Life Aboard the Pequod: Adventures in Multiculturalism

Shipmates,

Please forgive the brevity of this post; I realize that much moral comfort is drawn from the portraits of my life that hang in this virtual gallery. And yes, I generally paint with a heavy brush to focus the wayward mind toward that point at which the exciting portrayal of my adventures best mingles with the intellectual and spiritual engagement so beloved by any admirer of the higher arts. But today I offer a post remarkable more for its conciseness than its verbosity; unlike Theseus’s trail, this post will leave you alone and unfriended in the labyrinth of your own moral decrepitude! Good luck!

So last night, whilst sauntering along the hallowed halls of the mighty Pequod’s library, a couple called me over to their table. It seems they were set to engage in a rousing match of Scrabble!

“Well,” I asked, “what, on this fine evening, may I do for you my good people?”

“Pardon us, kind sir,” they replied, “but may we trouble you for a Scrabble dictionary, 2 books, and a scrap of paper?”

“Two books?” I asked, puzzled. “Which two books?”

“Oh is doesn’t matter,” they answered. “Any two big books will suffice—we use the books to keep score you see.”

Well actually, no, I didn’t see, but, to paraphrase Tennyson, “ours is not to make reply, ours is not to question why, ours is but to do and die.” So, like the famed brigade before me, I charged head-on into uncertain fates!

I brought two books of appropriately weighty dimension, the Scrabble dictionary, and a piece of paper over to their table, and waited anxiously to what was to be done with these random books. It turns out that they wished to place the paper, now ripped in twain, on the page corresponding to their score.

“Would you prefer a pencil,” I asked, for once genuinely eager to help one of my patrons.

“No, this is perfect, thank you,” they answered. “We’re not writing anything during the cruise you see.”

Again, no, I did not see. Was this some form of relaxation technique beyond the likes of your humble narrator? It was not until I began walking away that I noted the small cloth cap perched upon the back of the man’s head and remembered that we had a large group of Jewish passengers aboard celebrating Passover. Eureka! This couple was not “a little touched” as the previous generation so charmingly would have described such people; rather, they were* Jewish!

I returned to their table to confirm my suspicions, and we had a pleasant discussion about the rites they observed during Passover, not to mention Sabbath. It was not until later that evening when they returned the materials I had procured for them that I realized a funny thing: one of the books I had provided for their Sabbath-friendly score keeping was, perhaps, a questionable choice. I had grabbed, unknowingly, Erik Larson’s book, In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror, and an American Family in Hitler’s Berlin. On the cover of this book is a photo of a government building in full Third Reich glory with no less than a dozen swastikas visible on various flags and pennants.

Oops.

They did not comment on my unfortunate choice, so I am left wondering if they think I am anti-Semitic or perhaps just “a little touched.”



*They probably remain Jewish.

The Dread Pirate Dewey’s Guide to Aging Gracefully, Part II

As you can see shipmates, I am attempting to curb my wicked ways and blog more often. Now, I know that my readers would consider themselves blessed if but a few of my personal anecdotes found their way into a consumable medium; alas, for those who wonder this vale of tears in search of mental stimulation my long silences must seem an affront! A bestowing of manna withheld for only reasons of base laziness! Avast ye scurvy dog! Rig your fingers to the keyboard and let loose the topsail of your imagination!

So I will relate to you, dearest shipmates, the riveting details of my day spent in San Juan with the moral colouring you all so justly anticipate. So we arrived in San Juan—oft called the Paris of the Caribbean*—at noon. I worked till 11, had a nice refreshing workout, and met my friends for lunch around noon, so it was just shy of 1:00pm before a group of us rascally ship dwellers doffed our monkey coats and made for the gangway. Our plan was to walk Old San Juan and play the role of tourists, taking pictures and cavorting amongst the sites; unfortunately, mother nature—that toothy bitch!**—decided to dash our idyllic plans.

Naturally, when the deluge began, like Noah before us, we promptly found a watertight structure and proceeded to drink beer. Good times, good beer—t’was a fun afternoon! The rain lasted perhaps 15 minutes, our adult beverages for hours. Like all good things however, this fine social gathering had to end. For me, this ending came at 3 when I had to thrust my way through the milling masses, board the Pequod and once more don my customary librarian garb***. It was not without a heavy heart that I elbowed my way past the gawking gringos, for who among us gladly leaves the table when the tidings of boisterous good cheer ring so loudly?

And what, praytell, do you suppose, dearest reader, that I found upon rushing upstairs to my station? An empty library deserted by passengers who realized that a day spent in San Juan would be more fun than yet another day spent onboard the ship? Remember too, yesterday we spent the day at sea, so for a whole day—sun-up to sun-down—these people did nothing but mill about the ship. And what, after all this masterful buildup of anticipation, do you suppose they chose to do on this fine, sunny—for the most part—day? You would be right if you guessed “spend the day playing solitaire on their ipads****.” So here I was, the very cockles of my heart still warm from the convivial fires of friendship in front of which I so recently huddled, forced to tend to the wants of a group of human cargo too lazy, too filled with self loathing, too eager to feast upon the bitter herbs of human misery to enjoy themselves!

