Captain Catastrophe

Captain Catastrophe film now on You Tube!

2006-05-25T19:39:00.000-05:00

Check out the Captain Catastrophe film on You Tube:

Or go to link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=05q3vlN2RQ0

Captain Halloween

2005-10-11T20:29:00.000-05:00

So this is Halloween. I love Halloween. Well, mostly. Kinda. Y'know.

There are two things to do at Halloween. The first is my favorite: scare children. I love Halloween because you can scare children and it's perfectly okay. No one minds. Mostly. Kinda. Y'know.

So Halloween will come. I have the kids all programmed. I play spooky music on the porch. Sometimes, I run the fog machine, but that thing is mostly lame, so that isn't always the case. Then I put out one of those bowls that has a hand sticking out and when someone reaches inside, it grabs you. It's scary and fun. I love it.

Sometimes I like to dress scary, too. Or pretend to be a corpse and when the kid comes near I pop up and scream "Boo!" or "Join us in our unholy resting place." Something creepy like that. Or I just stare at the kids while pulling the cord to start my chainsaw. Good times. Anything to help children learn a valuable lesson: the guy down the street hates children...I mean...don't take candy from strangers. With chainsaws.

The other part of Halloween, the part I don't like particularly, is the whole fighting the forces of evil angle. That gets mighty tiresome. You'd think coming up against a formidable opponent like the Captain here, they'd have had their fill. But, noooooo. They keep coming back for more. Suffering fools.

Now, I don't want to say I'm attacked by monsters frequently. I don't want to, but I think it is accurate. I mean, I've been attacked four times already. Four seems fairly frequent to me. If someone has been attacked five times, I'll happily set aside my whole frequently attacked by monsters mantelpiece to ya, pal. You can have the plaque, the trophy, the whole durn thing.

Each time I've been attacked by a monster it's been right in the heart of my birthday season. (My birthday is October 25th. Make checks payable to "Tim Kretschmann Monster Fighting Fund," please.) Some people actually don't know the idea of birthday seasons. These people are morons. Let me explain.

Your birthday season encompasses the time from your immediate family member's nearest birthday until your birthday. During this "season" all other immediate family members must follow your every command. This is part of being the "birthday boy." Obviously, some of us get screwed. My dad is the birthday before me but it is on September 23. My brother is after me in May sometime (he always tells me when it is coming up--why should I remember it? Kidding-May 26th. I think.) So clearly, you can see I am screwed. I only get one month. However, there is an odd ruling on this. Since my brother has nearly half a frigging year, it is not FAIR! Luckily the ruling states that since I'm the first born and my birthday lands on a 25th (this is key), my rule is absolute during its duration. Basically, this means I can declare his entire birthday season as null and void.

Hah!

Of course, this upsets the ancient ones and they send merchants of death to dispatch me which leads us to the whole monster attack thing. And you thought I forgot!

The first time I was attacked, I was in a gym exercising. So, you know, I was traumatized. And thus, I don't do this anymore.

The second time I was eating some vegetables. Sad how these monsters attack my very lifestyle.

I'd like to say the next time I was attacked I was about to make love, but I want the story to sound plausible. Come to think of it, maybe this is why I keep getting attacked. They always come after the virgin. Somebody--please--save me.

Well, had to try.

This leads me to another thing...lousy law enforcement here. A number of law enforcement types read these columns and they need to know--I've yet to be saved from a Soul-Sucking Thaddeus Gorilla Monster from a member of law enforcement. C'mon, guys. You got to get on this. I don't think you are taking the whole Gorilla Monster threat as seriously as you could. I would like to suggest a task force to fight this. And school uniforms. Get on it.

So this last time, this beast comes at me with its massive, blood drenched claws. Now, these were CLAWS not PAWS. Paws come on pets. It's part of the alliteration from initial consonant sounds. Which means claws generally come from canaries. (Actually, for a true alliteration, the "cl-" sound should be repeated, but I couldn't think of anything PG-13, so you are stuck with a canary clawed gorilla monster.)

It inched toward me reading the poetry of e.e.cummings, an obvious sadist. I, luckily, had an ancient amulet of Escorial and spoke the magic words, "Knowing is half the battle" (Yes, it's a really obscure pop culture reference--we'll see who gets it) which caused a cataclysmic bolt of energy as usually happens in this kind of situation.

The clean up was horrendous. Thank goodness from the trunk monkey.

Now some of ya's are thinking, "No fair. Tim didn't get injured. And this story isn't even true. There is no such thing as monsters."

Well, pish-posh. It was a real monster. And blonde, too. I'll show you right where she pulled my heart out and stepped on it, if ya want.

And trust me, there were other "c" words to go with the claws, but I'm a gentleman.

Wishing you all a Happy Halloween and successful battles against monsters of all kinds,

Captain Catastrophe

The Captain Cooks

2005-08-30T18:42:00.000-05:00

So there I am in my car. I used to call it the Red Rocket, but since I saw Cartman on South Park pleasure a dog to raise his "Red Rocket" I've taken to calling her Erika. Come to think of it, it's sort of weird I have to name my cars...but there you are.

I kind of wish everything were as easy as being in my car. The past week has been really odd. I've felt a little lost, as of late, and had decided to "get back to the basics." I've been eating out, pretty much exclusively, for the past two to three months and have always enjoyed eating at home. It was time to get back in the kitchen where things made sense. Like when I would make the Ramen Noodles when I first moved out because I was scared to death of my own budget to pay the mortgage.

Ahh...the good old days.

So I'm in the car, and I set the GPS (that's "Gretchen" by the way) to the nearest Pick 'n' Save. Time to do a little grocery shopping. In my head, I'm trying to recall my favorite recipe as Gretchen calls out my next move.

My GPS is a life-saver. It sits on my dash, patiently, and calls out what I should do next. Turn right. Turn left. Make a U-turn. Best of all, if I miss my turn--it doesn't get mad. It simply states:

Recalculating...

...and it figures out a new route. A new way to meet my goals. I would love to have a life GPS. Go to school. Graduate. Get a job. Get a better job. Buy a house. Get a girlfriend.

Oops. I missed my turn again.

Recalculating...

Some routes just are too difficult for me to follow. So I get to the store.

The way men shop is very different from women. I think it comes back to a matter of goals. Men shop only as a means to purchasing an object. Women shop as entertainment. Thus, men go into a store, find their object and if the price is tolerable, they are out of there. Women seemingly have no purpose to entering a store other than "browsing." This is the opposite approach the sexes have to the Internet by the way. Women jump on, read their e-mail and they are off like a shot. I need to browse. Mainly for porn. It's free, so why not?

Okay, maybe it doesn't really translate. Well, I guess my point is I had a list in mind. It was clear. It was simple. But this was not my home Pick 'n' Save.

I found most of my items quickly because I'm all gifted and such, but for the life of me, I couldn't find the last item: Nutmeg. Excuse me, but what the heck is nutmeg anyway? If it is nuts, just say you are nuts--no need for this Frenchified hassle and high minded wiggle words. What if turkey wanted to get all sophisticated--would it become turkeymeg? I think not.

So I'm pulling my hair out--which is not a good strategy by the way--and also not a good idea. If you saw my father, you would know I don't need to pull my hair out. It will come out soon enough. I see this young lady in whatever it is they call that modified apron they make the Pick 'n' Slave (which is what my buddy Bob, who used to work there called it) employees wear.

"Excuse me, Miss. Could you help me?" I could tell by the way she turned, human relations was not a skill she particularly excelled in.

"So? What do you want?"

I wouldn't mind a night with Angeline Jolie if she would kick that annoying Pitt fellow out of bed, but that wasn't what I was there for. "I'm looking for nutmeg."

--Had she said, "Good luck with that," at this very moment I would not have been shocked. No, she put herself way out by vaguely pointing toward a sign half a mile off. I followed her pointer finger over to the intended target and by the time I turned back to see what the heck it was she was pointing at, she had vanished.

Now that's talent. She has a future in upper management. I was still without my nutmeg.

Recalculating...

So, I found a matronly type and asked her. "Nutmeg? What are you going to use nutmeg for?"

"I thought I would use it as an alternate fuel in my automobile."

"Yeah. Okay. I can see that." She looked like the brunette from the B-52s. Or Boy George. Definitely from the 80s. I figured there was a screw loose there somewhere or some serious drug usage. That must affect the circulation to extremities, because this one chose NOT to point. "In aisle 10. By the spices."

Spices? Why not by the nuts? What the heck? That little "meg" business made a big difference.

Turn left.

So I went to the aisle and I'm faced with two hundred little tiny little containers that look exactly the same except for a label in a type font the size of the fine print on a cigarette print ad--if such things were still allowed. Spices and soup. And cereal. I think I have spent at least three of my thirty-five years staring at these in grocery stores. Cereal was always the coupon for some kind of cereal that the grocery store didn't have. At the soup, it was always trying to find that darn "Cream of Cheese" soup. --and making sure it was the good condensed stuff.

And spice. Well, this was my first trip here. What is this junk anyway? And where's just some normal salt, for crying out loud?

Finally, I find the nutmeg after standing in place longer than one of those guards at Buckingham Guard that tourists with too much time on their hands always try to make laugh. I always want to tell those people, just do something really UNFUNNY. They don't expect that. And they are British. They have that weird sense of humor. They'll be putty in your hands.

Next time you are there, just whisper in their ear, "I believe I need to buy an egg." See what happens. That's big comedy to those British types. Then, offer to brush their teeth.

So I get back in the car, program the GPS to find my house (because I have this darn tendency to get lost) and take off for home.

I get out the mixing bowl, the wooden spoon, a pot for boiling water, the spaetzle maker, and a measuring cup. And I have at it.

4 eggs. Check.
3 cups of flour. Check.
1 tablespoon of that Frenchified nutmeg stuff. Check.
1 cup of water. Check.
Lots of Maggi. Trust me on that.

All in the mixing bowl. Boy, that looks pretty full. Maybe I should find a bigger mixing bowl.

Nah.

Once swish of the wooden spoon was all it took. Flour apparently has no relationship to gravity because once it became airborne, it was everywhere. Particularly on my clothes, which apparently fulfilled the role gravity would generally have. It looked like I just got hit by Milton Berle with that "MAKEUP" pad.

Recalculating...

So, I pull out the Dustbuster and clean up what was readily accessible telling myself that it is only flour and if I miss some, the maid will find it next week.

I should have bought a cordless model.

Right turn in 500 feet.

I reached for a far flung little bit of flour and out popped the electric cord. The plug landed right in the kitchen sink. In a bowl I had filled with water to soak milk out of it. I pulled the plug out and watched the viscous water with a white tint drip off of the thing.

Turn right now.

So I dried it off by blowing on it. To make it really dry, I stuck the plug in my armpit, lowered my arm to get my shirt wrapped around the plug and pulled it out. There. Perfectly dry.

The water in the pot was beginning to boil. Time to finish off the mixing. And this clean up!

So I plugged in the dustbuster again.

The sparks were pretty.

Recalculating...

The Captain at the State Fair

2005-08-14T19:04:00.000-05:00

Captain Catastrophe here.

It's been a while, but something kind of happened today that I had to share.

Many of you that know me personally know that this year I went to State Fair quite a bit. Now, I'm really NOT a big State Fair fan. I mean, agriculture is not a big thing for me and frankly looking eyeball to eyeball what will later be a delicious main course isn't my idea of a good time.

But I live in West Allis these days and see it almost as a point of civic pride to go. And our State Fair IS ranked one of the top fifty state fairs in the entire United States. Pretty much.

Think about it. What would State Fair in New Jersey be like? Well, folks, step right up and see the toxic waste disposal exhibit. Pet the oozing barrels of chemical substrate. I bet we're at least ahead of New Jersey. At least.

Anyway, been eating too many items on a stick--never thought I'd express that sentiment--and my tummy ache is clearly going to take another nice evening of trips to the bathroom to clear up.

Oh, goody.

Apparently beer is something a lot of people drink at the Fair. Me? I find the Maple Syrup Root Beer. Why? First, it's $1.50 and everything else down there is $3.00. And I mean everything. Cream puff? $3.00. Pretzel? $3.00. Chicken wings? $3.00. Corn dog? $3.00. Opportunity to perform surgery on a horsey? $3.00. Everything. Corn on the cob, oddly, is $2.50. They must have missed the memo.

The other reason is that Root Beer has more sugar than any other drink I've ever tried. Unbelievable amounts. I've had some German company here for German Fest and some relations this past months. On two separate occasions, these funny little foreigners have tried root beer and both said it tasted like the same thing: Bubble Gum. Obviously, these people eat too much pork to know what is tastes good. It's sad, really. I cry for them.

On the first Saturday of the Fair, I went with some friends (I won't mention who to protect Chrissy) and we saw this cow. It was a psychopathic cow.

The cow kept sticking its tongue out and it looked really funny. So comedian that I am, I decide to try to take a picture of the cow with the tongue hanging out. Only problem: I have a digital camera.

