Month: July 2004

You might be wondering with me at America’s largest German celebration
how I could possibly go uninjured . . .

Because my pride took the fall this time. That and self-respect. It’s a
thing I do.

And Oma started it.


We get down to German Fest on Sunday with Oma. Oma is really running the
show, but to say Oma and running in the same sentence is truly not a
service to the word running. Oma slowly trods forward grasping Mom’s arm
with both hands, effectively cutting off Mom’s extremity bloodflow. We
get onto the grounds and it is an absolutely beautiful 72 degrees.
Generally for the past decade, German Fest has had rain. They’ve had
stiffling humidity. They have never had a nice room temperature running
throughout the grounds like this. It was truly a sight to see.

Somehow, and with great effort by my ever-so-patient mother, we get down
to the Briggs and Stratton stage so Oma can be in the shade. After some
time, however, her highness deems a draft appears to be coming off the
lake. I’m not sure she was aware it was an outdoor festival at this
moment as I suspect she was hoping Dad could go adjust the thermostat as
well.

So we went and sat in the Sun.

Mom and Dad escaped and I was sitting there with Oma. Now she’s looking
at the stage and she says, “Ach. Tim, see? Now, you can’t see the band.
The sun is in my eyes.”

I said, “Don’t worry, Oma. The band isn’t all that attractive. This is
better for you so you can hear them.”

She was going to respond, but she knew I’d just be more of a pain (as is
past practice) so she switched to stories of Russia–which is fine for
me, because I’ve learned to ignore those long ago. Except the one about
a goat that jumped so much that it died. I love that one. And the 400
pound pig that jumps over 8 feet high. That’s a goody, too.

Anyway, your hero spies this really pretty MC coming off of the stage
and I figure it’s time to introduce this nice little lady to Milwaukee’s
top German radio announcer.

The Captain swung into action.

When I got close enough, I did notice it was a fool’s errand. Darn ring
on the wrong frigging finger, but I executed the sloppy plan anyway. I
went up to say hi and as I sat back down by Oma, I had realized I just
agreed to go up on stage and play in the Alphorn contest.

Earlier in the weekend, a friend of a friend from work participated and
won third place. He was pretty good, too. Now, I’ve grown up around this
sort of thing, so I figured this should be no problem.

Looking back at it now, I see the failures in the logic. So easy to see
now.

The appointed time comes and I start for backstage. Most of the other
contestants have played brass instruments of some kind before (which the
Alphorn apparently is played like.) There was even one lady that plays
the French Horn for the Symphony there.

Where the heck were all the drunk guys to compete against? That’s what I
wanted. What was this hooey?

And then, a little girl, cute as a picture, comes walking up. Heck, she
could stand up there and fart and she would win.

Come to think of it, I might have had a better chance had I stood up
there and farted. I have better sound control that way. Hmmmmm.

Some folks before me were really good. I get up to bat and I play. (The
sound file of this defilement of the Alphorn as an instrument is
attached.)

I tried, really, but I just couldn’t do that buzzing thing with your
lips. I couldn’t get one sound out of it. So I basically yelled in the
end. It was truly pathetic. I had to go through with it so I really
tried to play a song. Mostly, I was eating up time so my mother could
take a picture of me on the horn. However, she was laughing so hard, I
kind of doubt how well any of those pictures of your hero, the Captain,
turn out.

Believe it or not–as humiliating as the Alphorn contest was (and the
stupid ring on that cute MC’s finger–blast it!), I’m still going to air
this little honey on the radio show in two weeks or so. Maybe I can get
a recount instituted.

Alright, enjoy this. It’s really painful to listen to – – –
CLICK THIS LINK!

Captain Catastrophe
Alphorn player and all around menace

Remember how the birds and squirrels conspired upon your poor hero in the past?

Their tyranny is not yet complete!! Today, a seagull attacked my automobile.

Today, I’m driving up toward Appleton, minding my own business. Well, maybe not minding my own business–minding We Energies business–but now we’re splitting hairs. And who wants to do that. You have to grab the heavy collagen shampoo and where does that leave you? In any event, I had just gone north of Brownsville, and I know it was Brownsville with all the “Tim Michels for Senate” signs all over the place.

Anyhow, I’m driving along and I see on the ground some seagulls. Big ones. And they were on the ground, not in a tree, all perched or something. Just milling around on the side of the road. Like a youth gang. All they needed was the matching leather jackets. Whole bunch of toughs, you know?

