Pirates for Sail

 Episode 2:

  According to the Wikipedia Columbia, Md. is “a planned community that consists of ten self-contained villages.” “Opened in 1967, Columbia was designed to not only eliminate the inconveniences of then-current subdivision design……” According to the Google listing, “The Mall in Columbia Offers Columbia’s Top Shopping Experience.”  This is where “we” decided to make our public debut.

   Now, if I had seen what those lubbers in that parking lot saw as we began our trek, I would have immediately wanted to know what they were doing and….. can I do it too? Nope. It amazes me still how the vast majority in this town would rather take their chances in traffic in order to get across the street (or the other side of the bay) before they got too close. If they did have to cross our path, there was no eye contact, at all. They wouldn’t have a chance of tripping over their own feet cause their eyes and half their body would be bent down looking at them rather than having to look at us. It still happens today, even though our dress is a bit more convincing. We now carry pouches, haversacks, cutlasses, black powder and the firearms it goes in, knives and daggers, belaying pins and treasure chests. (Note: black powder weapons are not illegal to own or carry as long as they are not loaded).

  We did have an agenda. My son worked at a mobile phone kiosk which was located about 40 feet from the entrance. He was on the phone for a customer who was standing there waiting as she spotted us first. Then…he saw us. There was no controlling the reaction even though he was on the phone as I sauntered up to him in my best drunk pirate swagger, ,cocked my head to one side and said the only piratical thing I could conjure up, “you look somewhat familiar, have I threatened you before?” As he put the phone call on hold and his customer hysterically doubled over in absolute glee, mall security was approaching to escort us out on the grounds that we were “disturbing” patrons. Mmmm, things haven’t changed much.

   During all this time I of course I insisted on “practices”. This would simply mean that we would dress in our “garb” and do “piratical” things while grilling outside of our apartment that we lived in at the time. “Piratical” things included drinking rum and playing with civil war period pistols and swords purchased in none other than Gettysburg of course!

   Since we’re on  that we’re on that subject, I must say that I did find evidence that pirates did invade the town of Gettysburg a place where of course the bloodiest battles of the Civil War was fought. In a letter written by Samuel L. Holt to Governor Z.B. Vance of North Carolina, he charged that “this country has sent many & true men to this piratical war.” I thought it was an appropriate place for us. So donned in my short leather boots and our costume store wigs, we pervaded the territory again.

Ooops, you’ll have to wait now for Episode 3!

Stopped by to see my new “niece” and “nephew” last night. As many of our fans know, our fiddler and his two lovely polyamorous mates had twins of different mothers recently. The beautiful Alaria was born, appropriately, on  Fell’s Point Privateer and Baltimore Pirate Invasion Day in April. The handsome Alaric was born a week later. Fortunately, each favors his or her mother and not Father Fast Fingers.

As I was saying, though, I visited the babies last evening. I had previously seen Alaria twice but had not yet had the pleasure of making Alaric’s acquaintence. So I ventured to Baltimore and the home of their very lovely grandma (I know where Maia gets her looks) where both babies and their mamas are staying temporarily. Held ‘em, fed ‘em, burped ‘em, talked to ‘em, and then handed ‘em back to grandma to change ‘em. She didn’t seem to mind. If there’s one thing better than beautiful grandmas, it’s beautiful grandmas loving on their beautiful new grandbabies.

Now, as anyone who knows Fast Fingers is well aware, the Ferrets’ catch phrase for him is, “Why are there always carrots?” After excessive alcohol consumption, as Faster Fingers’ body is rejecting said excess alcohol, he complains there are always carrots present, even when he’s not consumed carrots.

So the question now is whether this axiom will hold true for his offspring. I did not witness any spitting up last night, fortunately. Just standard burps and hic ups, cooing, yawning, and stretching. We’ll keep our fans updated on the carrot question. I’m sure you’re all on the edge of your seats.

Wednesday next comes with a very special distinction, as we all are sure to know.  It is a day both blessed and cursed, for it celebrates one of the patrons of my homeland.  I call it cursed in observance of the many here in the States who celebrate it in entirely the wrong manner.  You see, St. Patrick’s Day is the occasion on which the Irish of the world rejoice in their collective heritage, while the Irish of Ireland honor St. Patrick.  I’d like to take this opportunity to share with you all, our devoted readers, the proper means by which one may celebrate St. Patrick’s Day.

