Wanna hear the most annoying sound in the world?

I haven't been writing much lately.  But that doesn't mean there's been nothing to talk about.  Today, however, was the day that primed the pump.  Since I last posted, I've been across the country twice, witnessed a good friend's wedding (and played piano in the ceremony), camped in Yellowstone, Lake Macbride and a park while at various times witnessing my first fireflies and mid-west lightning storms, and subsequently visited Niagara falls, my sister in Albany and the Jersey shore with Briana.  None of that warranted a peep. 

But the flight(s) to Dutch Harbor yesterday and today is worth talking about.  And not even the flights themselves really.  Just one person with a peculiar nack for irritation.  Even the thunder in Iowa didn't make me want to jump out of my skin like this dizzy dame's yacking.

There's really not much to say, apart from the fact that it was more annoying and therefore worth mentioning than any of that other stuff was noteworthy in a positive sense.  I reckognized her at the airport in Seattle as a woman on the boat the last time I was here.  I said hi and she waved all dramatically and it was fine.  And she was yacking on the phone, but no biggie.  We're headed out to sea and so we gotta yack when we can.

But then on the charter flight from Anchorage to some way point she was making these odd and alarming sounds.  The first time I heard it, I assumed there was a violent bit of turbulence that I missed.  Then, by the time I registered that I was on the same plane and nothing was out of the ordinary I figured someone was maybe tickling her.

It just kept coming at these intervals this outlandish behavior.  It sounded like she was watching Jerry Springer or talking to her sister.  Or something more extreme on either end of the spectrum.  It occured to me that there was literally zero chance she was interacting with anyone.  Everyone was sleeping-to the extent that they could-and we were on a fifteen seat charter, not an Airbus 330.  Soooooo.....ya.  She was screeching about pictures she'd no doubt seen countless times on her ipad.  Loud enough to not only be heard, but irritatingly so over the deafening throb of the propellers.

I'm not gonna sit here and tell you she's Philipina, but she totally is.  Just had that odd cultural divide between us where there was no clear social norm allowing or disallowing intolerable screeching.  Wish I could put it more clearly or eloquently, but I honestly can't.  Sorry.

Oh, it's been a while since I've done a movie review.  Saw Star Trek: Into Darkness.  Not bad guys.  Not bad.

Welp, that was fun

The gang

So much has happened.  I know it's worthy of being documented.  I guess the best way to handle it is just get that lonely blinking cursor moving from left to right.  Top to bottom.  In some ways, the freefall is stabilizing.  I've had the same job for a little while now.  I've repaid some debts.  I feel a lot of growth in and through me.  What was a fun and nearly tongue in cheek snap decision-going to work on the boat-a year ago has become much more.

At first, there was reflection on just being.  The first time I saw the volcanic peaks of the Aleutian chain poking their crowns through the water, I just drank it in.  Here.  Now.  This.  That was the extent of reflection, just assessing how I felt about what was in front of me.  And I endured that season effortlessly.  Not easily, but with the hard, plodding, persistence of a diesel truck.  Hard work, but without too much strain.

And now, after falling into a rhythm of sorts, I find my inward glances considering who I may become.  I wonder, 'Is this it?' and 'what next?'.  I joke about having a bachelor's degree and working a labor job.  They ask, "What do you do with a degree in philosophy?"  I respond, "You work on a fishing boat."  Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  I have been, however, and find that who I've become encourages who I will become.

Look out behind you hippy chick!

For example.  Have you ever found a hippy chick on the side of the road?  Well neither have I, per se, but I have some new friends.  We went hiking.  Not a complete shocker.  I've been camping and hiking etc. and enjoy myself.  But matching the enthusiasm of Briana and Lana while undertaking these outdoor excursions is a fool's errand.  You are not going to match it.  You can only hope to keep up.

So Briana's friend Lana is like a ferret with excellent locution and a charming smile.  Just enthusiasm, positivity and all in all what the Zest soap people should have used for their commercials when advertizing zest.  On our way to the hike, when the two girls got together for their little pre-hike huddle, we got the scouting report on the trail mix she made.  I couldn't begin to list all of the included goodies any more than I could recite the dialogue of Twilight.  I do recall, quite vividly, that there were 'beheaded gummi bears'.  Ya.  I asked, "Soooooo, you're saying you cut the heads off of the gummis?'.  She shook her head while swallowing some and I looked on her with dramatized interest.  She said, still swallowing, 'No, I kinda ripped them off' and she smiled wide.  Then I tried to figure out why with a few probing suggestions. She shrugged like I asked her why her hair was brown.  As if saying, 'what do you mean?  It just is.  Pfft.'

So ya.  That's right before the starting gates.  At the starting gates, or trailhead, there were a few already assembled.  These were part of the group we were illicitly joining.  Oh ya, we were gate crashers.  This was some online adventure club or some such shit and it never occurred to Lana that there'd be a problem with bringing a couple friends.  Well, it occurred to me that there might be.

So I adapted.  I had a seriously official blue poncho courtesy of Briana.  I felt official.  What do you do when you feel official while joining a group of strangers at a trailhead for a hike?  You impersonate the leader, or usurp the role of guide.  When faced with authority, lay claim to greater authority.  That's what I say.  So I walked up to the group with two pretty girls and a fine man named Pete.  I stood on the elevated concrete, "Are you guys here for the Hike?  My name is Franklin and I'll be your guide today.  The most important thing for everyone involved is safety.  Without safety we've got nothing..." and blah blah blah.  I don't know why I did it.  But I did.

Well that didn't last long because the lady who was obviously the real guide or whatever showed up.  I'm not saying she was butch.  She wasn't.  Just severe and apparently serious about her hiking.  Her name was Jean.  '...cheer up sleepy Jean, oh what can it mean-to a-day dream believer and a homecoming queen...'  That happened.  And Lana joined me.  Neither of us knew the verse.

Enter Alton or Alistair or whatever his name was.  He made a joke about hearing Lana sing that in her shower the night before while she was showering.  This was the first time they ever saw each other.  Kind of weird.  Alistair had more and more off color jokes throughout the day.  I had the displeasure of separating myself from his conversation after kind of bonding with him for the first couple minutes.  You know, like when someone is going too far, but you don't know when the line was crossed so you aren't sure about how to address it?  That happened.  Just at some point I thought to myself that I couldn't continue on that line of conversation in good conscience.

The fast way down

Officially blue

So we started the hike.  Five total miles and 1200 feet in elevation.  Sounded like a gradual ascent in my mind.  The first half mile had me thinking about faking a hamstring injury.  Seriously.  I hadn't slept or drank any water and I just saw discomfort in my future.  But I knew I would just do the hike.  And about halfway to the top it got easier.  Then I got a loose and it was fine.  But for an 'easy' hike, it kinda kicked my ass.

There were little things that may have been worth mentioning now.  But everything was well worth experiencing.  It was misty, green, and fresh.  It felt like the artificially floral and wet environment of a green house or nursery.  Only it was real.  And trust me, the trail wasn't much.  Just a general absence of trees about four feet wide.  And plenty of opportunities to scrub.

But the hike was just the beginning.  By the time it was over, I was a bit stiff and feeling rather unfresh.  I might have put deodorant on since my last shower, but my last shower may have been three days hence.  So there was that.  And the girls started planning the rest of the day like two boxers with broken hands circling eachother.  A lot of talk, but not much attack.  I caught snippets of conversation and with each bit of excitement they displayed, I retreated further into my zen.  These two dizzy dames were ready to storm the beaches of Normandy one activity at a time.  Briana looked at me and asked, "Do you have an opinion?".  I nodded.  "Sounds good."  That wasn't exactly the exchange, but it may as well have been because off we went for lunch, shopping, and then trampoline land and maybe dinner.

Don't get me wrong.  I wasn't looking for an out.  But my analytical mind cataloged the information at hand which included years of following my mom around the mall and the faces of adult men accompanying their wives at said stores.  Not good.  But off we went.  And if I didn't feel the threat of rendering anyone within ten feet of me unconscious with my smell it would have been a bit more blast-like,

We'll just call that portion of the day three hours at 'Recreational Equipment, Inc.'