It's a great camera. Lots of bells and whistles but it suffers from the same malady as all digital cameras and most senior citizens: when you finally give it the go-ahead it takes it's sweet time and often misses the important event completely. Thus you push the button and a second later the picture is taken. But when a tongue is going in and out and seemingly random intervals; it's hard to catch the funny cow. For digital cameras, you miss the shot. With senior citizens, mainly they miss the toilet bowl.

Well, one of those 4H type kids was watching with some amusement my problem as I took shot after shot of the cow and not catching the tongue hanging out. She comes up to me and says, "Are you trying to get a picture of the cow with its tongue out?"

"No," I wanted to respond. "I want to have sexy photos of this cow to louse up its chances for a congressional seat run this fall." Instead I lamely nodded my head.

So she jumps into the hay there and starts grabbing inside the cow's mouth. "Watch out," I say, "it's going to bite you."

"Aw, no. It ain't gonna. Cows only have teeth on the bottom of their mouth."

Thought I'd throw in an educational moment in there for you. Proves I learned something at State Fair.

The resulting photo is right there. She pulled the tongue out for me to take a picture of it. Gross as all get out. Now it can give you nightmares, too.

To wash the incident from our minds, we went to get a cream puff. Now, when I went with my friends, no incident. The line moved briskly, everyone got the correct order and no worries.

That's because my superpowers had not yet kicked into high gear.

Friday, I went back to the Fair and decided to grab a cream puff. The line was rather lengthy but I couldn't think of anything else to do and it moved pretty quick anyway. (Not like that darn "Superman" ride at Six Flags on Monday!) I got my Puff and actually ate that without incident either. However, the puff in my hands was not the one I should have had my eye on.

A very evil cream puff was lying in wait for me on the blacktop. And I, with the skill of a panther, stepped right in it. I'm still shocked I didn't fall completely over, but it was slick and it just must have been the fact that there were a lot of people nearby with good karma around that weren't destined to have me fall on them.

I was pretty po'ed, but I found a nice puddle that I'm sure already had decaying fecal matter from livestock already dissolving in it and rinsed the sole of my shoe.

Well, today I was at the Fair again and walking out of the park when I spied another cream puff lying in my path. I deftly navigated around it and found a park security person and told him about the puff. I said, "You better have someone clean that up. Someone could step in it and possibly injure themselves."

He looked me in the eye, laughing and said, "What type of idiot would step in a cream puff? Let alone fall over?"

I nodded at him knowingly and said, "You'd be surprised how many idiots would do something just like that."

Hope you had a great State Fair.

Sincerely,

Captain Catastrophe

Don't Worry. I'm injured.

2005-07-20T18:16:00.000-05:00

I can't believe this. I only send that e-mail out to 20 or so people and two people replied yesterday that they were disappointed that I wasn't injured!

You folks are sick. I won't even tell you one of them was my mother. Sick, I tell you.

I mean, I do have plantar fasciitis, so I am limping around today. Six blocks was just this side of crazy for an old cripple like me. If, someday, I could extract that plastic insert in my shoe and melt it in the backyard like my old Star Wars action figures, I'd be the happiest man on Earth.

But, I want to make you all happy, so I'm bringing you a tale of woe.

Well, I've told this story once before, but it never got captured on the website (http://timkretschmann.blogspot.com)so I thought I would get after it. And German Fest is right around the corner, and that's usually a good opportunity for me to be completely injured.

A couple of years at German Fest, I cooked Spanferkel. For the three of you that read this outside Milwaukee or without a German background, spanferkel is roast pig. Generally done on a spit. Not spit on. On a spit. C'mon, people, work with me.

Anyway, one year, the brain trust at German Fest decides to make a new menu selection: the Spanferkel Sandwich. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a roast HAM SANDWICH! That people were willing to shell out $6 for a bun with roast ham on it continues to mystify me. But people do what they do.

I was given an actual grill rig. A carousel with 6 trays rotated within it. Four removable drawers were along the bottom. You could fill these drawers with charcoal and a grate kept the coal from being from top to bottom. This kept air flow and maximum heat. We would get a BLUE FLAME on that coal fairly often. And blue flame is no joke.

A similar grating system was on each tray so the oil and grease would collect in the bottom of each tray and keep that really exciting ham out of that lard. Oh, yummy.

They still sell this by the way. I suggest the Rollbraten. I suggest the Schnitzel. I suggest if you want a Spanferkel Sandwich to buy $6 of ham, grill it and you'll have 20 sandwiches for what this thing is. It tastes fine, mind you, but I just don't get it when we have such good food.

Don't believe there's good food? Check out the previous post and my bouts with weight.

I digress.

So I'm shoveling this nasty charcoal into the drawers. And it's heavy and filthy. It's that charcoal that looks like wood--not the nice chemically treated briquettes. I get that into the drawer, start the fire and let it begin to cook. I then wash up (I would wash up like thirty times as I went between meat prep and shoveling coal. Necessary evil, I suppose.) and I would start to cut the slabs of meat. Everyone told me to cut "with the grain of the meat."

I went with the "perpendicular is good enough" approach. Grain of the meat, my hind end. You go look for a butcher you want that crap. I cut the meat in half. There you go. Don't like it? Hire a butcher.

I was so tough when I did this because I had a really big, sharp knife. By the end of the day, it would be as dull as a rerun of "Night Court" without John Larroquette and my hands would have grooves from where I applied pressure to chop the meat.

I'd place the meat on the trays and it would cook for approximately one hour. Halfway through, I would turn the meat over, so a nice grating pattern would grace both sides. Didn't really need to, I suppose, since the meat would be sliced deli style afterwards, but I thought it cooked more thoroughly that way.

When a load was done, I'd take the meat off the grate and the grease would bubble away in the bottom of each tray. I'd take the meat in, shovel new coal into the drawers, and start the process over. After stoking the fire, I went inside to wash up and I came back to this.

The grease had caught fire.

I've never encountered a grease fire before and this baby was hot!

I was going to wait a while to see what happens, but it takes a long time to get a hot fire going and I needed at least one more load for the day.

So I commence to thinking. This is where things always go REALLY, REALLY wrong.

I really need to get going, so I decide to go over and take a look at things. Only a little flame spilling out the side. What I really ought to do is open the cover and take a good look.

At first, it was sort of surreal. A little flame danced on each rotating tray in the grease. I thought, well, that ain't so bad. I'll just take these out, restock and let that fire cook it. Maybe we'll get a load in forty-five minutes this time. I'd have to put the little tray fires out, I suppose.

So I grabbed a pail and went inside.

Filled the pail with water.

Went outside.

Poured the water.

Stepped back and watched flames rise up with a mighty whoosh!

Slammed cover back down.

Opened cover up to take another look:

Okay. Not good.

I can tell. I can tell it is not good because a crowd is forming. Someone said, "You did not put water on a grease fire, did you?"

Was that wrong? How the heck was I supposed to know? Not a lot of fires over in my cube at work. Grease, electrical, paper--never had many fires over there. Now I'm a fireman? Not bloody likely.

My mother was so concerned when she saw this, her natural instincts went into action. She grabbed the camera and took these pictures here.

I wasn't terribly injured but I did eat some smoke. The fireman on the German Fest grounds came in and blanketed the grill with so much foam that a fire would never start in the grill again. Well, until it had a through washing. I remember people being critical of the firemen foaming the heck out of it, because it was, afterall, a little fire. I always supported their choice since I knew had the grill been even slightly recoverable, we would have thrown another load in and cooked away. This way, we had to pressure wash the whole thing.

I should mention that German Fest volunteers on the whole are better at cooking than me. Afterall, not everyone is . . .

Captain
Catastrophe

The Captain Catastrophe Diet Plan

2005-07-19T20:54:00.000-05:00

It’s been a while. So I’ll keep it short. Captain Catastrophe has been busy. My radio show keeps getting interviews with really exciting guests, German Fest is celebrating 25 years, and I spend hours every night working on the radio show website. (Not the Captain Catastrophe one, which you can visit for past stories at : http://timkretschmann.blogspot.com/ --Hey, I’m adding new people all the time, so this is the best way to catch up.)

Anyway, as you know, I’m still not riding my bicycle because of the hideous implications—and by that I mean the very near death experiences the last times I went out. So tonight, with that wonderful 80 degree weather, I decided to take a walk.

Most people engage in exercise to keep their weight in check. Well, I checked my weight and I’m plenty heavy. I’m not trying to lose weight anymore; that hasn’t been working. My new goal is to grow seven inches. I figure that would proportion the weight a little better. Maybe eight.

So, I leave the house—and computer—behind and go out the back door. I go out the back door because the front door is perpetually locked in position this time of year. The wood swells and it tightens to the point that should you ever manage to open the thing with anything short of a blast of dynamite, you sure wouldn’t get the darn thing closed again.

Who needs deadbolts?

I decided to go on an errand my maid had sent me on. Apparently, I was out of Soft Scrub. I can hardly imagine why. That bottle lasted me darn near seven years with nary a complaint, and now I have to get ANOTHER one? What is she doing with the stuff anyway?

So I start walking and I go past the house with the gigantic dog. Could be a doberman. Might be a dragon. Can’t tell, but it makes a heck of a noise behind the eight foot tall tight picket fence around their yard. And it scares me half to death. See, dogs love to eat German boys. Want to know why?

Taste like pork. At least, that’s what someone told some of the earliest dogs. And dogs are real gullible. Everyone knows that Germans really taste like a spinach/cauliflower dip with a dollop of sour cream, but like I say, dogs are real gullible.

I have a theory that the 1970’s Energy Crisis was simply the panicked conversations of Collies and Golden Retrievers. Y2K bug smells of the Dachshunds and Irish Setters. That has a lot to do with how much time Setters set in front of the computer. They still love to play Pac Man, even though we all know Asteroids is the better game.

I digress.

I get to the grocery store and there’s Jerry from work. Eight o’clock at night and he’s wearing a three piece suit. He just came out of a meeting at an office building nearby. He commenced to tell me about Bruno (that’s another guy at work) and his new diet.

Understand now: Bruno always has a new diet. I’ve known him like three years and he has to have been on two dozen diets by now. He’s a dieting machine. He gets on the diet. Loses 10-12 pounds. Decides to celebrate his success at DiMarini’s or Mama Mia’s or Buca’s or something like that. Return to the start. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.

I really think I may be on the right track. Much better to grown the seven inches. Or eight.

Captain Catastrophe and the infinite hole

2005-06-06T11:13:00.000-05:00

Some have suspected that the Captain took off for Memorial Day weekend. I mean, you can't injure yourself all the time--you have to stay healthy some times.

But I'm driven. Driven to accomplish new levels of exciting pain at the most inopportune time.

This Memorial Day Weekend, my parents came over to help me construct a new fence in my backyard. My old white picket fence was a scary sight. The wood was rotting out even before I bought the place. I couldn't see painting the thing because it was already coming apart--so I never did. That just accelerated the demise of the thing. I looked like twisted debris after a bombing run.

As you can tell, I was emotionally attached.

My dad, who is reveling in his new status as a retiree, decided a couple weeks ago to yank the fence out from its very moorings. As he tells the story, he did it with his bare hands. A garage full of tools I know aren't mine, pointed to another version of the tale. You decide.

So on Memorial Day I got a call early on that my parents had just picked up a two-man post hole digger (that scary drill looking rig) and we're doing the fence today.

This sounded like a lot of work to me. I was hoping I wouldn't have to be here. Not a very good attitude, but I specialize in bad attitudes as most of you know.

To add to the fun, my back yard is riddled with prehistoric petrified roots coming out of my trees--not the easiest stuff in the world to drill through. Half the holes we drilled were also in clay soil--that was really fun. It was so fun, in fact, we decided to drill an extra hole. Or that had something to do with a bad measurement. It was either for fun or a bad measurement. Something like that there.

Anyway, soon my backyard looked like the gopher from Caddyshack had taken up residence--which would explain partially the evil plots the squirrels have for me. I think this is all coming together at last.

Well, we were picking up a post to place into one of the holes and I was walking backwards and didn't really see where I was stepping. Even though most of the yard was still in tact, my right foot--the one with the plantar fascitis issues--found a hole and went down pretty well the full three feet. My foot folded up to accommodate the smallness of the hole--thoughtful of that foot. I began howling out in pain, like a complete coward.

My dad, of course, suspects I'm faking. Now, don't think poorly of Dad for that--he usually would have been right. I was kind of thinking to doing exactly that so I could supervise the rest of the afternoon. That's more my speed.

But in this rare instance, I really was in pain. That isn't to say I didn't drama queen it a little. I mean, the opportunity was there. Would have been a shame not to.

I shook it off after a little bit and we continued to work and I have to admit. It's a great fence! Looks really good. Once we get all these extra holes filled in, it would be a great place for a cookout.

Maybe before I fill in the holes, I can lure a squirrel or two into one.

Nah. Too much work.

Yours in anguish,
Captain Catastrophe

Seagull Catastrophe

2005-05-20T20:06:00.000-05:00

If you've received any of these Captain Catastrophe articles before, you know that if anything is more impressive than the complete lack of hand-eye coordination I seem to possess, it would be the lengths to which the animal world seems to be plotting against me.

