Impotence, Judaism and you

Since I was a wee lad shining shoes and selling newspapers on the streets of New York, dressed in my finest rags and faded windsor cap, I have been competitive. I always want to be the best in whatever I choose to do, unless it's something I'm no good at, in which case I give up completely and curl into a withered, quivering ball. Despite being of a rather average size, I was able to do well in some sports, with the exception of golf and basketball, or anything that requires coordination. The other night I managed to knock over an entire stand of chapstick, sending lip-soothing comfort scattering across the cashier's counter.

I am irked by this blogging thing- on one hand, I don't want anyone to read it, because that removes all the pressure involved with coming up with something interesting to say (No danger of that, as you all know). On the other hand, I want it to be read and adored by millions, leading to a lucrative book deal that will allow me to retire in style to my mountaintop fortress, complete with boat dock, laser cannons and rotating bed. If I did well enough, I could fashion the entrance to look like a skull, and that's cool. In other words, I want the benefits without any of the hardship- is that too much to ask? Fortunately, I have found a happy medium that works for me- A quality that varies from mediocre to poor and an update schedule that recognizes no human timetables. I pass the savings on to you.

One thing you may know or that I might have mentioned is that I am half-Jewish. This has never brought me any hardship- in fact, with a December birthday, Christmas and Hanukkah, I made out like a New Orleansean looter for a good number of years. Since we're bad Jews, we never went to temple, but rather celebrated in the other Jewish temple: restaurants. There's no holiday too sacred for the Spaghetti Factory. I think we should just go all the way and have pork ribs with big glasses of milk for Easter, just in case there was any lingering doubt about our piety. If Moses was around, I think he'd be a little pissed.

The other great thing about being a Jew is that I can make all of the Hitler jokes I want. Thank goodness for that, because there's nothing funnier to me than Nazis. I don't understand why people get so upset about the Nazis: It's ok, we won. Nobody is goose-stepping down Martin Luther King Blvd.

Recently, they had a protest at a nearby university against their Native American mascot. To support their cause, they had made up t-shirts with the "Harlem Blacks" and the "New York Jews", depicting a sterotypical Jewish image with the big nose and whatever else Jews are supposed to have- smiling eyes, I guess?

Let me state this in no uncertain terms- I want a New York Jews T-shirt. I want one, because that is the most awesome thing that has ever existed. I would wear it proudly, and in fact I might want multiple colors so that I can have one for every day of the week. There could be one with the Jew handling money, or one dressed up as a lawyer- there's lots of options, each funnier than the last.

I could even wear them when I'm out shining shoes and selling newspapers.

A Love Story

I am in love with a person other than my wife. There, I've said it: It's shocking, and I expect those who wear monocles to have them popping off of their eyes, while their top hats are simultanously suspended above their heads by surprise itself. And yet, that's not the most disturbing thing: It's a man. Yes, I can imagine you now, the simple exclaimation exuding from you, if harnessed, able to fuel mankind far longer than any oozy black liquid. And yet, this man most certainly has no idea of my admiration for him. That's because he's dead.

Am I a philandering homosexual necrophile? No. My love affair, while torrid, is merely one of affection for the work of my favorite author, Samuel Clements. Yes, Mark Twain is my secret love, or rather, his writing. As for the man himself, I would guess that he couldn't be the most pleasant of company, what with decomposition being what it is. And barring any sort of necromancy or Day of the Dead style action, I can't reasonably assume that he will be in the future. As an aside, I bet his corpse, dressed smartly in a new white seersucker suit, would make an excellent conversation piece once the initial awkwardness is surpassed.

"Our heroes are the men who do things which we recognize with regret and sometimes with a secret shame that we cannot do. We find not much in ourselves to admire, we are always privately wanting to be like somebody else. If everybody was satisfied with himself there would be no heroes."

What is it about his style that holds so much allure to me? His fairly brusque manner, simple and to the point, with an unrelenting view that made him both popular and controversial? Was it his blatant Americanism, so easy to define and defend in that period? His acerbic wit? The longevity of consistency of his humor? I can't say. All I know is that his works resonate with me. Also, his hair was awesome, and I can only hope one day to have a coiffure to equal a tenth of it.

"An author values a compliment even when it comes from a source of doubtful competency."

Indeed, I find that my own writings stray towards his, though I could never hope to approach it in substance. I am far more fond of an impressive word than he was, though the criteria has changed since his day: rejoice, blaze, tingle and exqusite were all common words for him; for us they are far too verbose- "thing" and "stuff" are our keywords, and we all make liberal use of them.

"The difference between the almost right word & the right word is really a large matter--it's the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning."

We share some of the same feelings: Anti-imperialism, imagination, humor and a fondness for pirates that borders on the unhealthy. I have said that I am temporally displaced- it is true that I could envision myself enjoying a leisurely steamboat ride on a humid June day, watching towns roll slowly by. It's a conservative ideal to return to an idealized time- Twain lived in the era of slavery and Civil War, of factories with horrendous working conditions (no water cooler, even!), but there is still something innocent and good there. Perhaps I want the Disney version of Reconstruction-era America, complete with animatronic puppets that are vaguely creepy and $15 dollar sodas.

"Now and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates. "

Even in my love life, he has been instrumental. Throughout his life, he was madly in love with his wife, and it came through in his writing. My personal favorite is the Diary of Adam and Eve, in which Adam first reviles, than doesn't understand, then grows to love Eve. I strive for the same deep and abiding love in my own marriage.

"Wheresoever she was, there was Eden."

So I am afflicted with this disease, this great love for a person who lived a century before me, who could not imagine the world we live in, whose bitterness definitely exceeded mine, and who, if we were to meet, would undoubtedly tell me to gather up his bags and take them to his room. And yet I cannot help myself. Perhaps I should frame his poster and put it above my bed, so that I might lie back at night and wonder about what could be...

"Ah, well, I am a great and sublime fool. But then I am God's fool, and all his works must be contemplated with respect."

The weekend cop-out edition

I'm not feeling particularly verbose right now, so I'm going to post a random thing I wrote elsewhere, partially to share and partially to have it in one central location. Without further ado, here's "Moving":

Nobody knows it yet, but I'm secretly planning to move to Norway, land of my father's fathers. It will be in that frozen and blasted wilderness where Vikings once dared to tread that I will kill and skin a small douglas fir tree, thus completing the circle of life, and providing me with the suit made out of bark and pine needles that is critical for my urban lifestyle. So outfitted, I will travel to the northernmost fjord and recite the tale of Beowulf to many an amazed and shocked timber wolf and bear. Then, using handcrafted skis made from millions of individual hairs from the elusive albino stag of Oslo, I will ski my way towards the northern lights, which will bear me up and will carry me home, to be laid in a bed of various berries and meats, and I will drift softly to sleep, content in my success. My time is short, I must not tarry- for if I am to fail, all the world will suffer.