Then trampoline world.  This was something that kind of interested me.  I loved jumping on trampolines as a kid.  I did flips, I'd land on my back and flop to my front, spin around-loads of fun.  Let me tell you what the 240 pound version did.  Bounced a couple times and wondered when the tramp was gonna break.  Or when I was gonna break.  The tramp felt like it was gonna hit the ground it was sinking so far.  The girl who worked there assured me it wouldn't.  

But I didn't have too many tricks up my sleeveless shirt.  I couldn't control the jump at all.  Getting high wasn't a problem because the springs were stretched into a lazy 's' in all likelihood and when they bounced back, up I went.  Wondering when I'd hit the trampoline again.  So I got off the tramp and checked out a few others.  They had dodgeball and basket ball there too.  I asked if they had dodge balls or were we to use the basketballs thinking the hoop court was also the dodgeball area.  The guy said basket balls.  Well, that's because the dodgeball court was on the other side and it was a 'basketball area'.  I didn't have that figured out so I threw a missile at the basketball hoop and it richocheted and nearly took Briana's head off.  I looked around and saw the dodge ball area.  Oh ya.  Sorry Briana.

We went to dodgeball.  The four of us.  And proceeded to pelt eachother with harmless nerf-like balls.  Then I was all alone with a kid and a guy who worked there.  Ya, the guy who worked there was friggin Jenny Finch.  He threw one of these balls at a little kid with this underhanded flick thing that looked physically impossible.  No clue how he pulled it off.  I asked him to throw a couple at me to see if I could catch it.  I was a professional catcher after all.  No chance.  That was that.

Before leaving, the girls took some time working on their flips.  To which we can credit the tangle of muscle that was poor Briana's back in the days since.  I haven't cringed that much sinch watching a cyst video.  Just wondering when calamity was gonna strike.  Not really, but there were a few times when Briana fell awkwardly or nearly knee'd herself in the face.  Ce La vie.  But she managed to dominate a front flip and a few back flips while keeping her brains unscrambled.  Like my dad said, "Any landing you can walk away from was a good one.  And if you can use the plane again it was a great landing."

We walked out with pulses so it was a great day with great landings.  Moving and doing stuff that wasn't on a boat and enjoying nature as it had sat and would continue to sit was humbling.  I quietly considered the creation and marveled.  I saw more people on that day than I had in the four months combined previous.  It was good.  I was alive.  I felt alive.  All in all, it was fun.

Dicey situation

I was in the freezer hold two days ago and a dicey situation presented itself.  I'm in the freezer every day.  It makes me stronger.  Gives me focus.  I like it because I can just work my ass off and no one bothers me.  In this case, however, I was bothered by fifty tons of fish falling no more than ten feet away from me.  Obviously fifty tons of fish won't fit into a ten foot cube or any other dimension that is bound by ten feet, but the beginning of this titanic collapse was quite close.  This is always a problem that we fear when steaming back to Dutch harbor.  The weather, if rough, can wreak havok on stacks of cases of fish.  It did.

My favorite part is having to pick up the fish and re-stacking it.  That is clearly the best thing going.  In a close second place is hearing everyone suggest new ways to stack the stuff so it doesn't fall.  No one seems to appreciate the fact that free standing stacks of anything not reinforced by super glue or a bulkhead is going to fall if provoked.  It can be frustrating.  It was frustrating.  Then we did an offload.

The offload is by far the worse day of any trip.  And that's if you're lucky.  In some cases, it's the worse two days of any trip.  In this case, Terry asked for some 'Corey magic' because we had a timeframe.  And it was tight.  I said no problem, we'll take care of it.  And we did.  With 45 minutes to spare.  So when I saw him, I calmly unsipped my pants.  You know, for a job well done.

So back to the collapse.  I was down there with Jared.  Toward the end of the trip, I need another guy down there because there isn't any way to move around the hold and creatively place the cases.  We were there.  And we hit a roller.  It wasn't a particularly strong one.  Definitely not the worse the boat has seen.  But the fish flew off of their stacks.  It looked like a Star Trek episode.  When they'd take a photon torpedo from some Klingons and everything would cant about thirty degrees and fly across the room?  That's what it looked like.  I came up laughing. That's my reaction when I see my life flash befoer my eyes.  I said the hold fell over.  The assistant foreman asked how many people I needed.  I said everybody.  It ddwas like 'The Professional' with Jean Reno when Gary Oldman's character needed verybody to get the professional.  He seemed to think I was exaggerating.  He asked how much fell over.  I said probably fifty tons.  He looked at me like I just told him I was pregnant.  Then he went down and saw it and told everyone to get in their freezer suits.  Everybody.

We got it done with only half of the people who came down to the freezer hold trying to tell me what needed to be done. Which is a fair ratio.  And offload is done.  the sorry thing about offload is that you have to do it again everytime you fill up the boat.  If it was something you could  catgorize as a one time thing it would be one thing.  Like, this is the worse thing you'll ever do but you only have to do it once.  That wuld be cool.  But no. Everytime we get paid, we have to offload.  Shit.

Another fun little tidbit is the Shakespearean drama that plays out when people try to talk to eachother around here.  Often times the participants of a converstaion don't really converse. I would call it a monologue, but it is less directed.  It is a soliloquy.  They are just saying their thoughts out loud for the benefit of whoever.  It is infuriating to listen to.  I heard people talking over eachother with no regard for the previous statement.  Unbelievable.  I guess it is just the flagrant disrespect for others that bugs me.  There you go.  That's that.  Offlaod?  Sucked.  Not listening to people?  Sucks.  Now?  Rest.  Maybe. 

32 again

I found out a few days ago that I'm 32 years old.  It isn't like I never knew my age.  It's that I didn't know how old I was on my last birthday.  For some reason, when people asked me how old I was, I said 33.  Now, understand that my birthday was in September.  I had this revelation in late January.  Ya.  That happened.

So at first I was thinking, 'wow! I have a whole extra year now.  I'm so young.'  Then I rechecked the math on being born in 1980 and it currently being 2013 and not having a birthday yet in this year.  Yep.  Checks out.

Out here on the boat, I'm not the oldest guy, but I am not in the young crowd either.  My boss, Terry said to me, "Hey Corey, we're gonna try to go with one guy in the freezer hold more this season.  So let's get you in the factory for half the day (which is 8 hours around here, working 16 and a half hours) and beat up the younger guys."  I said sure.  Well, the younger guys couldn't quite hack it, so Terry asked me to get my freezer stuff on and I have been going solo in the hold since.  We just offloaded 400 or so metric tons of fish and I put a full two thirds in there.  Lotta work.  Especially for an old guy.

Well, the point is that when I discovered that I was really 32 instead of 33 I jokingly told Terry about the situation and proclaimed myself a young guy.  He laughed.  Because that's what he does when I make jokes, pointless or otherwise.

Then I laughed inwardly.  Whatever number of years I've been alive is beside the point really if I'm already forgetting my age.  I could think of a hundred analogies to illustrate the point.  Not necessary.  I forgot-or more accurately-never knew my age.   That's senility setting in any way you flip it.  Ha! 

However old I am or feel, I can say with confidence that I out worked everyone in that hold today.  Flat out.  It isn't even my job to do labor per se, but rather to make sure the operation runs smoothly during offloads.  But I had to step in and show young and old alike that I still got it.  I actually enjoyed quite a bit of it.  And I hate offload.  And I also dominated my nemesis, the boxalator.  Later.

Male observers

Great idea, that.  Out here in the desolate Bering Sea there are few women.  As it is on the boat now, there is one galley girl (who is new), and a pursor.  The pursor is an inexplicable Asiatic yet somehow Russian lady in the age range of 40 to 60.  I really can't nail it down any better than that.  The galley lady is a bit younger perhaps.  That's it though.  The rest of us are manly men for the most part. 

