuity. This is not very complicated: the beverage type is your favorite booze, the quantity is a shitload, the behavior is irrelevant short of law-breaking, and, speaking from personal experience, you don't need mental acuity to interact with alcohol, just a large plastic cup. But there is ample evidence from other studies that moderate alcohol consumption can increase HDL, or “good cholesterol,” improve blood flow to the brain and decrease blood coagulation. All three factors may reduce the risk for dementia. You health freaks should start making your instant oatmeal with beer or whiskey.
Still, the authors warn against drawing premature conclusions. “The overall safety of alcohol use in later life,” they write, “needs to be evaluated in relation to all of the available evidence” about its health effects. When I read this I hear, "When alcohol doesn't kill you, it makes you stronger."
NICHOLAS BAKALAR
Believe The Captain when he says: moderation is for virgins.

Yours warding off Dementia with a large plastic cup,

The Captain

The Captain’s Guide to Choosing a Tavern

From the shabby but cozy confines of Dickens’s Publick Houses to the earthy establishments of Tolkien, houses of drink have lured, coddled, cudgeled and fed the souls and bloodstreams of simple folk the world over who search for warmth, fellowship and an opportunity to pun and get (to use a pastoral term) ploughed. The birthplace of The Captain, that wondrous metropolis of Torrington, CT, could in my childhood boast the greatest number of taverns per capita in the state. In a way, my childhood was but a living experiment to test the veracity of this claim. Alas, I never made it past 17 bars on any given evening, but anecdotally, I can share without hesitation that I doubt not the truth of the boast!

My parents taught me to use my gifts, so like a good son I now will share with you my loyal myrmidon, sober and drunk alike, the accrued wisdom of my tender youth spent walking, stumbling and crawling the streets of the good city Torrington. Put another way, here comes The Captain’s Guide to Choosing a Tavern in which to get shit faced!

* Remember when you brazenly told your Geometry teacher that Geometry was useless bullshit? Well, I don’t remember a lot but I do remember that. And I have eaten my words. So in answer to the question: which bar should you go to first? The Captain responds: “Plot a straight line between yourself and the nearest Tavern and follow that line straight to that bar!” OK. I’m not really sure if that’s Geometry or Algebra or Geography or some other stupid subject I never studied, but you get the point (time to go back to Bad Punners Anonymous, I think).

* Visit a location with “local flavor.” Did you know that The Captain grew up across the street from Barella’s Tavern? Here are a just a few examples of local flavor courtesy of the corner of Culvert Street and Washington Avenue.

Stepping out my front door on the way to school, hopping over the passed out parent of school companions lying on my front lawn in a puddle of blood. You don’t want to be downwind of that!

Watching from my playpen, I witnessed a drunk dude who leaves his car idling in front of the bar while he goes in to wet his whistle and it slips into gear and crashes into the front wall of the bar. Mr. Barella was pissed and proceeded to spew profanities in two languages – highly educational! Had he been Geppetto, his hand gestures would have transformed Pinocchio into a puppet pornstar for sure!

Neighborhood waifs (myself included) playing chicken with the cars of drunks as they drove home from their busy day of unemployment.

Before the WWE, there were bar fights. There’s something universally comical about watching a couple of blind drunk losers stumble out the bar and swing and miss and trip their way up the street and through neighbors yards until they inevitably wrestle each other to the ground, never on the soft grass, mind you, but on the rough, glass shard strewn pavement. And all this right outside my bedroom window!

Old obnoxious Arnie was a regular at Barellas. Not only did all of the patrons at Barellas know Arnie by name, but they also were on a first name basis with Arnie’s bookie (Louie – no kidding) and his parole officer (Stan the Man) who would show up from time to time looking for Arnie to discuss divers business and legal matters. Some of my first memories on this earth are of Arnie disturbing my slumber from across the street on sticky summer evenings with one of his patented drunken rants (he had only three: his good-for-nothing wife whose major offense was, as far as we knew, holding down a steady job and supporting the family; nosy cops who always seemed to show up whenever Arnie was committing a petty crime; and Snowball, a pure white neighborhood tabby that Arnie feared more than anything in the world, believing her to be a Hellcat dispensed by Satan to haunt his living days. Imagine, if you will, a tall, burly, bitter Scandinavian brut running like a skittish school girl from a pretty little white kitty. We neighborhood kids would regularly leave a bowl of milk for Snowball just outside the Tavern door.

