Captain Catastrophe

The Captain loves the holidays. No question.

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

Oh, horrors!

I quickly redecorated and commenced with the celebrating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, thus, the rationalization begins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does she not know it is I, Captain Catastrophe?

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

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

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

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

Captain Catastrophe

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

Enjoy and Merry Christmas!

Captain Catastrophe

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

Sure they are fluffy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chills. I still have the chills.

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

Survivingly yours,

Captain Catastrophe

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. Right.

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

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

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

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

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

What? Say that again!

“As you cross, don’t kick your feet. This attracts the sharks.”

So how the hell is that swimming?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Captain Catastrophe

Well, it’s been quiet.

Too quiet. For the Captain, that is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have to lean in.”

“Why?”

“That’s how the X-Rays are taken.”

“So you’re telling me my teeth are leaning. Will I need braces?”

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

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

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

“I can’t tell a lie that’s so easy to verify. No, I am not.”

“Why not?”

“The bottle ran out.”

“Well, get another one.”

“But you didn’t tell me to get another bottle.”

“I am now.” Obviously, she’s dealt with me before.

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

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

Took forever to clean up.

And three straws.

Ewwww.


Yours in tragedy,

Captain Catastrophe

I know. It’s been a while for the Captain. Since I had my bicycle put to sleep (used lethal injection–seemed most humane), I really haven’t injured myself.

But this morning something happened that was classic Captain Catastrophe.

So, I’m going to breakfast. It’s part of the routine, you know? The routine is to get up, go to work, log into the computer, go to breakfast with Dori. Now, part of the routine was interrupted–Dori is on vacation. This could throw the whole day off, but bravely, I soldiered on.

First, there was getting out of the chair. Some people make a “fatty grunt” as they get out of the chair. Not me. I emit a “Fatty Wail of Misery.” I believe I even heard it echo. Then I had to go upstairs to the cafeteria for breakfast. This kind of scared me. Without Dori around, who was going to spot me if I collapsed from all the physical activity? Clearly, I could die from over exertion. There are nearly two flights of steps.

So I took the elevator–purely for safety.

I emerge from the elevator and I’m feeling pretty good. Had a great weekend with a wonderful guest on the show. I made it past the “job eliminations” at work. Everything was looking kind of sunny.

I get to the breakfast sandwich lady (not Edith this time) and I order: “Sausage, Egg, Cheese on a toasted bun.” Notice anything? Oops. Hold on. “Add bacon.” Whew! Anyway, today I wanted the toasted bun, not the usual grilled bun. Call me adventurous. And that’s how it started.

They have an odd little industrial toaster up in the cafeteria. It has a track of metal that carries the bread past the electrical heating elements, not your standard pop-up variety. Well, the buns were apparently a little too tall. So the buns got stuck. Soon, a pretty yellow flame was engulfing my breakfast buns.

I notice and I ask, “Is that supposed to burn like that?” Now I ask you–am I a moron? What type of fricking question is that? Of course, idiot-boy, it isn’t supposed to burn like that! It isn’t supposed to burn at all! It’s supposed to toast–thus the name!

Anyway, she rescues the thing with a spatula and a set of tongs. So I’m thinking, fine, no toast. She didn’t give up that easy. She takes a new bun and starts pounding down on the thing–flattening it. See, that way it wouldn’t get caught in the toaster. Plus–it wouldn’t be nearly appetising anymore, making this whole exercise futile. I really didn’t want these buns after being compressed with the heel of her hand, but what am I to do? Can’t complain or I caused a fire for no particular reason. So I grin. Apparently, she doesn’t know the food rules–one of which is as follows: Mashed potatoes–good. Mashed buns fed through toaster–not so much.

Dori not being in probably caused it. But not as much as later, because I went to lunch alone.

My mother will tell you that I get some pretty weird ideas when I’m left alone. I tend to think straighter when other people around because I don’t want to be a total goof. Not true when completely alone. I guess this is why I like to take trips alone. Either that or no one will go. Let’s not go there.

I’m coming down the escalator from level 3 to level 2 of the Grand Avenue Mall and decide to go to the Calendar store, which is actually across the balcony level–closer to the up escalators. I get out and I look at the long walk back to the down escalators, and then that naughty smile goes across my face.

I reasoned: “It will take a lot of energy to walk way over there to the down escalators, and the up escalators ARE RIGHT HERE. There’s no one around–it’s the Grand Avenue afterall. I would also save the company time as I would get back to work earlier.” So I approach the up escalator, ready to run on down.

My foot had hit the metal plate and I look up and there’s Juan. For those in the company, you know who I mean. This actually made it tougher. Because of all the bosses at the company, Juan was probably most likely to think this is funny. Had it been a fuddy-duddy, I would have called it off immediately, but I was having difficulty calling off the stunt due to Juan.

I eventually did call it off. I looked around some more, saw the Rent-A-Cop and decided the better of it and started to the down escalator. I went from Captain Catastrophe to Captain Coward in two seconds flat.

So that’s the latest. Until the video. Debuting Saturday, October 30.

Sincerely,


Tim Kretschmann

a.k.a. Captain Catastrophe

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