The Captain's Table

So THAT's how it works!

Ottawa, Ontario Canada. Manor Park Public School - Health class - 1977.

As Mr. Conboy unveiled a diagram of the female reproductive system Katrina Velavadova took one look and threw up on her desk.

Some tittered, some took notes, all moved a little further away from Katrina's desk.

I, of course, was light years ahead of the curve having been amply supplied with books by my parents to "demystify" the strange, gurgling changes that were sweeping through me like fire through a wheatfield.

These books, as I recall, were called "Where Did I Come From" - in which reproduction was explained through the loving exploits of a pair of very chubby and very naked cartoon characters - from this book I learned that an orgasm is a lot "like being tickled... but you can't be tickled forever", and that when adults have sex little cartoon hearts drift up from the locus of their fevered loins.

"What's Happening to Me" - in which a pimply teenage protagonist informed me that masturbation was "OK".

Ha! OK? Show's what he knew - when one is thirteen - masturbation rates a little higher than just "OK".

But the jewel in the crown was "Show Me"...

"Show Me" was, at its essence, a progressive exercise in soft core porn and, to my pre-pubescent mind it was about "The bestest present ever!!". How I thrilled to the naked, black-and-white exploits of these naked (German?) hippies and their naked german hippie children in their naked german hippie commune. The book, which I think was put together by a pyschologist and an art photographer, documented - in painfully frozen moments - the random fumblings of a polyamorous german community. Accompanying text gently reminded the reader (me) that everything going in the pictures on was 'perfectly natural'.

From my perspective at the time it all seemed about as natural as the notion of a three-headed dog. The end result was that I had something like this floating around in my head for years...

Katrina Velavadova ended up "knocked up" in high school and dropped out.

I was busted for shoplifting costume jewelry that I was going to GIVE to Katrina Velavadova.

What's the moral? I have no idea. Sex is mysterious...

Stop whistling at my balls!

In the summer of 1984 a Canadian man lay injured in the midst of an arena riot in Sao Paolo, Brazil.

What does a man think at such a time... where does his mind go? Well for Ron Foxcroft it went here...

"IF I LIVE THROUGH THIS RIOT I AM GOING BACK TO CANADA AND I AM GOING TO DESIGN A PEA-LESS WHISTLE!"

As a professional basketball referee Ron Foxcroft had often been frustrated by whistles. The cork "pea", which made the noise, would jam and no sound would come out.

While working a pre-Olympic basketball game in Sao Paulo, Brazil in 1984, Foxcroft blew his whistle when a Brazilian player was fouled at centre court.

The whistle jammed, play continued, and a riot erupted. And thus was born one man's dream - to create a "pea-less" whistle.

Despite the fact that no bank would support him, Foxcroft made good on his promise by 1987 (proving that he wasn't just whistling Dixie... sorry...).

The Fox 40 whistle features harmonically tuned air chambers and can be heard over a mile away. It is now used by the NHL, NBA, NFL, CFL, NCAA, FIFA, and FINA, as well as the US Coast Guard, Royal Life Saving Society of Canada, American Red Cross, NATO forces, and many more organizations.

In short, that's one hell of a pea-less whistle.

Oy, Mein head

I spent yesterday afternoon at the 10th street Shvitz sweating out the remains of an improptu dinner and drinks (heavy on the drinks) night with our friend Amber and her newly-arrived-from-LA-rock-star boyfriend Rick.

What my memory can salvage of Saturday night involved some nostalgic slam dancing in our living room, a broken wine glass and some gridiron-worthy flying tackles to illustrate...

...what? I'm not sure exactly.

Whatever the case may be Sunday found me primed and ready for a few hours at the Shvitz.

What is the Shvitz you ask? Well slip me a tylenol and stop talking so loud and I'll tell you. The Shvitz (or Bania, or 10th street Bathhouse, or 'The Russian Turkish Baths" is an ancient east village institution dedicated to heat, sweat and low-rent spa amenities. Towels, sandals, robes and shorts are provided on your way in (women bring a bikini top or bathing suit).

Each room at the Shvitz is hotter than the next - with the exception of the cold pool which, as cold-pools go is very cold indeed and guaranteed to make your nether regions (if you are male) ask themselves if they should put up with this abuse or head north for the rest of the winter.

The rooms themselves break down along the following lines:
- Steam room: Houston in July
- Sauna: Albuquerque in August
- Dry Steam Room: The Sahara after a light rain.
- The "Russian" room: The very center of hell itself.