A proposal

In October, I will be celebrating the first anniversary of my marriage. Then, sometime in July I will be celebrating the anniversary of paying off the wedding, but I digress. There is one thing that predicates all of these things and yet is utterly essential to their occurance. I speak, of course, of the marriage proposal.

There are many questions to ask yourself before you pop the question. Do you enjoy sharing the bed with someone who elbows you and snores (and can likewise put up with your snoring)? Is your pet name for them "Honey", or is it "Snookybootiewootlebottom"? Do you enjoy spending time with them? Even if it's shopping for clothes? Even if it's for hours on end until your feet are blistered and raw and your leg muscles long ago turned into jelly and you're nearly comatose while waiting in the "man chair" outside of the changing room? Oh, and it might help to consider if you love the person, too.

If you answered yes to these questions, then you're ready to be married. But there's still one thing you need: An expensive piece of hardware to prove your love. No, I'm not talking about a dump truck or chainsaw, I'm talking jewelry, and only the kind that is inexplicably inflated in price will do. So you go to a jewelry store and feel lightheaded when they show you the price, along with tightness in your chest and a tingling left arm. No, it's not that burrito combo you just had for lunch (well, maybe it is), it's the cost of that little sparkly gem. Don't worry, they'll let you examine it with one of those thick monocle jeweler thingees so you can see the flaws in the stone. Keep in mind that you'll have no idea what you're looking at, so just nod stupidly.

The first place I went was amazed that I wanted to check out another jewelry store. I know it's a racket, but there's a slight chance that one shopkeeper will take pity on me and only charge me 500% cost instead of 700%. And indeed, I found a place that was cheaper: the gumball machine at the store has lovely moon gems set in the finest plastic bands. They are a little harder to resize, however.

So, you have your ring in pocket. Now you have to guess when you should ask: be careful, if you don't do it in exactly the way your future bride imagined it in her daydreams, she'll be bitter forever. Do you have a traditional girlfriend? After a nice dinner, but before the "mile high mudd pie" is a wonderful choice. Slip it into her wine glass and hope she doesn't choke on it; for the more frugal, slip it into her "unlimited refills" plastic soda cup at McDonald's. For a less traditional way of doing things, take her on a drive to the middle of a dark forest and chase her through the trees with a hatchet, but instead of murdering her, give her the ring with a charming smile. She's sure to forgive you. Of course, if you reconsider while you're chasing her, that forest is very deep, and no screams can escape...

Ahem. For my own part, I decided to propose during our trip in Las Vegas. We were staying along with my family at "Sam's Town", which for the uninitiated is the most popular casino among 55-75 year olds. It's about 5 miles from the strip, so it's safe from all of the fun and excitement that lies therein. It does have a show in the center of the hotel that features a bear, an eagle and a coyote singing some patriotic tune. In other words, it's the worst hotel in Vegas. The only upside was driving a handicapped scooter at maximum speed through the hallways and the people next door to us having very loud sex all night.

It was Saturday night when we escaped, and although calling a night in Vegas "warm" is redundant, it was in that it was comfortable walking outside despite it being November. We walked around the strip, the lights and displays illuminating the street filled with thousands of people, and only maybe half of them handing out flyers for "entertainers". I knew that somewhere this night I would propose marriage.

First, we headed into the Venetian and walked to the "Canal shops". I've never been to Venice, so I can't really say if the gaudy painted-on sky was realistic, or if the namesake canal running through the middle of the super-expensive shops carried the same aroma as the original. My plan was simple- an endearingly cheesy gondola ride and a proposal. Me on bended knee while those perched above us applauded. And yet, it was not to be, because before I could suggest this plan, she said, "Those gondolas are the stupidest things ever."

Our next stop was the Paris hotel and casino. On the outside, a loving tribute to the iconic Eiffel Tower hovered above a place that promised to bring forth the City of Light. Inside, another casino, but this one with the waitresses dressed like French maids. We walked into a shop, and exited with a skinny shot glass with a poodle painted on the side. She then announces that she needs to use the restroom, and I hatch a second plan. If I hold her package for her, I can slip the ring inside the shot glass and have a toast later. So I offer in my most gentlemanly way to hold her bag, and she says, "No, I'm fine, just wait here."

I have one final attempt to make- a trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower. It's hard to escape the cheesiness of Vegas, but there's a charm in it, and there's romance in looking over the city, whether it's from faux tower or not. I suggest we take a ride up to the top, and she says "It's $10 a person, that's a waste of money."

We exit by a side door, and we are shielded from the crowds passing by on the street in front of us, and the fountains of the Bellagio beyond that. I grab her arm.

"Hold on a sec." I say. She looks beautiful, as she always is to me.
"What?" Her eyes widen slightly as I fumble in my pocket, finally producing a small, black box.
"You, my dear, are being a pain in the butt. Will you marry me?" The hands fly to the face- common to all women, but it just accentuates her beautiful eyes that are tearing up.

The embrace, the kiss and the slipping of the ring on the finger. The promise of a new life; together.

Chapter 3: Death in the Desert

I was, as I have mentioned, a Boy Scout. This led me to some interesting adventures, whether it be nearly freezing in an icy mountain lake while attempting a swim test or running around half-naked at Indian Camp. Sundry meals have been eaten, countless activities and hikes attended. Injuries have been sustained, such as the time I played caveman baseball with my friend (which requires a tree branch, a rock and a hapless bystander to play). Eerily quiet nights have been spent under a blossom of stars that lit the night sky in the desert. Fish have been caught, canoes tipped over, sunburns accrued and guns and bows shot at hay-backed targets. Horses have been ridden and legs have bowed thusly. Searing hot campfires have been built and shoes melted on the edges of said fires, as have marshmallows and metal and God knows what else those kids put in the fire when the adults weren't looking.

So it's safe to assume I look back on my scouting days with fondness and affection. At the time, I'm sure I dealt with boredom and heat, but time has softened the edges of those sharp points down. I often bemoan the fact that it seems that kids are increasingly insulated from any kind of experience that might be less than ideal. The thought is not so much that they don't go outside, but that there's no danger or real adventure waiting them. Indian camp is a perfect example: how politically incorrect would it be to have it today? Kids running around in loincloths basically unsupervised for a week? I can't believe it would be allowed, unless it was completely sanitized. And moreso, I realize that my own experience was probably more bland than previous generations. I imagine them running around with guns in the woods, sleeping in moth-eaten, drab canvas covered tents with ditch latrines and I am envious.

I think I got my wish when I was twelve, then, when we were on our yearly outing to Fish Creek, which has neither fish nor any sort of water whatsoever, being located in the middle of the desert as it was. Millions of years ago it had been at the bottom of the ocean, however, and a riverbed wound it's way through tall canyons when you came into the campground. It was one of a number of weekend trips we made: leave Saturday morning; arrive in the afternoon; break camp in the afternoon the next day. There had been some excitement before: on the previous trip, it began sprinkling and then raining and then a sheeting downpour that grew less humorous and resulted in us rushing out of the campsite in the riverbed before it flooded and killed us all. So that was cool.

