And the Hits Just Keep on Coming

My crew change was scheduled for the 23rd of March, the date that for the last 7 weeks has marked the last day of my maritime adventure upon this sturdy Russian boat. My time on the Shatskiy has been fun and strengthening. Spiritually and physically. You ever tried to do push-ups on a boat in eight foot seas? Brother, it ain’t easy. I made a lot of friends out here and earned the respect of the Russians by out drinking the lot of them. Hell yeah! The ol’ bionic liver is in rare form. Perhaps it’s my unparalleled patriotism and the fact that I refuse to show weakness in front of the Russians but it was an incredible Battle Royalcoholic. Sure, I’ll probably succumb to cirrhosis by the time I’m 30 but for now there’s a half dozen Russians that are more than a little impressed and the friendships we forged will last a lifetime. Sure life out here is tough, and you’re isolated from all of which you are familiar with and love but to be honest, I’m gonna miss these guys and this sparse, rusting boat.

Well I would miss it. If it weren’t the 24th of March and I wasn’t still sitting in the same cabin of the same God Damn boat I was supposed to be getting off of YESTERDAY!! Yep, that’s right. They extended the date of the crew change. I’m stuck on this boat another damn week until the 30th. It never ends. First, it’s dealing with the militant fisherman who aren’t too pleased with this boat’s presence near their fishing grounds (not in their fishing grounds mind you, just near them), then the hitch gets extended from one month to 7 weeks, then we start running out of food, and now when I’m all ready to head back on to land to reunite with family and friends…and virtuous, nice women that have sex in exchange for legal tender (because I’ll never love again)…and they tell me that due to a scheduling conflict we have to push back the date of the crew change. Damn you fate!! Why do you mock me so!!

So I’m still on this boat, once again counting down the days. Sure I could have let the frustration and disappointment get the best of me but that would be selfish. After all, there are crewmen from Russia who have been on this boat for 4 or 5 months. What’s another week for me who’s only been on board for 2 months? And you can’t show weakness in front of the Russians…ever. So I did the only healthy thing I could…I had two Russians shave me a Mohawk. That’s right. I’ve now got a kick-ass Mohawk. Not one of those stylish faux-hawks the scenesters doff (a trend I started by the way…with Elijiah Wood), but a proper, straight out of Mad Max, Mohawk. Add to that the wicked dark tan I got and I look like an extra from Last of Mohicans. I got to hand it to those Russians. For having nothing but a comb and electric clippers on a moving ship they did a great job. I couldn’t be happier. Well I could be. I could be back home. But what’s back home but pain?

So anyway, I’m stuck out here another week. 6 more days and counting and then I’ll be home. Of course, the way things have been going it could easily be six more weeks. I shall wait and see…because I have no choice. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go work my Mohawk into varying styles of awesome.

Corrections, Retractions and Apologies:

In an earlier post I went on a tirade about a certain type of cookie that really sucks. ROYAL DANSK. In that missive I wrote that they were from Holland because people from Holland are Dutch, which I confused with Danish, which are people from Denmark. I really didn’t think anything of it until a friend of mine sent me a comment I received on my site (once again if anyone feels like contacting me you have to email, I cannot access my site in any way, shape, or form… I can’t access the Internet for that matter, in any way, shape, or form.) Here is that comment:

“hey, if you stopped spanking for a few minutes and looked at the tin, you’d realize that ROYAL DANSK is not from holland.” (posted by some Danish guy)

First and foremost allow me to apologize. I’m usually not that culturally insensitive. It was an innocent mistake. Honestly, I have no idea what I was thinking. I mean for Christ’s sake it is right there in the name, ROYAL DANSK (Danish). So, anonymous Danish guy, please except my most sincere apologies. I didn’t mean to spread falsities as to the origin of your shitty ass cookies. So everyone listen up: The chalky, gag inducing, choke discs known as ROYAL DANSK are from Denmark, NOT HOLLAND. I also apologize for “spanking” it as much as this Great Dane so politely implies. But you see I have this problem. Every time I think about how grateful I am that I’m not some snarky, stuck-up Danish man I get this huge throbbing erection. I mean really, I made a mistake. You didn’t have to be so mean about it. You could have been a little nicer. Just because you’re a citizen of the country with the highest standard of living in the world (for like 10 years running) doesn’t give you carte blanche to be an uppity jerk.

