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!)
Captain Catastrophe
Florida vs. Captain Catastrophe
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:
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
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
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
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.
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
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!
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
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 . . .
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
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 2×8’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.
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 2×8’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
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://www.timkretschmann.pageantcast.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
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://www.timkretschmann.pageantcast.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
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
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
The Captain is putting together his New Year’s Resolutions:
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
- 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.
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
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.”
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.”