This is why I don't eat vegetables. See, I figure if animals start to attack me, the vegetables would rush to my aid--since I don't hurt them. Now, you might be wondering why I don't eat vegetables and enlist the aid of the animal population, but I have a simple answer to that: animals are far more tasty. So that's that.

Anyway, the walk from the Public Service Building of We Energies (where I work sometimes up to four times a week) to my parking building is about a block. It seems longer because I'm pretty lazy when you get down to it, but it's only about a block. On that walk is a lot where an old decrepit warehouse used to exist. They pulled it down earlier this year; most think so they could put in a parking lot. It had to be done. Windows were broken and I'm not the only one that suspect rats thrived in there. All I ever saw was a little white mouse, but that made me shriek "Eeeek!" fairly good.

The site has been replaced with a covering of gravel and seagulls have fallen in love with the place. In that little block, there has to be forty some gulls hanging out. Walking around on the gravel. Making lots of noise. And nesting.

I walk past this site most evenings and I usually take that little alley flanking it. I was grooving to the tunes on my iPod-like Zen mp3 player and didn't notice the new gull.

The day before, I walked on the side by the gulls and saw a nesting gull. I thought it might be fun to see how close I could guess.

Not too close it turns out.

The daddy instantly saw me, though I had deployed my stealth like ninja abilities. He made one heck of a caw-type of call from his beak. He launched into the air, and hovered on the wind while staring at me. It looked like that shot from "The Birds" where the gulls are watching the gas station burn from the sky. It was surreal as he hovered there looking at me like he was going to kill me.

I did what any strong young man would have done. I ran away as fast as I could while mumbling "Not the face! Not the face!"

Well, tonight, I was a little more cautious as I walked by, but I still like walking on that side of the alley. The site is surrounded by a silt fence and I neglected to notice one gull actually nested on the other side, the alley side of the fence. Unfortunately, I was watching the couple that yesterday had scared me so bad. And since I had my mp3 player going, full blast with Whitesnake of all things, I didn't hear the warning calls.

I almost stepped on him and his nest.

I looked down and there was this 200 pound gull with an angry grimace on his beak. Luckily, he didn't peck at me because I immediately ran for it.

All part of the conspiracy. When I got home, a little bunny was waiting in my backyard again. Your plot didn't work this time, Bugs. Keep planning--and I'll keep eating the rest of your friends in the animal kingdom.

That'll learn ya.

Walking ain't that fun

2005-04-08T20:30:00.000-05:00

Most of you know my opinion of exercise. Exercise, in my humble and yet highly developed opinion, is a worthless exercise.

Just the same, I bought one of those fancy-schmancy pedometers to count my little footy-steps each day. Now, mainly I've been using it for what I call efficency testing. It's 212 steps to the place where I pick up the laptop if I take this route, but 257 if I go this way. Obviously, the first is best.

Effectively, I've defeated the entire purpose. I love it when I do that.

Anyway, they keep drilling it into my head that I need 10,000 steps a day, which is approximately 9,975 more steps than I want to take each day. Well, maybe 9,928. If you figure in a run to the mailbox. But who needs that? If I want junk mail, I can read my spam. At least that features lots and lots of dirty pictures.

I digress. I usually do in these things.

Tonight, I decided to walk over to the State Fair Park and buy a new bike. (By the way, folks. Thanks for all the advice about what type of helmet I should get. Everyone seemed to emphasize that with me. I'm not so sure why.) They have the big Wheel & Sprocket Expo over there and I figure if I'm going to do this anyway--might as well.

So I start to hoof it. I'm exercising away so I decide to give myself a little treat. I order the big basket of onion rings with the double cheesebutterburger at Cream City Custard. Now this is exercise!

Hobbling out of my booth at the Custard place, I notice my pedometer hitting 5500 steps. This isn't good. My little footies suffer from platar fascitis or fascitaris or some such nonsense. Anyway, after about 6000 steps (this has been figured out by some testing in various theme parks in Florida--the only reason to walk so far is a lift hill going clack-clack-clack and a good first drop), my little feetskers start to scream out a chorus.

Well, I'm halfway so I figure--may as well. So I go over to the Expo.

The frigging place is packed. I mean, seriously packed. Little fartmaster kids all over the place (though they better watch out--I did have onion rings and soon they will call ME master.) Lots of old farts, too, which scared me. These bicycle dealers just dealing out heart attacks to these poor old people--I warned a few that all that pedalling might kill--particularly with their advanced age--but most seemed not to appreciate my sage advice, so I decided to let them die.

Then, I nearly died. I saw a price tag.

$1,000! Are they smoking pot? Are they chasing the dragon? Put down the crack pipe, baby, because you be nutso. Not every bike was this ridiculous, but plenty were over $500.

I decided to put my purchasing background into play and scored some major savings with my favorite form of savings: the avoided purchase. I thought, "Okay, the WalMart special is destroyed at home, but that old Huffy one-speed is in fine condition. All I have to do is reattach the old big fat seat on that and I'm good to go." Besides, now I can get that LCD monitor I wanted.

Stay tuned for that Catastrophe in the future.

So I run out of there. My mother continually tells me I have no sale resistance. Hogwash! Why, everytime I enter a grocery store, I avoid buying any sort of vegetable. Or anything organic. Now that's will power!

So I'm hobbling out of there and the Sun has gone down. And it's getting cold. I guess that simple Spring jacket that seemed like overkill earlier just wasn't enough now. I'm walking along Greenfield and actually starting to shiver. It's about 8:00 p.m. and my nose is growing cold. Seems to always affect my nose first.

I can't afford a cold, so I decide I have to dive in some place to warm up. In West Allis, the only places open that late is the taverns about every five feet. But I hate taverns being a non-drinker. So where am I going to go?

How about that place with all the action up ahead there? Look at all the cars pulling in there... Nice sign, too. "Church and Chapel."

It's true that I'm perfectly comfortable in funeral homes. I've gone to plenty. Not as many as my father, though. When he was president of the German club, he seemed to go every other day. The funeral directors would shout out "Elmar!" like the bar patrons in Cheers! would yell out "Norm!"

But this is crashing a funeral. Something is wrong about that. So I went in, anyway.

The great thing about a funeral home is all the great furniture. I found a real big sofa and plunked myself down. I was probably the only guy there in blue jeans and grooving to tunes on his MP3 player (NOT AN IPOD! --Apple got enough of my money when I was a Mac user. Ever meet an ex-Machead? We're like ex-smokers. We get all evangelical on your backside about the evils of the old habit. Meanwhile, we secretly still crave the old habit. We have a word for that in our family: Ernie.)

End of rant.

An old guy sits down next to me. I quickly look around the room. Okay, they are all white folks. I just thought, geez, at least they couldn't tell I didn't fit in so obviously this time. I've done enough Captain stories where that's happened already.

He looks me over, "What are you listening to?"

I look at the MP3 player and it says "K.C. and the Sunshine Band." So I look him in the eyes and say, "Maroon 5."

He nods and turns to me again, "So how did you know him?" He said the name...but I've already forgot it. It some old guy name. Like Herb. Or Ralph. Or Elmar. Something like that. Not something young and hip. Like Tim.

So, I figure I could tell this nice gentleman I was just passing through--he sure as heck wouldn't care--or I could do the usual and make up a story. "I grew up in his neighborhood. I'm visiting my parents and they brought me along."

Good, hunh? You may want to remember that one when you crash a funeral. You may want to print this one out. I demand credit for that one!!

I'm warmed up by then and I decide to beat it out of there (to Michael Jackson's "Beat It"--I'm going through another Disco phase. It will pass. I pray. Huey Lewis--I need you! Save me!)

I'm walking along and I'm passing that overpriced Owl Imports place when I see this huge guy in camouflage and a red and white bandana. His face is half covered in facial hair from a huge beard and he has a scar across his forehead.

He looked pretty darn tough. Now, me--tough isn't usually a word used to describe me. Potential victim of a violent crime. Designated punching bag. These are words usually used for me.

My brother always tells me to look this sort of character in the eyes so they know you aren't afraid of them. This is easy for him to do. He's half a head taller than me, in shape and if he were to throw a punch it would feel more like a mule kicking than the tip-tapping of a sparrow that my punches would best be compared to.

So I divert my eyes. Well, this guy's a head case, because he takes offense and says "What's up with you?"

Now, I actually am scared.

So I point at the funeral home and say, "He's gone. He's gone." And I turn and walk away. The guy didn't say another word and just walked away.

Again, I deserve points.

But this wasn't the weirdest person I met on my walk home. That is reserved for the guy with the megaphone dressed as Uncle Sam. He is spouting the gospel of Liberty Tax Service. Now, at least he isn't the usual for them which is some overweight biker-type with a big beard dressed as Lady Liberty. That always freaks me out--say, I wonder if that other guy was coming off his shift???

Anyway, Uncle Sam is shouting into the megaphone, which frankly seems counterproductive to me, about getting to Liberty Tax Service and beat the April 15 deadline. By now, I'm in that weird place I get at this point in a day.

It always reminds me of a scene in "The Secret of My Success" with the pre-cancer version of Michael J. Fox and he's on this ferryboat in New York Harbor and has learned he's sleeping with the boss's wife, which is his aunt, and his boss's mistress and they are all about to spend the weekend at the same retreat. The line goes something like "There is a calm place you get to when you are completely screwed. And you stop worrying."

I get to that place often. This was one of those times. I stuff my ear buds in a pocket and I approach the guy in the star-spangled cape. All I've got at this point, (remember I had some beauts earlier), is: "So, are you Captain Ameritax?"

Now, I expect kind of a chuckle, maybe a grin, a nod of the head and off we go. Ameritax, though, goes all pricky on me. "Whatever, guy. Get out of here."

I could have left at that, but this guy was considerably smaller than the guy with the scars so I'm considerably braver. "Why are you even out here? Isn't the tax place closed?"

He lowers the megaphone. "No, we're open late. Aren't you listening?"

"I was supposed to listen?"

Captain Ameritax sighs and walks away.

And I go to warm up in the tax preparation office. It's still a long way home. 3,594 steps in fact.

Sincerely,

Captain Catastrophe

The Captain goes to the Beauty Pageant

2005-04-04T15:03:00.000-05:00

A lot of you know I've been interviewing many beauty pageant titleholders on my radio program. I even judged one not long ago. Well, when it came time for the St. Francis pageant, I had to go. Nikki had come in to sing Stille Nacht special for the program and it will always be one of the highlights of our show in 2004.

You also know nothing ever comes easy for me. Simply getting to an event...on time...can be a major effort. There's tires that go flat. Injuries that just freakishly manifest themselves upon me. Urges to go on vacation--well, I do tend to go on vacation frequently. You have to admit.

So I know what date the event is...but have no idea when it will happen. I e-mail Nikki. You'd figure she knows and she tells me "7:00 p.m., I think." Okay, that wasn't exactly authoritative. So now I'm picturing trying to sneak into the auditorium when it is underway. I figure 6:30 to be safe.

Yeah. Safety. All about the safety. That's me.

So I have the time. I have the date. Where is it being held? "Thomas More Auditorium." What the hell is that? Time to pull out all the research stops. So I google Thomas More Auditorium, St. Francis. Nothing definitive. I further find out this location is on the corner of KK & Warnimont. Great, so I look that up. But Warnimont changes name and splits a couple of places. Sweating now. MapQuest, GoogleMaps, MapBlast, YahooMaps...all open in separate browsers. Comparing, contrasting...looking for an actual address to input into my GPS in the car.

Nothing, but I had it narrowed down.

See, I figured out Warnimont becomes Lake Drive. And I found a St. Francis Seminary. I figured, "Thomas More was a famous religious type character. Must be the name of one of the buildings there."

So I get in the car at 6:00 (to be safe) and dial in 3257 S Lake Dr.

It writes itself from there, don't it.

The sun is setting and I'm following my GPS's commands. For the most part. I kind of know where St. Francis is, but I don't have much call to go out there, so I'm basically blindly following the GPS commands. Which hurts me in the Marquette. It considered going straight, toward the lake, an "exit" which threw me. I knew I did something wrong as I started going north on 43 when the GPS announced: "Off route. Recalculating." I always thought they should allow you to download different voices. I would get the Homer Simpson model so when I'd pull a maneuver like that, it would just announce, "Doh!"

So now I'm the only Milwaukee native ever to go north from the Marquette in an attempt to find St. Francis.

This also explains why I bought a GPS in the first place.

Well, that and it's electronics. We all know I love electronics. Unfortunately, they don't love me back.

I somehow exit and get back on the freeway and give it another go. I'm driving along on the Hoan Bridge (which as a kid I always thought was the "Home Bridge" and the most embarrassing name of landmark ever. That was before the U.S. Bank company defaced my beloved First Wisconsin Building, but I digress.) I noticed the Port of Milwaukee, which I started thinking I should really go explore some time. I had read that the Port of Milwaukee is actually more active than the Chicago Port and thought that might be exciting . . .

Okay, missed another exit.

