You too can be a Pirate

So my J.D. Salinger impression is not the best. I am not sure I could ever be quite as pessimistic and cynical as Holden, and that is probably a good thing. Besides, there are much cooler ways to be anti-authority. Take Captain Paul Watson and his Whale Warriors. They are essentially PETA on steroids. These members of The Sea Shepherd Conservation Society (SSCS) take a boat down to Antarctica every year to hunt down Japanese whaling ships. The premise is simple enough: locate a whaling vessel and then ram it. The SSCS pirate boats are much smaller than the goliath whaling ships, so the activists mount a huge, sharpened piece of metal (affectionately called “the can opener”) to the bow of their ship. I must admit, for a moment I thought: “that sounds kind of fun.” After watching “Pirates of the Caribbean,” who wouldn’t want to be a pirate? I mean unless Hollywood is lying, I think it is safe to assume that the SSCS has a pet penguin in a state of living death that takes a corpse-like form whenever the moon light falls on it, and steals gold coins at every opportunity. However, being a pirate on the SSCS would entail lots of cold water and there is nothing I hate more in this world than cold water. Besides, I doubt I would get along with anyone zealous enough to die defending thousand pound bags of mercury laced blubber. Although I would never be passionate/stupid enough to actually volunteer as a pirate on one of Paul Watson’s ships, I wouldn’t mind wearing a Sea Shepherd Conservation Society t-shirt under my “Pencey Prep” sweat shirt.

If a body catch a body . . .

Blogging for me has always functioned on a binge-purge cycle, kind of like failed diets. Well, it would be if I had ever felt the need to go on a diet. Obesity has just never been an issue for me. My cross to bear has always been one of a scrawnier sort, much less of the overweight, diabetic end of the spectrum and much more of the puny, picked-last-for-kickball side of things. Anyway the point is that with this blog, I am hoping to end the sporadic cycle and begin writing routine, weekly entries. Anything to try and give my course-less, on-call, dynamic schedule some kind of regular cadence.

In spite of the absence of any recognizable rhythm to my life, one of the advantages I have enjoyed as a result of graduation is the time to read things other than text books. I discovered “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” and more recently rediscovered, “Catcher in the Rye.” I picked up the latter after remembering how much I felt like I identified with Holden Caulfield when I read the book back in high school. I liked the book even more this time around, but for different reasons, if you know what I mean. Maybe because this time I didn’t have to answer any phony chapter summary questions. I mean, who thinks that kind of stuff develops an appreciation for literature, really? If you’re going to read a book like “Catcher in the Rye,” tired chapter questions just make the whole experience aggravating. My teacher, Mrs. Canthon said the questions would “help our young, developing minds digest the material.” “Young minds.” Boy, that killed me. She was only five years older than I was. I swear, the only thing those questions did was annoy you so bad you wanted to puke. I was always resisting the urge to ask some crass question about what eventually happens to everything we “digest.” Perhaps the scatological part of the “digesting the material” analogy is where the “final exam” comes in. Of course I never asked it. You really need to be in the mood to say a sarcastic thing like that, and I was never in the mood. Besides high school is a hard enough place to have an intelligent conversation with anyone. Too many flits and inferiority complexes to deal with, and I’m not kidding. No surprise, I liked the book even more than I did the first time I read it. Basically, if you want to know the truth, the story kind of hits a hundred different frustrations until chapter twenty-five. Then in chapter twenty-five, it all pulls together splendidly with old Holden and his sister Phoebe and all. It was by far my favorite chapter, it really was. In that sense “Catcher in the Rye” is sort of like “Miracle of Forgiveness,” you have to get to the end to appreciate the book. Only thing is, “Catcher in the Rye” has a lot more cuss words and makes you want to get a sweat shirt with “Pencey Prep” printed on it in big red letters.

If Holden can get out of his rut, then hopefully I can get out of mine and over come this blogging indolence. I know it’ll be good for me, I really do. If nothing else, writing weekly blogs is good practice in discipline. Let’s face it, someday I’ll probably have to bear the heavy cross of high cholesterol and double chins and I’ll need all the discipline I can get. In the mean time though, I’ll just keep blogging on Sundays and eating ice cream for dinner. Weekly writing will help my young, developing mind and the ice cream will most likely be a positive move for my digestion.