* If you seek a cheap, over the bar, medicinal remedy to some severely depressing life circumstances, look for a Tavern with the faded Pabst Blue Ribbon decal on the dusty window. I have no idea who would award a Blue Ribbon for this gosh awful cheap brew, but you can bet your precious last six-pack that the dude was a cash-strapped lush. Acceptable alternatives are: establishments that serve Schlitz, Schmidts, Piels or, my personal favorite, the beer with the best ever jingle, Schaefer – the one beer to have when you’re having more than one!!

* If you seek a classy Publick House, you will need to ask directions from someone who’s actually been in one.

* Unless you want to go to jail, NEVER drink in the Tavern your 13 year old sister frequents, as all of her teenybopper Lolita girlfriends will be there as well.

* Avoid Taverns without neon signage; they’re like high priced hookers – they might look nicer on the outside than their less expensive peers but are way overpriced and just as dirty on the inside.

* Tavern Etiquette:

It is impolite to drink beer from a glass, not to mention unsafe.
Sex on the pool table is acceptable, but only if you cover it first (the table, that is).
Smoking is a form of ambience.
Tavern food is to be eaten with your hands. Any silverware you see is there for the benefit of the Health Inspector.

* Taverns are for Men

Don’t let the label fool you…Ladies night is for men. This is, however, one night when women are allowed to drink.
Mens night? Also for men…or so I’ve been told.
Sunday, Monday and Thursday night football? C’mon.
World Figure Skating Championships? Just checking to see if you’re still awake.
Jello Wrestling Tournament? Another event where the female participants are permitted to drink.
Every other night? A man’s home may be his castle, but his Tavern is his “safe place.”

* If you have a death wish, go to a neighborhood dive and order the following:
A wine cooler
A Strawberry Daiquiri
Pinot Grigio (here comes Pinocchio again!)
Brie with mango and apple with a fresh sprig of parsley (if you’re lucky, the barkeep will think you are a legal immigrant speaking a foreign language and just pour you a Schlitz)
A Cosmo

So Believe The Captain when he says: taverns , booze and teenage girls are a dangerous brew!!

Yours singing the Schaefer song,

The Captain

A Dictionary of Slang and Unconventional English, Seventh Edition ©1961

For Christmas, my eldest legitimate presented me with the above tome, a thoughtful and fitting gift for yours truly. It is chockfull of outdated slang. For the record, outdated slang is funny. Some of it so funny in fact, that The Captain would suggest to my myrmidon that we make a concerted effort to reintroduce some to the new millennium. I would humbly ask your assistance in choosing the word or phrase to be used as our first attempt in this deliciously deviant literary experiment.

Given that the lexicon is 1,528 pages of squinty print, this literary experiment could become a serial offering, as opposed to a cereal offering, which would be breakfast. But I have to start somewhere so I will start with the letter “A” because dictionaries like to start there. Conveniently, I have mastered the alphabet up to “A” so I am, as they say, ahead of the game.

Apartments to let: Brainless. I love it – there’s empty space upstairs!!

Anythingarian: A person of no fixed or decided views. Coined by Jonathan Swift ca. 1707 and later used by Kingsley in 1851 to describe modern Neo-Platonism. I’ve seen this. Whenever they want something from me, my teenage children become Anythingarians, adopting and swapping out the most expedient viewpoints as they try to get their paws on my cash.

Apple-dumpling Shop: A woman’s bosom. As you know, The Captain is fond of bosom – the word, that is. But rather than prattle on incessantly repeating “bosom. Bosom, bosom,” I now have a clever yet quaintly provincial synonym to prattle on with.

Apple-monger, Apple-squire: A harlot’s bully. LOL. Wanna confuse a pimp? Go up to him and say something like, “Hey Apple-squire, can I buy some apple dumplings?”

Apples: Testicles; also, breasts. Geez. Which is it? Must be the bi-sexual definition.

Apron-up: Pregnant. The natural state of women. Shit! Here comes my feminist teenage daughter. Time to run for an Apple-dumpling shop!!

Arbor Vitae: Literary term for the tree of life, i.e. the penis. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go to an orchard again without seeing sexual organs everywhere.

‘arf-and’arf: Cockney for ale and porter mixed equally, “half and half.”

Arfarfanarf: Drunk. One who has had too many an ‘arf-and-‘arf. Next time you’re out drinking, go up to a drunk person and shout “You’re arfarfanarf!” People will then know there are two drunks!

I could go on forever, and I probably will at some point, but I need to cut up a fresh lime for my tonic so I leave you with these parting words: Believe The Captain when he shouts “Arfarfanarf!”

Yours with an apartment to let!