It was Sunday morning and nothing too interesting had happened. My patrol (a subdivision of the troop that numbered about 10 kids) had eaten our gourmet breakfast of little boxed cereals and milk and was lounging around the campsite when it was announced that there was a hike through the canyons and that we were being highly encouraged to attend, which meant that we were attending whether we liked it or not. This suited us, though, as the cliffs would shield us from the unrelenting sun, so we gathered our gear and headed out.

Our hike was one of relative obliviousness; we chatted amongst ourselves, pausing occassionally for a leader to point out some interesting feature of the terrain. The conversation was light and the pace was steady- there was no rush and the sun was still well-hidden behind the towering cliffs. We rounded bend after bend, travelling perhaps a half-mile, and then we rounded another bend and saw a lone camper sleeping under a heavy drape of blue and black blankets.

As we neared, we grew quiet- we didn't want to wake the sleeping guy, who was out here without any gear or vehicle. We moved closer and stared at the strange man, whose blankets were actually ropes and why would he be under..?

Oh, he's dead. Or dying. Well, shit.

It was obvious as we stood next to him. Our eyes darted upwards and saw the broken edge of the cliff where he had fallen from. His hat had somehow pulled itself over his face; a small blessing in light of the awkward angle of his legs and arms.

A note to anyone who's considering rapelling down a sandstone cliff: Don't. It's hazardous to your health, and to the mental health of the patrol of scouts that has to find your twisted, mangled body.

So, we stood there for a good minute or so; A gaggle of 12-year-olds and a couple of adults, one of who finally managed to yell, "Go get help!" So I ran. I ran faster than I ever have or probably ever will. Through the cliffs that we had strolled through and back to the camp, with the only thought in my mind being that if I wasn't fast enough, the guy would die. If he wasn't already dead. Chest heaving, I managed to spit out my message, eloquently- "Guy...cliff...dying...help." On second thought, it might have been slightly less coherent. Still, we called the ranger and drove back to the body and the gaggle of scouts and leaders. We hiked out, quietly talking about what we had seen. I had questions as well: what was the guy doing out there? Did he have a family? Kids?

It was odd and surreal, and happened in an instant, in a millenium.

It was real.

Nature's Fury

Crouched and low to the ground, she sits- a murderer, no doubt, and death to whatever hapless creature might offend her noble sensibilites. She pauses silently, waiting for the moment to lash out; to strike. Then, she leaps and is on her quarry, claws slashing and teeth gnawing on her helpless victim.

This:



is the killer whose evil knows no bounds (her occassional victim is pictured as well). Descended from the greater demons of Hell, she has no master but the Devil himself.

So she's evil, but cute.

It's a combination that has worked before. The Sirens that lured Ulysses, for example. Evil and cute go together like chocolate and ice cream. This may seem odd, but keep in mind- we expect evil to be large and dark and impolite and hurtful, not a fluffy fuzzball with wide eyes that sometimes purrs.

It's camoflage, really- my wife and friends have been deceived by her exterior and cannot fathom the murky darkness that her being consists of. But I bear witness to her evil, with scratches running the length and breadth of my poor tortured body. My wife believes that she is "playing", but I know for certain that "Clementine" (Her real name is Stormcloud Killclaw) attempted to tear out my Achilles' tendon. The only thing that prevented her from doing so is her stature- scale her to be twice as large and I become no more than people-flavored Meow Mix.

She's looking at me with her eyes half-closed- who knows what evil thoughts dwell in her malicious mind?

The stratification of friendship

We all have friends; at least, those of us with affable personalities and good hygiene do. Now, I am talking about real friends, not the Internet kind, nor the imaginary ones that some of us invent. The latter usually indicate that you need some sort of psychiatric help, while the former exist on an entirely different strata, which I will deal with shortly.

While we may believe that there are many different kinds of friends, there are actually just two sorts: the kind that you can burp in front of, and the kind you can't. However, to make this entry a little more interesting (and lengthy), I will examine the Inferno-like circles of friendship.

At the outer edges of the friendship pond are the Untouchables. These are usually friends of friends who you can't stand, but you tolerate for the sake of peace, as long as these jackasses don't try to stand too close to you or attempt conversation. Another in this group may include people who irritated you and, although you forgave them, you did it so sarcastically that they should realize you don't really like them all that much- and yet they don't. This also includes the creepy guy who you accidentally made eye contact with at the restaurant- he's now your friend!

Closer in we have the Unknowns. These are people who you lost touch with a while ago and suddenly bump into at, say, the grocery store. Although you might have had a good friendship with them before their disappearance, now you can't be certain what your relationship is. Expect awkwardness, moreso if you're meeting the person for the second time. Others in this group are people who you are too afraid to approach, such as co-workers and lepers.

As we move closer to the all-encompassing power of your glorious friendship, we come to the Acquaintences. Your extended family lives here, waiting to pinch your cheek and tell you how they remember how small you were and how you have grown. If you're a teenager, your entire family is here. Don't worry, you'll probably grow out of it. This large group also includes anybody you've met more than once, or your "good friend" at work who you wouldn't socialize with in any other social situation. These aren't bad people, necessarily: they're just not good enough for you to pay any real attention to them.

The widest ring is that of your bonafide Friends. It's also subdivided into groups, and it's almost a necessity to keep those groups separate. For instance, if you have bicycling friends but also drinking friends, do not let them meet each other: either the reaction will be like oil and water, or like matter and antimatter- either way, nothing good can come of it. Occassionally, one or two can slip between groups, but it's best not to force the issue. In fact, you probably don't want to let the groups know the other exists, except in a vague way. Refer to them as "those people I bike with" with a sour look on your face and you'll cover your ass.

Near the center of the circle is the thing ring of Best Friends. These are like friends, except you talk to them about sex. For women, this involves details of lovemaking. For men, this including the phrase "bang","screw" or "fuck". Then the subject changes to sports. Best friends will not judge you or lie to you or betray you, unless it's especially in their best interest to do so.

At the very center are Sex Friends. These are friends that are having sex with. When you're done with each other, you will be relegated to each other's Untouchables group. Sorry, that's the way it goes.

"But wait", I can hear you saying,"you have not yet explained to us how Internet friends work, because we are otherwise unable to draw these conclusions on our own." Very well, since you ask: Internet friends operate on an identical plane that resides just above the normal one. It is impossible to jump from one plane to another, unless you do a bunch of stuff that involves the occult and witches, so don't even try. It has nothing to do with the personalities of the people involved, or even the way they look, really. The Internet allows us to be far wittier and sociable than we actually are, all thanks to the backspace key. We can take back that stupid comment we were about to write and replace it with something charming. People cannot do that in the real world, and so say those things aloud, thus dooming any relationship.

So, is there hope for someone in a lower strata to move up, to approach the greatness that is you? Possibly, but it probably depends on their effort, or barring that, extravagant gifts.