While all this may sound unpleasant it actually isn't. Men and women mill around like the lunatics from "Midnight Express" - many mumbling to themselves or groaning with steam pleasure or, conversely, carrying on loud political arguments in that inimitable Bronx/Brooklyn accent that makes everyone sound like the expert they want to be.

Added to this chorus are the Orthodox Jews who still speak in Yiddish and, at times, end up 'Davening' together (sort of like a mumbly Yiddish prayer - at least to my ears and forgive my ignorance if something else is going on) in the Russian room. Mingled with all this is the constant sound of running water as it flows into buckets (to be poured on the head before you spontaneously burst into flames) and the echoing quality of the rooms themselves - stone walled and reminiscent of The Carceri. Visually the experience is like being plopped into a Chiaroscuro painting by Caravaggio - mysterious and shadowy...

Oh yeah - and hot!

Real masochists might want to opt for a Platza - which involves an enormous russian dude whomping the crap out of you with a bundle of oak leaves in the hottest room available. I tried it once and nearly passed out - so be warned. If you want one look for a guy wearing an elf-like hat...

You can always take a break from the heat by going upstairs and having a fresh juice, shot of vodka or borscht. Yesterday I opted for a 'liver cleanser' juice and some rye bread with smoked salmon. Perfect!

The 10th street Shvitz used to have a pretty seedy reputation. When I first started going in the mid 90's it was very hard to get a 'legit' massage and, more often than not, you would find yourself being offered a "special" (Pronounced "spee-ye-shul") by one of the enormous russian women who worked as masseuses. But ever since the place was busted by the vice squad they've cleaned up their act and you can get as good (and as cheap) a massage as those uptown toffee-noses who go to places like Bliss and drop 200 bucks. At the Shvitz it's $60.00 for an hour and they have everything from shiatsu to bone-crushing russian massages that will make your spine pop and leave you unable to feel your legs for a few hours.

And, in the end, it was mission successful! So successful that I was actually capable of happily focusing on the new shoes that Patricia bought on her Sunday shopping spree.

From belligerent troll-with-a-hangover to doting boyfriend in merely three hours! Not bad. Well done Shvitz!

A real doctor told me...

My good friend Tiina P - an honest to god, certified and gen-yoo-wine doctor of medicine (and a canadian) often regales me via email with some of the things she runs into on a fairly regular basis. So, from time to time, here at The Captain's Table I'll feature one of her delightful tales.

We'll start with an easy one cause, frankly, sometimes Tiina's stories get really gross and have things like people's bellies exploding and whatnot. As Tiina writes today...

THE TALE OF THE PLASTIC FORK

"Weird case of the day: a psychiatric patient a decade ago says "I swallowed a fork" which of course everyone dismisses as him being a psychiatric patient. "Sure you did. Now take your pills." Later, he has tummy trouble- like a lot later- a decade later. and so they put a little camera down on a stick to see what was going on (OK it wasn't on a stick, it was on a tube) and guess what was sitting down there... a white plastic fork circa 1991."

I salute canadians

It's very likely that, unless you are a Canadian of a certain age, you have no idea who this guy is. Well, his name is Stompin' Tom Connors and with song titles like "The Hockey Song", 'Emily the Maple Leaf" and "Bud the Spud" he's a canadian icon of epic proportions. So, watch this space for occasional salutes to famous, infamous and even notorious Canadians. Like this one right here...

WHO IS OLIVIA POOLE? Well, I'll tell you...

Olivia Poole grew up on the White Earth Reservation in Minnesota and, with her family, moved to British Columbia in the 1950's

As a mother of seven, what came next seems to have been written in the stars - or at least next to those hooks in the ceiling...

Because Olivia's invention was none other than that barf-inducing thrill ride those of us born in the 50s and 60s call The Jolly Jumper. Combining traditional native design and modern technology Olivia artfully answered the question that had been stumping parents for generations:

"Where can I hang my kids when I get bored with them?!"

The Jolly Jumper - consists of a harness which is suspended from the ceiling. The baby is seated in the harness with his/her feet touching the floor. In this position, he/she can bounce up and down, strengthening muscles and keeping him/herself amused at the same time.

By 1959, Olivia and her husband had a factory in North Vancouver which produced several thousand Jolly Jumpers a month. The Pooles later sold the business but their product remains popular. It is estimated that one of every five Canadian babies uses a Jolly Jumper.

Oddly one in every five Canadian adults has or has had a substance abuse problem at some time in their lives - coincidence?!?!

LOOK AT THOSE HAPPY CANADIAN BABIES! JUMP BABIES JUMP!