The Captain

PS. I encourage you all to bring back the slang – try one of these words out at work, at the bar, or in bedroom, and let me know how it goes!

Nature versus Nurture: Stories from the Hood

The Captain has made arguments on both sides of the timeless Nature versus Nurture debate. I’ve argued that suspect genes condemn the arbitrary recipient, if lucky, to a life of almost bearable mediocrity at best. The unlucky ones become Claims Adjusters.

Yet, a recent news story from my old neighborhood, the Dickensian streets of West Torrington, made me pause and sway back into the Nurture camp. It seems that Torrington has no need whatsoever for fiction, because the non-fictional reality there is so fantastic, so surreal, so bizarro, that one need only take a walk down the street to witness events unimagined by the likes of Salvador Dali and Triumph the Insult Comic Dog. After I read this story, I searched my chemically frayed memory banks for other similarly dramatic examples from the nurturing environment that produced The Captain. No data returned; but not to worry, I simply went to the internet, where I was able to get the information I was seeking because, you see, Torrington, CT, that blue collar cesspool that only has Winsted, CT, to make fun of, has over my lifetime made national news for all the wrong reasons.

But first, the news story that prompted my stroll down memory lane. I normally just copy and paste the story and comment. But I have simply included a link to the story and the incredible string of comments that follow. If you take the time to read everything, you will never again wonder how The Captain was spawned. Just know that I grew up within walking distance of the car dealership. Here is the link Oh My God.

Now for some bullet point summaries of some of Torrington’s most memorable lowlights!

· The Tracy Thurman Story: This is the title of an honest to God real made for TV movie about a girl who was a year behind me in high school. To say that Tracy chose poorly in marriage would be an understatement. Here’s a synopsis I pulled from one of the numerous articles about this on the internet: On June 10th, 1983, Charles “Buck” Thurman assaulted Tracy for the last time. He stabbed her thirteen times in the chest, neck, shoulders, and face – ten minutes AFTER she had called the police. He kicked her in the head with a booted foot, snatched up their two-year-old, told the child, “I’ve killed your rotten mother,” and left her lying in a pool of blood. It took twenty-five minutes for the police to arrive. Astonishingly, Tracy did not die, but the damage was inconceivable. She spent seven months in the hospital. Although the left side of her body was able to function, she had no tactile sensation. The right side of her body was able to feel, but she had lost 80% of her motor skills.

At the time, Tracy lived in a 2 story house apartment that was once on my West Torrington paper route. An apocryphal story that circulated shortly after this happened has the cop, who was just weeks from retirement, taking a leak on the lawn as he listened to Tracy’s screaming pleas for help. Wouldn’t want to get injured on the job so close to retirement! Read more here: Is there a God?

· Remember the TV show “Jackass”? Well, one Torrington boy will likely never forget after mimicking the show by basically allowing his friends to douse his leg with gasoline and light it on fire. Oh what those Torringtonians will do for fun! It was even written up in the NY Times! Here’s an excerpt. In January, a 13-year-old Torrington, Conn., boy suffered second- and third-degree burns after similarly imitating a stunt in which an MTV personality set himself on fire. The boy let a friend douse his pants with gasoline and set him on fire, the police said. The friend was charged with reckless endangerment. MTV moved “Jackass” from the 9 pm timeslot to 10 pm as a result. Now that’s real power! And did I mention that this kid lived in West Torrington??

· On my walk to school down Highland Avenue, my hooligan friends and I would often stop at the Value Mart, a little variety store located on the first floor of a two story house. I knew that there was an apartment on the second floor, but little did I know that years later the future occupants would make national news. In 1999, James and Lynn Luddy, who lived above the still extant Value Mart, were arrested for trading their five month old son for back rent. The baby was handed over to the landlord’s sister – she of the barren womb - who was immediately caught when she drove with the baby straight to a consignment store to purchase a car seat for the tot. She asked the store owners to help her install the seat because she didn’t know how. When they saw the bay squirming loosely around in the back seat of the car, the store owners alerted the police and little James Luddy, Jr., was transported straight to the Torrington Department of Children and Families office (yes, Torrington has its own DCF office)!

So there you have it. There are more stories to tell – perhaps a future post? Remind me to tell you about Barella’s Tavern! But for now, these TRUE stories simply serve as supporting examples of my original point: environment is an extremely formative factor in determining the person who we grow up to be. Unfortunately for me, growing up in West Torrington turned me into The Captain!

Believe The Captain when he says: Winsted sucks!

Yours suckled by the nurturing if tainted milk of mother Torrington!