Monsters in the bed

For a few months now, my legs and feet have been relentlessly attacked by voracious invaders who are slowly devouring my body. I've not seen these creatures- they make no discernable noise and their movements are invisible. I am not imagining them, though- my feet and legs bear the dreadful scars of their attacks.

I've tried to determine what dreadful creatures must be waging their nightly war on me. It's been difficult, but I think that my detective work has paid off.

I was able to immediately discount pixies, boggarts, faeries and bogies- those sort are more interested in playing pranks and mischief than outright damage. If they had been involved, I could expect my legs to be turned into flower stalks or brooms, and only some reward or offering would satiate them. To be sure, I left out a plate of brownies for those devilish hobgoblins, but the only evidence of tampering there were crumbs strewn around my wife's sleeping body.

I next suspected a terrible giant- perhaps a cyclops, minotaur or titan. Certainly one of those enormous creatures would need the ample sustainence my calves would provide. Aha, I thought, this will be easy, for they are so large that they cannot escape my search. I checked the bed and the drawers and the sinks and the closet (twice), but alas, they were not there.

For each monster I checked it's most likely hiding place- The troll under my bed said that there was nobody else there; the phoenix had long ago flown into the window; The dragon in the corner was benevolent, and assured me that she had no machinations on my person. To be sure, I checked my wife's reflection in the mirror to verify that no, she was not a doppleganger or vampire.

I even made sure there wasn't a bunyip or two being transferred from my Australian blogger friends (without their knowledge, of course).

I am at a loss as to what kind of animal could be doing this to me. The two puncture wounds, the itchy, puffy redness that fades after a day- none of these things point to any creature that I know. I am certain of one thing, however; it is the most terrifying monster of them all.

The Adventures of Tom "Tarbeard" Flint, part 2

(Ed. note- We explored the so-called recorder monkey in depth, but were unable to find any sort of playback button or switch. What we overlooked, however, was the note it carried, along with this exquisitely detailed painting.)






It was already two bells past the first dog watch when me crew finally get their shiftless hides assembled on the deck of the Bloody Mary's Revenge. A sordid lot they were, culled from the meanest jobs in all of Portsmouth. Some of em didn't come so willingly, but the tip o' me cutlass were all the encouragement they needed to ship out with me.

Twenty-three men in all, a decent number fer the enterprise we were about to embark on. But they were green, too- half of 'em didn't know stem from stern, but they would surely learn their business, by the devil's beard, or they would have it taken out of their hides. The only man with any sailing experience were an old salt- I had taken him prisoner aboard his ship, which was named the Seaside Lady. He were made me first mate, and I nicknamed him "Waldorf", after a salad I had the night before.

Me crew shuffled their feet as I walked along the deck, staring each one in the eyes. I marched back to the middle o' the deck, and spoke in me most dreadful voice, "Lads, ye are a lazy and worthless lot. And green as a spring day. And ye smell all clean and bathed. Well, we'll remedy all of those things before this voyage is up. Ye're aboard the Bloody Mary's Revenge, and.."

One of the men, all dressed up like a priest, which I later found out was because he was a priest, spoke up, "Sir, about that name- couldn't we go with something a little less...menacing?" The other men murmured their assent, even me first mate.

"Ye dang-blasted fools! If'n we wanted to play nicey-nice, then yah, we could be naming the ship the Watercrescent or the Butterfly Meadow or somesuch nonsense. But this is serious business, ye soon-to-be-scurvy dogs, and the Bloody Mary's Revenge it is!"

"I completely understand, sir. But maybe if we had a vote..."

"Do I look like a pollster to ye? Ye're under a grave misunderstanding if ye think that I'm here to be takin yer worthless opinion on everythin, and ye'll be walkin' the plank if ye believe otherwise."

Another man stepped forward, "Sir, I'm a lawyer who specializes in frivolous lawsuits and..."

I shot him right there.

"Any other complaints about the name o' the ship?" I asked. Me pale-faced crew shook their heads. "Good. Now we'll want to be paintin the ship black..."

"But black is not a fall color..." came a voice from the back that trailed off. Not wantin' to shoot me entire crew before we set sail, I just shook me head at the stupidity.

"Get te work, ye dogs. I'll be in me cabin, and when I come out, this ship had better be black as night!" I marched off below decks.

Rum - 80 proof, 100% fun

I am not, by nature, a drinker. Despite that all varieties of fermented beverages have passed beyond my lips, I would not call myself an experienced imbiber. In fact, I drink so infrequently that a simple beer or two is often enough to get me feeling a little lightheaded. This isn't a fact I share with most people, because the common belief is that manhood is directly related to how much damage you can do to your liver and with what potency of drink- there's nothing more masculine than grimacing through a shot of some evil-smelling liquid that is normally used to clean airplane engines.

As a child, I often wondered why alcohol was so coveted by adults that they needed to withhold it from youngsters. The concept of drunkenness is absolutely alien to kids, whose only experience with an altered state is waking up groggily on an icy school morning. No, I reasoned that it must taste so amazing and wonderful that it was reserved as a special treat for those who had lived to that ripe old age of 21. I imagined liquid honey dripping from bottles, sweet as ambrosia without a too-sweet aftertaste.

So imagine my surprise when in college, I was offered my first drink- a beer with a name so long that I had to think it was delicious- Icehouse Dry-filtered Light or somesuch. I have since learned that a beer's quality is often inversely proportional to the length of it's name. This is why you order a Guinness or Bass in a bar. Regardless, I was shocked and disappointed with the taste, as you can imagine. It tasted like water that had taken a right turn into a sewer and then come out again. It being college, and an attractive co-ed nearby, I'm sure I reacted with the opposite reaction I just had. That said, you could see the same reaction on everyone's face: that slight twingle of the eyes, the small pursing of the lips- It was obvious that nobody was impressed, but none could admit it.

Since that low point, I've had a number of excellent beverages- imported beers, wines and better-than-average alcohols. They are all pretty vile, overall. Let me qualify that: They're terrible for the palate that is craving refreshment. This might be due to the fact that the process of creating them requires that you take something normal (grapes for wine, barley and hops for beer and old shoes for vodka) and letting them rot in a barrel for a while. Or you could use their term and call it "fermentation."

The only exception to this is rum. Yes, it's still rotting in a barrel somewhere, but it's made from sugar. Sugar, you may know, tastes very good. Rum, while not tasting as good as sugar, is still not too bad. And it has the obvious historical connections that appeal to me. The rhyme doesn't go, "Yo ho ho and a bottle of Fresca" for a reason.

Like any alcohol, however, overindulgence can be dangerous. I dressed as Jack Sparrow a few Halloweens ago. Naturally and logically, I assumed that by wearing clothes that resembled a movie character, I would inherit the powers of the character. That is, I thought I could drink rum like water. I certainly made a good try out of it. After the second glass in which ice was an afterthought, I was dancing around the room. After the third, I was returning the rum and the other contents of my stomach back to the Earth from whence they came.