Which brings me to the topic of observers.  Many of the observers are young, post college, women.  And the first rule is 'no fraternizing with the observers'.  That means hands off.  And that means you.  And me.  We had an observer last season who I may or may not have spent some time talking to on a professional level.  There were no firable offenses committed.  It was all a very copacetic situation.  Really.  I'm telling you it's not like I went out and spent Christmas with her family or anything.  Just some boat chat.

But the boat chat was nice and I miss my observer friend.  She was easily the second smartest person on the boat and a tremendous conversationalist.  We had paper airplane flying contests in the galley and I even gave her a piano lesson with a bottle of sriracha as a pen.  And we may have made faces out of food on used dinner plates.  Just good fun all around.  And, I imagine she is the type of person who would have no problem engaging in a food fight in either a hotel room or a restaurant.  Just a gut feeling.  So ya.  She was fun and I miss her here.

But sometimes sequels suck.  And I'm honestly glad to not have any other lackeys around trying to be the fun and personable government agent that she was.  There is no other like that, so why bother?  Since I've been fishing, I've had occasion to meet and talk to a number of observers and they aren't that fun for the most part.  So let's keep it guy and just let these fellas count their fish.  Right?

I'd like to talk about them, but there is a strict anti-harassment policy.  I'm not saying that I have anything to say that is harassing in nature.  I'm not saying that at all.  But I could venture a guess that our tastes in automobiles differ.  Like, say, a Vokswagen Bus versus a Chevy.  And that's it.  Basically what I'm saying is that I won't be fraternizing with these observers either.  Just like I didn't fraternize with the one from last season.  And we probably won't be talking about camshafts and cylinder heads.  But who knows?

So male observers are welcome, according to this observer.  And all my psychological fissures can be mended with a lucrative season.  I'm not saying I'm money grubbing or anything like that.  I do, however, prefer it when money is no object.  Money becomes less of an object, ironically, when it exists.  So, the property of money existing, in a real sense and being something of a literal object makes it that wonderful metaphorical non-object.  Glad we're all clear on that.

I wish I could talk about some funny stuff here, but there really hasn't been much.  Either that or I'm jaded.  I still laugh at wit and basic observations, but there is no 'Nap Time' crew member to share.  Everyone is pretty normal.  I'm not gonna say boring yet.  But ya, kinda boring.  It's like people want to be serious fishermen or something.  Pfft.

I did blow the dust off of the piano today.  Besides the distraction of teaching impromptu lessons to the legion listeners and declining all requests, it was pretty good.  The galley girl needed a cold shower.  I told her ahead of time, "Listen, if you can't control yourself I'm not gonna play.  Sometimes the ladies have a tough time keeping it together...".  I was mostly kidding.  But once I started playing and she stopped working everyone looked at me like, "what's going on here?"  Nothing.  Trust me.  I can't help it if I think way too much and play sweet seduction on the keys.

Cussler

I'm at sea.  I read sometimes.  Most of what I read is something found on the boat.  So...ya.  Lotta Clive Cussler.  He writes books about boats and stuff.  His character is this smooth guy Dirk.  I have no problem with Dirk.  My problem is with Clive. 

I read the first book and it was tolerable.  There was a bad guy.  He was smuggling something or other with a fake boat under water compartment or something.  Ok.  Fine.  Then I read another one.  Same kind of deal.  Third time around I spiked the book like I scored a touchdown.  Just straight into the dirt.  But with plenty aplomb.

Come on clive.  You're writing a book dude.  You can make anything up that you want.  The bad guys could have secret Chinese technology, stealth, submarines, spaceships, teleportation...You name it.  And this clown just keeps doing the old fake bottom of the boat.  Kinda bugs me.  Now I can't read a sentence of his without scrutinizing it for cheese or BS. 

I know it's nothing of great import here, but bad book premises kinda bug me.  And this guy just owns it.  Sadly, the captain saw me reading these things and now we talk about these books.  I feel like Michael Bolton from office space, "I told the captain I like Clive Cussler".  It's kinda sad really.

On a bright note, I have a sweet George MacDonald Frasier book going right now.  Flashman gets it done.  I like Flashy.  And I need to blow the dust off of my piano.  I managed to click and drag some songs to my phone.  I feel like I'm in love listening to Dionne Warwick and Lakeside.  Just way too much seduction.  A house is not a home indeed.  Someone near to me said 'angel'.  I have to thank an angel face for the tunes that I now enjoy.  And the movies on my computer.

I have a program that will let me play any movie from these hard drives.  Awesome.  Yesterday I not only watched Beauty and the Beast, but Coming to America too.  Pretty effing awesome.  Now, if we can make some bread on this boat, I'll be thrilled.  Might even stick it out wire to wire.  Leaving early on that medical last season cost big time.  Big time.

And the island situation might situate itself this winter.  You're kidding yourself if you think I'm not gonna get certified to scuba dive for an island getaway.  Kidding yourself.  Gotta happen.  Islands.  Seychelles.  Booya!

Here I go again on my own

Back to work.  The big bucks, as it were.  And ya.  Once again we have a new crew in a new season.  Once again my mind wanders back in time.  It tries to tell me how much better things were than they really were.  I am prone, it seems, to romanticize things that have already happened.  Now I understand what is happening so I can deal with it a little better.

Last season began with me missing the Ice Wench.  She is now a distant, if not fond, memory.  I missed the rest of the crew too.  Well, now I am missing some of the crew that was on the disastrous season previous to this one.  None of these people were ice wenches.  In fact, the only women on the boat were observers.  There is no fraternizing with observers, so do the math.  I do miss certain people who were on the boat but are no more.  Maybe some of these people were or weren't employees of my company.  It can be hard to keep up with.

Bottom line is that I find myself free of distraction and in a bouyant mood.  I feel like myself again.  I want to thank you fallettin me be mice elf again.  It feels good.  The new guys seem like a pretty good group.  Everyone on the boat has experience this time around.  We are now an 'H and G' boat.  The deal with that is rather than merely catching the fish and selling them to a plant who deals with the whole fish, we ourselves cut the heads off and gut the fish.  That cuts out an intermediary step and means more money.  I like the sound of it.  On a side note, I also like the sound of the piano in my ear right now.  I'm listening to some of my own stuff.  It's sad.

Hanging off the side of the boat in the Bering sea at night is exciting.  I had the pleasure a few hours ago.  We were lashing down some scrap and I was designated knot tier.  I'm king of the knots.  When they want knots, they come to me.  Well, I had to get outside the guard rails a bit to grab the line.  Thrilling.

And a funny thing happens when you are staring at that grey sea, writhing seaward with it's foam and all the rest.  For me, I start imagining jumping off of the boat.  I don't fantasize about it.  There's no way I'd do it.  the picture plays out in my mind though.  Kinda makes me squirm.  Bad look.

That's about it.  I miss 'friends' very much.  I hope they are living well and smart.  But I myself am feeling pretty good.  I got jokes and songs.  I have friends here.  Maybe even something like a surrogate family.  There are some things I can't talk about.  That isn't one.  Good group.  Let's make it a good season.

Wanna build a fort?

As I found out a year and a half ago or so, the answer to that question is always yes.  I was living with my boss, the lovely and super smart beauty queen Rachelle.  She was telling me about her son, Alex.  That he was super funny and was nearly as immature as I was which sounded about right since he was fifteen and I was thirty.  She told me about this time at Subway when there was this bearded guy minding his p's and q's and Good ol' Alex asked if he could be the guy's padawan learner.  I respected that.  A lot.  When I was at TJ Max with Rachelle one time, I picked up a gnarled piece of drift wood and said, "Manmortigan...".  You know, like Willow?  With Val Kilmer and Warwick Davis?  Anyway, it was about that time that she compared her son and myself in earnest.

So I finally got to meet Alex at the job site.  The witch doctor, as it were.  We weren't particularly busy and the kid was there.  So we were just having some fun.  I was thinking of something we could do.  Apart from making a show about the office I suggested, "Wanna make a fort?"  He just stood up, as if to say, "Duh".

Now that we're current on the readiness  that all Americans should maintain when it comes to forts, I'll get to it.  I was walking back from lunch the other day.  I took an alternate route, which included a jaunt under a bridge.  Lo and behold...Forts.

