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.

On Censorship

Gather round shipmates; your humble narrator needs to unburden his soul. You see, I’ve barely been hard at my duties for a whole month and already I face an ethical dilemma. No, it’s not whether I should push that really annoying guest over the railing*; rather, I have been censuring books. That’s right, the Dread Pirate Dewey, bleeding-heart liberal champion of free speech and equity, has been imposing his set of beliefs—albeit, superior beliefs based on reasoning clearly beyond most conservative “thinkers”—on the patrons of the Pequod’s fair library! Oh the shame! But before you judge too harshly, hear my tale of all-too-human failing and weep with me for the sake of my proud integrity!

It began, oh so innocently, with a copy of Sarah Palin’s Going Rogue. Now, we all know that Palin is little more than a small-minded bigot grasping at opportunity like the patrons of my library digging through the free book bin**. She has little of value to add to any conversation and without Faux news, she would have no chance to prove this. As I said, every adult citizen of any intelligence whatsoever is aware of these basic facts, and yet…we have a copy of not only Going Rogue, but some other drivel to which she put her name. Simply bizarre. So it goes without saying that I suffered almost physical pain every time I put her books out on the shelf; this meant that not only had someone actually deigned to check this rubbish out, but now another person could follow suit! Oh the pain! Thus, when I picked this steaming pile of garbage out of the return bin one day and found it to be slightly damaged, my heart went all aflutter! Aboard the Pequod, when books are not in perfect shape, we remove them from the system—our mariners expect the five-star experience after all. But was Going Rogue damaged enough? Well, an oh-so-gentle nudge along the disintegrating spine closed that issue. And thus began my slide into censorship.

Since then, a guest left a nearly-new copy of one of Glenn Beck’s books in the free bin. I generally take new, hard-cover, books in mint condition—such as the Beck in question—and enter them into the system. However, I took this particular book straight to the hellish fires of the incinerator! This has all been passive censorship thus far; I haven’t actually removed a perfectly sound book from our system. Yes, I helped some along, and refused entry to others, but I think this is different from active censorship. And this leads me to describe my currant dilemma. You see, I have a book by Dick Cheney that was returned several days ago, and I simply cannot bring myself to reshelf it; in fact, many have the nights been when my mind is tormented by thoughts of sending Cheney’s undoubtedly evil text to meet it fiery fate in the bowels of the ship! That’s right mates—I stand before you tempted to commit the crime of bibliocide!

If this were simply a single “slip of the Dick” and a means of sending self-serving tripe back to it’s Tartarean origins, I would be less perturbed. But where, I ask of you, does it end? Do Newt Gingrich’s novels follow?*** And then? Tom Clancy? His work is almost equally insipid. And from there, what? An aesthetic cleansing? Oh superior intellect, education, and literary taste! Why do you taunt me so when my duties require that I serve the great unwashed masses and their penchant for textual pablum!

*Obviously I should push her over. She’s probably the next Hitler.

**Imagine a group of elderly pigs rooting around in the garbage can that holds the night’s remnants from the “nacho bar”—about 30 pounds of chili, salsa, and “cheese.”

***Although we seem to have about 300 of them, so it might clog the incinerator.

A Day in the Life, Part 1

Shipmates,

Well mates, today marks a month that I’ve been aboard the mighty Pequod in her wave-cresting quest for ducats! Oh the sights I’ve seen lo these many weeks! The sayings and doing of the decrepit elderly, the sheep-eyed innocents, and the genuinely stupid could fill volumes*, but it is on this momentous day—surely marked in most people’s calendars—that it behooves us to turn our gaze from the idiosyncrasies of the flawed beasts aboard this strange ark and instead consider “a day in the life of a cruise ship librarian.”

7:00-7:15. My small travel alarm clock begins ringing**; although, most mornings I am awake before my shrill plastic friend. This is odd as I have no windows. I seek my nightly succor from the cares of the world in the deepest dark of the crypt and I wake to the same inky embrace! Yet somehow my internal clock keeps accurate time. Oh the wonders of my body!***

Next I begin the careful descent from top bunk to floor—a scant few inches of my desk providing the sole aid down from my perilous perch! Keep in mind as well that this is accomplished in darkness and silence as to avoid disturbing my roommate. Using the bathroom light, I then pull on my regulation outfit for the day and make my way to the Lido deck.

7:15-8:00. Most mornings we are in port somewhere, so once I get to the Lido I gather my breakfast and sit on the back deck with the Dutch fellow who is both the Pequod’s “lifestylist” and my morning dining companion. I am currently crafting a post dealing with the nutrition aboard a cruise ship, so I shan’t bore you with an account of my typical breakfast here. Let’s just say that smoked salmon plays a starring role; my shinny coat is proof of this.

8:00-:8:30ish. Opening time! After the nosh, I walk down 3 decks and begin my workday. With my trusty keys I open the electronic gates that bar guests from messing with the merchandise during the evenings—or I try at least. Generally there is a horde of shambling cattle gathered about the “puzzle nook” mooing for their daily Sudoku. Thus, after I shovel the mental pabulum into the trough, I make my rounds and declare to the world: open for business! Come and test my wares! Our collection runs from Atwood to Zola! Come and sail the imaginative seas mates!

Oh how a room full of books always fills my heart to the brim with faith in my fellow human being’s capacity for goodness and learning—and how quickly a line of shambling morons clutching the latest Patterson “thriller” drains my ebullience!