Upon waking from unconsciousness with a splitting headache and wondering why I was wearing boots and a sash, I did what every reformed-upon-waking-from-near-deadly-intake-of-alcohol person does- First, I stared blearily at the sun, and then I swore upon the Nine Hells that I would never drink like that again. So far, I've avoided inebriation to that extent, but the vehement pledge I once made always chimes less forcefully after time.

Now, I'm just waiting for someone to tell me about the Super Secret Malcohol, which is only legal to those 30 and older. It tastes like the breath of angels, and can be drunk by the gallon, and the only side effect is euphoria.

Why must I be sad?

It may not surprise you that I'm generally a happy person. I don't really get upset or angry over little things. I am, if you will, a steady ship on a rolling sea. Things just don't really get to me- I mean, I worry about war and politics and all the other grand institutions of life, but in reality, they don't touch my life in any meaningful way.

On a personal level, I don't really get upset by people. I'm always concerned that my friends and family are making good choices for themselves, and I try to help guide them. The only time that they don't seem to appreciate it is when I'm wearing my white robes and halo. Then it just seems patronizing.

So, given these facts, it's entirely possible that I'm mentally unstable in some way. Nobody can be happy all the time, can they? Except for billionaires who haven't let the money get to their heads- those people are probably not weeping into their platnium-and-jewel ensconced pillows.

I looked up the definition of someone with a manic personality, and this is what I found:

-A distinct one-week period, at least, where the person displays an elevated, irritable, or expansive mood. (27 years, going on strong)

-During the time of the mood disturbance, three of the following symptoms must have been present:

• grandiosity or enhanced self esteem (But that's fitting for the Greatest Being in the Universe, of course)
• less need for sleep (I don't need sleep, but sometimes the covers are just so warm.
• abnormally talkative (Does singing random bits from the Safety Dance count as talking?)
• racing thoughts (wooooblogIlovebloggingandnextI'mmakingapirateblogandwhoo)
• highly distractible (This is one I don't underst
• psychomotor agitation or increased desire to complete any goals (I will become the first man to tapdance on the head of Walter Koenig, by God)
• excessive involvement in pleasure seeking and reckless behaviors. (I've only been given oral sex by a hooker while I was racing my car and doing coke off the back of her head twice. No, wait, three times.)

-The symptoms are not due to substance abuse. (I'm high on life and it's various derivatives.)

So I may be crazy, but at least it's a good kind of crazy. The only better way to be crazy would be if you had the urge to constantly bake cookies or something.

Then again, I may not be crazy. I mean, look at all the wonder that surrounds us every day- oranges grow in convenient little bite-size segments; trees are big and provide shade on hot days. There's birds and they can fly. And we can fly and drive and do all sorts of other cool things because some guy who lived back in the day when they couldn't do those things said, "Hey, I want to drive a motorized death machine", and he did. The ocean has waves that are fun to play in, and there's snow in the mountains so that people there aren't sad that they can't play in the surf. There are tumbling streams and icy lakes and rolling plains. There are buzzing insects and ancient boulders and water so sweet it's like summer wine. There are noisy farts. Goosepimpled skin. There are verdant and idyllic ponds filled with colorful fish and crossed over by stone bridges, and if that doesn't make you happy, then not even colorful balloons and crying children can do so. There are literally millions upon millions of things just in the area around your house (or hovel, if you are a medieval serf), and we have such a ridiculous and misguided view of how much we understand those things, when we don't even understand ourselves.

What's to be sad about? We're alive, if just for a fleeting moment. There is beauty, and it is in everything and everyone, even scurvy 17th century pirates (or should I say, especially in scurvy 17th century pirates). And it's Friday.

On second thought, maybe I am the crazy one.

Survey says...

I have written over 21,000 words in the course of this blog, and 71% of those words were "I", "Me", "Pirate" or "Gadzooks". It's about a quarter of a novel's worth of words, and it's been all about me and my needs. I am giving you a once in a lifetime chance, then, to give me feedback. This is much easier than writing an entry, in particular because I'm experiencing the exacting pain of my spinal column collapsing completely into my shoulder blades and neck. While it's a unique feeling, I kind of just want to soak my shoulders and let the pain drift away.

So, regular responders and lurkers alike, please feel free to answer any or all of these questions (apologies to ChickyBabe, for stealing her idea, as I am wont to do. Feel free to make posts about random crap like I do):

1. How long have you been reading this blog?

2. How did you find this blog?

3. What kinds of posts do you enjoy the most? The least?

4. If you had to distill your understanding of Mahd into a single sentence, what would it be?

5. Anything else you want to know or would like to say, such as what you're doing for summer vacation.

As thanks for your replies, I will give you a hint about my next real post: It's coming by recorder monkey.

Internet Fame (not the real kind)

What a kind and mysterious thing this is; this interconnected web of networks. Previously, I have expounded on it's wonderous ability to bring people together and The ease of finding quality information, and today, I will investigate another interesting phenomenon- that of Internet Fame.

Internet Fame, like Internet Relationships, Internet Personas, and the value of Google, doesn't really exist. At least, it doesn't exist in the world that has the whole air, mass and physics thing. If I was to walk up to my parents and try to explain this hilarious "This Land" parody song featuring Bush and Kerry, they would stare each other, then at me and back away slowly. Even if I told them about the part where Bush is in a waffle house. That was rich comedy.

Another endearing feature of Internet Fame is that it's very fleeting. By the time the normal Internet user discovered "All your Base", the elite uber-users (because "uber-user" sounds much cooler than "person who lives in basement") had moved on to the next thing. When Howard Stern recently played the "Whistle tip" audio clip on his show, he might as well have donned a fedora hat and broadcast news that the Nazis were invading Poland.

The Internet moves fast, and it's mostly due to the tiny gnomes that carry around the information in the tiny pipe that comes out of your computer: at least, that's what my extensive background in computer science has led me to determine. That's why it was nearly called the InterGnome, or GnomeNet, or the immensely less popular BunchOStuffButMostlyPornNet (BOSBMPN for short, which can be pronounced by jamming the thumb and ring finger of your right hand down your throat). Regardless, the speed can take some people by surprise. By the time they realize they're the Next Big Thing, and preparing to cash in on their success, everyone has moved on to some video of something else: a horse boxing a hobo, for an example. Then all that's left is a sad, sad man holding a box full of shirts that say "OMG WTF" or whatever the hell he became popular for. When the mainstream media gets a hold of the story and presents it like it's "fresh" and "original" (much like using quotes to indicate sarcasm), there might be a slight aftershock of hits, but after that, it's pretty much the cold and yawning gap of oblivion. So there's that.

