Captain, My Captain

It occurred to me that I have a picture of Captain Morgan with the caption "My Captain" (the name of the blog is FirstMate - in case you didn't notice), but I never explained where that came from. I am not THAT much of a lush, despite how it appears.

It all starts with my friend Karl and his mother's time-share on Nantucket. For most of his youth, Karl spent one week in early August on Nantucket with his mom and brother. During high school, Karl invited me and a couple of our best friends to join him that week. It was wonderful. Karl's mom would sleep in the bedroom on the third floor, while the rest of us slept in the bunks on the bottom floor (the middle floor was the kitchen and living room, with one pull-out sofa bed).

The following few years we continued to join him and his mom each summer, culminating in a fateful week when we were all in college. A few of us brought female/girl friends for the week, making the total number of young adults officially too high for that house. Early in the week we were drinking and generally being too loud until finally Karl's mom came downstairs, yelled at us, and told us that we all had to leave the next day. Ouch. (I won't go into the story of how Karl "stole" Pete's friend Jen, and how Pete left on his own without telling anybody.) Without the timeshare, we were effectively banned from the island.

That is, until the following year (or maybe the year after that) when someone got the bright idea of renting a house on the same part of the island as the time-share during that same week. Karl could stay at his mom's (and even host a friend) while the rest of us could have as much fun as we wanted in our own house. Each year someone would arrange to rent a house (usually Pete or my cousin), and each summer we'd have a blast* for that one week.

At some point early on, someone "discovered" Capt. Morgan rum and brought it with them to the island. Soon that became our drink of choice, and the group of us managed to drink more than our fair share. In fact, there exists a picture of some of us standing in front of a fireplace in our house. Along the mantle is lined up most of the booze we consumed that week: two big wine bottles bookended around nine large Capt. Morgan rum bottles - and that wasn't counting the case of Red Stripe beer! Yes, we had our fun.

Instead of relying on whatever glassware might be available in the house, we brought our own plastic cups; rather than go through a ton of them, we decided to label the cups and reuse them. Since we were on an island, and since the Capt. was our drink of choice, someone got the idea of labeling his cup with a nautically-themed nickname. We had a Skipper, a Navigator, a Pirate, a Cap'n (I didn't like that one - I felt there should be only one Captain, no matter how you abbreviated it) and a few others that I can't fully recall. I, of course, was the First Mate. In addition to the nicknames, we also started developing a lingo that went along with the drinking. When we started to drink (or when we first started to feel the drink), we said we had "set sail" with the Capt. If you got a bit sick, we might say that you were experiencing rough waters. If you sailed on another ship (drank something else) and got sick, we might say that the Capt. forced you to walk the plank or that you got keel-hauled. And on and on.

Up until recently, I was still consuming my fair share of Capt's rum. Unfortunately my acupuncturist and I decided that I should try giving up alcohol for awhile and see how that affects me. So far, all I can say is that I want back on the ship! I wasn't made to be a land-lubber...

* As always, I can say that I was never truly happy the whole time I was there. One problem was that my friends were into smoking cigars at night, so everyone would gather on the deck and chat. I didn't like sitting in the cold, nor did I like breathing in the cigar smoke, so I often sat in the house alone. Another problem was that my friends liked to play golf, so they would get up early, play a round, then come back in the late morning. This wasn't so bad for me since I enjoyed sleeping late, but it still made me feel a little apart. Finally, for most/all of those years, my friends didn't know I was gay (or bisexual, since I often had girlfriends during those years), so I felt like I was living a lie with them. They were quickly becoming yuppies, while I felt I couldn't relate.

There's Always a Bigger Fish

Partner and I did work on the yard - and I did trim those hellacious laurels - but we did it all during the weekend.  Finished with a dump run on Sunday, so we can say the task was complete.  Partner also built a platform for three flower pots in the front yard, and today I put down bricks along our walkway.  Things are starting to come together.

At least, in the yard.   Partner and I have been going through a bit of a rough patch lately, although we seem to be coming out of it.  There's no actual arguing or anything, just a fairly cold, forced atmosphere.  It probably all started with me a week ago, when I went through one of my "jags" after playing with his nipples and getting rejected.  I was cold with him, then when I was over it he was cold with me.  The weekend helped warm things up, and that's what I expect will continue to happen.  If not, he goes away on a business trip for a week next week, so I assume 'absence will make the heart grow fonder.'  Honestly, I don't expect anything to come from this; I guess I'm just taking note as sort of an historical record.

Switching gears: in Star Wars I there's a scene when the Jedi and Jar Jar are in a craft underwater, and a large creature tries to eat them.  Instead, a bigger fish eats that one, only to be swallowed by an even larger creature.  Looking out the window, the Jedi (played by Leam Neeson) said, "There's always a bigger fish."

I think that, besides being one of the best lines from that otherwise-lame movie, this line is a wonderful philosophy to live by.  No matter how great we think we are, there's always someone greater.  Or faster.  Or stronger.  Or in better shape.  

Or - as I've come to find out recently - more obsessed.

In previous posts I mentioned my history with and love for This is Spinal Tap.  What I don't think I mentioned was the fat guy that was seated front row center at the most recent concert.  He sang every lyric to every song (at least every time I looked over at him), he carried something which looked like Spinal Tap paraphanalia that he wanted the guys to sign (they didn't), and at the end of the show he waited for the roadies to give him the set list.  While I think having the set list would be neat...really, what's he going to do with it?  I'm just not that obsessed.