8:30-9:45ish. This period is one that we in the trade refer to as a “sweet spot of the day.” Generally, I space out for a while after opening and straightening out any kinks. Then I might read and check my corporate emails. Perhaps I’ll wonder about and stop for a chat with Erwin, the Filipino fellow who currently runs the coffee stand. Occasionally a guest will stop by and require me to do something. Occasionally they will chat with me. Occasionally it will be a guest I actually like.

9:45-10:00. Part of my job is taking care of the bridge group that meets every day at 10am and 2pm. This means I wander down a deck and make sure the supplies are in order. On some cruises I am faced with a room full of militant card players ready to give me a full dose of hatred if the cookies are not on the table soon enough. I suppose the lack of a timely repast is the reason that they steal all the playing cards day after day. Next I saunter over to the entertainment office and check in with my bosses. I have much more to say about the wonderfully smarmy personage known as a cruise director, so I’ll pull the curtain here and move on to the next exciting chapter of my day!

10:00-Noon. Another sweet spot. I might, if feeling rambunctious from caffeine overload, work on a “project;” fixing old books, or putting a shelf in alphabetic order,**** for example. Sometimes I read. Or just stare out the windows.

12:00-16:00. My time off! Yea! Basically my sole daily allotment of freedom. I usually get my pump on and eat lunch. Then, if I’m interested in the day’s port, I’ll make my way ashore. If not, I’ll go chill by the back pool. Good times!

16:00-18:00. Back to the grindstone for a long two hours. This is, unfortunately, not generally one of the sweet spots of the day. The shambling multitudes will have made a mess of my tidy shelves and, as they are for the most part an unhappy lot, take this opportunity to complain to me about the seemingly endless series of misfortunes that beset them daily. It’s humourous because I don’t care.

18:00-19:00. Dinner! Sometimes I join the “Explorations Team” for dinner and sometimes I dine alone. Whatever seating space and my mood allows.

19:00-21:50ish. Back to work. This is generally a period of ebbs and flows. During showtimes, the library is a desert, but then—alas!—the show lets out, and it’s schmooze time baby! It’s also sleepy time, and so I try to take it easy and remain at my desk.

21:50-22:00. Time to close up shop! Basically a reverse of the morning process, it also involves putting away the reference books that the morbidly obese deem “too heavy” to return to their rightful homes.

22:00-?. Done for the night! Thus far I’ve been too tired to make much of an effort to cultivate a social life during my brief time off; I usually go back to my dark bunk and watch an episode of Homicide: Life on the Street, read for a bit, and pass out with the hopes that my exhaustion will keep me from being awoken by my roommate’s 2am call for room service.

That is the typical “port day” for your humble narrator. Days at sea differ only in that I take my breaks at different times and I am barred from using the back pool. And the guests are more annoying. The first day of a cruise, however, is…different. Trust me mates, the strange rituals I am forced to participate in on an embarkment day deserves a separate posting!

*And they will for I have little else to write about.

**Thanks mom! Best (or at least, most useful) X-mas gift eva!

***Get your mind out of the gutter.

****No the books are not generally in fully alphabetic order. Our ticket agents seem to only sell berths to those lacking the brain power to put a book back in the same place from which it was removed. I am, however, conducting an experiment this cruise: I have arranged my “best seller” and “fiction” section in alphabetic order. If I don’t find this an overly frustrating experience, I fully intend to organize the other 8 sections in

I feel Dirty

Shipmates,

Last night whilst closing the Pequod’s library for the evening, a man with a German accent stopped me to ask about books written in his native tongue. I happily stopped my duties to show my new Teutonic friend the appropriate section. A few minutes later he had picked out a book and made his way to my desk. As happens in these situations, we fell to chatting. It turns out the man was Canadian, and we discussed sundry matters related to our beloved Ontario. Then the conversation took me down a yucky road of implied complicity in some rather odious practices.

Now, my position demands a certain level of tact; one needs to be willing to remain silent in the face of overwhelming ignorance and outright stupidity. People routinely complain to me that they cannot enter their email account because they cannot remember their passwords. I, in my humble position as living doormat/librarian, am forced to treat these complaints as serious concerns rather than quite possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Just now I had a “serious” discussion with a woman about the upcoming generation of young preachers writing such wonderful works of biblically-informed fiction—and I maintained a straight face! I truly do have the skill set required to make a good cruise ship librarian.

But my German friend crossed into a whole new country of compromised integrity. Our conversation, after dwelling upon matters of the hearth, turned to our present location and future destinations. Then we started talking about Cuba. It turns out that he was an avid lover of Cuba but had recently soured on the island. Since I’ve been to Fidel’s fiefdom several times, I was interested and we touched on various points. Then he said, with a glint of brotherly bonding atwinkle in his eye, “I really like the entertainment.” As I answered, “yes, I went out every evening to imbibe and listen to the great music,” I could see the twinkle fade, and it was then that I realized what he meant. I’d seen the gross old men with Cuban teenagers on their arm in the Havana nightclubs, but it took that moment of recognition denied to make me realize I was speaking to a sex tourist.

My point here is not that I find sexual exploitation vile*, but that I was forced to remain friendly with this fellow. Certainly, we didn’t set a date to get together for wiener schnitzel and beer, but at the same time, I have to greet this reptile every day. I’m sure an extra shower today will help.

*For the record though, I do.