It was like a little neighborhood of juvenile sensibility.  If someone dropped their kids and nieces and nephews off under a bridge where there was a ready supply of cardboard and pallets, this is probably what you'd find.  There was a tent on an elevated and rustic pallet platform.  It really had the effect of a Southern California manse, but without the pretentiousness of square footage.  Just a three person tent sitting on four pallets.  Awesome.

The more post modern, art deco piece was a wonderland of cardboard and cardboard.  It had an inviting entrance about the size of a moderate to large sized doggy door with the columns of the bridge acting as pillars.  Really a powerful effect, that.  Just like 4 refrigerator boxes and a few vintage, tube television packages to sell the intricate network of wood pulp and discarded packaging tape.

Then I realized I was looking at this through the prism of adolescent fort building.  Ya, if I were nine and whipped one of these things up, it might have been cool.  But if I were twelve, and were in the midst of enduring a frigid Seattle winter, I would for sure make a better fort than that.  How do you not have three full rolls of duct tape sealing the fridge boxes together?    Or maybe some type of buttressing for that sagging roof?  How about putting the pallets on top with a tarp over it or something so your cardboard doesn't get all soggy and worthless?

It occurred to me that this little Robinson Crusoe Redux wasn't all fun and games.  It was a clear picture of the homeless in Seattle being somewhat lacking in some rudimentary life skills.  I'm saying it could be cool to camp out under a bridge.  But you gotta do it right.  One of the guys left his Samsonite luggage outside on the veranda.  Come on man.  What?  Do you have more than three transients in there?  Can't fit the rolling luggage?

The conclusion, then, is that the problem of homelessness is far more complex than "no job".  I'm not suggesting I know what came first.  Whether the psychosis or the dredges is beyond me.  But at this point there is a serious problem.  The type of fort you build as a homeless person is a direct reflection on your character.  It's like a car for low to mid level earners or an actual house for mid to high earners. Or maybe more like the kind of wife you end up with.  You just gotta put a little more into it than that.

It almost makes me want to go cardboard flap to cardboard flap and charge these guys to build em a proper fort.  I know Alex and I could whip up some pretty intense forts.  Maybe they could even get box car Betty over there for a little date.  Who knows?  It was just sad to see such a promising premise come crashing down on me with the harsh reality of indifference.

Mad man

I haven't packed my bags just yet.  That's kind of an inside double entendre.  The single part of this is the 'End of the World' thing.  Didn't bat an eye, such is my courage and defiance of danger.  Apart from the fact that I rarely know what day it is, I didn't put any stock into the Mayan deal.  Someone always thinks it's the end of the world.  Even REM.  I feel fine.

But while not contemplating the end of days or whatever, I considered taking a breakfast break at the end of my shift.  There was really only one option.  Mecca Cafe.  It's kind of amazing to me how serious Seattle takes their food.  It shouldn't be, considering how seriously the bulk of the population takes their selves.  And yet it is.  I have found a couple spots that serve illegally delicious burgers.  Granted, burgers are pretty delicious in premise alone, but I have a couple spots that are even more so.  And when it comes to breakfast...Pfft.  Mecca.  And there is plenty of pork to go around.

So while not contemplating the end of the world, I was considering the end of my hunger.  This outfit, Mecca, just does it right.  So much so that I was actually hoping the same grill guy/girl would be here to whip up my omelette.  I'm not even kidding.  When I was here last, the expressionless waitress described the grill person as the guy wearing a braw.  Huh.  No problem.  Hell of an omelette.

So I came in today and asked about this character, who's name is Cody, somewhat ironically, she expanded.  "Ya.  He wears a braw."  I was trying to be sensitive to the societal norms of Seattle, the Eden of progressiveness, and asked innocently, "Is uhh, is that normal?  Around here?"  She goes, "Around here it is."  She paused.  Then added, "But it's pretty weird.  He also thinks he's a vampire and hangs out on the roof a lot."  Huh.  OK.  I'm hip.  Still a hell of an omelette.

So despite the possibility of bloody vampire drool and the sexually ambiguous nature of the grill person and my relationship, I caught a cab to come here and get breakfast.  I'm basically paying $40 dollars for breakfast.  And it's a bargain.  Just omeletty and slightly burnt hashbrowny goodness through and through.  I didn't even need a menu.  I just kind of rambled off some things I wanted like I was tom Cruise or something, not ordering off the menu.  Phenomenal.  Blue ribbon for this place.

So, the question is: Do you want an omelette?  I feel like I can sell anything at any time.  And do so without the advertising jargon that puts people on their guard.  It started with the utility belt condom that I kind of invented in my head when I was a wee tyke of like seven.  Just did an infomercial in front of my parents about this condom that had grappling hooks for when it broke or came off.  If they weren't mesmerized, I'm sure they would have been appalled.  But anyone who's had to deal with Condom drama would have for sure bought one.

And here we are, twenty something years later.  Still spinning anecdotes about desirable things.  Like when I took speech in college, my teacher hated me.  With a deep passion.  It may or may not have had to do with my super macho sensibilities contrasted with her feminist slant/constant tardiness/smart assedness.  But whatever the case, we had a speech that was a kind of big project that we were supposed to have spent time on and have notes blah blah blah.  Well, the morning of the speech, I woke up a little late and decided what to do my speech on and grabbed the Listerine Mint Paste toothpaste.  It was empty, so I pulled the cap off and blew into it, making it look full and went off to school.

It was about my turn to speak when I walked in.  I strode to the front of the class with a self assured way about me and started.  Got the attention with something like, "have you ever woke up and felt like your mouth was just too funky to get clean with brushing?"  So I gave this speech and it was obvious I made everything up as I went.  But it was persuasive.  The teacher wasn't thrilled.  Mainly because she couldn't make her point about preparation etc.  I told her "If you stay ready, you don't have to get ready".  She loved that.

Anyway, when she was through berating my study habits I nodded thoughtfully and addressed the class.  "How many of you are gonna go out and buy this toothpaste today?"  Every hand went up.  They were asking to see the container so they could smell it etc.  I looked at the teacher and shrugged, "I don't know.  If this was supposed to be a persuasive speech, It seems like I kinda nailed it."  And there was for sure a tangible vibe of she hates me but I'm kinda funny and so she couldn't get any momentum with the class.  Sadly, I enjoyed it.

If there is a point, I think it's that that toothpaste no longer exists.  If I were their marketing guy, it would be a top seller.  Maybe it's time to think about a career change.  And I can sometimes sell myself as a desirable man to hang out with.  Easily the toughest sale of all.

Porqito

I'm not really sure if I spelled that right.  The fact remains, however, that sometimes Mexicans be small. I mean, sometimes they be big.  But sometimes they be small.  Like the contractors on the boat who work tirelessly into the witching hours.

I'm from Northern California, where one may encounter a latin friend or two.  In fact, I am an honorary Mexican because my grandma of sorts was Mexican.  So it isn't as if this were some 'small' sample space and a premature assessment.  I'm not even saying that your average Mexican is smaller than your average white guy.  But the small end of the curve seems to be a bit smaller.

These guys were coming up the stairs from the factory to take their lunch.  I was at the top of the stairs and when they got to the top I kept expecting them to take one more step up.  Didn't happen.  I'm not a giant by any stretch.  A respectable 5'10"  when I'm lying and a modest 5'8" if you're measuring.  But let me tell ya, some of these guys are small.

I think maybe Montezuma time travelled to yesterday or the day before and got his revenge on me.  To take me down a peg.  Because I ate something that really didn't agree with me.  Woke up every hour on the hour to void my stomach, bowels, or any combination thereof.  Then I got a hotel room to make myself more comfortable.  Best hundred dollars I ever spent.  Because laying in the bunk in the bowels of the ship with latent primer fumes swirling about was no place to be.  So that was fun.