Now, you all know how fair and impartial the Dread Pirate is—truly fair and balanced reporting—so you’ll realize that my horrified reaction to the shambling hordes that greeted me does not include the legitimately decrepit. Nay, for those poor souls whose earthly vessels have become too frail, too cracked, or too worn down by the sands of time to allow much in the way of corporeal locomotion, I offer only my sincere sympathy. For those, however, who quickly descended on my desk to query me about the poor internet connections, or ask me how they might get to the afternoon’s craft workshop, I hold nothing but contempt. Go! I want to scream in their puckered faces. For the love of all that is holy, please go out into the world and have all the fun I am denied by your fussy needs! In your stead, I would surely be laughing and gay***** in the streets of old San Juan! The oh-so-charming narrow streets would ring with my boyish glee; the arms of the local beer wenches would strain under the platters of cool refreshments needed to soothe the throats of my party parched from too much gregarious revelry; yea! the lowliest street urchins would remember this day with a crooked grin as the day that San Juan was visited by the very spirit of philanthropic celebration!

Instead, people planted themselves in the library seats only rousing themselves to come up to my desk mooing like the chattel they are about the meaningless problems ailing them. Perhaps it was all the wobbly pops I had consumed, but I literally****** had to leave the room, lock myself in the nearest wheelchair-accessible washroom, and cry for the opportunities presently passing me by. Finally, after bashing my forehead against the rim of the toilet for a solid 20 minutes in order to bring myself down to the intellectual level necessary to interact with the passengers, I stumbled back to my station, dazed smile firmly fixed in place.

So the moral is this: go out and live life you fools! Otherwise you will end up like these rundown wastes of flesh who do naught but plague my existence! Seize life by whichever hairs—be they short or long—afford the best grip!

*By me anyway.

**Thanks T.S.

***Yes, a post about said garb is forthcoming.

****A surprising number of the decrepitly old have ipads. I have yet to discover the reason for this.

*****Gay as in happy; although, with all that free time…

******Not literally.

Tasting the Corporate Ladder one Rung at a Time; or, why I have not Blogged in a while (sorry about that), Part 1

Shipmates,

I know it’s been a while since my last post. Alas! What piece of sophistry can I offer in my defense? Which register of pathos will convince you that it was surely my best intention to fully meet your expectations of a timely blog entry? Well mates, allow me to spin a brief yarn about my most recent woes. I call this gripping sea tale, “The Dread Pirate Dewey and the Dastardly Trio: or, Tasting the Corporate Ladder One Rung at a Time.”


The winds were blowing the mighty Pequod across the blue Caribbean waters one fine morning. The sails had been rigged in a slow, easy manner as the bright sun sent the first harbingers of day streaming up from behind the lush clouds on the horizon. The waters lapped lazily against the bow of the vessel only served to reinforce the sleepy serenity of the scene. The mates, from the lowliest cadets to the even more lowliester* librarian, all moved slowly and happily like over-fed kittens basking amongst their mother’s milk-fat nipples. Aye, a more pastoral scene could hardly be wished for amongst the softest folds of green, sheep-draped Acadian hills.

When lo! What is that spotted upon the horizon? At first a speck barely registering in the kittenesque brain of the mate atop the crow’s nest, but quickly growing in both size and darkness. Idle conversation turns to more and more anxious speculations and finally—too late!—the sounding of the general alarm!

All hands on deck! Those are pirate colours hoisted on yon mast! Ah clever Caribbean sun! Thou hast lulled these fine seamen into dangerous waters! But what can be done? As the hull of the invading ship came within striking distance, unsurprisingly, the pirates struck, seeing as that is what one generally does when within striking distance. It would be rather foolish to bring one’s ship within striking distance unless that was one’s goal; after all, it could get rather dangerous what with the size of these ships and the possibility of collision!

As the pirates streamed across the boarding lines, the valiant crew of the Pequod offered what manly resistance they could. Our hero, the Dread Pirate Dewey, was at that moment, defacing certain Sarah Palin books. As he heard the cries from the deck, his leonine head snapped up, his chiseled features well suited to expressing the masculine rage that surged through his muscle-bound frame. And yet as Dewey leaped up to the deck in a single graceful movement—an arc so beautifully described as to bring tears to the most hardened of ex-soviet ballerinas—he stopped cold: these were not mere pirates whose flesh would surely yield before the half-dozen sabers clutched in Dewey’s iron grip, these pirates wore the Seal of Seattle and were thus untouchable!

And, even more galling, these rapscallions could order brave Dewey to do their bidding! And order they did! Night and day our stalwart hero swabbed decks and massaged the rancid scalps of the elderly until his fingers were left crippled—and even then the evil pirates forced our ever-persevering protagonist to shelve the woefully-conservative books he hated so!

“Bahahaha!” The treacherous trio laughed*, “We’ve brought the haughty Dewey down to our size! Welcome to corporate America!”


And this ends the extract of my gripping sea yarn! Perhaps another installment awaits your eager eyes? Or perhaps that long promised blog about my sartorial woes? Hold tight for another 3 weeks or so and you will probably uncover the truth!

*This is a word. Seriously. Look it up.
**In unison for some reason only new bosses understand, because, in case this story is unclear, the “treacherous trio” are the pirate-esque*** approximations of the three “real life”**** bosses that recently came into power over me. And not in a good “I’m tots gonna spank your ass while we have vigorous sex and you’re tots gonna love it!” kind of coming into power over someone, but that gross kind where suddenly your comfortable “4 hours of real work” style “work day” becomes one of those “actual” work days. As well, bosses have this thing where they need to make a host of arbitrary changes just to prove they can and will. Anyway, the ones who really suffer here are, of course, my legions of dedicated fans. And thus, I shed a tear not for my own lost freedoms, my own sacrificed time, my own ever-expanding ulcer, but for you dearest reader, for you.
***Also a word.
****See The Matrix.