"Off route. Recalculating." She kind of sounded like that female voice that announces how much time until the self-destruct of the bad guy's lair sounds in all the James Bond movies. I really need Homer. Or like Moe from the Three Stooges. "Eh...wise guy, hunh?"

I somehow get myself on Oklahoma and I'm going straight for the lake. Stay on target, I murmur to myself in some sort of Star Wars flashback. Stay on target.

Oddly, I get to the lake and I turn right. I do not drive into the drink. Anyway, there were houses in the way. They would have stopped me.

I go past some beautiful church-like stuff on my right, but I figure this just didn't look right. I keep driving. And driving. My GPS is saying, "Make a U - Turn." So I figure it must have been that church looking place.

But there was no one in the parking lot. And it was ten to seven. Seems odd.

Wait a minute, I think. Nikki said 7:00 p.m., I think! If it were 7:30, I'd be 40 minutes early. I did it! I found the place. In fact, the approach was so gorgeous I decided to pull out my new digital camera and snap a shot of the exterior.

As I get out of the car, I see signs for the "Seminary Theater." That's got to be it, I think. Then I see a little sheet of paper taped below the sign. "This way to the Talent Show." That's odd, I thought. Usually, they call these pageants, but whatever.

I walk in and another sign says go in elevator to Talent show. Third floor for Talent Show. Well, I think, they certainly have enough signs.

The place is like a hundred years old. The lights are dim and I slowly step down the hallway under these unshielded bulbs of maybe 30 watts a piece. Prerecorded rap music is playing at the end of the hallway. This should be interesting, I think. Never saw someone "rap" for their talent.

No one is manning the ticket table. I pat myself on the back, again, for being so early. I seek out one of the ladies at the refreshments booth. They seemed very surprised to see me.

That's when I look around and notice I'm the only white guy in the place. Heck, I'm the only guy.

It's starting to sink in. This is why they call it being thick.

"Uh, is this the Thomas More Auditorium?"

"No."

"Do you know where it is?"

"No. We could probably find somebody."

I look at my watch. Five to seven.

"That won't be necessary. Do you have a corner in which I can curl up and have a good cry?"

They just look as I quickly make for the door.

FIVE MINUTES! How am I going to find a place that I have no address for in FIVE MINUTES!

Can't wait for the elevator. Gotta hurry. Here's the steps. Wait a minute, no lights on in here. No, no, gotta hurry. Got to get moving. Steps are all the same. Don't need lights. Even though this is building I've never been in before. And every floor seems to list to the left. And it's excruciating dark already . . .

Ever try to walk down steps in the dark? Well, before you criticize me on this, you ought to try it. Particularly if the landings are unusually, well, shallow.

That's right. Walked right into the wall. My response? Instead of the usual, "Owie!" or "Not the face!" was just, "Well, I guess I have some writing ahead of me."

Rubbing my schnoz, I emerge from the building AND STILL NO ONE is in the parking lot. That talent show must be at eight or something. Why am I even wondering? I have like three minutes left. And at pageants, they don't play coming attractions and Mountain Dew ads before the show.

I hop into the Red Rocket (yeah, that's the car) and I just shake my head. Now what? Well, on the way here I went past KK. Why don't I just drive the length of it in St. Francis? That was the best I could do at this point.

That's what I did. One or two blocks from where I crossed KK, was a huge lit sign "Thomas More High School." I'm swearing under my breath, "What's up with Google not having that &@$! thing?" What's more I'm following other cars back to a parking lot...this has GOT to be the place!

People are still arriving, so even if I'm late, I shouldn't be too bad. It was only 7:05. I'd just sneak in the back . . .

Just bought my ticket. It reads 7:30 on the ticket face. Hmmm. Guess I didn't need to rush quite so much, did I?

The lady selling the ticket asks, "Who are you here for?"

I look at her and mumble, "I guess the groom." I think I'm preconditioned. She thought I was trying to be funny. In reality, I think I bonked my head more than I thought in that dark stairwell.

"And how many?"

I look around. There is no one within 20 feet of me. I hate this question. When I'm at the movies. When I go out to eat. Everytime, the admission question becomes a personal affront to my lifestyle. "One," I say quietly. In today's society, being a party of one is just a shave better than full on leprosy. I wonder if any of those pageant queens will ever adopt a platform of "Stop the persecution of the alone." I've finally grown into being comfortable with always being alone and yet that persistent question.

Rant over.

I find my seat and I get the camera ready. It's my new Canon PowerShot SD110 3.2MP Digital Elph with a 2x Optical Zoom with a 16Mb SD card standard--I upgraded to the 256Mb...I'm geeking out a little now, right? Sorry. Tell me to stop when that happens again.

Anyway, I figure this will be a great test for it. Dark auditorium and I'm back in the H row, so that's a good 60-70 yards from the action I figure. Well, feet maybe. I dunno. I was getting all prepared for metric and we never went and now I can't judge distances. Darn 70s. They should have never said that to us kids.

Rant over.

So I turn on the camera and note the "LOW BATTERY" icon. Oh, no! Not at the beginning. I figure I can sneak three or four shots, maybe. So I shoot two and notice it taking a while to recharge. Better save the battery.

I put the camera away and that's when I hear the host announce the swimsuit competition. GADNABIT! My camera is out of commission!

By the way, the swimsuit competition is far too short. I just thought I'd mention this. I'm thinking you could budget, oh, let's say 30 minutes or so for this. It would give the young ladies time to change into their outfits for the talent portion as it takes time to get through all the ladies in the suits.

Just thought I'd make the suggestion. I was enjoying the presentation immensely. The guy next to me had some sort of 500 power telescopic lens on his camera and ate up two rolls of film during the 20 seconds that competition seems to take.

During the talent, we had singers, dancers, a young lady played flute and then we had one young woman that was an art major and drew a picture of Jim Morrison to the Doors tune "Light my Fire." They were all very talented young people.

During intermission, I met one of the young ladies that will be on my show in the near future and we took a few pictures that turned out just fine. This was good, because everything I took of action up on stage--what little I chanced--was pathetic. The flash just didn't travel all that distance--traditional or metric.

We get to Nikki's goodbye speech and she absolutely floors me by mentioning me by name. That was really something. She's such a class act.

I attempt to take a photo as she's taking off the crown, but the flash won't recharge. Then when she takes it off, she holds the crown out for all to see. However, I'm messing around so much with the camera, I just see her move the crown out and I figure, "Holy Christmas! She's going to throw the tiara into the crowd! Just like a Brewers game." Luckily, Nikki's relations with about 20 really large cousins is in front of me, so I'm not frightened I'll get beamed with it. Either way, I flinched. The camera dude next to me snickers and continues snapping away.

I did squeeze off one more photo. I probably have juice for just one more. They are about to announce the new Miss St. Francis . . . and . . . my . . . battery . . . dies.

Okay. That just isn't right.

Anyway, the night was great. I did find the place and saw some great entertainment. Nikki mentioned me in her farewell speech and she saw I was there. Sure, they sneaked the newly crowned Miss St. Francis out the back door like the President amid Secret Service so I couldn't invite her on the show...but it was a great night as it was.

I figure, why try my luck?

Captain Catastrophe

P.S. I'm going to the Wheel & Sprocket bike show next week to get a new bike. Any suggestions? (And a helpful suggestion--not something like upping my insurance.)

Webshots - Images of 2005-03 Orlando Trip

2005-03-17T21:12:00.000-06:00

Webshots - Images of 2005-03 Orlando Trip
You can now view pictures of my latest trip to Orlando.

Or not. Free country. (Make sure to read the captions!)

Florida vs. Captain Catastrophe

2005-03-14T08:30:00.000-06:00

I got back from a short trip to Florida on Friday and the Captain didn't get too badly messed up. Sure, sure, I had some blisters on the soles of my feet. I twisted my knee slightly somewhere along the line and I've been limping the last five days--but really not much.

Except what a disaster the weather was.

Not that traveling is fun. I don't know what the big fuss over Midwest Express is. You get cookies--so you disregard that they are habitually late and have some sort of apparatus that destroys luggage? Seems odd to me.

The trip back was more nonchalant. In Milwaukee, they at least announced they were delayed an hour. In Orlando, they figured a half hour delay wasn't even worth discussing. I wasn't sure what was going on, so (as my brother hates) I went to the desk to ask a stupid question: "So this is going to Milwaukee, ain't it?"

The lady at the desk was courteous enough, but I imagined her retort more like this: "Well, everyone sitting here is overweight, so of course we're going to Milwaukee. What did you think, we were going to Oklahoma?"

At which point, I would have responded, "No, since most of the people here were able to spell their names without the use of some crib sheet or referring to their ID."

Though, being in the South for the week reminded me of one thing: how much I like the Midwest. Sure, our weather is absolutely terrible. That's not even in debate...But at least we function at a tolerable SPEED.

They meander and slowly muddle through all. The real treat was watching all the British tourists interact with the Southern hospitality staffs. It is odd, I always think, how the British have outnumbered Americans in Orlando. You can tell the foreigners right off the bat--they don't have the massive strollers. The Scandinavian countries (and I'll lump Germany in this lot) are fairly easy to pick out as well. They have sandals on. Could be snowing, and they have sandals and socks on.

The British tourist is alternately rude and polite--an odd mixture. I've noticed a number of them much more on top of their kids and less likely to combat for "their rights" in the parks. And by rights, I mean the big stuff. The right to a bathroom wherever the hell I want it when I want it and nearby. The right to having more food than I can possibly consume dumped on my plate. The right to smoking areas every five feet. Well, that they did do. They seemed to smoke like they've been set on fire. But that war has been over for some time, so I figure that isn't likely the cause. At least they don't smoke in line--that's reserved for our rude American compatriots. Go, USA!

You will note that the "Japanese Tourist" has gotten nary a mention. That's because there are very few left. Since the opening of Disneyland, Tokyo, there have been less and less Asian visitors to Florida. Disney discovered that some of the tourists money actually went to airlines instead of directly to Disney bank accounts to pay for quality ABC programming like "Alias" and "Desperate Housewives." So they built an entire park there simply to make the financial extraction of these valued guests more efficient.

Oddly, the opening of EuroDisney hasn't done the same. Oh, wait. They put it in France. That explains it. I'd rather pay extra than go to France, too.

On Wednesday, we went to Busch Gardens and we had a high of 52 degrees. Fahrenheit. It rained from the moment we pulled into the parking lot--almost on cue.

Irritating.

Busch Gardens, for its season pass holders, has developed a new identification process. Most season pass parks take digital pictures of the pass holders and print them on the cards. Not Busch. No, you stick your hand into a scary-looking contraption that measures your hand attributes and records it as your ID. It was weird.

Anyway, it's pouring rain. I decide this is not a good reason not to hit all the roller coasters anyway. So I do.

I even go on Montu twice--once with my brother and once without that miserable little coward. (In his defense, he was feeling poorly. Sick because his heat wasn't working in the hotel. A whole other Captain Catastrophe in the making. I'm so proud of 'im.) The first time we went up front, which was optimal, since this was an inverted steel coaster. For those of you that aren't aware of the nomenclature of roller coasters, an inverted steel coaster is like Great America's "Batman" where the track is above the trains and riders legs dangle out of the cars. Montu is the best inverted steel coaster in the country, to my opinion, and I have had considerable experience in such matters. Due to the construction of the inverted steel coaster, the front seats are very desirable because:

Your view is not obscured by the trains suspended in front of you
It follows the basic law of roller coaster seat position desirability

That law reads as such: "On a wooden roller coaster, the wildest ride is in the back of the train. On a steel coaster, the inverse is correct and the front seat provides the wildest ride. Seat selection should always consider these laws in tandem with pressing time constraints when selecting a seat."

Thus endeth the lesson.

Flying in the face of my own law, I decided to move toward the back of train for my second ride through. The thing about laws like this is to make sure they are accurate they must be continually challenged.

We were pretty beat up in that first ride through. We could see our breath it was so cold and each drop of rain felt like sleet as it drilled into us at our 4G initial inversion pressure--so I figured hiding behind another seat would keep me drier.

Yeah. Wrong about that.

See the wheels are above you and they have little wheel covers around them. What happens when you are in back is all that water flies into your face instead. At high speed. With the bonus of whatever grease they use to keep the wheels turning smoothly. And apparently they calibrate this to hit the guy in the seat I picked most of all.

Probably ran a spreadsheet.

I was frozen coming off that coaster the second time, so we decided to warm up in the "curiosity Caverns." Busch Gardens is half amusement park and half zoo (sound like Animal Kingdom?) Anyway, we go into the cavern, (which was heated, thank goodness) and look at the snakes and whatall. Then we come upon these two birds.

They look like woodpeckers. Long snouts, but stockier. And one, let's call him Killer, has a mouse dangling in his beak. It took some time, but Killer slowly got used to my brother and I staring at him in morbid fascination with his impending meal. So Killer starts beating the mouse, with rapid flicks of the head, against the branch beneath him. And we're talking hard as we heard these moist sounding thuds. At first, my brother and I were convinced this bird had some form of mental retardation, since it was obvious this mouse was already dead. But then we figured it out. He kept beating this thing up to break up all it's bones for a nice easy swallow.