Anyway, they give me one of those looks. You know, that look. The look that makes you melt, right there in your seat. That look.

They slowly flock together and fly up. They mostly flew away from my speeding car–but then there was the one. Let’s call him a tough name. Like Bruno. Or Max. But I called him, “Stupidhead.”

Well, Stupidhead starts right at my car. I decided not to swerve, because I figured if he darts the wrong way at the same moment he may run into me even harder. Luckily, this was the right decision. The gull, Stupidhead, swerved at the last moment, just grazing the support beam that is between the windshield and side window. Just his feathers hit the car because I didn’t hear the dull thud sound I hear when I run over kittens playing at the junkyard. Totally different sound.

This is just the latest incident in an endless laundry list of evil deeds these feathered fiends perpetrate. I am currently working with some members of law enforcement to help investigate these heinous events. In fact, their latest report contains this passage:

“…I have to agree with your insight…that undoubtedly there’s some large, well funded maleficent organization behind what’s going on. It appears to be much, much more than mere coincidence. I’m happy to know you’re not assigning this series of recent events to happenchance as that would be foolhardy on your part. Those otherwise supurbly balanced, never-miss-a-branch squirrels just randomly falling out of trees? I think not. Adding that to the spreader episode…you’re on to something there…and it’s not good and it’s not pretty. I’ve heard of cases like this before. The potential for some serious “nasteestuff” is at hand and it worries me greatly. I believe you are in danger. Your safety is of utmost concern…”

I invite you all to help me coordinate this investigation by reporting similar incidents.

Signing off,
Captain Catastrophe

I just came back from a fantastic vacation.

I went with my brother and two of his friends to four different theme
parks.

First, we went to Indiana Beach, which is a theme park out in the middle
of the corn fields at this superfluous lake in the middle of nowhere. We
hit 15 rides including some really good wooden roller coasters. Not
nearly the biggest and best of the trip, but lots of fun. The new mine
car ride there was a big surprise.

Kings Island, near to Cincinnati, is home of the world’s largest wooden
roller coaster: The Beast. It was brutally hot. We mitigated that with
some well timed water rides and clicked up 19 more rides.

Geauga Lake, just outside Cleveland, was again an interesting theme
park. As usual when we visit that park, it was overcast and rainy from
time to time. Unlike Great America, they keep the rides running even in
a drizzle. We racked up 16 more rides, but the Captain only reared his
head once.

We got on the ride “The Dominator” just as the rain started to kick in
full bore. We left the station and the gentle but steady rain soaked us
to the bone.

Then, we went down the “big hill.” We were moving at freeway speeds down
the track as we were stung by drop after drop. The rain seemed to bore
into our skin as we slid smoothly through the ride. All we could do is
shout out “Owie!”

Then, your friend the Captain had not had enough. A ride now dubbed
Thunderhawk, that I used to know under the mucho-cool name “Serial
Thriller” was calling my name. We had just all went on the ride in the
front car. It is an inverted roller coaster (like Batman at Great
America) but I wanted just one more ride. I went up and saw the second
row was just walk up–which I did.

As we left the station, I looked up where the wheels meet the rail. A
little plastic holding cup was there and when we leaned back to go up
the lift hill, the entire contents of that pail dumped into my lap. I
was now drenched. But the ride wasn’t done with me. The wheels above
slipped across the rails spitting fluid directly in face. I was becoming
drenched. I finally returned to the station a completely drenched man.

Our last stop was Cedar Point. 15 more rides including 2 spins on the
chart topping “Millenium Force” with an initial 300 foot drop. It was
our longest wait of the day for about an hour each time.

By the way, do you know what is the most important thing is to do before
entering a line at a theme park? Apparently, it is charging up your cell
phone. During the aforementioned one hour line, I counted 23 distinct
telephone conversations going on. Now most of these people apparently
came to the park with someone, who they are currently ignoring, to talk
to someone who didn’t care to come to the park in the first place. How
rude is that?

Well, at least a bucket water didn’t pour on their lap.

The Captain

Some of you think that I, Captain Catastrophe, has but one talent.
Physical injury to my person.

But you would be sadly underestimating my incalculatable talent.

I can do property damage.

If you don’t believe me, you should see the painting job I did this
weekend on my front stairs. Oh, yeah. Property damage.