I think the most important thing going on here is that Craig Ferguson just kills it.  Every time.  I don't watch the show, but whenever I do I think the same thing: Look out ladies.  The guy just has charm and wit and that accent.  Every awkward moment, whether it's his own doing or not, is navigated with just awesome self-deprecation.  And he has no problem just slamming the door when a guest is being sorry.  Even though he's being tactful, his intentions are not lost on anyone.  He just owns the tongue in cheek with his female guests, who have each undoubtedly surrendered to his charms, hinting at obscured references to the past.  Craig is a heck of a guy.  And sometimes Mexicans are small.  Sorry Montezuma, but facts are facts.

Privateers!

Wouldn't you know it?  As soon as I start reading 'Treasure Island', a couple friggin pirates show up on the boat.  It's like I always say.  If you ever start reading a book about pirates, they are bound to show up.  I say that.  Well, I just did.  But really, I do say that you kind of receive on whatever channel you're tuned in to.  Like how when you were in school, if you learned a new word then you'd hear it sometime that day.  Or if you think your girlfriend may be cheating on you, then you see an episode of cheaters or something.

So that's a thing.  Getting what you're tuned into.  It seems mostly true.  We could go on and on about bringing bad things on yourself because of fear and this and that, but let's just stick to pirates.  Night watch got a little more fun last night.  Because as I was sitting there streaming Southpark, I spied a couple guys on the boat.  And it would appear they were after booty.  But not any treasure this boat had.  They apparently brought their own.

I'm not gonna sit here and say that these were Sea Beasts.  I'm not gonna do that.  Because they were land lubbers.  But the hazy gaze of these two buccaneers told the story.  Goggles.  And so it was.

I knew the guys.  They work on the boat.  They are friends.  But I gotta say that it kinda put me in an awkward spot.  Tomorrow, or today now I guess, is not a full work day where everyone shows up.  But we do have a foreman here on the boat and a couple guys who live here working.  So I tactfully suggested that they just be out of here by 5 am when every one gets up and to not leave a mess of things.

One of the guys asked me what room the foreman lived in so he could go wake him up.  Ya, not good. I was at least five steps ahead, per usual and was thinking about explaining the girls as they left to the captain if it got back and how I would cover the situation with some tapestry of lies.  If these were stowaways or some other kind of interlopers, I would have dealt with it more harshly.  It seemed in this case to be better to hope for the best and as long as no one made a mess, just leave it alone.

Nothing happened.  Fortunately.  At five am I told everyone it was time to go and they left.  I watched everyone leave empty handed and made sure no one fell in the water.  Felt like a potential crisis was averted.  Because let me tell ya.  A couple belligerent Tongans is no picnic.  And I was a little jealous to see my ex girlfriend June with another.

That's one crisis averted.  Hopefully I can deal with the others with the same level of aplomb.

Awkward

I was eating lunch at Wholefoods today.  It was kinda by default because it was a place that was close enough to walk to, yet presumably had something of substance to sate my hunger.  I was kinda hungry.  And they have some wifi there so all in all it seemed to be a sensible decision.  And it was.  It was fine.

After eating my meal I went to the 'chill lounge'.  That's what they call this concrete room with a couple padded chairs.  And I was chillin, more or less.  A few people came.  A few people went.  A lady came in with her young child.  I wasn't paying any attention to them.  But they were there.

Then I heard her speak and kinda knew she was going to say something right before she did and so I was somehow paying attention when she asked this other woman if she was going to be there for a while.  It was me at one end, a woman adjacent to me on my left and the one in question who was being question adjacent right.  Woman with child was slightly beyond the woman on the right.

So she asked this hip but slightly unattractive woman if she would be there for a while.  I've found that in Seattle talking to strangers is a big no no.  But the look she gave this mother was just off the charts.  She was absolutely mortified.  And rightfully so.  It appeared at the time that she was gonna get around to enlisting baby sitting services.  Mom could tell right away that it wasn't gonna work out with adjacent right.  She turned toward adjacent left simultaneous to adjacent right muttering something like 'not really'.  She looked like she might just grab her stuff and leave to drive the point home.

Adjacent left admitted that she would be there for a bit.  Relief swept over mom.  She turned to the door, leaving behind an empty plate and a limp canvas bag.  I kinda laughed and said out loud, "huh.  I thought that was gonna work out differently."  And the others agreed and actually talked to a stranger.  We all assumed mom was just gonna leave her 5 year old with some strangers.  One of whom was me. Someone who certainly does not look like one you would want to leave your young kid with and has had a few dubious episodes with youngsters in the past.

So that's basically that.  Why didn't she just take the stupid bag that appeared to be mostly empty anyway?  It was odd on all fronts.  I kinda respected it.  Mom was basically saying, "Listen.  I don't want to carry this bag so you guys can watch it for me.  I will be back shortly so don't steal my wheat grass whatever."  Not bad mom.

On another note, science is failing me.  I got a notice that I went over my data plan (Even though it's unlimited) so the speed was gonna slow down.  Ya.  Slow down.  With this in mind I decided to give old Clearwire a call and renew my subscription to their internet deal.  And I did that.  Then, when I went to plug it into my computer, I noticed that I didn't have an ethernet cable plug.  No, it's not wireless.  My computer is so cool that it doesn't have that.  Or a dvd burner.

Oh well.  I'll just tether to my phone (again, not wireless).  Let me tell you what 'slow' means.  It means inert.  Dead in the water.  More information was exchanged on Bell's first telephone call than here.  It took like two minutes for my email to load.  Not an attachment.  The page.  That's what slow is.  Stopped.  Taking the starch right out of me.

Not really a big deal.  I do find myself tangled in wires, exploring the wheel house looking for a stronger signal.  Yes, just like the guy in the Verizon commercial.  There you go.  

SCIENCE!

Ok, so I didn't get the best picture to really drive home the point here.  That picture is of the two dorks in "Weird Science" wearing bras on their heads.  I know the point of a picture is to not have to explain the picture.  And as you read on you'll find the humiliating irony that in the very post I'm using to describe a major breakthrough in computer stuff, I can't get a decent image to show up to be scintillating.  Or something.

And I wasn't really wearing a bra on my head, but I was probably close to this state of arousal.  Kelly Lebrock didn't show up or anything.  But I did get internet.  Somehow.  And this with neither spending extra money nor camping out close to a wi-fi deal.  Nope.  Just some good ol' fashioned yankee know how and a few other things.  Like a friend telling me that this was a thing.  And me doing a little searching.

The scene was set with all the usual decor.  A Piano, a TV, video games, etc.  But I was done with my book.  The book selection is looking bleak.  So, long intro to story short, my buddy said he had an app blah blah blah internet blah blah blah but he was online.  I'm not a droid guy.  The only smart phones I've owned and took seriously were iPhones.  And they work like they're supposed to.  All the time.  The droid that I have now is a bit more temperamental.  It seemed too daunting to even bother with, until...

Last night a friend of mine emailed me a video and assured me it was worth watching.  So I downloaded it on my phone but couldn't find it, then found it and it was the wrong format.  Then there was an error etc.  So I went to the old app store and dug up some new fangled doohickery, slapped it on the old HTC and voila.  Video time.  It was kind of a revelation to me.  This was probably the first time I solved what was to me an in depth problem on a computer or computer like device.  Got my shoulders kinda loose and thought "hey, it's not a conspiracy against me.  It can work."

So I came up to the wheel house today with a laptop computer under one arm, a phone in my pocket, and a tangle of wires and chargers and basically had a seventh grade science project.  When the chief engineer walked in, I'm sure I looked something like...

That.  Just doodads and wires and consternation on my face.  He kinda laughed and called me out on it too.  I just shrugged and said 'science'.  So he came and went while I worked through the night, or next twenty minutes just dealing with all of these incompatibility issues.  I got the program on the phone but needed it on the computer, the computer is a mac, you need this program, but with that program you need such and such thingy.

Welp, in what was certainly a task that I made harder than any sixth grader would have made it, I found sweet victory.  I was like Thomas Edison, marveling at his first, useless, dim light.  The internet is way faster on my phone than it is on the computer, or at least with the signal I had then.  And it probably wasn't even worth saving fifty or whatever dollars some internet would have been.  But it was alive.  ALIVE!