After about ten minutes, Killer finally gulped down the mouse. Busch Gardens only wishes it would be so easy with Mickey. No such luck.

The rest of the trip was fairly standard stuff. Eating at themed restaurants. Going to Sea World and watching Shamu. Hitting Universal and Islands of Adventure. People watching up the ying-yang.

But the true disaster was one of timing. We went during what Universal calls their "Mardi Gras" celebration where they have bands perform on the weekends. In April, had we planned on this, we could have seen the second greatest band of all time--that's right: "Huey Lewis and the News." What was in town for us? "Leonard Skynerd"

Now that's a catastrophe.

Sincerely,
Captain Catastrophe

Back to Vegetables

2005-02-15T17:36:00.000-06:00

My back is killing me!

I can't imagine how. It's not like I go out of my way to strain myself. The opposite is far closer to the truth. If ever there was someone who went out of his way, to the opposite side of the room as it were metaphorically, to avoid physical labor or exertion, well, that'd be me. So how did I hurt myself this time?

My back is simply killing me!

Ever look at that phrase? Always seemed weird to me. I mean, what motive would a back ever have for homicide? Seems self destructive to boot. Doesn't really fit in with the back, as a whole, as a body part, either. I mean this: backs seem to me to be rather generous. If it weren't for the back, all your ribs would be in one spot--not nicely spaced throughout the torso. And backs let you bend, twist, stretch--try to twist you knee...hurts, doesn't it. Not very generous, the knee. Not at all.

So my back hurts, right? I've been trying to figure out how it happened. I haven't lifted anything heavy, because (let's face it) I would have hired someone in that case to move it. The last heavy thing I moved was my computer desk alone right after my brother moved out of the house. He was gone the day before and I lurched that gigantic metal desk into his old room before the dust had even settled. I was afraid Mom would claim it as a sewing room or something. Funny, Stefan's old room is still the computer room and my room turned into the most girly guest room of all time. Apparently, lavender and little fairies are so accommodating to travelers--or some such nonsense. I think Mom always wanted a girl. I keep explaining he had Stefan instead, but you know.

So I figure I injured my back by sleeping on it wrong. I do sleep a lot. To me, sleep seems like an excellent use of time. Excellent. A lot of people take sleeping for granted, but I had insomnia for a while and you really do get an appreciation for sleep after that. The key is to come up with a ritual. Every night before I go to sleep, I rinse out with mouthwash, take whatever vitamins and pills the doc has me on that cost so dang much, say my little bedtime prayers, change into a costume of a vampire and hang upside down in my closet. Well, I must. Because my back is KILLING me and it can't be that mattress.

My brother just got a new mattress--I think this is the same one the Princess with the pea must have had, because you climb in it with a stepladder and when you sink into the middle of it, your nose just barely grazes the ceiling. Comfortable if you can handle the altitude.

So I slept wrong. Someone told me if I would take better care of myself, I wouldn't have these little pains. Well, I'm sorry, but taking care of myself (whatever that's supposed to mean) isn't going to take the place of aspirin anytime soon, you dolt! And I've never met someone that takes such good care of themselves. I take myself out to eat all the time, I let myself have extra portions of that giant chocolate chip cookie Mommy made for me, and I buy myself little toys and DVDs every time I do something nice. (Thank goodness that ain't often or I'd be broke.)

In fact, I just got myself this nice new amplification mixer board to celebrate the launch of my new charity--the "Save the Vegetables" campaign I'm starting out of the house. I figure that to be pretty thoughtful, you know? I figure I can save all sorts of vegetable life.

It's a popular issue--I wouldn't be surprised some Senate candidate takes it up somewhere along the way. I mean, look at how the Senior President Bush was villainized for saying "I hate broccoli." Well, I love broccoli. So much, I never want to see it get hurt. Why would I take something I love and mash it up between my molars and canine teeth? Some people love their pet cats. Do you suppose they eat them? NO! Well, mostly no! That'd be wrong. Juggle them once in a while, but very seldom would they eat them.

Broccoli, in particular, seems like a very down-to-earth type of veggie. They kind of sit there, organizing the church bake sales, learning all the latest dance moves, and going to work nine to five when suddenly some evil farmer comes by and digs their vegetable bottom right out of the dirt. That stinks! Poor little fellers.

I hope those farmers get a bad back digging out those defenseless veggies. Would serve them right! At least, I think that's how I feel about it. I better think it over. Maybe I'll sleep on it.

Sheepshead Catastrophe

2005-02-10T19:35:00.000-06:00

It's been an odd week. But it is Lent now, so I have to take a moment and decide what to give up.

Then I thought about giving up vegetables.

For some time, the issue of the cruel carnage inflicted upon the helpless vegetable population has weighed heavily on my mind. I am taking this religious season to mark my silent protest to the silly slaughter of green organic foodstuffs. My diet will consist of only objects containing a face. Or deep fried stuff. That's good, too.

I've been doing a lot of reflecting this week, because just a few hours ago marked the 15th Anniversary of my radio broadcasting hobby. It has been a lot of hard work, but knowing it is appreciated makes it all worthwhile. Today, I received a proclamation from Scott Walker declaring today "Tim Kretschmann Day" in the county of Milwaukee. I didn't even put out my Kretschmann stockings yet.

So that was cool.

I decided to watch my little movie that I cobbled together to remember the 15 years and 50 pounds that have passed by me. They've been good years, and the best is yet to come.

Due, at least in part, to my courageous stand on the whole vegetable rights issue. To be sure.

I was talking to Dori at lunch and remembered there was a great untold Captain story and on the occasion of this blessed event ("Tim Kretschmann Day"), I thought I'd relay the story.

So this is about six years ago or so. I'm still involved in the Milwaukee Donauschwaben and the club I founded, the Stimmung Society, at the time. I'm out promoting this great event we were going to have--a sheepshead party--and I'm doing the usual. I'm sending out press releases. Shooting e-mails to everyone and their kid brother. Pushing the event every spare second on the radio show.

One of our "hooks" was that my father, Elmar, was going to actually TEACH sheepshead at this thing. Now, that's something a little bit new and that got the attention of the Channel 6 news.

Nicole Locy over there called up to have us on the morning show in a short segment on a Tuesday or something just before the event. My dad set up his vacation, we planned out our German costumes to wear and dusted off a nice deck of cards to show off on the show.

No problem.

Dad would teach the card game and I would push the event. I knew the date by heart. I could quote the menu using rote memory alone. We were wired and ready to go.

The day before I get a phone call. Apparently, tomorrow was no good. Busy news day. Could we reschedule to Wednesday? No problem.

Except Dad had already booked his vacation time. Couldn't just change it…uh - oh.

See there was one little problem. Dad plays sheepshead. He's really good. Played every day at work during lunch. He knew the game cold.

I've never played it. I barely remember the rules to Crazy 8s.

This was going to be an interesting interview.

So I get to the Channel 6 station the next day and say hello to Nicole Locy (who was dreamy). I sit at a table waiting to be called out and I'm staring, intently, at this cheat sheet my father had written up for me. What the heck was I going to do? I mean this pack of cards doesn't even have all the cards in it!

Five minutes til Nicole comes out and wires me up for sound. Since this included putting a transmitter down my pants by Nicole, I wasn't exactly concentrating at the problem at hand for a moment. You know the whole "I never played Sheepshead and I'm about to be interviewed as an expert on the subject" thing. I thought I probably shouldn't tell Nicole, though. I didn't want to make her nervous.

Yeah. Right.

They stand me by this little stand up table--like they have downtown so you can eat standing upright--and I deal out the cards in order, face up, on the table. This, of course, is not something you would ever do when playing sheepshead, but I told her it was nice and colorful and tried to pretend this was leading up to my lecture on sheepshead playing.

Oh, this was going to go well. Had to. Look at what it had going for it. I had visual aids. And a mental condition, apparently.

Lights.

Those lights were so bright. Why is it so hot in here?

Camera.

The remote controlled camera rolled over. The iris closed in and I was looking down its barrel. I gulped for air.

Action.

"Hi, Nicole."

It went downhill from there.

She introduced me and I let her introduce me as an authority on sheepshead. I smiled, though. I said something about the Germanic roots of Schapfskopf and started into my ad about the event.

She stopped me. Meany.

"So how do you play the game?"

"Well, it's hard to show you in a few minutes here. It takes a lifetime to learn, you know."

"Can you start us out?"

"Sure." Afterall, I was an authority on playing Sheepshead. "Uh, five players gather around a table."

"What's the first thing they do?"

"Well, from what I've seen, first they order the beer."

"Ha-ha. What's next?"

This was not going to end well. "You have to prepare the deck. See all the cards aren't in here."

She looked ready to ask another question, so I went into it blindly, "But you won't want to miss out this Sunday at our Card Party at the . . ."

"Then what do you do?"

"Deal out the cards. We have bratwurst available and tickets are only . . ."

"So is there a high card?"

Who knows how the heck I answered that one. I sure wasn't listening anymore. I did mention if you are really interested in learning, you could come to the Sheepshead lessons Sunday . . .

Well, the segment ended and I think I actually had Nicole fooled. Of course, she might have just been polite. Which is actually more plausible.

I get home and the answering machine has three messages. One wanted more info on the sheepshead lessons. One wanted directions to the hall. One said I didn't know anything about Sheepshead and that I screwed up a couple things I had said (which wasn't bloody much outside the time and date of the party). I called him back, apologized for having "an attack of nerves" and sat down to watch the tape.

I'm still shocked criminal charges were never filed. Sheepshead is a religion in these parts and I committed some serious heresy. Nicole looked good, though.

Probably never ate her vegetables.

Yours,
Captain Catastrophe

P.S. Make sure to celebrate Tim Kretschmann Day today and keep it in your heart all year long!

The Anti-Captain Catastrophe Story

2005-01-31T16:24:00.000-06:00

I just got back from the Wisconsin Dells, and I fully expected to have a disaster to tell you about. Often I wonder when I write these missives if I'm actually making my life more prone to physical injury and personal disaster just by writing them. And am I making bad things happen just by tempting fate with these little tales?

Nah. Not if this weekend is any indication. This time fate bizarrely stepped in to make every part of the story better. Strange, but true.

Well, close to true. I have to make these interesting.

It started well. Went out Sunday in the morning to no traffic. All the way to the Dells it was smooth sailing. Got there an hour before check in, bought some new aqua socks, checked out the Big Wolf, or whatever it is called and decided it will be the next one, and checked to see if the German restaurant downtown was open (it wasn't).

Got to the Kalahari at check in of 11:00 a.m. and registered. My reservation was not lost (very un-Captain-y) and I was invited to enjoy the waterpark until my room was ready. "Use any house phone," the front desk lady said, "and ask about your room."

OK, said I. I grabbed my swimming garb and pranced toward the indoor waterpark. I purchased a locker for the day and noticed in the locker room...no private changing stalls.

I've told you how I hate changing in public or even semi-public spaces, right?

So I sneak off, like a fricking seven year old, to the toilets...nab the handicapped stall. Lots of room. I begin to change and I'm thinking, here we go. The Captain will rise up out of this toilet and pull me in somehow.

Closed the lid. Disaster averted.

I'm kind of ticked off about changing--I paid $160 for a darn room afterall--but I soldier on. I get on a number of slides, but some are for "two or more" again, so I'm getting a little frumpy. After about two hours, I'm tiring and decide to seek out a house phone.

I can't find the thing anywhere. I can actually feel the Captain breathing on my neck...but alas I find one. My room is ready. A deep sigh of relief. The Captain vaporizes...

I get to the locker and change back...well as much as I can. I go to the front desk and the lady there says, "Congratulations! We've given you a free upgrade."

"Oh." I answer waiting for the catch. The free upgrade costing $20. Or the lecture on time-shares I have to endure. Or...

"No catch." Front Desk people apparently can read my mind.

"I'm all alone. Couldn't they give it to a family? I don't really need it."

"We've upgraded almost everyone today. Just enjoy it."

Never tried that before. Guess I'll give it a try. I march down the hallway to the secret door I need to swipe my key on. The pad says "For Royal Suites Only." I, of course, figure this must mean "Royally Screwed Up" or something. I looked behind me and saw the ghostly shape of the Captain appear in my shadow.

I get to the room, gulp, and swipe the key. My shadow disappeared.

This suite has 1 king bed, 2 queens, 2 bathrooms (separated by a door), a natural gas fireplace, 2 televisions and a couch (with sofa sleeper.) And it was immaculate.

As I move the car nearer the hotel entrance I am now near, I pop open the cell phone. "Ma, Dad; you have to see this."

Dad responds, "Okay. I'll pack the bags."

I leave the room and realize I locked the key card in the room.

I see out of the corner of my eye the Captain doing some kind of Irish Riverdance thing.

Just as I realize this, a maintenance guy walks by. "Hey, I just locked my key in my room. Can you help me?"

He answers, "Well, why did you do that?"