My mother was good enough to come out to the house to help me out. A
little pulling the weeds. A little varnishing. But mostly, she was there
to make sure I actually did something outside. I just don’t understand
why people want to putter around the house. Are they nuts or something?
If you want to do that, move to a different climate–this one just
doesn’t suit that need. That’s I love living here. At least half the
year nobody says, “You ought to get out of the house.” Heck, the local
TV stations tell you to not venture outside your home on the first snow
day of the year. Death at your doorway should you venture outside.

In fact, I’d kind of like to have my door welded shut. I would accept
food deliveries at one of the windows and just sit inside and play XBox
and surf the Internet. That would be paradise. Of course, I’d have to
sneak out of the window to go on trips and hit the roller coasters. And
there would be an ungodly funk with garbage piling up.

Well, let’s not weld the door shut yet. Still, I look forward to being a
shut-in.

So, my dad and I built some new steps to the front porch. Actually Dad
built it and I kept getting tools from the basement and holding stuff
while he banged around on it. And I got drinks. Oh, and I found a
Citronella candle because the mosquitoes love that bush up front. So you
can see, I was key to the construction.

Dad, playing with his new miter saw at home, had cut all the wood to the
right length and put primer coat on those pieces before installation.
Well, like any project, we were missing a few pieces when we got done.
Dad ran to the Home Depot, and put the last pieces in–but it was my job
to put the primer on them.

There’s the problem. I hate painting. My mental brother actually likes
painting. I’ll tell you why, too. He’s mental. There is something
seriously wrong with him. I’m shocked they aren’t medicating him into
oblivion. He’s gotta be nuts. Here’s the problem with painting: You get
dirty. I’m completely not kidding. I don’t care how careful you are. I
don’t care how skilled you are. You are going to get nasty somewhere
along the way. I can deal with clutter. I can deal with dust (mainly
because I hate vacuuming, too, but that’s another story). But this is
dirty, sticky, gritty–icky-poo!

So, I sit myself down next to the steps and I start to paint. Now, there
were some tight areas so you might believe I would use a trim brush. Uh,
no. The easier way, and thus my way, is to get a lot of paint on the
brush and blob higher up on the panel. Then, gravity takes over and you
have yourself a perfect mess. Good enough, says I, and move along.

Well, I was actually starting to enjoy this, much to my own dismay. The
paint smelled kind of good, it was a nice sunny day, and I had a
comfortable spot to sit and do this thing. I had no idea how much paint
was already all over my face and hair–but that’s part of why I was
still okay with it.

That’s when I had to get up and do the other side.

The “other side” was almost completely inaccessible. I had to sneak
behind a pine tree and stretch to kind of paint, sort of, the slats
there. Meanwhile debris is falling in the paint, no air is moving and
then, there was the thing that scared me.

There it was. Big as life and twice as scary.

A spider.

Not just any spider. This was that super spider.

See, I’ve been battling this spider for some time now. I figure he was
in on the whole squirrel/bird thing going on in the backyard. This
spider casts a web every night across the front porch steps. He goes
from one guard rail to the other. Each day when I’m getting the mail, I
grab a piece of junk mail and I rip the web down. This thing just builds
it again. He’s a killer. One time I had to knock a toddler out of there
he was saving for a little treat. I had to knock the toddler out of
there. He had my XBox magazine. Little brat. Should have left him to the
spider.

So this giant spider is looking at me with them eight little eyes of
his. He is coiling up his massive one half inch body and I know what he
is thinking: “I’m going to jump on you and suck out all your blood.”
Spiders: philosophers they’re not.

Now, I’m just paralyzed. He’s like doing little acrobatic tricks from
his webbing and all I can think is this thing is going to pounce me and
terrorize me like John Agar. He’ll suck my blood over hours and it’ll be
the longest death scene since Paul Reubens got it in “Buffy the Vampire
Slayer.” (Note all the film references. You can tell I’m scared. I
always fall back on film references when I’m scared. Comfort food,
really.)

I did then, what any self respecting guy would do, in similar
circumstances.

I got my mom.

I didn’t tell her about the spider–I just told her about how it was
impossible to paint these stairs and she kind of agreed and let me out
of it.

And this is why I love my mom.

By the way, after the rain, I ran out there to see if the primer had
washed away. No it didn’t.

And neither did the paint near my left ear. It’ll come out eventually. I
hope.

Captain Catastrophe