Internet Fame wouldn't be much without a lettering grade for celebrity status, in a cute imitation of real life. You have your "A" list celebrities, such as the two gents over at the gaming comic Penny Arcade, who have successfully managed to convince people that they're not as hideous as you would imagine two geeks running a webcomic about video games to be. It's sad when people claim to look good just because the Internet can magically obfuscate their real appearance (Note: I still look like a young Harrison Ford. Really.) I would guess that any of the Star Trek actors probably fall into this category as well. Anyone who is a quasi-celebrity in the real world is instantly an "A" list Internet Celebrity, as is anyone who has staved off the inevitable disinterest 0f the web-browsing public.

Next you would have your "B" level celebrities. These would be people who achieved noteriety for constructing a Tron costume, for example. Although he might have touched upon the vaunted "A" status, this is where his home in the history of the Internet is for the moment. Others who partially cashed in on their success, such as the JibJab guys also are here.

As we descend into the circles of celebrity, we reach the "C" level stars. It's here that the "has-beens" live. All Your Base, Bubb Rubb; even more vile entries such as Goatse (please do not search for this)- all are here. Mostly used with the prefix, "Hey, do you remember", but not often. It's best to let these forever lie dormant here.

At the bottom of our list are the "D" list celebrities. These are the "never-beens" live. Countless bloggers, livejournalers, myspacers, Friendsterers and God knows what else are here. I would include myself into this category, but only as a compliment to myself, to boost my spirits about actually being a level "Q" celebrity. We are the great unwashed masses of the Internet, perhaps not seeking acclaim, but possibly becoming the darling of the Internet for a brief and shining moment. Then we're returned to our normal positions in the dregs. Delicious, delicious dregs.

Is this a vilification of the Internet? Not at all- it's the beauty of it. It reminds us all that we are all stars, that we are all dregs. Even the most well-known Internet famous know that it is a slippery and quick slope into the nether regions. And just as quickly is the rise from relative anonymity. Do we seek it? Sometimes. Do we deserve it? Possibly, especially if it involves pirates. Keeping perspective is the key, though. It's not the real world, just the InterGnome.

The noble savage, part 2: The Second Part

It was hot and dry. This much I knew, because the pine trees were wilting under the blazing sun as much as the sparse yellow grasses that lined the loose dirt trails that would kick up little puffs of dust as you walked along them. Definitely hot, and only one source of respite: the pool.

This was a pool without concrete, lifeguards or that annoying sign that would dictate when kids were allowed to roam freely and when wrinkly old people could swim laps. Rather, it was both the single source of salvation from the arid temperatures and an intimate test of a young teen's manhood. 15 feet across and 10 feet wide, with a depth that varied from 3-5 feet depending where you walked on the muddy bottom, it was a natural construct whose purpose served all of the campers. The rub was, while you had the option of going in clothed, the end result was that you would have a damp piece of cloth rubbing your naughty bits until it dried. So we went in naked, albeit awkwardly and with great self-awareness. Myself, I quickly disrobed and fled into the murky water, then avoided all of the other campers.

Once in, it was glacially cold, and you didn't even mind the mud squishing underneath one's feet. Layers of dirt that had accumulated were washed away (and would return within hours of exiting the pool). Glorious, except for the fact that there were 15 other naked boys keeping to themselves in random spots. There were, of course, some older campers who preyed upon the shyest of us, but I went unmolested.

Every so often, "white" (read:leaders) would come and trade with us. We had endless supplies of beads given to us, but the traders had awesome things like rabbit skins, knives and, perhaps most coveted, paint. They spoke to us in what I would later recognize as French and were more generous than their real-life counterparts were. And yet, the Elk society was a very sorry one, because we could never gain any paint, which could be used to decorate our teepees or used as a body decoration. It was then that my genius plan was hatched: I would, somehow, get some paint for our society. Sure, it lacked in the details and execution, but I knew I would perservere.

And that's how I found myself holding the bottle of Tabasco sauce one kid has smuggled in. He had a smug expression, but more importantly, he had two glorious bottles of paint- red and yellow. We could have opened a McDonalds with that much red and yellow paint. At hand, of course, was the challenge. If I downed the entire bottle, both containers would be mine. Really, it wasn't the Tabasco that worried me. I was more worried about the aftereffects, in which I might have to subject myself to the dank and forbidding toilets that reeked of the worst of demonic evils. And yet I drank; I drank that whole bottle in one good, long pull. With a gleam in my eye, I nodded and he handed the paint over with a grimace. I strode confidently back to our camp, the paint held high over my head in victory.

What they did not see was how my nose was running like a faucet and my eyes watered and reddened as if I had just seen Beaches twice. My guts were in a knot. Once the paint was secured, I ran for the water fountain and alternated between drinking and vomiting. But I had succeeded.

Others were not so fortunate; the Shield society, which was composed primarily of campers that had attended for more than two years, decided to take our precious paint. Theirs was a cunning plan- sneak down the ravine border and up into our camp, taking us completely by surprise. It was strange, then, to watch them dispassionately from our campsite as they attempted to sneak down into the ravine. They had made some good progress, but then they stopped. We waited, but they didn't move. Finally, one of them shouted, "Poison Oak!". The procession made it's way rapidly back out of the ravine, and they troubled us no more. I'm fairly certain I saw some of them soaking sullenly in the pool later.

The week was drawing to an end- we had lived the lives of our fantasy Indians as best we could. There was some consternation when the entire tribe met with some more "white" people, who bore a document that the "chief" said he could not read. As it was passed around, bravado became silence as we each realized it was written in Cyrillic. But our travails had passed; all that was left was what I will call the "battle royale" and the sweet, sweet roasted pig.

In the battle, we were separated into two teams, and marked with armbands. Team members could be "killed" by maneuvering them into a center area. I am certain that had any responsible adults been there, we would have been taken away. Scrapes and cuts were numerous, along with bruises. As for my fate, I was doing well with a group of bigger kids. Somehow, I got separated and cornered; although I fought like the Devil, I was undone. I satisfied myself with the fact that one of my captors was holding his arm and other bled from his lip. So I sat and chatted with my neighbor, exchanging our battle experiences. We didn't even notice the buses pulling up.

"Everyone get into the bus, NOW!" came the order. We complied without too much resistance. As we rounded a corner, it became obvious. Fire licked at the edge of the road, and we were mere feet from an inferno. Quiet overcame us all.

Aside from that, however, it was pretty uneventful. We escaped easily. We were evacuated to a nearby school and spent the night there, where we feasted on Red Cross provided KFC and orange juice, rather than suckling pig. Kind of a letdown, but some fried comfort food after a week of more earthy fare was probably what we needed. Some of the older kids cried. Most of the rest of us wondered where our normal clothes were. The fantasy was over, burning on that hillside. We wanted to go home.

And so, home we went the next day- another bus ride, as if we were war orphans being shuffled around. The parents came; a blurb in the local newspaper; life went on. But Indian Camp never came again.

The noble savage, part 1.

My childhood was filled with a ton of awesome things that were potentially dangerous and might have killed me: lawn darts, a giant red slide with no railing that was at least 20 feet to the ground with metal pinstripes on it that would burn your behind when you went down, metal toys with small parts. All of these great things were invented in a time before people thought to protect children from natural selection.