To perform this most righteous ritual, you will need:

• Something green
• A church
• Irish soda bread
• Atlantic Salmon or lamb stew
• Guinness
• A 4-leaf clover

When morning rises on St. Patrick’s Day, dress yourself accordingly.  Put on something green!  Not everything green, or some plastic bowler hat with “kiss me I’m Irish” emblazoned all over it in large, bold letters.  A simple touch of green- a green tie, or pin, or ribbons dangling from what was once a woman’s shirt, tied around your right arm.  I wouldn’t recommend cutting said shirt from the woman’s body at Tavern, though, there’s a rule against that (now).  The green is meant to be a subtle homage, because in Ireland, green is everywhere you look!  Outside of Ireland, it tends to show itself on the envious faces of lads admiring the bonny contours of an Irish colleen latched to the arm of another man.  It also shows itself on the faces of the non-Irish who claim Irish blood as an excuse to drink green-tinged beer, but I’ll get into that later.

Once dressed in appropriate attire, your first stop should be morning mass.  After all, this is a Saint’s holiday, and Patrick was rather known for his habit of preaching to the unconverted pagans of the Emerald Isle.  While Patrick was not the first Catholic to set foot on Irish soil, he was among the first to bring the message to the “unwashed” masses.  If you can’t make it to morning mass, at least pop into a church and say a prayer for family and friends.  If you’re pagan like myself, take a moment out from your day to remember those who came before, and give your thanks for those who are yet to come.

While out and about, be sure to greet everyone you see with a heartfelt “beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig oraibh! (buh-KNOCK-tuh na FEEL puh-DRAYG ar-RAY),” which means “St. Patrick’s Day Blessings to you!”  Also, bear in mind that giving a wee pinch to anyone not wearing green on this special is a time-honored tradition in Ireland.  Just keep in mind that decking people who pinch you is also a time-honored Irish tradition.

Going to mass and doing all that pinching while you’re out is sure to work up an appetite, so reach for the corned beef and cabbage, right?  No!  Make yourself a pot of lamb stew, with plenty of potatoes and carrots, or a make a meal of an unsuspecting Atlantic Salmon or Whitefish.  Any of these three are far more Irish than the American tradition of corned beef and cabbage.  Be sure to eat your meal with a bit of Irish soda bread, but make it yourself- the stuff in the stores is far too sweet and confectionary to pass muster.  Wash it down with a good measure of a fine brew- a nice, dark stout.  Guinness is ideal.  What about green beer, you ask?  To make beer turn green it has to be pale enough to take food coloring, which automatically makes it unworthy for an Irishman to drink.  Granted, an Irishman will generally drink whatever’s poured for him, but when toasting “slainte (SLAUN-cha)” to St. Patrick, use real alcohol to honor a real man.  Speaking of which, toast with “slainte!” instead of some terrible overused drivel.  You’ll be saying “to your health!” and wishing any and all within earshot a great many happy returns.

Last but not least, if you can find one, adorn yourself with a four-leaf clover.  If you eat one, it’s sure to bring you luck and love.  Put one in the heel of your left shoe and you’ll marry the next person who comes in the room!  Just make sure it’s not your cousin.  Or Jim.

So, this St. Patrick’s day, do something right.  Show your true Irish pride, be your blood green or orange.  And do it at the Tavern, where we’ll be performing in accordance with our own St. Patrick’s Day traditions!  Come out and hear some good Irish fiddle, folk songs, and let me drink you under the table (or on it)!

Over the years where I’ve worn the attire of  a pirate to make it easier for otherwise committed wenches to fall down at m’feet, I have often found myself mistaken for a certain other pirate celebrity.  That man shall for now remain nameless, but rest assured there is about as much in common between my appearance and his as there is between fine Irish whiskey and a red table wine.  I’d say a Spanish galleon favors a French brigantine (as it appears after having been blown out of the water for lack of ability to find and raise their whites fast enough) more than I look like this man.  Still, the general voting public calls out his name frequently when looking upon me.  Why do I raise this point?  After all, we pirates are called out on a regular basis when traveling, most often by landlubbers cruising in their land conveyances who only associate our noble profession with the shouted letter “R.”  I raise this point because I, Bryan McCrae, have determined why it is that we are so often mistaken for certain Disney characters.

The public is willing to accept the lesser evil as a pirate.

So, Internet, with a roguish heart and a whiskey-craving stomach, I say unto you in the words of my uncle: Accept no substitutes!”  The pirates in your life are the genuine article, complete with piratical injuries, piratical egos, and in some cases, piratical body odor!  We need not be compared to those pretenders of the enchanted picture box, for there should be no comparison!  Why, Black Dog Nate’s beard could singlehandedly destroy the entire fleet of the illusory East India Company, while defeating the Kraken and saving a score of lasses far less androgynous than those so fervently sought by foppish protagonists!