‘Cause I’m Going Hungry….GOING HUNGRY YEAH!!!!

Well, it’s the start of week 7 out here on the Akademik Shatskiy and things are moving right along. After an extended stay in port for repairs we are back out at sea firing those guns like…well like you do. I probably could have come up with something cleverer there but you see I haven’t been myself lately. I’ve been tired and lackadaisical. A general malaise has washed over me in the past few days and I can’t really put my finger on the catalyst. It could be the sun exposure. It is absolutely oppressive, and our lookout post offers no protection to the sun so I’m really hoping this suntan lotion works but I’ve acclimatized to the sun weeks ago. After all, I have been out here for almost 2 straight months. I could be depression. A lot has gone on back home that I can’t do anything about the least of which being the simple fact that everyone I know back on land is actually getting on with their lives while I’m not. Time just stands still out here and all I can really do is just accept and cope with the decisions that get made regarding me in my absence. But I can deal with that. Depression’s always been the one fuckin’ muse I could never shake but I’m used to it and I got good friends…and I’m like Shirley Manson. I’m only happy when it rains. Nope, I think I’m weak because we’re running out of food. In fact, I’m almost positive that what it is.

Yup, you read me right. The Shatskiy’s food supply is Shatskied. You’d think with all the time we spent in port they’d have restocked, but oh no, not us. Playing it safe is for suckers. We’re riding it out. Sailing till the food runs out and we’re scheduled to run out of food on the exact day I leave. Talk about luck huh? Even still we’ve cut back, rationing if you will. A balanced diet is hard to acquire from a nutritional standpoint because what we’re running out of is fresh fruits and vegetables. Oh we got plenty of potatoes and cabbage. I don’t see us running out of them anytime soon unless of course the Russians’ vodka cache dries up early, then we’ll have to sacrifice the potatoes for distillation purposes. And I’m WAY okay with that. God knows some hard spirits distilled in a makeshift still, deep in the bowels of the engine room, would ease the pain.

It’s actually not that bad. It sounds worse than the reality. A week with less food ain’t gonna kill nobody and it’s good to push the body a little bit. Keep it hard. Keep it lean. I think it’ll be good for me in the long run, just another character building experience. Like getting the shit kicked out of you or circumcision (I can’t remember it but you know some character was built on that day.). Pain is a great teacher and when faced with good humor and a positive outlook you’ll come out of it a better person with a new lease on life and an even more concrete and resolute hatred of Republicans. Plus, it’s always a good idea to build up a tolerance to pain just on the off chance you get kidnapped and tortured. You’ll want a high threshold or you’ll lose the respect of your captors. I don’t know where I’m going with this, but I will say men that aren’t circumcised tend to be more whiny and pretentious and way more unhygienic. The filthy heathens also fold a lot quicker under the pressure when being tortured. It’s because they weren’t introduced to that pain at a young age. Benedict Arnold wasn’t circumcised…and we all remember what he did.

Okay I’m done. I got nothing more to say except you really don’t know how much something means to you until it’s gone. I feel really bad having said so many disparaging things about the quality and flavor of Royal DANSK cookies. Whenever I was offered those cookies, usually at holiday functions, I’d always tell the host something to the effect of, “Thank you, but I wouldn’t eat those things even if I were stuck in the middle of the ocean on a boat with no food.” And here I am. Left to ponder what I did to karma to deserve such an ironic, cosmic slap in the face, longing for one of those crumbly, dry as fuck, hardly sweet discs of wasted flour. Not really. I’d probably still pass if offered one. But I will say this; I bet, right now, somewhere my evil grandma is fuckin’ around with a miniature voodoo doll of me and a ship in a bottle and laughing maniacally. I’ll have my revenge on her come the 23rd when I get off this ship. Oh yeah you better believe I’ll be taking care of Grandma on the 23rd, probably on the 24th too. Ditto the 25th. You get the idea.

Author’s note: To all you losers out there, the title of this piece is an homage to the song, “Hunger Strike,” by the Temple of the Dog collaborative. The latter part in all caps to symbolize Chris Cornell’s wailing pipes. Are we in Tiananmen? Because y’all are a bunch of squares.