When I was 12, I was informed by my dad that there was a thing called "Indian Camp" for Boy Scouts, a group of which I was a member. It was a full week of running around, living like Indians (This was before everyone nonwhite was fortunate enough to get an obligatory -American at the end of their nationality, so I'll go with that terminology) and basically doing cool stuff like shooting guns and bows and living in a teepee. Oh, and no showers or flush toilets.

I was conflicted: On one hand, it would be awesome, because Indians are pretty fantastic. Anyone who's ever read Last of the Mohicans knows how badass Hawkeye is. He's got those cool auto-reloading muskets. Oh wait, he's not an Indian. But Chingachgook was awesome, and he was. On the other hand, I had some concerns playing Indian at a camp with adults and other kids of unknown quality. I thought about it; I even went to a meeting about it. I don't remember the meeting at all: rather, I remember my dad took me to Ben & Jerry's afterwards and got irritated with me because I got plain chocolate ice cream. Apparently, I needed to get some crazy sort of ice cream with pretzels and nougat to justify him spending an extra dollar over Baskin-Robbins.

In the end, I decided to go. After all, this was going to be the Last Indian Camp ever. I guess the Boy Scout leadership was just as wary of the publicity that such a camp would bring. I signed up, uncertain of what exactly to expect.

Driving up to the camp, it quickly became my responsibility to distract my mom from the hordes of half-naked campers and leaders that were carousing the sign-in grounds. I say half-naked because one of the fun facts I learned when I signed in was that my normal clothes would be locked up in a shed for the duration of the camp and I was issued a flimsy loincloth, belt and vest (For some reason, my black Nike sneakers were fine- I later found out that Native Americans started the first sweatshop a hundred years before the White Man came to America. So thank goodness we were historically correct). In addition to my vestments, I was also able to choose an Indian name: I want to say I chose something witty and incisive, like Dances Without Rhythm, but as I recall, it was something standard; Buffalo Breath or somesuch. I also was assigned to a society, which was just a subdivision of campers. Some of the societies sounded awesome: Wolf, Bear and Shield. Because I was a first-year camper, however, I got assigned to the Elk society. The goddamned Elk society- I might as well have been in the Vagina society.

I want to say that at this point I bravely accepted the less-than-optimal statues I had been subjected to up to this point, but inside I considered bolting towards the dwindling silhouette of my parent's car and leaping for it, John Woo style. I spite of this cowardice, I joined my Elk compatriots in our gathering area, and we made our way to our campground, where the first order of business was building our teepee.

Teepee, in English, means "Let's see how flimsy of a structure I can make with three sticks and some cloth. Someone had already secured the poles together, but whoever did that also thought that the sight of 5 scrawny 12-year old boys in loincloths attempting to construct a tripod whose height exceeded fifteen feet is the epitome of comedy. It might have taken an hour, perhaps, but finally we were successful. Except that the bottom of the teepee's wrapping had a 2 foot gap with the ground. I surmised that it was both the perfect size for snakes and insects to invade my blankets as well as for coyotes to feast on my slumbering body at night. But I didn't sign up for the world tour of luxury resorts, so it was ok. I just made sure to sleep closer to the center of the tent than the fat kid.

I honestly don't even remember what I ate the entire time I was there- probably authentic Indian foods or some crap. The whole week, though, was leading up to the feast on the last night, when the entire camp would spit a pig and roast it. So the first night, we ate whatever they gave us and after some retelling of how the elk tribe came to be, we passed an initiation in which we recited something and passed our hand through fire and went to bed, too exhausted to care that some feral animal was lurking in the bushes for an easy meal thanks to our lack of teepee architecture skills.

The next five days would be a blur, with some interesting asides. In my next blog, I will describe exactly what goes on at Indian Camp during the day, why you should always use marked paths when going on the warpath, why it's not a good idea to make any bets that involve Tabasco sauce and how the camp itself came to a final calamitous conclusion.

Beethoven has nothing on me- except talent

Music has always been a part of my life. I was subjected to the soft rock stylings of Whitney Houston and her ilk as a child in the 80's while riding with my mom in the car. With my dad, it was former rock greats like Boston, Chicago and all the other great bands named after American cities, which as I recall, don't exist beyond those two. As a family, we would listen to the music my parents grew up with- the actual icons of rock and roll like the Beatles, Johnny Cash, the Big Bopper and so forth. We took many car trips, and as I grew up, I became intimately familiar with these classics, as well as every "car" song of the era, sadly. Every time I hear "Beep Beep" by The Playmates, a little part of me dies.

My family was also musically talented. My sister, in particular, was a pianist of good skill from her adolescence. I still remember getting dressed up for some half-an-hour performance she had that was an hour's drive away. I don't remember exactly, but I'm sure keeping me still and attentive for those droning exhibitions was fun and easy. Thank God she gave that up, otherwise I suspect I would still be subjected to those terror-inducing recitals. I love my sister, but God damn it if I didn't have to go to more boring crap thanks to her. I won't even get into her high school choir recitals. I certainly feel that it's a good idea to take awkward, gangly semi-adults, some of whose voices haven't yet changed, and make them sing.

My father is also skilled in music. He had an acoustic guitar which I never saw him pull out, but it was certainly fun for me to strum it as loudly as I could, then adjust the tuning pegs and see how the tones changed, and repeat this until he came charging into the room and chased me out, yelling. Other times I would be sitting in the car with him, and we would be quietly driving; all was well. Suddenly his head would start nodding back and forth in time with the music. Just as strangely, if he was really into the music and perhaps not noticing that his young, impressionable son was sitting next to him, he would sing along with the chorus. At this point I would try to be as surreptitious as possible by asking him an inane question, to shake him out of his stupor. That kind of behavior could scar me for life. Good thing I blocked it out until just now.

My own musical exploits are just as numerous. My parents apparently thought they could get a good deal by sending me and my sister to the same piano teacher; while my sister was an apt student, I found it more interesting to play the lowest keys on the instrument over and over. I was dismissed from the class for having "fingers that were too small". My hapless parents didn't learn their lesson and tried to send me to guitar lessons. After just a few renditions of my self-taught guitar work, I was summarily dismissed for the same reason. So either I had stubby fingers for years or every music teacher, while going to music school, was instructed to dismiss problem students by blaming it on digit length. My next exploit was middle school band- I played the alto sax with an amazing lack of skill. Sloppy fingerings, playing with broken reeds, I did it all. In a lone year of high school band (after which I determined my reputation might better be served by sticking with football) I managed to achieve 24th chair, which was right next to my friend in the worst spot, 25th chair. We vied for that vaunted "most terrible" spot throughout the year, each achieving it from time to time with a glorious smattering of sarcastic applause from our bandmates.

At this point I would just like to remind you I was a giant pain in the ass for approximately the first decade and a half of my life. Just so you remember.

