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
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
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
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
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
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
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
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
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
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
Saturday, August 8, 2009
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!
Monday, August 3, 2009
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!
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!
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Geriatric Tennis
Every day, my commuter bus takes me past the beautiful Elizabeth Park tennis courts. Once the nets go up in the spring, a group of female senior citizens descends on the eastern court during the early morning hours for some “spirited” doubles action. Now to the untrained eye, “action” may seem a bit of a stretch, but through the lens of The Captain’s Camera obscura, what appears to be four old biddies standing in place in slow motion randomly swatting flies with racquets is, upon closer inspection, an intricate and incredibly complex set of behaviors that, in the end, qualifies as a tennis match.
I will attempt to illustrate by mechanically describing the dramatic activity of the players and then interpret what is actually happening. This harkens back to my collegiate days as an English Literature major and being required to read the novels of Henry James. One or two mundane physical events occur over the course of several hundred pages, making it seem on the surface like an incredible waste of time and ink. Ah, but then there is (and I am now quoting from memory the same lecture I heard for an entire freakin’ semester) the “dramatic action – what is happening psychologically in the minds of the characters”. And much like The Captain, James could write a sentence that drags on for pages and pages…and pages. (Listen folks, I know my random sidebars are pure bullshit, but the act of comparing a geriatric tennis match with a Henry James novel is just the sort of disjointed and bizarre existential connection that floats The Captain’s boat, pun intended).
So move over Henry James, here comes The Captain’s Ode to Geriatric Tennis!
Mechanical Description: Ping, boing, dribble.
What Really Happened: Delores serving an ace and, in a shrewd attempt to preserve her energy, thinking to herself but not verbalizing, “Take that Saggy Tits!” (Ping – ball hits racquet; boing - ball bounces and hits the court surface; dribble – the ball dribbles between the legs and beneath the drooping bosom of Gertrude, the bitch who bedded Dolores’s third husband at the nursing home)
Mechanical Description: Ping, boing, dribble, slurp.
What Really Happened: Saggy Tits Gertrude returning the favor and having the incredible wherewithal to slurp up her drool in one fluid motion and thinking thus about her tryst with Dolores’s husband, “I’ve had better.” Amazing.
Mechanical Description: Grunt, whiff, dribble, waddle, waddle, waddle, grunt, dribble, expletive, waddle, waddle, waddle, grunt, waddle, waddle, waddle, whiff, dribble.
What Really Happened: Edna double faulting on her serve for the 3,762nd consecutive time. (Grunt – Edna tossing up the ball for her serve; whiff – Edna swinging and missing the ball with a feeble wave of her racquet; dribble – the ball dribbling a few feet away; waddle, waddle, waddle – Edna ambulating to the ball; grunt – Edna bending over to pick up the ball; dribble – the ball dribbling a few more feet away after being struck by her drooping breasts; expletive – Edna uttering “shit”; and to save on typing, the rest simply documents her unsuccessful second serve and stubborn refusal to retrieve the dribbling ball, thinking, “Who am I and who are these strange women?”
Mechanical Description: Gulp, gulp, gulp.
What Really Happened: That’s Beatrice sucking down her “Old Fashioned”, possibly the first alcoholic drink to be called a “cocktail.” This is a bourbon drink invented in the nineteenth century, possibly after her birth. Beatrice isn’t the least bit interested in playing tennis, so she forfeits her serve every time. She’s there simply to complete the foursome to satisfy the rules. The racquet she holds in her left hand isn’t for tennis but acts as a counterweight to the large tumbler of booze she holds in her right hand. Without the weight of the racquet, she is forever in danger of “tipping” over (my God I love to pun!). The tumbler is constantly being refilled by Lars, the hunky young male visiting nurse who, much like a ball boy at Wimbledon, is forever sprinting on and off the court – only instead of retrieving tennis balls, he’s either topping off Beatrice’s “medicinal” tonic or, like a NASCAR Pit Crew member, executing a quick Depends change.
Mechanical Description: Slurp, slurp, slurp.
What Really Happened: This is Gertrude cleaning up her drool in anticipation of her private Physical Therapy appointment this afternoon with Lars.
Mechanical Description: Ping, boing, ping, expletive, clop, clop, crack, shriek, siren wail.
What Really Happened: Delores actually returning Gertrude the Slut’s serve and screaming “Holy Shit” and hopping up and down in wild celebration only to break her hip and fall to the ground in a howl of pain while Lars, who’s seen this before, speed dials the ambulance.
Mechanical Description: Waddle, waddle, waddle, waddle, waddle, string of expletives, whack, string of expletives, mad howl.
What Really Happened: Edna ambling over to the ambulance and unleashing a torrent of profanity after the EMT informed her, “I’m sorry Ma’am but this is not the Good Humor Ice Cream Truck,” followed by the sound of Edna’s first ever successful strike with her tennis racquet as it finds its target at the base of the EMT’s skull, who promptly returns the volley with his own string of naughty words, punctuated by the howls of laughter from the other EMTs.