"Because I'm, like, really stupid."

They notice my clothes and deftly agree. "How do we know this is your room?"

"Who else would have clothes like these in their suitcase?"

The Captain, discouraged, sighs.

As I wait for them to drive up, I walk over to the Damon's next door and grab a bite to eat. I peruse the menu and find myself wieghing the $12 pork chops or the $19 filet mignon. After some going back and forth with my remarkable cheapness, I decide to go for it and order the 9 oz. filet mignon.

Ever eat alone? Every minute stretches to 13 times it's normal size. So I was growing impatient when the waitress comes with my lunch. There was a pile of onion straws, some strange green substance (she referred to as a "vegetable"--whatever that is), and what appeared to be a scrawny pancreas in the center.

I squinted at it. Peering, I got the waitress's attention, "Uh, miss?"

"Yes?"

"Does that look like 9 oz. to you?"

She very deftly said, "Hmmm. I think I'll have the chef take a look at this." She scoops up the meal. Another five minutes pass, or using my formula, 65 lonely minutes--and the waitress returns with the meal--as is. "It weighed in at 5 ounces," she announced.

I blinked. The Captain had joined me for a round of Coca-Cola.

"The manager," she continued, "will be right with you. We have a new steak on the grill, but please feel free to eat this..."

So I felt free.

Two minutes later (26 in the new math), the manager drops by my booth and plops herself down next to me. Had she been attractive, I probably wouldn't have minded but as the situation was, she was taking her personal safety into disregard. I did have pointed utensils in my hand and I just discovered I was paying $4/ounce for steak.

"I'm ashamed to say that came out of my kitchen," was her start. All I could think was, "I don't blame you," but I just kept kind of eating. I was hungry already.

"It was actually only 5 ounces, but we have a new one on the grill and we'll have that out here for you--okay?"

"Fine. I'm not going anywhere." Thinking back, that was probably more of a threat than it was intended to be.

Later, forty some lonely minutes later, she sat back down. Apparently she doesn't get enough breaks and has to keep sidling up to me. Again, if only she were cuter. "Ah, bit of bad news..."

I'm thinking, "For who?" Again, I shut up.

"We don't have any more Filet Mignon back there. Is there anything else on the menu...?"

I'm thinking this 5 oz. actually kind of filled me up so I'll be escaping without a doggie bag. This is kind of cool. "Actually, I'm okay."

"I'll tell you what," she states like a used car dealer, "your lunch is on me. Why don't you choose a dessert, too?"

I was really ambivalent about the whole thing. I was so upset I nearly couldn't finish my Apple Cobbler, but I soldiered on. I got the check for $2.11. I gave the waitress $10, and instructed her to keep the change or whatever and left. I figured that 5 oz. was roughly half of 9 oz. so this seemed about right. At least, I'd be able to sleep knowing I spent that much on it. Seemed fair.

My parents come and we go to the waterpark. I had pleaded with the front desk and they coughed up two more waterpark passes and an extra key. Had a blast and we went back the next morning.

First thing in the morning, I went on this surf "Waveblaster" deal. It shoots water up a special hill to simulate the perfect wave.

The Captain was watching from the distance.

I hop on this boogie board or whatever and I drape my arms over the top of it. I'm laying down on it, obviously. I slide down the hill and off the end. They push me back in, like a beached whale, and I slip around some more. They then tell me I have to have the board out in front of me more. So now my trunks are right in the water flow. With the super powerful jets.

The Captain inches forward.

I notice, pull my trunks back up and safely dismount.

Captain throws down his coconut drink and stomps off.

Then I tried the "Pro Bowl." You go down this slide and they leave you spinning around the big bowl. When you run out of lateral kinetic energy, you drop through a hole in the center of the bowl six feet into a nine foot pool.

The Captain even helped me up the steps this time.

I spin around this bowl and helplessly notice I'm going out the hole, but not feet first. Not even some sideways configuration.

Head first. SPLASH!

The Captain is handing the life guard some soda. He's distracting him.

Somehow, I swim up--without much drama--and get out of the pool.

The Captain is clearly not understanding this.

We check out--again without incident--and we go to Ho-Chunk. My parents are teasing me because no "Captain-like" incident has occurred. I stated a desire to try my luck.

So I did. I plunked $1.00 (cash) into the video poker machine. About a dozen hands later, after landing a straight and a full house within three hands of each other, cashed out with $1.15.

Oh, yeah. I teased the cashier and told her she might need to call a manager over to approve the payout. Without missing a beat, she said, "Would you like me to call security and have them escort you to your car?"

I thought, that happens all right but not with these circumstances.

A great weekend. I just wonder what the Captain has in store for me next time. I'm a little scared. See--I'm judging the Miss New Berlin/Miss West Allis thing next week . . .

Black, Blue and a Catastrophe

2005-01-19T20:29:00.000-06:00

I couldn't even make it 24 hours and here I am encapsulating yet another horrific episode. I sit here in my computer room typing away while looking at my right ankle which is slowly turning the most lovely shade of dark purple. I'm having a hard time writing about this accident because I keep getting distracted.

You see, I'm looking out the front window and the beautiful dusting of snow we received last night.

As some of the people on this mailing list are from Florida, I shall briefly explain. Snow is a white powdery substance that is the result of a chemical process familiarly called sublimination which takes a gaseous substance and makes it solid without first going through the liquid state of matter. Should water vapor not subliminate and become liquid and then freeze, you would get hail instead. Hail you understand because every two weeks you have another hurricane that brings some along, busting up all the nice 2x8's you used to board up your house.

Too soon?

Anyway, this white powdery substance is apparently the most dangerous chemical in the entire world. You know how I know that? Because I see my mailbox from here...and the flag is still up.

Yeah. The post office decided it was a little too snowy, so no postal service for me today. I recognize that the walk was not yet shoveled (by the way, thanks Dad! You retired guys are great!) at the time the postal worker came to the house, but I seem to remember some motto. You know about sleet and snow and still getting to your appointed rounds. Did friggin' OSHA outlaw good customer service?

I know it's not a good idea to criticize the postal service. What with those fellas packing heat and equally poor attitudes and all, but this has to be said: "When did this country start getting run by so many babies?" Whenever it snows around here, we make it out like a real disaster is on its way. That's a travesty when a real disaster, like this year's Florida hurricanes, the tragic Asian tsunami, and the Milwaukee Brewer starting lineup all happened this year.

This morning at work about seven people called in they were going to be late. Why? Oh, the snow. No, here's the real reason, sport. Because you are a moron that doesn't know when to leave your house and make it to work on time. Get your butt out of bed and hit the accelerator. The plows were out early today so unless you yourself got plowed last night, there should be no reason to be late.

Best of all, according to Weather.com, we had only a little over two inches of snow. Two inches? C'mon, people. I think the mail should be able to be delivered under those conditions. In the 1800's, they mounted ponies to deliver mail through savage, untamed frontiers--and now a dusting of snow keeps the mail in the post office? What--is the stuff acidic?

For those of you in Florida, no. No, it isn't.

This all has nothing to do with the ankle. It's getting darker by the way. Should it be pulsating?

I didn't even notice the ankle-shiner until I had removed my socks to take my shower. Usually when I get undressed, I would rather leave the room...no reason to witness that circus act...but anyway there it was.

It happened this morning. I went out to the garage, and the door wouldn't open. I have an automatic garage door opener thingy. I pressed the button and it did exactly nothing. When it made a clicking noise. And then it looked at me. In disapproval. Obviously, in cahoots with the squirrels. (Reference for the long time readers.)

So I pulled on that rip cord that dangles from it and manually opened the door. Hopped in the car, pulled it into the alley and then looked for the handle you generally see on garage doors to close it. But I have a cheap garage door which has obviously always had the opener on it, so no handle exists. So I palmed the face of the door and started it down.

First my right ring finger (which in my case could be named the never-to-have-a-ring finger) got caught in one of the hinges. That smarted. I jerked up, the door moved a little upwards and then accelerated down.

Onto my foot. Well, ankle really.

Why do they say something really smarts, when it is generally the result of something really dumb?

Anyway, that's how I got black and blue. But mostly blue. Depressed. Because my mail won't be delivered.

Pony Express. We were better off with the Pony Express.

All this technology just gets in the way. You know, like Garage Door Openers.

And blogs.

Fashion Catastrophe

2005-01-18T18:55:00.000-06:00

It should come as no surprise that I live a pretty isolated life. I compartmentalize every aspect. The job doesn't touch the personal life. The radio show is its own entity. Through it all, there is one constant.

TiVo.

My little friend. Every night, he greets me with his red and his green eye ready to serve up a little slice of television. I sit down in my easy chair and I watch. And watch. It's nice to not use your brain once in a while.

Well, it's always nice to not use your brain.

So I'm a tad isolated. Now sometimes I mix it up. Sometimes I, oh, say update a website. Or I write more e-mails. And then, more. It all adds up to sitting in my little fortress and trying not to venture out if at all possible.

Not that people don't try to coax me out of my comfort zone. The last attempt involved some llamas and we all remember how that turned out (http://timkretschmann.blogspot.com/2004_12_01_timkretschmann_archive.html and then Go to Llamas Scare Me in late December). I'm just not the adventurous sort. Roller coasters are one thing, but people scare me.

So, anyway, I made yet another resolution--actually same as last year. I nearly hit the mark last year, but I need to stay on this one. See, I made a deal with myself to get out of the house to the following tune. Each month I must go see one movie...in public. Each month I must go to the mall for no less than two whole hours with each visit constituting at least one hour.

Sounds easy, right?

Not for me.

I generally don't get to either of them until we're deep in the twenties of the month. I just hate it. Can't stand going to the mall, when I know I can get a better price online. And the movies? My home setup is better than 78% of the theaters out there so why pay so much to see a movie once--and not even own the DVD?

It's rough.

Well, I tried the other day. And it did not go well. But you knew that because these little missives are very rarely about a good time that was had.

I go to Southridge. (Cue someone to say: "So you're the one.") There's a good reason. Though I've lived on the south side my whole life, when I go to Southridge, no one knows me. Whenever I go to Mayfair, some old German club member sees me or someone I worked in Hell with or something. It's scary but I would say the rate is over 78% there, which is very close to the over/under on my movie theater quality.

So I go to Southridge. Like everyone, I have a favorite spot to park. My mom was always a JCPenney parker. She went down in that lower parking lot by JCPenney and we always went in by JCPenney. I can't tell you the last time I bought something at JCPenney, so I park where dear old Dad always parks--by the Sears.

See, Sears has things I actually buy. Like electronics. Like tools--for installing electronics.

And a weird thing has happened in the months leading to Sears being acquired by K-Mart.

I've bought clothes.

Used to be I got clothes twice a year. Birthday. Christmas. It was a good system. Mom bought the clothes, thus I knew they would be tasteful and usually kind of stylish. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Well, it took being out of the house for the better part of a decade and an unfortunate shrinking problem with my wardrobe that I had to go buy some clothes.

The stuff at Sears was generally stuff I liked. First of all, and this is important, it was pretty cheap. Lord knows if I liked a shirt that had a $30 price tag on it; that was a non-starter. That's two previewed DVD's at Blockbuster, not a friggin' shirt. Get real.

I bought a shirt for $40 once. Once. And now I can't find the damn thing.

Yeah, that's not happening again.

Ever.

So I found some nice dress slacks, but because my body doesn't retain a single shape for more than a week, I thought I better try it on. I resented having to do this, but the slacks were like $15 so I had to try.

I hate changing rooms. The thought of undressing in a public place isn't exactly a dream of mine...to be sure. The thought of changing my clothes behind a two-inch slab of particle board in my bare feet with pins jutting out of the rug at every angle while an overweight black woman called out to her two sons to "Come out here so I can see it" wasn't my idea of a party. Just isn't. Wasn't. Never will be.

But that's exactly the situation I was in. I had dropped trow when this 500 pound woman comes back by the little cubes (they look unnervingly like toilet stalls to me) and started pushing back the little curtain on some of the entrances to see if her little darlings were back there.

And she was working her way back.

Now, I could have sounded like a complete geek and shouted out, "Hey! Don't come back here. I'm not your son and I'm changing." That actually seemed a little too cowardly, even for me. So I tried to ignore it.

I took the pants off the hanger next to me, knowing full well if they didn't fit, there was no way I'd get it back on the hanger that neatly again, and commenced to pull the pants up. They were a tad tight, so I kind of hopped as I pulled up. I did that once. Twice. Successful on both hops. It might actually get up around my waist with a little perserverence.

And apparently balance.

On the third hop (could have been the fourth, but third sounds better, eh?), I hopped up, came down on one of them little pins in the carpeting, and lost my balance toppling me through the curtain. With pants halfway up my legs, I laid on my side, and looked up at the largest expanse of black woman I've ever seen at what must not have been the most attractive angle available.

I'm getting a flashback and it's making me shudder.

I just looked up sheepishly as she looked down at me in astonishment. I simply smiled and asked, "So, find your kids yet?"