My latest foray into musical instrumentation in a self-imposed one. I am returning to that instrument which I first played with gusto- a natural, you might say: the guitar. I have the advantage of being able to read music, but so far my greatest performance has been Blow the Man Down. A friend suggested that I play songs that I like, but obviously he doesn't realize how difficult that is. There's a reason that those musicians are professionals: while others were socializing and enjoying themselves, those musicians locked themselves away in musty garages honing their art, eventually reaping the monetary and associated benefits. I'm still practicing, but it seems hopeless.

It might be time to resign myself to the fact that my fingers are too small.

A picture of a young Harrison Ford

Since you asked, here is a recent photo of me that is in no way just a picture of Harrison Ford I found on the Internet:



I admit, it may appear that I look exactly like Harrison Ford in one of his Indiana Jones roles, but just bear in mind that I decided to dress up like Indiana Jones for Halloween that year, which is a natural thing, considering how much I look like a young Harrison Ford.

The adventures of Tom "Tarbeard" Flint, part 1.

Note- we received this dispatch by messenger parrot. Given the blood, tobacco and unidentifiable stains on the parchement, we thought it best to publish it. Milk-TSK will return later. -Ed

The first rule of pirate captaining is to get yerself a crew. The second rule is to make sure that crew is foul, malodourous, vile, able seamen (if necessary), gangrenous, scurrilous and, if possible, scurvy-laden. The third rule, which is optional, is to kill that crew, slowly, so's they don'ts rise against ye. Insurance, ye see.

I made me way to the Pitch Adder, a dank den of iniquity where only the evilist and most loathsome creatures of humanity dwelt. I put me hand on the door, but it was locked. Apparently, the bloody place had received a "D" on their health inspection, so's they were shut down by the authorities. Bloody bastards: It's as if you couldn't even have a cook with bad hygiene anymores.

No matter: Portsmouth still had plenty of other wretched dives where the living envied the dead. I made mine way to each and e'ry one of them- The Pickled Pig was closed to remodel their bathroom; The Merry Wombat was now a clean coffee house, and nary a buccaneer to be found inside; The Queen's Knickers was simply gone. I meself had been gone far too long if this was the direction of the wind.

Nearly having given up, I entered the closest shop, knowing as I did that this town was a haven for rogues and scoundrels- those scalawags must be somewhere . Apparently, this was some kind of government shop, fer the workers all wore the same uniform. I felt some trepidation, fearin' a trap, but the young lad behind the counter seemed all right.

"What can I get for you, sir?" he asked me, cheerily.
"Lad, ye must be helping me!" I exclaimed, "Where be the sordid lot of Portsmouth? The dark and undignified lot that used to lurk in dark corners in the night!"
"Do you mean the disco dancers? They haven't been here in ages, sir."
"Bah! Nay, ye daft numbskull! Whar are the corsairs? The treasure-seeking seamen, by thunder!? Whar... are the pirates!?"
He looked uncertain. "Let me get my manager."

I ran him through. Had no other choice, as ye can see. And off I trudged into the night, desperately continuing my search fer a brave and loyal crew.

Brown paper packages...

This is a photoblog entry, in that I have photos posted. Here are the things I mentioned a few posts back:



My beloved Volcom shirt. Now you belong to the ages. Fly high, my sweet and blameless angel. When I see you anon, it will be in the highest choir of Heaven.



The new hotness. I have made a sacred pledge to wear this shirt until it's weary threads can no longer contain my growing effluence. And let me tell you, it's some kind of effluence. Also, notice how buff this shirt makes me look, which is some sort of optical illusion.



My beloved debit card blanket. It is over 10 years old. I have had this blanket more than twice as long as I've known my wife. Many friends have come and gone since this came into my possession. If there was a fire, I would save it. Then, if there was time, the wife.



My train lamp. I have decided to make this my inheritance to my sons (who don't actually exist). They will give it to their sons, and then they will give it to their sons, who will throw it away. But it will have had a good run.

So those are some of my prized possessions. They're small on actual value, but their sentimental value is priceless. Unfortunately, that didn't count for anything when I tried to pawn them off on "Antiques Roadshow", so I will keep them.

Focus on the outside, where it counts.

For much of my life, I was not really concerned with my looks. Some would argue that I'm still not. Regardless, I was a normal boy- shorts and a t-shirt were the order of the day, along with whatever shoe style was popular at the time. Through high school, I never had bad skin or pimples, really. My voice changed somewhere around 12 or 13, which set me far ahead of my friends. It was especially helpful, because pre-Internet bulletin boards would occassionally do phone verification to ensure that you were who you said you were. Needless to say, I used my power for evil in that I would verify that, yes, in fact I was 21 and yes, I did want access to PornShack BBS. The downloading of many 16-color grainy photos followed.

I had some problems, which I now look at with regret. I had braces that required me to wear a rubber band across the front, which would be removed during meal times. I had horrendous glasses that bring me to tears when I think about them. Worse, I had two pairs: Normal, and "sunglasses". Perhaps in some future time when the 70's look is back in I can take pride in them, but for now, let them forever be buried in the past.

I regret to say that I had a mullet for a short period. It was in fashion, but that still doesn't excuse it. My hair is kind of wavy to a point, and then it just curls up. I once wondered why my family didn't take many pictures of me at the time, and now I know why.

So let's flash forward to today. I'm 27 years old, and things haven't changed much- the only difference being that now I'm well aware of my physical shortcomings. I'm shorter than most of you towering neanderthals, I guess: 5'9". If I had known, I would have grown more. I'm not fat, but I'm not Dr. Ripped, Ph.D in "Getting Ripped", either. More of a "casually" athletic physique that varies depending on what I'm putting in my face and how much exercise I'm doing.

I still have my hair, for which I am eternally grateful. Most of my friends are beginning to thin out or recede a little, but I have been lucky. I credit genetics for the most part, but I also think diet makes some difference- I've tried to stay away from a lot of fast food or processed food, and I think that helps, even just a little bit. I have been making an attempt to grow it out while I can, and it's in that odd middle stage right now.

The worst thing for me is looking in the mirror and seeing little imperfections: one eye is a little higher than the other, or one nostril flares a little more than another. It's a little annoying, but I would feel pretty stupid getting surgery done to correct such small things. I don't like my chin much either, but it gives me impetus to stay thin: it would otherwise disappear into my face completely.

Nonetheless, I'm feeling almost womanly in my grooming habits. Most tellingly, I've been using this slick sandalwood sugar scrub on my elbows to keep them smooth. Even better is the main reason to have a wife: getting to use the stuff she buys without the social stigma of getting it myself. It's all heading down a road that invariably leads to me wearing panties, and that's not a road I want to go down (not a g-string, anyways. My wife wears them and they look awfully uncomfortable).

One thing about this blog: I know I've done a good job when I can take any subject and eventually bring it around to cross-dressing. I think anyone would agree with me on that point.