Idle Musings

Corndogs:

           By this time, devotees of these pages are so over hearing about my situation  aware of my enforced idleness and the reasons therefore. Suffice it to say that unemployment retirement produces a profound change of perspective; that is, what was once of interest, is no longer – and that which once received nary a shrug of indifference, now consumes me.

Case(s) in point: workaday routines such as what to wear, what day it is, etc. have no place whatsoever on my radar screen. My beloved Yankees, who once dominated my summertime interest, now barely rate yawning notice. On the flip side however, news that was previously met with high-browed disdain like the missing person, salacious gossip, or murder trial of the week, now fascinates me. It’s gotten so bad that I slept at my desk all week, in preparation for the royal birth, to ensure I'd not miss the blessed event.

Of course, little occurs that isn’t fodder for the transparent attention grab that my musings have become doesn’t inspire me to share my copious insights with my subscribers. That being said, I’ve compiled an UNEMPLOYED acrostic – consisting of insight into just what my world has become since that dark day – March 13. Numerologists are left to ponder the significance that is 72; for it was on that, the 72^nd day of the year, that my soul (and body) was loosed: http://www.greatdreams.com/72.htm - coincidence??? You decide. <Editor’s note: This is yet another example of the maniacal, senseless tripe that Speed is producing these days. Looks more like a cry for help to me> So, here’s my world – in 10 letters:

U – Undaunted: I thought I’d begin this exercise with a lie an inspirational tone. I’ve pasted dozens of trite quotes designed to fool one’s self into thinking that this is just some sort of bump in the road. “What doesn’t kill me will make me stronger” – “Temporary inconvenience for permanent improvement” Does anyone really believe this?

N – Nice: In a not entirely unpleasant development, friends and relatives seem oddly compelled to pick up my tab. I suspect it’s rooted more in pity than genuine affection, but what the hey –

E – Every: As in, every day is the same. It’s kinda like Groundhog Day, but without Andie MacDowell.

M – Mercury: No, I’m not likely to be confused with the winged-footed messenger of the gods, of Greek myth; corpulence will do that. I’m referring to that which is contained in our thermometers. Inexplicably, I’ve become slavishly interested in weather reports. I believe it’s a sickness, transmitted by AARP members, yet I now hang on the words of TV meteorologists as though they were Messianic proclamations. I have no explanation for this.

P – Paycheck: Clearly, my focus on this is not unlike the castaway’s on food & drink. “You never miss something ‘till it’s gone” (another dopey quote taped to my desk). My earning frequency is now best described not as “Annually”, “Monthly” or “Bi-weekly”; rather, it is “Sporadic alms from spouse”.

L – Liquor: Speed Demons will likely gasp at the inclusion of this; however, take heart my little ones – your paragon of virtue has not fallen. Rather, most days he’s stumbling around in a fog I think often of the insidious effect of alcohol on the jobless masses. Naturally, and unsurprisingly, I have a solution: why not hire the unemployed - at way less than minimum wage – supplement that paltry income with generous rations of their favorite cordial, then put ‘em to work delivering the mail? Think about it; much criminal activity is traceable to either unemployment, or substance abuse. Bang – both problems solved; and, because of this, we wouldn’t have to sacrifice Saturday mail delivery, as the costs are now manageable. You’re welcome! <Editor’s note: Yet another one…>

O – Odd Jobs: Yes purists, I know this is two words (my blog, my rules). These have sustained me while I patiently wait for my ship to come in. Here’s a sampling: Gardener, Landscaper, Babysitter, Driver/Delivery Boy, Tree Trimmer, Funeral Aide, Surveyor’s Assistant, Wall Builder, Pond Contractor, and Brick Walk Builder. Notice a pattern here? Most require more horsepower than brain power; hmmmmmm.

Y – ‘Yaking: Again, purists; I know the proper term is kayaking. However, those of us who answer the mermaid’s siren song, use this contracted version. It is this, dear readers – more than anything – that salves my spirit and takes me far from the madding crowd. My water borne exploits are the stuff of legend; no doubt, you’ve heard this over, and over, and over, and over – ad nauseum. I credit this activity, above all others, for keeping my violent tendencies at bay.

E – Emasculated: Duh; do I really need to explain this one?

D – Doppelganger: This is what I’ve become, or more accurately, what I believe I’ve become. Again, in keeping with my avowed determination to teach y’all to fish, rather than catch them for you, consider this your homework assignment.

            There you go mon petit chous; a deeper look into the cavernous, Texas-sized crania that resides atop my impressive anatomy, than you’ve ever been gifted with. Doubtless, this treat will be coveted and long remembered. Consider it my birthday present to you all. Cherish this and take comfort in the knowledge that I remain steadfast in the anticipatory knowledge that, phoenix-like, I shall arise from these ashes to prevail – against all odds. Birds of a feather.....

Sailin' Away

Landlubbers:
     The wait is over. Your agonizing, breathless, anticipatory interlude is at an end. The wondrous tale of the 2013 Killa Flotilla may now be told. While guarding against an embarrassing premature explanation, I've held back - thereby ensuring the most complete, detail-rich recap possible. Strap on your PFDs; this is a lengthy story.

     First though, a few explanatory notes. As many of you know, this year's Flotilla was originally scheduled for the prior weekend; however, owing to my uncompromising ethical makeup and top of the line moral compass, I originally cancelled, then rescheduled the voyage. Naturally, there were ruminal grumblings from some of the scurvy-laden crew; but as Captain, I was bound to do what I always do - - the easiest right thing. Because of this, this year's trip more resembled a raiding party, than a flotilla. Undaunted, I pressed on.