Sincerely,

Captain Catastrophe

A good day for Captain Catastrophe

2005-01-14T11:26:00.000-06:00

Usually I log on to tell you all about a recent misadventure. A tragedy. Something that's really embarrassing. You know. Like my alphorn playing.

But today, I have good news.

I got into work and was dreaming up new ways to spin in my chair when the boss called me in. I didn't really realize at first what this was so I immediately panicked out of a pained sense of tradition. The boss, let's give her a codename, Lynn says, "Well, I have some good news for you."

So I figure I'm fired.

But wait. She said "good news for you," not "good news for me."

Then she commenced to tell me that I have received a promotion I'd been working on for sometime to get. And by working, I mean brown-nosing and using false compliments. You know. The usual.

But seriously, this was great news. So I smiled. I was very happy.

So the rest of the day, I was thinking, "How, oh, how will I celebrate this momentous occasion?"

Well, I needed some money so I quickly sold some company stock. Once word got out that I was promoted, that stock was sure to take a dive (it was down a dime by lunchtime) so now I was plush with an addition $64.28. Now, we're talking.

I already had a trip planned for the end of the month at the fabulous Kalahari resort in the Wisconsin Dells. So I figure this money could go for that.

But I had forgotten that tonight was Tuesday night. Which meant true entertainment.

I was sitting down in front of my best friend, TiVo, when the phone rang. It was Simon. The usual pause, "Mr. Krutchmen?"

I don't know if his name is Simon or not. But he had a weird accent that reminded me of Simon Cowell on "American Idol," so that's what I always called the dude. "Simon?"

"What?" said Simon. Then he returned to the script, "Mr. Krutchmen, it has come to our attention that you have an unpaid bill from our company..."

"Oh, and who, Simon, are you calling from?"

"Liposcience," said the bewildered man on the other side of the phone. "Who is Simon?"

My doctor is driving me crazy. About two years ago, now, I went to Dr. Pryba with this plantar fascitis thing in my foot. He kind of treated me for that for a week or two, but the past year or so, all he does is worry about my diet. He has my blood drawn every two months or so, puts it through more tests than CSI runs on a corpse, and I get a bill. Apparently, I'm not getting enough "good cholesterol." Well, obviously. One look at me and you figure malnourished, right?

"But, Simon, I think you are misinformed..." I slowly take control of the conversation.

"In what way, Mr. Krutchmen?"

"You said I have an unpaid bill. I have no unpaid bill.--I have a remote in my hand. Which is an improvement..."

Simon, the jerk, cuts me off. "You need to pay for these services."

"What services?"

"For the tests your doctor ordered."

"I don't pay for pizza my doctor orders, why would I pay for his tests."

"But the tests are for you."

"Which," I counter, "is why I have insurance."

"But your insurance company refuses to pay. You need to call your insurance company and tell them to pay us."

"Doesn't sound that way to me," I admitted.

"But they owe us money," Simon pleaded.

So I respond, "So get it from them. Should they be paying the bill?"

"Yes."

"So call them up."

"No. You must call."

"I don't think you understand. I don't need to call anybody. If the bill should be paid by the insurance company, they should pay you. I don't need to tell them that."

"But you owe the money."

"How do you figure?" I'm really enjoying this at this point. "I didn't order it and you say the insurance company owes you the money. It sounds like I ought to stay out of this."

"But it was for you."

"Did I request the services? I thought you said my doctor ordered it. You should really get your story straight. Do you need a minute?"

"You need to call your insurance company," Simon, winded, responded wearily.

"Why?"

"Because they owe us money."

"Why would I call them? I'm not owed any money. You guys are awful funny. You call yourself collections and you collect by calling people that don't owe you money and ask them to call the people that do."

"But the tests are for you," Simon said, triumphantly, "so you owe the money."

"Could you make up your mind, please? First they owe you money; now I do. Kind of sounds like a double billing. I tell you what. Why don't you check your records and get back to me..." and I unceremoniously hung up the phone.

I've had similar calls for two or three months. I would have paid long ago, but I just love these calls so much and I care about the bill and my credit rating so little that I've just kept this going.

But today, in celebration, I am writing them a check for $64.28. Isn't that nice?

Of course, the bill is for $275.50. This ought to drive them crazy. Maybe I'll get some calls on Thursday now.

The Captain

Catastrophe Resolutions

2005-01-04T19:42:00.000-06:00

The Captain is putting together his New Year's Resolutions:

Quit Smoking - Since I don't smoke I think this should be an easy one to keep. I'm putting this one in the list just to keep my percentage kept numbers up, nice and high.
Quit Drinking - Got to keep that percentage up. This one should prove harder since I have more than one friend that tells me I ought to take it up. And if my job keeps up the way it does, I may be driven there against my will.
Stop picking on people (particularly appearance) - Yeah. This is a lost cause. I was thinking over this very item eating lunch at the Grand Avenue Mall when I see this lady with a square head. Yeah--a cube. I mean like her face was a perfect plane with hardly even her nose jutting out from the surface. I'm sure the hairstyle helped it look this way and while the corners were somewhat rounded--I could help but wonder: "Were they always like that, or did they have sharper edges at one time and slowly, surely they wore off to rounded corners?" Yes, this one is a loss.
Stop cursing at work - Please note I put in the proviso of "at work" to give myself a 50/50 chance. I was going to put out a coin jar and put in a quarter every time I swore, but this would probably just end up a revenue stream for me so I couldn't. By my way of thinking, I'd reward myself with something every time that jar would fill. At least Linda has been supportive. She won't let me say "frick" but she has okayed "jack-rearend." Thanks, Linda.
Going to lose weight - Note: no goal amount. This means even one pound will make this a winner. I'm pretty proud of this one. Now, the real question is how you do this particular feat. First off, I'm going vary my diet. No, that doesn't mean I'm going to magically be able to choke down vegetables. Wouldn't even want to. But I'm going to mix it up a little. Like today. I went to Rocky Rococo's for a Super Slice of Sausage and Pepperoni and a medium Coke. See? No breadsticks. That's mixing it up. I could try exercise, I suppose, but we all know what happens when I get on that bicycle of mine and the new deductible for insurance means I won't be doing that soon.
Decide on new work pace - This is an important one. I don't want to burn out and I don't want to be bored. But the pace I'm keeping is kind of grating on me. I can't keep this up forever. --And then there's the work I have at my job, too.
Remain clothed most of the day - Another gimme. I'm the type that gets so embarrassed that when I change clothes I wish I could leave the room.
Sleep more - This is for every year. Recovering insomniacs have to remain ever vigilant. If I really do get super-tired, though, I know a great little trick. Ready for it? Jaegermeister. I was real beat one year after cooking pigs at German Fest, came home, had a shot of Jaggy, made it up the first flight of steps, and slept most of the night on the stair landing. It works great!
Relax on Mondays - I have this one actually moving forward. First, I'm bringing on staff by hiring a maid. Second, I'm working very hard at becoming more of a bum. Luckily at work, I have many role models to attempt to emulate. This should help a lot.
No more than five (5) projects at any one time - I go schizo sometimes with all the goofy projects I have going. I got home tonight, set up the pageant interview, typed out an interview with OnMilwaukee.com, blasted some phone calls out, watered the plants, went to the bathroom (those last two are separate activities), made a really nice dinner with pork chops and updated the website. I need to scale back. I'm thinking about not going to work. That seems to take the most time. Then, again, I think they're looking at me not coming in, either. Scary.

Okay. Now if I follow these, I'll be great.

If. If. If I follow these.

Please note I didn't have one reading "Stop being a klutz." Don't worry. We'll have material for this page for years to come.

Yours in tragedy,

Captain Catastrophe

I've heard of Kite-eating trees, but this is a catastrophe

2005-01-03T19:17:00.000-06:00

There are definitely more dangerous household appliances than an artificial Christmas tree. Sure, mine has more moving parts than most--it does spin--but still not exactly a dangerous item.

I mean, you never hear someone say, "Don't stick a fork in the Christmas tree. You'll be electrocuted." You generally don't have to put on gloves to deal with the artificial tree. You sure don't have to tie off to something before working on the tree--though that might be a good idea in future.

I thought this year I would save time for next year. I put on a ton of lights this year. A ton. Literally. I had to brace up the floor in the basement to take the load. I put something like 15 strings on that bad boy strung end to end. I like to call that a fire hazard for the holidays.

Anyway, I have one of those hinged trees, so I think, "Why don't I leave the lights on and save some time next year?"

What an excellent thought.

Or so I thought.

Nobody told me that you had to put the lights on a special way. Well, that's not true. No more than five people have told me that you have to put the lights on a special way so you can do this trick. Six, tops. See, you are supposed to wrap each branch separately, methodically so the branches will fold up just like always.

When I strung the lights, I had a different approach. I saw my work as strengthening the structural integrity of the holiday decoration. I didn't want this thing to fold up on itself, so I tied off the branches together. I was promoting unity. I won't apologize for it.

And the branches didn't apologize as I pushed. And I shoved. And I winced, trying, feebly, to get the tree to conform to my wishes.

After ten minutes of this, my rationalization gear went into action. "That tree never folded up all that good. I bet I can just haul that baby right down the stairs as is."

Do I really need to write up the rest of this?

Let's get right to the injury report:

1 scraped thumb
5 knick-knacks knocked off various cabinets
3 pictures jostled on the wall
2 scuff marks on wall that I don't remember
1 near miss extension cord on the stairs incident
1 achy back

I even amaze myself sometimes.

Hope you are having a good, healthy...and safe New Year.

Tim Kretschmann
Captain Catastrophe

Remember that I have a site logging these wonderful exploits at http://timkretschmann.blogspot.com
I'm playing with a subtitle that reads "A log of not-very-humorous exploits of a complete klutz."

Captain for the Holidays

2004-12-27T15:59:00.000-06:00

Holiday Captain holiday Captain

The Captain loves the holidays. No question.

I put up a little tree right in my cube at work. There's no room in the cube, of course, because I need all that room to put up my hammock and take snoozes (that's sarcasm…in case you were wondering), but I put it up just the same. I nearly flipped out…strike that…I actually flipped out when I found out that someone knocked over the Christmas tree the first weekend it was up.

Oh, horrors!

I quickly redecorated and commenced with the celebrating.

I'm not new to Christmas catastrophes, though. I have a great artificial tree that I have at home. Looks pretty real, except all the hinges, etc. to set it up. The best part is you can shape the tree and the branches to be exactly the way you like it. In my case, it looks like something out of Dr. Suess. It goes up, jogs to the left then wraps itself back up to the little angel on the top of the tree. She holds a little candle that is attached to the main lights, and just like in real life, the candle flashes on and off with whatever my chasing lights are programmed at.

I hated the tree stand this tree came with so I bought a rotating tree stand. I always loved rotating trees. I still have an old aluminum tree, in stylish silver tinsel, in the basement that rotated. However, you could never put on lights. Or you could--it would just stop spinning eventually. But not these new tree stands. Now, they have little outlets that spin along with the base…so you can go to town. I usually put about 1000 lights on my little 6-1/2 foot tree. (For fun during the holidays, I watch the electric meter spin at a much higher rate of speed than my tree would ever do.)

The first year I had the stand I didn't realize you have to be a little careful with the placement of the tree. I got all the furniture out of the way naturally, but I like to put my tree right in the window so everyone can see my beautiful ballerina of a tree a-spinnin' away in the window. So I put the tree where I always do.

That Christmas morning, I came down the steps to see what Santa had brought me, and the entire tree was listing at a 45 degree angle. At first I had no idea what had happened, but as I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes I figured it all out. The tree had gotten entangled with the curtains and it had wrapped up the tree in it. It would have fallen over, but it wound pretty tightly. In fact, the sheer curtain kind of looked like some sort of garland there making its way up the tree like a red stripe on a barber pole. I looked at it quizzically and scanned the floor for broken ornaments--and there were none! Only about half a dozen ornaments fell off total, so it was a good lesson learned with little consequence.

Now, this year I had a great Christmas. Stefan bought exactly the right DVD that I told him to. Mom found some nice stylish clothes to give me. Dad supervised. It was great. On Christmas Eve, we went to church and I ran the sound board and didn't foul anything up…which is like a personal best…and we had a great time with everything.

My car had a flat Christmas Eve morning, but I figure it looked over at where the bike used to be stored and decided to do an impersonation.

No, this Captain Catastrophe occurs on Sunday…Boxing Day, in fact.

Do you know what Boxing Day is? In Britain and Canada, this tradition started as un-decorating your house. Back in days of yore, trees weren't artificial spinning technological masterpieces and quite big fire hazards by the time Christmas rolled around. Boxing Day was the day to box everything back up and put all this stuff away.

"What a great idea," I thought to myself. "A day dedicated to avoiding disasters. I could get into this."

When I woke up on Boxing Day, I sat up and watched the entire room spin. That was kind of scary. I don't drink, so this was kind of unexpected. What happens is my sinuses sometimes back up so much, my inner ear plays funny little tricks on me. I can't believe some people actually bring this condition onto themselves by drinking too much. But this isn't about how Nancy does these little things to people this time of year, so back to the story.