Believe The Captain when he says: Playing mixed doubles with old ladies can be hazardous to your health.
Yours staying safely on the bus,
The Captain
Illustration of Camera Obscura entitled "Peeping Thomas" circa 1890. Note the female tennis players are fully clothed.
I will attempt to illustrate by mechanically describing the dramatic activity of the players and then interpret what is actually happening. This harkens back to my collegiate days as an English Literature major and being required to read the novels of Henry James. One or two mundane physical events occur over the course of several hundred pages, making it seem on the surface like an incredible waste of time and ink. Ah, but then there is (and I am now quoting from memory the same lecture I heard for an entire freakin’ semester) the “dramatic action – what is happening psychologically in the minds of the characters”. And much like The Captain, James could write a sentence that drags on for pages and pages…and pages. (Listen folks, I know my random sidebars are pure bullshit, but the act of comparing a geriatric tennis match with a Henry James novel is just the sort of disjointed and bizarre existential connection that floats The Captain’s boat, pun intended).
So move over Henry James, here comes The Captain’s Ode to Geriatric Tennis!
Mechanical Description: Ping, boing, dribble.
What Really Happened: Delores serving an ace and, in a shrewd attempt to preserve her energy, thinking to herself but not verbalizing, “Take that Saggy Tits!” (Ping – ball hits racquet; boing - ball bounces and hits the court surface; dribble – the ball dribbles between the legs and beneath the drooping bosom of Gertrude, the bitch who bedded Dolores’s third husband at the nursing home)
Mechanical Description: Ping, boing, dribble, slurp.
What Really Happened: Saggy Tits Gertrude returning the favor and having the incredible wherewithal to slurp up her drool in one fluid motion and thinking thus about her tryst with Dolores’s husband, “I’ve had better.” Amazing.
Mechanical Description: Grunt, whiff, dribble, waddle, waddle, waddle, grunt, dribble, expletive, waddle, waddle, waddle, grunt, waddle, waddle, waddle, whiff, dribble.
What Really Happened: Edna double faulting on her serve for the 3,762nd consecutive time. (Grunt – Edna tossing up the ball for her serve; whiff – Edna swinging and missing the ball with a feeble wave of her racquet; dribble – the ball dribbling a few feet away; waddle, waddle, waddle – Edna ambulating to the ball; grunt – Edna bending over to pick up the ball; dribble – the ball dribbling a few more feet away after being struck by her drooping breasts; expletive – Edna uttering “shit”; and to save on typing, the rest simply documents her unsuccessful second serve and stubborn refusal to retrieve the dribbling ball, thinking, “Who am I and who are these strange women?”
Mechanical Description: Gulp, gulp, gulp.
What Really Happened: That’s Beatrice sucking down her “Old Fashioned”, possibly the first alcoholic drink to be called a “cocktail.” This is a bourbon drink invented in the nineteenth century, possibly after her birth. Beatrice isn’t the least bit interested in playing tennis, so she forfeits her serve every time. She’s there simply to complete the foursome to satisfy the rules. The racquet she holds in her left hand isn’t for tennis but acts as a counterweight to the large tumbler of booze she holds in her right hand. Without the weight of the racquet, she is forever in danger of “tipping” over (my God I love to pun!). The tumbler is constantly being refilled by Lars, the hunky young male visiting nurse who, much like a ball boy at Wimbledon, is forever sprinting on and off the court – only instead of retrieving tennis balls, he’s either topping off Beatrice’s “medicinal” tonic or, like a NASCAR Pit Crew member, executing a quick Depends change.
Mechanical Description: Slurp, slurp, slurp.
What Really Happened: This is Gertrude cleaning up her drool in anticipation of her private Physical Therapy appointment this afternoon with Lars.
Mechanical Description: Ping, boing, ping, expletive, clop, clop, crack, shriek, siren wail.
What Really Happened: Delores actually returning Gertrude the Slut’s serve and screaming “Holy Shit” and hopping up and down in wild celebration only to break her hip and fall to the ground in a howl of pain while Lars, who’s seen this before, speed dials the ambulance.
Mechanical Description: Waddle, waddle, waddle, waddle, waddle, string of expletives, whack, string of expletives, mad howl.
What Really Happened: Edna ambling over to the ambulance and unleashing a torrent of profanity after the EMT informed her, “I’m sorry Ma’am but this is not the Good Humor Ice Cream Truck,” followed by the sound of Edna’s first ever successful strike with her tennis racquet as it finds its target at the base of the EMT’s skull, who promptly returns the volley with his own string of naughty words, punctuated by the howls of laughter from the other EMTs.
Believe The Captain when he says: Playing mixed doubles with old ladies can be hazardous to your health.
Yours staying safely on the bus,
The Captain
Illustration of Camera Obscura entitled "Peeping Thomas" circa 1890. Note the female tennis players are fully clothed.
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