And here I am.  This is probably the least compelling story I could have told right now.  I could have made something up about a kid named Jamal and a cat that would have been better.  And what's worse is the fact that I tried to spare the details in my mercy, but really omitted anything that might have resembled a thought provoking sentiment.  But I have a keyboard in front of me in the comfort of the wheelhouse.  I will therefore run my yap about it.

Pretty much it there.  Just uhh, haaaangin out.  I'll do better next time.  But I think it's pretty effin cool that I teamed up with science to solve a problem.  Now we just wait for computers to take over the world.  Probably seriously not far off.  Think about it.  Society could deal with almost any calamity better than every computer just not working anymore.  Kinda weird.  I'd be the only one left, driving a '66 Chevy with all this gas that no one needs anymore and a charming growth stunted Italian man playing an accordion in the seat next to me, you know, for my tunes.

Let's hope it doesn't come to that.  Later.

Nothing

Let me tell ya.  It rains in Seattle.  There was a two day period a few days ago with little rain, but other than that it's been a daily occurrence since I've been back from sea.  Just rain rain rain.  It's not really that bad or anything, but it for sure is.  I guess the worse thing about it is getting around without a car in it.  But whatever.

So I had a pretty sweet weekend that wasn't on the weekend, but was at the end of my week.  We don't have to get into all the sordid details or anything.  I can just say in a kind of roundabout way that a 'friend' and I spent a smooth three days wining, wining, dining, and wining.  And I may or may not have come out of it looking like I was attacked by a cougar while getting pelted with paintballs.  Read, finger nails and bites.  Very exhilarating indeed.  And since the 'weekend' ended, it has rained.

The real fun of this time was just the silly banter.  We'd make really witty but dumb jokes and laugh endlessly.  For example, I called myself a degenerate while over-tipping some tender of a bar.  Obvious new word is degenerosity, right?  It was just priceless.  There were many other instances.  I really can't do it justice, so just take my word for it.  Good times.

So, besides hemorrhaging money and playing catch with a towel tied in a knot in a hotel room, I've been inventing.  Ya.  Saw a little of Shark Tank last night and had a thought.  If these guys can go up there with their nick nacks, then I can whip some stuff up too.  So last night I made a prototype of an invention.  Ya, it's just that easy.  Whether it works or not, we may never fully know.  But when the time is right, I'll give it a spin.

There is really no shortage of ideas rattling around up in this noggin.  People do that right?  Just invent stuff?  Cause here's the thing-I might not enjoy working on the boat forever.  And when I give up my 'yacht', I'm gonna need a yacht.  So if I have to be Billy Mays for a bit to get my own yacht going on, then I'll use the power of oxyclean or bead-mop.  Whoops.  Good luck figuring out what that's all about.

Understand though that while I can't figure out what I want to do for a living in earnest, I one thousand percent want to get paid to think.  Literally the best job I can think of.  Just spitting out crazy ideas and having people pay for them and think even the bad ones are brilliant because you're some eccentric genius.  I'll be like Steve Martin in 'The Jerk', just tacky opulence and senseless excess.  Have a trophy room with stuffed animals like Teddy Ruxpin and Care Bears.

And make no mistake.  Me being wealthy is the worse idea ever.  I'd be like MC Hammer, only worse. Just have an entourage of bums like the caddy in 'Happy Gilmore'.  But I'd be the worse enabler you ever thought about.  My sympathy for them would just be an open ended license to intoxicate themselves and for sure every homeless person within walking or box car range would hear about it.  I think this behavior of mine could be described as 'degenerosity'?  Yep.  She nailed it.

And as for me?  I may grow to the staggering weight of like 400 lbs, just crushing the meals I dream about.  Because I absolutely had a dream about two superstar combos at Carl's Jr last night.  And I woke up with an erection.  It may sound like a coincidence, but both of those things happened.  And in my dream I did what I'd do in real life.  Started ordering one combo, but quickly rescinded the order and got two, but with medium fries.  Totally ridiculous.

So I might be overstating it, but probably not.  I don't want to jinx my fortune or anything, because I for sure want a yacht.  If I were honest with myself, though, it may get ugly if I were mega rich.  Look at the people who win money in the lottery.  I am self aware enough to know that I have all the same weaknesses as them, only worse.  I'd probably opt to be paid over twenty years like I was responsible and whatnot and then call JG Wentworth like a week later to get it settled at like 50 cents on the dollar of what I could have had.  I hope I am kidding about that.

This was nothing.  But not good nothing like Seinfeld.  Just nothing.  Nothing good at all.  Except for the Peabo Bryson video.  That is good.  Love that song.

Where did shoulder pads go?

Ya so I'm always kinda looking back on the music of yesteryear or yesterdecade etc. and maybe it's stupid.  But I was watching this video and a thought occurred to me.  The modern generation of music is not only missing musicianship, arrangement, real instruments, talented singers, gheri curl, hoop earrings, and perms, but also shoulder pads on sport coats that women wear.  Any band worth their salt needs a woman strutting across the stage in a bold-colored sport coat.  It's just the way it is.

And I kind of miss the token heavy metal guitar solo that was in nearly every song, even soul or R and B music.  Dramatic strings that invariably ended in some dominant seventh were also a hit maker.  Think Michael Jackson.  Almost always some back and forth two chord thing and then dropping it down a half to a dominant seventh.  It's ok.  We have it all recorded if that's what we are into.  Let the talent of now slowly fade into the talent of yesterday.  Then we will appreciate the...whatever is happening now.

Back to the shoulder pads.  When I was young, I didn't understand what a dominant force my mother was.  She was beautiful.  As one of the family friends put it, "You could go all month without seeing someone as good looking as Michelle".  And that's merely where her beauty started.  I think it may have ended with sport coats with shoulder pads though.

Both of my parents were stereotypical eighties people.  My dad always wore nice suits and had that slightly pompodored, straight back hair.  He drove around a '63 Corvette, and hell, he may have even walked around with a toothpick in his mouth.  Mom wore what you saw every extra in every 80's movie and show wear.  That power suit of a skirt or pants and a shoulder padded sport coat.  She came home with that familiar slightly sweated in wool.  Damn.  I miss mom.

I didn't plan on talking about mom here, but her magnetism just mandates that I push on.  She could do anything.  And did.  I was telling a friend the other day about mom and how you shouldn't have doubted anything she said she would or could do.  She converted a single story house into a two story with plumbing and a walk in closet in the second story.  Pfft.  She turned our garage into a guest house/dark room.  Ya, she was a photographer.  Talking about her new macro lens and aperture priority.  I don't know if contemporary photographers need that technology to snap a good shot, but back then it seemed more to me like witchcraft to get from camera to a beautiful shot.  And she was the witch doctor.

I miss mom and her shoulder pads.  I miss the eighties and their shoulder pads and curls.  Maybe it's only because that's when I had the fondest memories of my family, being together and so in love.  If it's as simple as that, it's fine with me.  The two best people I could even imagine were at that point the center of my world.  I was the center of theirs.  If no eye has seen and no ear has heard what awaits God's children, then I can't speculate as to their frame of mind now.  I can say that they figure prominently in everything I do.  Some people resent their parents and their style.  Some only come to appreciate them later.  I have fully loved my parents for all the days from my beginning till now and will continue to do so until I cease to exist.

I will love them forever.  Funny what a set of shoulder pads in a coat can dredge up huh?  Let me tell ya.

And...We're back!

Ya so I'm now officially back to my old self.  I was feeling a little out of sorts for one reason or another.  This or that state of affairs was a bit coercive to my positive disposition.  At first I thought it was loneliness.  Then I thought maybe it was a first trimester life crisis.  And even now, I can't definitively say what the problem was, though I have my suspicions.  Whatever the problem was, however, C Dub doesn't give in mentally.  Sometimes you have to remind yourself of the fact.  It isn't that it's some self delusion as much as a decision to not let yourself be beaten by circumstance.  And there you go.  I think the main thing is I needed to sober up.  After getting off the boat, I may have indulged in a few ways more than was absolutely necessary.