Good people, bad people, and Englishmen, all I ask of you is this- when you see a pirate on the street, recognize him for the treasure he is!  Praise him with kind words of welcome, or regard him with the respect and fear he so readily deserves!  If you receive no response to the first, then clearly the second is appropriate!  If you are greeted warmly in kind, offer him a drink and some bonny company!  And if, by some chance, you happen upon a pirate wench, RUN IN THE OTHER DIRECTION WITH THE GREATEST POSSIBLE HASTE!

So I walked into a small room, buried in the catacombs of the vastness that is the New Carrollton Federal Building.  It is in this place that I pass as pirate-at-large among the unsuspecting masses of my day-to-day employer.  Well, not in that room specifically, that room was a special trip.  You see, today brought to that room a legion of the second-worst scourge of the lands- vampires.  The worst scourge is so terrible as not to be named, but the bitter rivalry and feud that brews between the kind piratical and the members of this honorless bunch of pajama-wearing nancies is well known to all who sail the seas of the Internets.  Were I to face said scourge in single combat, the world would learn in short order why the fiddler focuses so intently on the music and the lasses- only those two, with the addition of whiskey, can hope to sate his rage.  Still, today brought me toe-to-peg with the second-worst scourge, the vampire.  They came to my place of employ with but one goal- to drain the place dry, one pint at a time.  Did I face them?  Yes.  Did I defeat them?  Yes!  Their pint-draining attack was no match for the sheer volume of Irish whiskey in my blood.  They even jokingly suggested I lay off the sauce for the evening, as in my “diminished condition,” I might have the alcohol tolerance of, say, the Reverend Doctor Skipford von Toumalou.  What farce!  What nonsense!  The British speak truer things than that!  Oh, wait, I’m feeling a bit dizzy… Is that Flint over there, or a boy with an artificial bosom?  *staggers away*

So this weekend past I accomplished two most noble life goals.  Goal one came in the form of taking the especially bonny, especially glorious, especially lascivious web-wench home from the Tavern.  Did I give her a ride?  Count on it.  Did she thank me after, and extend the invitation to do it again at some future date and time?  Count on that too.  Did she ask me to come back and see her again later on in the weekend?  OH yes.  This leads to goal two.

Goal two came in the form of the especially bonny, especially glorious, especially lascivious web-wench inviting me into her most private bedroom, wherein I did, and with full knowledge and intent of the act to be performed, take her to her bed.  With her husband, unsuspecting, in the next room!  It’s good to be the Fiddler.  The world may never know or fully appreciate the mysteries and glories beheld by me that day, in that room, in such singular company as hers.  It is, truly, good to be the fiddler.

Today it was my civic duty to present myself down in the fair City of Anna to sit upon the panel of jurors.  These American rights, so inconvenient for a visiting pirate.  Needless to say, I escaped the sentence prematurely through a cunning mixture of craft, resource, and convenient timing.  The jury commissioner’s gender helped a bit as well.  The lasses, they can nae resist the Fiddler’s charms.  Shirking civic duties while giving a civil servant a lesson in true… civil servitude… life goal achieved.

Later on, I learned of an alternate place on this great, wide Internets wherein the people gather to worship and appreciate us pirates even more than here!  That place- freepirateporn.com Facebook.  That’s right, the Fiddler is on Facebook.  Commence with the cyber-wenching!

And in the vein of wenching, I’ll be at Tavern for the next few weeks!  Lasses, come out and be entertained!  Or wenched.  Or mayhaps even seduced.  That works too.

Be it known far and wide that even in this time of great tragedy in the world, the Fiddler is still king.

The evidence for this began with the first exploits of one Bryan McCrae, born a little over a quarter-century ago in the Mecca of the whiskey world that is County Cork.  The tales of his travels and triumphs could span the length of the Internet itself, so we will focus on more recent additions to the legend of the Fiddler.  More specifically, the evening of Friday last.

The place for these auspicious events was none other than Piratz Tavern, wherein a great many goodly people gather to share in the ultimate joy of food, drink, and fine music.  The son of clan McCrae ventured there, as it often his habit, after a two-week respite, to reclaim the former glories vested on him by the great goddess Brighid, his matron.