Anyway, the place is spinning and I'm as dizzy as I've ever been…and I've been on more "Spin and Puke" carnival rides than anyone I've ever met. I wasn't sure I could drive in to church to run the sound board, but then I thought, "It's like 6:00 in the morning. I'm not calling anyone just because I'm a little dizzy. Most of the time I just sit there anyway."

And, thus, the rationalization begins.

So, somehow, I get to church without wrapping my car around a tree, which is neat since I've done more than enough wrapping the past few days. You know the key to wrapping presents? Low standards. People are only going to look for a second before tearing in, so why bother being perfect. Get out the duct tape (nice wide tape covers the half inch you undercut the paper by) and go to town. I digress. That happens sometimes.

I'm toddling around setting up mikes and I bend down to connect up the microphone. The pocket for the mikes are in the ground. I decide the only way to get the cable in and not fall over is simple...sit Indian style on the floor and snap it in. If I fall over, I can blame being an old guy trying to sit Indian style. My intelligence sometimes just borders on genius, ya'think?

Anyhoot, there I'm sitting when I get a realization. How on earth am I going to get out the monitor?

For those of you not in the "biz," a monitor is the rather large speaker they put up in front of singers/musicians so they can hear themselves. They are heavy and clumsy. They are heavy enough that you never grab two to balance you out and even when you aren't dizzy, they can knock you a little off balance.

I decided to follow Nike's sage advice and "Just do it!" I jerk up this monstrosity, and lumber out of the music room. That's when I see the ladies. They were setting up for communion and had trays of about 50 little disposable shot glasses with wine in them. All filled to the top.

I read my own stuff and I know this was a problem.

I waited a sec, balancing myself against the door jam, and thought the coast was clear. I turn the corner and there one of them is, full tray in their arms, as we both are looking at the door. I motion to let her go first. She, being some polite church lady, motions for me to go first.

Does she not know it is I, Captain Catastrophe?

I motion again, more vigorously and even verbally suggest she go first. She motions again. This is getting sickening.

Now, before you read the next bit, be advised I was tired, cranky and probably sicker than I had talked myself into believing. So I say, "Ma'am, I'm a little wobbly today. I think it's better if you go first." She nods and goes ahead, but I know what she thought: "That guy came drunk to church."

I get the monitor at long last to where it needs to go and I think, maybe I ought to explain to her I'm not half in the bag. I talked myself out of that, but I did go by the little kitchen there later, looked at all those shot glasses of wine and smiled at the two ladies back there. They smiled back and I just said, real smart alecky, "Set 'em up, ladies. It's a cold one out there."

I think that worked, but I'm fairly certain I'm going to hell.

Captain Catastrophe

The Captain now has a website

2004-12-26T21:25:00.000-06:00

Ever want one place to see all the Captain Catastrophe e-mails in one place--my new Captain Catastrophe blog! That's right, in all their glory, here they are: the Captain Catastrophe posts.

Enjoy and Merry Christmas!

Captain Catastrophe

Llamas scare me

2004-12-24T21:06:00.000-06:00

I have to admit it. Llamas apparently scare me. I just get over one
fear: sharks; and replace it with a new one: llamas.

Sure they are fluffy.

Sure they are cute--in a camel without a harelip kind of way.

But mostly, they are man-eating killing machines bent on the destruction
of a way of life.

So I went to visit Dori and Rich at their Llama Farm. I knew I was going
to be scared because this was like out away from sidewalks and cable
isn't run way out there.

I pull up and a giant black and white cat attempts to stare me down in
the driveway. I was still pretty brave at this point because I was in
the car. I figured the car could take this single cat if it came to
that.

Then, the cat (who I later learned had the scary moniker of "Tubby")
whistled for a couple of its buddies. I swear I heard them meowing "When
You're a Jet" under their little hisses of anger. I was, after all, an
interloper.

I get out of the car, immediately on the defense and make my way to the
farmhouse porch. I kind of felt like Tippi Hendron and Rod Taylor at the
end of "The Birds": silently and stealthily I made my way to the porch
while these cats snapped their fingers following me; hissing out "Be
cool, boy. Got a rocket, in my pocket--stay cool, boy."

Cats like musicals. I'm almost certain that is true.

I get into the house, and the house is swimming in cats as well. They
are all watching me. Calculating my next move. They must know about the
squirrels at my house. In fact, I think that's where they might have
been receiving their orders.

Later, Dori and Rich take me to see their expansive parcel of land and I
see the couriers of doom--the llamas. One was sharpening it's teeth with
an old nail file. Another was assembling a pipe bomb from standard
household materials. Yet another, and it makes me shudder just to
remember the sad, lunatic grin across this maniacal animal's face, was
reading some sort of religious manifesto. And highlighting significant
passages. Brrr. Scary.

Dori and Rich, ever enjoying watching me in pain and scared for my life,
decide to take me in the barn where they will feed the llamas. Knowing
these creatures to be the wild beasts and kings of the jungle that they
are, I kept a respectful distance despite the couple inviting me to come
forward. I believe they even called into question my courage--which is
funny when you think of it. I had a swim with a completely harmless
shark just a month earlier. I went on my bike not once, but twice, after
terrible accidents having to do with complete lacks of skill and a
distracting blond if memory serves. I was, after all, Captain
Catastrophe.

Once Dori and Rich figured out I was going to be stubborn about this,
Rich showed me the hay loft in the barn attic. No farmer's daughters up
there, so there goes that fantasy. When we returned downstairs, Dori had
let one of the beasts out of the pen. I immediately figured out that the
creature was hunting for some human flesh, so I quickly hid behind Rich
and rolled up into a fetal position.

My quick thinking obviously saved the day, as no one was injured.

That didn't keep Rich from bringing one of the llamas into the house
later. Never thought I would see a DVD player in the same room with a
llama--gotta admit--but there it was.

I escaped without further incident. Thanks Dori and Rich for an eventful
day and for protecting me from those frightening beasts you have out
there.

Chills. I still have the chills.

I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and pray that you have no
frightening encounters with livestock this holiday season.

Survivingly yours,

Captain Catastrophe

The Captain fights off a killer shark...and blisters

2004-11-27T15:11:00.000-06:00

Just returned from my trip from Florida. It was a great time. Highs
around 82 degrees. Lows about 70. And that's at 9 o'clock at night.

I mean what could be better? Except, of course, whenever one is
traveling danger lurks around every corner. The old Captain's mojo even
rubbed off on some of his traveling companions this go round.

We'll look now to the Tuesday of Terror that the Captain experienced at
Typhoon Lagoon. Typhoon Lagoon is one of two water parks operated by
Disney (the other, Blizzard Beach was being fixed up the week we were
there) and features exciting water slides, a lazy river . . . all the
usual fare. And, of course, DANGER!

My brother and I went to the park expecting the usual--you know, not to
die or stuff--and we got to this monstrous property and knew something
was amiss. Not really, but I felt foreshadowing would help here so try
to dig it, okay? Anyhoot, we get on the water slides and my brother is
wearing his sunglasses down one of the tube slides. He gets dumped in
the drink and I see him smiling, sunglasses gleaming in the sunlight, as
he is pulled under the water's glassy surface. When he emerges--no
sunglasses. The evil pool had claimed the sunglasses for its own
amusement.

He lost the sunglasses right at the bottom of the slide, so we couldn't
exactly camp out there to search for the things. He mentioned he lost
the sunglasses to the lifeguard and she said, "Check here later. Maybe
they'll turn up."

Yeah. Right.

My brother, obviously in a surly mood now, decides to torture me. So he
takes me to SHARK REEF.

That's right: SHARK REEF. Don't believe me? Look at this review:
http://www.10-7.com/disney/pages/TL/sharkreef/shark_reef.htm

Yeah. And me with a shark complex. This ought to be great.

You get to the little shanty and they give you a snorkel and a diving
mask. I swear the teenager that passed the stuff to me could smell my
fear. Then you walk to an area where they want you to shower so all the
icky chlorine will come off and you can put on the salt watery
goo-goo-goodness of the shark tank. (We saw one A.J. go through and
refuse to shower because "he's been in water all day and already wet."
Steve wanted to kill him. I wanted to simply poison him because it
seemed equivalent. Or at least you know fart at him or something. I
figure chlorine in your salt water might be a little like that. Of
course, I was a little worried I might make a mess in my pants during
this whole ordeal to begin with, so I forwent the obvious attack and
continued concentrating.)

Then, a kid tells you what to do. Since it is salt water, you should
float pretty good. She warned, "If you are not a strong swimmer, you may
want to get a life vest." Guess where I ran. Only person over 5,
apparently, ever to go get one. It barely got around my belly, but I
squeezed into and returned to the briefing. "As you cross, don't kick
your feet. This attracts the sharks."

What? Say that again!

"As you cross, don't kick your feet. This attracts the sharks."

So how the hell is that swimming?

Against my better judgment, I get in the pool. It's about the size of a
pool at a Hampton Inn going from 7 feet to 10 feet to 7 feet deep again.

They run a little current through there so you keep moving through and
the next bunch of shark bait can get in the water.

Well, when I get on the "ready ledge" or whatever that thing was, my
knees buckle and I almost go down right there. That was exciting. This
was a little hint I wanted to give to the sharks. "Hey! I'm the weak
one. Thin me out of the herd. If that stunt wasn't enough, check out my
life vest!"

So we start across and immediately a leopard shark, I'd say 25 feet
long, but probably closer to 4 feet takes an interest in me. So I think:

"As you cross, don't kick your feet. This attracts the sharks." So I
freeze. I do the dead man's float. Absolutely no movement. Meanwhile,
through my snorkel is some chaotic, feverish breathing. Every time a
shark, or heck one of the other little saltwater fish looked at me, I
slammed closed my eyelids and prayed that I disappeared.

My brother got out much earlier than me and heard some of the lifeguards
talking about the guy just laying out there not moving. They were a tad
worried. Little did my brother know at the time they were talking about
Captain Catastrophe himself.

Eventually, the current carried me to the other end and I escaped with
my life.

But not my health. See all day at Typhoon Lagoon I wore water slippers.
Couldn't wear my fanscy-schmanscy shoes with the orthotic lifts so my
feet were taking a pounding. This developed some lovely blisters on my
toes--and even between my toes. For the remainder of the vacation, I
limped from attraction to attraction--but I had escaped the ferocious
death planned for me by the sharks just below the surface at Typhoon
Lagoon.

Captain Catastrophe

Captain returns and now he's totally dental

2004-11-05T21:06:00.000-06:00

Well, it's been quiet.

Too quiet. For the Captain, that is.

That's because the Captain was hard at work on his movie. And it turned out like it did. Oh, well.

But the Captain returned, in true form, this past week. Oddly, after a trip to the dentist. The Captain was going for his biannual tooth checkup when the hygienist mentioned its been years since my last 360 X-Ray of my mouth. I was also informed it would cost about $400.

My question: What the heck do you need one for? My teeth are all in my mouth. They aren't growing out of my posterior yet. That's when she changed her mind and called it a 180 if you want to be technical. I said I did and then it should only cost $200. There was a threatening move toward one of those iron hooks they stick in your mouth for their own megalomaniacal purposes, but I think thoughts of malpractice insurance must of scared her off.

Or my charm. Could have been my charm. That's always a choice.

Soooo…they have me stand at this contraption that looks like the machine Bill Bixby climbs into during the opening credits of the "Incredible Hulk." I was already feeling a little pumped up when this X-Ray Technician type says, "Uh, hold onto the handle bars."

"Why? I'm very good at standing around on my own. Standing around, not hardly moving. That's what I'm good at. It's not like you're asking me to work hard. Then I'd be looking for help." You know, like my maids.

"You have to lean in."

"Why?"

"That's how the X-Rays are taken."

"So you're telling me my teeth are leaning. Will I need braces?"

She was probably thinking, "You will when I'm through with you," but instead she simply pushed my feet forward into position and started up this weird contraption that circumnavigated my noggin. It made a hell of a racket. You know. Like me. Most of the time.

Then it was back to the hygienist for my semiannual "talking to" about flossing. Do I look like I have time to play with twine? Leave me alone, lady. I still have Halloween candy to eat.

"Tim, are you still using the antiseptic Listerine I told you to use last time?"

"I can't tell a lie that's so easy to verify. No, I am not."

"Why not?"

"The bottle ran out."

"Well, get another one."

"But you didn't tell me to get another bottle."

"I am now." Obviously, she's dealt with me before.

Defeated, I went to Target to buy their knockoff version of Listerine. I picked the new Citrus flavor so I figure I picked up some Vitamin C points while I was at it.

Unfortunately, the knockoff brand plastic bottle isn't as … er … sturdy as the original. I go to reach for the bottle and unscrew the cap which is the "shotglass" for the stuff. I grab the bottle midway and instead of picking up the bottle, I have created a FOUNTAIN as all the liquid bubbles up and commences to cover the entire sink and toilet area.

Took forever to clean up.

And three straws.

Ewwww.

Yours in tragedy,

Captain Catastrophe