That being said, here we are.  And let me tell ya.  Seattle is a beautiful place to just...breath in.  The douchebaggery/smugginess/automoton-like adherence to all things progressive is just...Mwuah.  That perfect mix of all the right ingredients.  And I have the perfect example.  I was speaking to a very close friend of mine who I shouldn't disclose named Briana who may or may not have been an observer on our boat.  It went like this...

I had what I thought was a doctor's appointment this afternoon at one in the P.  Called a cab.  After a short wait of forty minutes a cab got there and we were off.  Now, there was a lot going on today that deserves to be shared.  But the coup de grace was on the elevator at the hospital.  I'd just realized I was at the wrong place.  The scheduler didn't specify that I wasn't going to the same place I'd been going.  Whatev, no biggie.  I get on the elevator and this guy kind of a thing is there.  I can't say he was particularly guy-like, but he had some stubble on his face and narrow hips etc.  And he was freaking out saying, "Oh my God!  I'm so confused!  It says 'two' on the elevator and we're on the third floor!  But I guess maybe that is just on the elevator?"  He was talking about the stencil in the elevator.  The one that indicates which car it is.  It doesn't change.  At all.

I don't mean to make fun of the guy.  It's not my style.  I appreciated his extroverted approach to the situation.  It was just so funny seeing this guy out of sorts for such a silly reason.  Like if you were walking down the street and saw an address on a building and were confused that it didn't tell you what time it was.  Love it.

And then I went down to the main entrance to get my cab to the place where my appointment really was.  I don't want to get into the merciless ineptitude of the cab companies out here.  I will say that I called for my first cab at noon and didn't catch my last cab till 2.30.  So it took about two hours to get two cabs in a city over run with cabs.  Anyway, I'm down in the lobby area and this clown at the desk asks me if I have to check in.  I said no.  I'm waiting for my cab.  Should just be a minute.  It wasn't a lie, I didn't know how long it would take.

But the guy is looking like he doesn't want me to be there?  I don't know.  So I said to him, 'I could sit outside if you'd prefer'.  It was pouring rain, but he managed to miss my sarcasm and said, "Oh.  Well it's raining so I guess it's ok."  Thanks bud.  \m/

Anyway, I don't want to get into what I see as deficiencies in the character of, if not the mean Seattle resident, the mode resident.  People are people wherever you go.  It was just kind of funny to me to see this happening.  And the rain.  It has not stopped since I've been here.  It's amazing how different people who are no different in terms of pre-disposition to someone like myself and others in the world can be so different.  It was like a scene from a futurist's dream.  The future.  It's here.  So ya I'm a little buzzed from a few drinks and it's still soooo stoopid.  But no one cares or reads so there you go.  Ha!

Sold! To the man dressed in black

So I'm back at it.  After being on the boat for a couple days my enthusiasm has picked up a bit.  I took a look around at my surroundings and just knew that my yacht could use some decorating.  Ya, that Russian is over there in his ivory tower, all high and mighty, but the Katie Ann is no slouch.  She's a good boat.  But it needed a few touches.  The first of which was a TV.

So I started the process like anyone else.  Craigslist.  If I had a car out here I probably would have gone shopping somewhere, but as it was, or is, I don't.  I browsed the classified section with mixed feelings until I saw a peach of an ad.  32 inch Samsung LED in the box.  275 dollars.  Ya, I'll call on that.  I spoke with a lady.  She said she'd come to me.  Yay.

Here's where it starts to get kind of fun.  I told her I was in Queen Ann near the cruise ships.  That sounds fairly benign.  She started getting kind of close and called me back to get a more precise destination.  Then I revealed that I was at pier 90 on a fishing boat.  We're starting to get a little more questionable here.

So after talking her through the labyrinth of security, overpasses, turns, and detours I started getting more specific.  "Ok, just come down the docks to the end.  I'll be dressed in black."  She goes, "I don't know man, this sounds kind of shady."  I said, "It's cool, don't trip."  She was a little skeptical with, "O-o-oh, kkk-kay".  She came down and I hid behind some nets on the dock and sprang out as she drove by.  I'm not even lying.  Then I asked all nonchalant, "Uh, anyone selling TVs around here?"

I had to calm her down a little bit, saying "I was just being funny.  Nothing to worry about here.  Do you have a blade?"  She looked at me with some apprehension.  I said, "You know, so I can open the box?"  With some relief she gave me a razor (I don't know who should have been more scared) and I opened the box.  And that's pretty much it.  We both kind of laughed at how questionable the exchange could seem if it were editorialized and edited.  Then I asked her if she had more TVs and tried to set up a nefarious trade route of TVs for people on the boat.  She said no and that was that.

On the bright side, I got a pretty sweet TV for pretty cheap and can entertain myself a little better.  I might see about getting some channels now.  I might not.  I probably will.

Stooopid-uh

I'm laughing.  I won't know why either.  Except maybe because it's party time.  There's no internet on the boat where I perform my night watch duties with the meticulousness of a four-year-old.  No, really, it's the best security you can buy for nothing.  With that being the case, I took a little jaunt to Pete's coffee or whatever this outfit is called and doubled up on five shots of espresso with my drip.  We're at ten now and I'm not sure if I need to go to eleven.  Pretty amped, but in that clean, legal, wholesome kind of way.  So if my jittery and non-compliant fingers can get through ten minutes of drivel, I'll spout off for a minute.

There have been complaints in our retention department (the single, solitary soul who bothered to read this) about my last post being a downer.  "That was negative.  Bummer.  All you did was complain about being hurt with your shoulder and having an abscessed tooth and missing your friends and being college educated but working all day every day for nothing blah, blah, blah..."  And she was right.  I like the boat in my own unique way and shouldn't complain.  That's not what I'm about.  I try to remain positive in all situations.  Is it wrong to vent a little?  Maybe maybe not.  But I'm done with that.  No more crying about this, that, or the other.  Except for one last thing...

How hard is it to get some decent internet?  How hard is it to listen to a Dionne Warwick song?  I really just want to listen to Dionne for a bit.  Buffering is still a thing.  Brutal.  I thought that went out with cassette tapes.  For those of you out there who actually have some bandwidth, I present you with a gift...

You are welcome.  I have so much to say with my super caffeine infused mind right now that I actually have nothing to say.  It's sad really.  It would seem that the title of 'stoooopid' is rather apt, no?  That's just the deal.  But it's fun if you make it fun.  I have a piano on the boat still.  I should probably play it or something.  I still have some skills, but am in a bit of a creative funk.  It's kind of routine to sit down and play some of my favorite progressions.  Then, after a few minutes or an hour or so I'm done.  For sure not complaining.  But the truth is I've never worked on stuff on the piano.  Or, more accurately, I haven't worked on anything since I developed rudimentary skill.  The only songs I've practiced to play and kind of get right are 'Canon' and 'Moonlight'.  And that was back in like 2001.

Maybe listen to something and try to play it?  Or whip up a new song?  I'm for sure not stressing about it.  It seems, though, that I have the most fun playing when I'm playing for someone who enjoys listening.  That kind of means I prefer the intimacy over the music, or at least a combination of the two. Nothing wrong with that, I guess.  It was similar in baseball.  I loved to play.  But I really loved to play in front of a big crowd and kind of refuse to play recreationally.  I'm sure there's some implication of insecurity there and needing praise or something.

And let me tell ya.  Seattle is a tale of two mindsets.  Really a dichotomy of smug and smug.  In all fairness, a coffee shop is not a fair sample to judge a city on smugness.  But it happens everywhere around here.  I always feel like people are trying really hard to be nice when they are, like it doesn't come naturally.  Everyone looks so serious.  Just kind of in an iron bubble that they would prefer not be penetrated.  I don't know if that means anything, or if it's just that I look so uncouth that people clam up.  That has happened before.

Fun anecdote: The times I've flown or ridden buses I've noticed that the seat next to mine is invariably the last to be taken.  It is a certain fact that I will have an empty seat next to me if there is even one on any form of transport.  I guess it has its advantages.