Unfortunately, my not being obsessed with - well, with anything, really - means that I've missed out on some limited-edition offers around my favorite things.  In the last month I learned that Cameron Crowe released a vinyl LP edition of the Harold & Maude soundtrack, complete with extra goodies.  I would LOVE to own that, but it was released in very limited numbers last year, so all copies are gone.  How did people even find out about it?  I guess if I were more obsessed, I would track my favorite things every day online, join chat groups about them, make comments on sites like imdb, and scour the web in search for the latest deals.

But no, I just can't do it.  As much as I love my favorite movies, TV shows and music, I just can't get myself worked up enough to compete with the "ultimate fans."  I guess I'll have to be satisfied with loving them in my own quiet, individual way.

LOWes Sucks...and not in the good way!

BearTown 14 was this past weekend. Partner and I enjoyed ourselves and thought the events came off (mostly) without a hitch, but much of it seemed almost too professionally produced. Call it "IBR Jr." One of the biggest problems with the weekend was the bus that they hired. In the past we used a local school bus company, and our friend (and Bears member) Johnny (who works for that company) always volunteered to be our main driver for the whole weekend. This year the committee went with another company, totally excluding that company and our friend. On top of that, the drivers didn't always know where they were going, and I heard one story where a driver got snippy with a guest when he (the driver) was informed that he didn't go where he was supposed to. Johnny never would've done that.


Partner and I just got back from LOWes after buying a small table for our deck. When we got it home, I noticed that the box was sealed with a lot of packing tape, which I told Partner was a "bad sign." Sure enough, after spending 10 minutes putting it together, I realized that one of the parts was defective. I tried fixing it, but then I concluded that, if I broke it, we wouldn't be able to return it, so I stopped. Two things really piss me off about this whole event: 1) the last item I bought at LOWes was also defective and needed returning; and 2) the table looked like it was returned to the store as defective, then the store turned around, repackaged it and tried selling it again. True, I can't be sure about this last part, but the box had at least been opened before, and I can just imagine someone at the store deciding to resell it in the hopes that the next sucker/buyer would try to fix it rather than return it. That really ticks me off, and I don't plan on shopping there again if I can at all help it. (Of course, I hated Amazon at one point and still shopped from them, so who knows?)


I've been on a yard-work kick lately, planting flowers and edging the lawn with bark mulch. I was going to trim some of the laurel hedges around the house, but this experience with the table has taken the wind out of my sails. Now I just want to sit and sulk. Actually, venting like this has been helpful, so maybe I'll get up and do something productive after all...

Sneakin' Out into Obscurity

Last night I went to see Sneakin' Out at the Dirty Duck in downtown Portland. As always, they were brilliant. They leave tomorrow on a short tour opening for Pink Martini, so I told my friends back East to try and see them if possible. I have a feeling that none of them will, but at least I tried.

Before I get back to S.O., I have something to get off my chest. When I say "my friends back east," what I mean is an online posting board that we all belong to. Weird thing is, every time I post something - whether it's D&D related or not - I see that very few people respond and/or even look at what I write. When someone else posts, I swear that there are always more 'views' and replies. Maybe I'm being paranoid, but I get the feeling that some people see my name attached to a post and then don't bother to read it. I feel - upset is too strong a word - put off by my friends' lack of attention. Poor me.

ANYWAY, Sneakin' Out is a three-piece instrumental group from Portland, and they are absolutely amazing at what they do. With just a mandolin, acoustic bass guitar, and various percussion instruments (no drum kit per se, but the percussionist plays bongos, xylophones, cymbals and even a typewriter), the band can recreate or interpret songs from any genre. They have two cd's of original material, but every time I see them (usually at the Duck) they play covers from groups like the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Black Sabbath and Ozzy Ozbourne, Deep Purple, Joe Jackson, (a disco group whose name escapes me) and many, many classical pieces - often all woven together. I often think listening to them play would make a great music trivia game: try to name all the different songs and groups that they cover. Only the best could win.

Before the show started, the mandolin player, Dave, got on the mic and asked everyone there to give a round of applause for someone sitting to his left. Everyone clapped. Then, Dave pointed to another person and asked for more clapping. We did. Pretty soon it became clear that he was going around the room and asking for applause by/for everyone. Since there weren't that many people (35?), and since he knew a lot of people there, Dave often named the person he was pointing to ("Give it up for Bob and Mark!"). When he got to me, he got stuck - didn't know my name at all. Typical. I wouldn't have been so surprised except that he and I had just had a conversation outside before the show started, and...oh yeah, we had sex!

A word about the Dirty Duck. This is a dive bar in the truest sense of the word; believe me, it lives up to its name. When I first moved to Portland almost 5 years ago, it was the home bar for the Oregon Bears. We had a couple events there each month, and the last event of the BearTown weekend was held there (which was, incidently, the first time I'd heard/seen Sneakin' Out). At one event, I looked up at the paneled column I was standing next to and saw a couple of cockroaches descending the wall towards me. Yecch. Also, the men's bathroom is notorious for its smell of urine. No matter what they tried to do (if anything), about halfway through any event the acrid smell of urine would waft up out of the urinal and into the bar. Last night when I got there, I could swear that I smelled vomit. Since no one else seemed to mind too much, I wasn't sure if it was me. Sure enough, later in the evening I smelled piss - and I was at the opposite side of the bar near an open door!

At one point, the new manager James came over to talk with another guy sitting next to me. Without a glance in my direction, James put his back to me and started chatting. I wouldn't have minded so much except that: a) I really wanted to (over)hear what he was saying but couldn't because he was facing away, and b) just the night before James personally gave an award to Partner for being such a great supporter of the community. After that, you'd think I'd earn at least a nod in my direction! I keep trying to tell Partner: without him there, I am persona non grata in this town.