     Dawn broke earlier than usual last Saturday; Mother Nature often does that for me, when there's sailin' to be done. Assembling the pitiful few loyal crew members took some doing. Almost immediately, plans to begin our voyage with a hearty breakfast began to unravel, as one of the crew ran afoul of the law. I later learned that a high-speed chase ended poorly for one of the more seasoned members of our merry band. Substantial tribute will need paid to the civil authorities. Speed kills.
     When the entire crew was finally assembled, much grumbling was heard regarding the quality of the repast set before us, and - in a borderline mutinous harangue - complaints regarding your captain's footwear. It seems that because I'm a stupid old man, I forget a lot of things; in my fog-like state that morning, I forgot my river shoes downplaying my crew's reverential regard for my safety, was a concern for them. So, I relented, and returned to my dockside home to retrieve them.

     By now, our ETD had been blown to sh**, but my killer experience as a seven seas navigator, and uncanny prescience in all things hydro, once again saved the day. Unlike the inexperienced water bugs that participated in this particular tour at sea, I reckoned that the river was flowin' fast enough to make up the lost time. Unsurprisingly, I was right. The Captain and the balance of the Raidin' Party boarded their personal Nina, Pinta & Santa Maria, and cast off.
     We entered the Juniata about 6 miles from the confluence with the Susquehanna, at Clarke's Ferry. Soon enough, the grog was flowin' faster'n the river, and the crafts upon which we depended were quickly swamped by a treacherous elevation drop, from a perilous rock ledge. Undaunted, and at no small risk to my own safety, I led the ragged band to a safe backwater, to dump the excess water from their crafts and return to our charted course.
     Soon thereafter, we found ourselves at the midway point of our first day's float. Owing to the progress we'd made, and the time of day, we decided to stop for lunch at a convenient, and seemingly bucolic spot on the riverbank that looked inviting. All was going well, with both our solid and liquid refreshments hitting the proverbial spots, when we suddenly found ourselves the object of a maniacal rant by the purported owner of this (now seemingly less so by the minute) shore side paradise. This was, he asserted, private property.
     My hair-trigger fight or flight impulse activated immediately. I knew my safety, and that of the crew, might be compromised. In an effort to offer this renegade an opportunity to settle this dispute peacefully, one of the senior officers attempted to negotiate a withdrawal plan. This only served to further enrage our unkempt provocateur; he continued to gesticulate wildly, reasserting his claim that we were "blocking his ramp" and that we'd "put him in a bad mood". Rather than counter his claim with the obvious fact that there was no one within 200 yards of his ramp and that, given his obvious unfamiliarity with physical/oral hygiene and sartorial elegance, or education beyond the 4th grade, it was probably not us that controlled his mood, we bid him a jaunty farewell, re-entered the river, and continued our voyage in a southerly direction.
     The miles passed slowly as we sailed through the portion of the river known as the Sea of Disinterest. This is actually a 2 - 3 mile stretch that is so bromidic that even fish and crustaceans avoid it. However, we eventually emerged to sight our target for the evening - Island 81A. We've landed on this spot before, and it's bounty has served us well. One of the other senior offices declared this the "Augusta National" of campsites; his assessment is right on the mark. This idyllic spit of land became our personal Eden, providing for us the safety, security and comfort that, by this time, the entire crew so desperately needed.
     Landfall was quickly followed by a flurry of well organized activity; tents were assembled, firewood was gathered, dry clothes were donned, and the centerpiece of it all - the campfire - was lit. Shortly, the evening devolved into a frenzy of nutritional replenishment and re-hydration. Some of the crew, not fully sated by their personal stores, combed the island for indigenous menu additions. Frog legs and crayfish were the tasty late night snack. Through it all, your Captain, and his cigar, glowed approvingly. This rag-tag group of plebes and pollywogs had become a tight-knit group of seasoned tars.

 
    
     The sun visits early on the river. Vestiges of the previous evening's rollicking good times were everywhere - evidence that the food, drink and song (Robert Cray's "Playin' In The Dirt" was my favorite) flowed as fast as the current. Fresh from my comfortable repose in the Captain's quarters, where I dreamed of mermaids and such, I set straightaway to the task that's become the centerpiece of these adventures, the preparation of the morning's breakfast, Captain Speed's River Chow.
     Sworn secrecy prevents me from sharing the recipe, but suffice it to say, this concoction provides ample carbs, calories, proteins and the energy necessary to push further on down the river. It was, as usual, delicious!
    
     Reluctantly, we said goodbye to our little Xanadu. After packing up the tents, sleeping bags and personal protection arsenals, we shoved off. One final over the shoulder glance later, we steamed forward toward our final destination, Fort Hunter. Along the way, we encountered treacherous waves near Lady Liberty. It was here that I got stuck on a rock and cried like a little girl until I was able to extricate myself Undaunted, I fearlessly led the mini-armada safely through the dangerous roiling whitecaps.
     It wasn't long before we sailed triumphantly into port, greeted by a few indifferent family members a wildly cheering throng.
     Now that I've returned to the dry, safe, solid land, plans are already fomenting for next year's excursion. It's likely that, having tamed both the Juniata and the Susquehanna, we'll set our sights on more distant shores.
     Stay tuned for the decisions that emerge from these pages in the months to come. I'll scour the waterways to find a suitable 2014 venue, in my tireless effort to provide a challenge to my crew, and entertain myself in the process.  Semper paratus............