Just fun all around.  You know what is a bit torturous?  The world's largest yacht is on the dock about 500 feet away from my yacht.  That Russian billionaire's friggin yacht is within 7 iron range.  If you know me at all, then you know that I love yachts.  I seriously thought about popping in over there and trying to make myself at home.  Just showing up and finding the piano, which undoubtedly exists, and playing it like, "Huh?  Who am I?  Oh.  I'm the pianist.  Have I spoken to Andrei?  No.  Who hired me?  What do you mean?  I'm the pianist..."  You know, just kind of squatting there until the indifferent billionaire and his entourage just accept it and shrug.  That idea has some merit.

Part of the boat job thing is wanting to just go and do some crazy stuff and have some stories and whatnot.  I think stowing away on a russian billionaire's yacht and weasling a job as the pianist would be quite the feather in the cap.  If I were more certain of his English skills, I'd be more confident about my chances of talking my way into a gig like that.  It could be a good thing.  Put me on the payroll for like a thousand dollars a day to be the American pianist who is "much funny, da?"  Ahh.  If I disappear, there is a ninety percent chance that that is what happened.  If I never come back it's because they got tired of me and you can rest assured that I contributed to the food chain as shark food.

The barista just came over and asked how I was doing.  I almost made a Michael J Fox joke aobut not being able to text on my phone because I was jittery.  I didn't.  Mixed company and all.  Muhammed Ali would have likely been better received, but she probably doesn't know that the former heavyweight champion has parkinson's.  So I'll just leave it alone.

For sure I'm not out of ramblings.  But I am done for now.  It's still stooopid.  Except for the stowaway thing.  That is, quite literally, the best idea I've had in months.  And I've had a few.  Some of you have been party to these ideas.  In fact, just recently I had a great idea.  Wouldn't you like to know...I probably can't share it though.  Seriously.  I have one parting gift...

I like Dionne's versions better than Aretha's.  And Dionne was first.

And a partridge in a pear tree

Sometimes sequels suck.  Sometimes they dominate.  Sometimes they are just different?  I'm not gonna lie about it.  The last couple months sucked some life force out of me.  Kinda like when you're playing a video game and the little life meter at the top or bottom of the screen shifts from being full power to low power and just inches its way to the edge of the screen?  But sometimes you get the banana or star or whatever and it brings you back to at least half power but then creeps keep shooting or punching or otherwise hindering your progress?  That was B season 2012.  I'm off the boat now, but it hasn't stopped.

You know about some of the new faces and it isn't the same and blah blah blah.  What you didn't know is that on the first trip I tore my rotator cuff in my left shoulder.  I saw the doctor on the companies dime thankfully and she was pretty sure that's what it was but referred me to the orthopedic surgeon to confirm etc.  Well, the boat was leaving before said appointment and we made a meager 800 dollars net in our first trip of Haik.  I don't like Haik.

So I was faced with the choices of living life with 800 dollars plus whatever I had without my projected earnings for the season over the next several months or hearing Mickey tell me to 'get up because he loved me' and that 'he didn't hear no bell'.  I stuck it out, telling the insurance guy for the company over my shoulder that I'd keep them in the loop and if it didn't get any worse I could work through it.  Which turned out to be true, as far as it goes.

We headed north.  To catch yellow fin.  Now, compared to Haik (still not sure how to spell 'Haik'), yellow fin is a cash cow.  But I knew better than to get too excited.  Anyway, we went.  And in that time I got promoted to freezer lead.  Yay.  Also, in that time I got an abscessed tooth.  That hurt.  A lot. I spent a period of ten days of my last trip working sixteen and a half hours and averaging two hours of sleep because the pain made it hard to fall asleep.  The state of the boat, at the time, was a bit 'dodgy', as it were.  We were missing one of our foremen because he had a heart attack at sea and apparently almost didn't get to land in time for treatment.  For one reason or another.  I was not the doctor.  I can't speak to the accuracy of the statement.  That was the rumor.

Fraternizing with the observers is strictly prohibited and punishable in any number of ways.

I was told I would be leaving on a 'medical'.  That means there is no negative consequence for getting off the boat and travel expenses are paid.  The paper work I signed said there was no deductions from my check to be made.  Which is important, because after seeing another dentist yesterday, I got an estimate for a root canal.  North of three thousand dollars.  Ya.

Upon checking in with the company I learned that travel was deducted.  Life meter is dwindling.  But the captain and factory manager liked my night watch style, so I still have a gig there as long as the insurance guy approves it.  Life meter in a state of limbo.  Here we are.  A Motel six in Seattle.  The light was left on.

I like the sea.  I got promoted.  All good things.  Rotator cuff surgery may not be as forgiving as even the Bering Sea.  And I might have to just yank this tooth out.  But, assuming I have a job that I am fit to perform next season, we are supposed to have machines that cut the heads off the fish which will nearly double both their selling price and our shares.  So there is that.

All in all, it was a rough B season.  Torn rotator cuff, abscessed tooth and a hundred days plus at sea. Two bouts of pneumonia. Sick with a cold or flue for a full week and a half.  The worse galley you ever thought about.  Rules may or may not have been broken.  Some new friends.  A few bucks.  A desolate Motel room.  Hard to complain.  Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum...

Sometimes sequels suck

Sometimes sequels suck.  You go in thinking one thing, or that the thing will be like the last thing.  Well, you can't step into the same river twice.  Everything is always changing.  And so it is with the boat.  This season is not like last season.  In many ways it's worse.  In some ways it's better.  Either way, the Katie Ann keeps sailing and the world keeps turning. 

First of all, we've made maybe thirty dollars catching Haik.  Over the course of a week.  The freezers are freezing the fish at an alarmingly slow rate.  Like five hours as opposed to two.  Our catcher boats are Indians-you can call them natives if you prefer-and they don't give a shit.  And the ice wench is gone.  It didn't occur to me how helpful that was to my day to have the wench's smiling face and ready laugh.  Also, the responsibility of keeping her in the game kept me in the game.  There are no straps on the bags now.  It is quite literally twice as much work to load a freezer now.

On a bright note, I have some creature comforts and am bunking with my buddy Robby.  We play video games.   I play piano too.  In fact, last night I played piano for the entire boat.  We hadn't caught any fish in a couple days.  I walked into the galley and saw on the board that I was going to do a Haik dance on the trawl deck at 11pm.  News to me, it was.  But when I was summoned at eleven and found out they were being serious, I couldn't refuse my boss or my crew.  Just the kind of team player I am, I guess.

So I went out and did this Icky shuffle meets Merton Hanks with some Dumb and Dumber mixed in.  There were som insensitive moments with regard to the Macaw Indians too.  It was good fun and everyone laughed.  It was short, however, and an encore was called for.  Well, I didn't really have one.  Not having one didn't stop me from round one, so I proceeded to do an encore with some enthusiasm.  Someone said, "Play the piano".  Enough said. 

I sent my roadies to fetch the board, stand, and cables.  Within two minutes I was hooked up and the crowd was surprisingly silent.  I had their attention and wasn't going to waste it.  I started with something light-an instrumental of 'Beating Those Cakes' and followed with a freestyle 'Stormy Monday Blues' where I said something inappropriate about each of my bosses.  Everyone laughed hysterically.  Feeling a bit confident, I put out the disclaimer during the intro, "The opinions expressed in this next piece are in no way indicative of my view towards women".  Then it began, "She's a porn star..."  That's right.  I played 'Pornstar' in front of the observers, bosses, God, and everyone.  Then I wrapped it up with a few bars of 'Jade', or as Dominick calls it, 'Splat' for reasons known to he and myself. 

Mission accomplished.  High fives.  Laughter.  I'd like to say shock, but they pretty much have me figured out.  No shock.  Just some enthusiasm.  And the fish did come today, but they came to the tune of a two minute dance.  Only eleven tons.  Whatever.  It could be a long season if I let it.  I won't.  I'm gonna make my own fun if I have to.  I have done it before.