Alright, so I’ve been reading Homer again.  You try reading The Iliad and not find yourself spoutin’ forth with verse poetic.  In any case, let us continue the tale in a manner slightly less “epic.”

So I’m at Tavern, enjoyin’ myself, puttin’ forth the best of musics piratical we’ve offered in quite some time, and it occurs to me that the hour of nine draws near and we’ve not even finished our first set.  That’s right, as bonny Flint said, we spent an hour and a half in the front.  I think we ended up only doing two sets that night- one forward and one back.  The crowd was one of the best I’ve seen, particularly in that it was rife with the scourge of many a Friday evening- unaccompanied lasses!  I call such a bountiful gift from the powers above a scourge because it evidences a serious problem with the men in this land- there aren’t enough of them, leaving the fiddler to clean up the mess!  Yes, this vast burden of lechery and wenching falls upon my shoulders.  Fortunately, the fiddle has made them strong and able, with an iron will to match.  There I go on my own epic again.

With table after table of bonny lasses shouting “MacIntyre” and stuffing all manner of currency into my breeches (I love this job), I call the evening a success.  Let us only hope that tonight will bring as much joy, luck, and craft.

The day following brought an activity called “ice skating,” where one fixes sharp blades of steel to his boots and glides about on a frozen surface.  I enjoyed that much immensely, though the near-misses with small children who can’t seem to pay attention to the other people out on the ice with them… Let’s just say I failed as a ruthless pirate, because I didn’t kill anyone.

Yet.

But Flint didn’t kill anyone either, and she actually tries after the reputation of ruthless and bloodthirsty!  I’m a lover, not a killer!

Well, so maybe I’m a killer too, but a man can be a balance!

So we’re in a new year and a new decade, and how did I, Fast Fingers Bryan McCrae, mark this occasion?

By partying with rich aristocrats at a resort in West Virginia Territory, of course!  Where else should one find an Irishman such as myself other than where one can find a pot still of moonshine brewing up fresh and ready every mile or two in the hills?!  Granted, moonshiners aren’t nearly as numerous as they once were… Aha!  Now, there be the true cause of global warming!  Some place the blame on lack of pirates, such as ourselves, but I say ’tis the lack of moonshiners!  What this world needs be potcheen!

No, wait… More moonshiners would be a good thing, says I, but methinks the world needs more promiscuous wenches far more than it needs additional hill-dwelling potcheen-makers.  Besides that, if all the potcheen is up in the mountains of West Virginia, how am I to enjoy it?

Then again, a booze-drinking siren call sounded this past Saturday night, from one of the bonniest lasses I know… and I turned it down.  Losing my edge, am I?  I need to think of something more… edgy… Aha!

Why does Lady Gaga wear half a dress when she’s just going to have a damn skin-tight bodysuit underneath?  What purpose does that serve but to look silly?  Half  a dress meets the needs of modesty and convenience, but when tempered with a complete and utter lack of nudity, it destroys the whole achievement in a single efficient blow!

That might be edgy enough to restore myself… I did drink an entire pint of grog in one quick shot at Tavern on day-after-New-Year’s, which is also my mother’s Birthday.  Getting tossed on my mother’s Birthday has to be worth something, right?

Come here to me, boy, I’ve a secret to tell you.

Och so, so I can read, write, and count higher than 4, ’tis all part of the braggadocio.

Oy oy, so I know what “braggadocio” means as well as how to spell it.  That does nae in any way render me less piratical, does it?  So I stole an education, so sue me!  We pirates need our marketable skills, after all.

For the record, my marketable skills include fiddling, wenching, leching, coming up with bad jokes, and why is “wenching” nae a word when “leching” is, then?  That there, ’tis wrong, as if someone had their priorities in the wrong order! First you wench, THEN you lech!  How are you supposed to lech without first taming the wench, then?  What are they teaching in the schools in this modern age, basket-weaving and calligraphy?  Where are the fundamentals?  So I should’ve been a schoolteacher instead of a fiddler- a whole generation of wee bairns would know the proper order of things.

Still, I cannae imagine why anyone would want to actually read these things, these “blog” things then.  Do we actually have any fans so diehard as to yearn to know our very innermost thoughts?

Wait, here now a better question- do we actually have any young lassie fans so diehard to yearn to know our very innermost thoughts?  And would any of these bonny young colleens like a wee bit of Irish in them?

If I had known the internet could yield bonny lasses, I’d have gotten on it much sooner!  I’ll trade a measure of piratical credential in favor of company without an empty purse to be felt thereafter any day.  Lasses, says I, waiting I am.