Great ways to waste time!!

So you want to waste some time, do you? well here's a few great ways to do it!!

JOIN THE DEMOCRATIC PARTY! Once an enlightened, humanistic and organized group of effective people the Dem Party is now made up mostly of whining, reactive pussies. If Congress was a school and the Dems were a kid they'd be the one who ratted you out for smoking to win brownie points with a teacher. So, go for it - cause until they get their shit together the Democrats are a HUGE WASTE OF TIME... and space. And please don't get me wrong - I'm as lefty as they come - I just have the common sense to say "Bullshit" when it's level has risen to somewhere around my ears.

ARGUE WITH A REPUBLICAN. Few things are more of a waste of time than arguing with a Republican. Deafened by their own bombast and bolstered by the fact that the President and his administration regularly just flips us a bird when we have the temerity to point out things like, Oh - 'journalist' Armstrong Williams getting 200 G's from the administration to promote White House agendas, or that a former online porn-peddler was hired to lob soft-ball questions to the president as a member of the White House press corps, or even that Sinclair Broadcasting (sort of like our PRAVDA) flouts FCC laws on the one hand and uses the other to decide what particular slice of propaganda they will foist on you next. See, your average Republican these days doesn't give a fart what you think and, frankly, he doesn't have to. He won, he's got an agenda and the best you can do is learn to get up as early as he does and work it!

ARGUE ABOUT THE WAR! This one's sure to waste time. What you see in this picture is a child with a gun pointed at its head. What a Republican sees is a child being liberated. I mean, wow - where the fuck do you start with that one?

START A BLOG. Guaranteed to not only waste your time but also the time of all your friends.

DO WHAT MY FRIEND KEN IN TULSA DOES - it sure makes it all seem less painful. Thanks Ken!

Anyhow, I didn't mean for this thing to get political but, well, there it is. A brief Tourrette's like outburst.

Cheer up.

The Aristocrats!

On a Wednesday afternoon in 1927 four men walk into the office of a vaudeville booking agent. The group's leader squares off in front of the booker's desk and says "We have an act you're gonna want to book". The Booker replies - "well let's see it then". No sooner have the words left his mouth than the group's leader pulls out a small whistle and blows it. Immediately, two of them men drop their pants and begin giving one another handjobs. The third man strips completely naked and the fourth man begins blowing him. After a minute the first two men move over and begin ass-fucking the other two. The act continues with various members of the group fisting, fucking and blowing each other until, in a final writhing orgy of human flesh they all come - spraying enormous wads all over the bookers office. And, as a final coup de grace, as three of the men sink to the ground in a satisfied heap the group leader squats down and takes a dump on one of their heads. Aghast, the booker asks: "My God, what do you call THAT?!" Whereupon the group's leader springs to his feet and, grinning widely, answers -
"THE ARISTOCRATS!!"

THAT is one of the funniest jokes ever. They even made a movie about it

http://sundance.weblogsinc.com/entry/1234000933029330/

Canadian Identity

So what's a nice canadian boy doing in the US. Well - when I left Canada in 1996 I truly hated the place. Hated it for its unresponsiveness, hated it for its bizarre meritocracy (more on THAT to come sometime, I'm sure), hated it for being parochial. And so, like many others, I headed south to the land of milk, honey and sweet, crisp, available yankee greenbacks. Oddly, as soon as I landed in the states I began to miss Canada in a huge way.

I guess THAT, more than anything, is the expat experience - dweller in two domains and master of neither...

So there I was with my head often here...

and my body mostly here...

and here I remain...

Welcome to my world

Around this time in 1998 I was standing at the edge of the Beaufort Sea outside Tuktoyaktuk, NWT Canada. I was sharing a hip flask of whiskey with my friend Peter and we were about to set out on a 30 mile dogsled trip across the undulating surface of the frozen ocean to begin the first day of filming on a project I had been researching for nearly 6 years. To date, that sense of expectation, that moment of a journey about to begin remains one of the happiest moment in my life.

Don't I look Happy?

In truth it's probably been nearly as long since I set about the task of really writing anything of import - oh sure, I made my living writing for a long time, but not the kind of writing that leads to you being half-lit on Bushmills standing on the edge of a frozen ocean and feeling deeply happy, if not a little smug.

So welcome to my blog - the first step in flexing some long dormant writing muscles that I want to bring back to life, as well as a chance to celebrate the magic that is me.

Don't I look magical? I mean don't I?

It's truly amazing what a camera can do...