Tuna In a Can

This afternoon, around 1200 hours, I decided to prepare myself a lunchtime sandwich of tuna and mayonaise on white bread. I'm told this is a classic. Anyhow, I sat down in my reading chair and watched some afternoon television, which is ghastly. The only show I found even mildly entertaining featured a blonde lesbian woman who hoots and dances around while she interviews "guests." Enough of that.

As I drifted off to sleep, after my lunch, my mind slowly began to stir and old memories flooded in, warmly and lucidly. It was the Summer of 1939 and I had just met a strapping chap up at Fort Bragg in northern California. His name was First Mate Rodney Burns. Rod Burns and I took to one another like two constructively interfering waves. Both of our persons were bolstered and rejuvenated when we were in each other's company.

Rod Burns and I, Dick Butler, forged a pact that we were going to taste more lady that summer than we ever had before. The best way we figured---to do this---was by purchasing a portable sleeping quarters. Something we could tow behind an auto on our love quest. We wound up buying an old, beat-up Airstream, the shiny sliver aluminum things that have wheels. It was comfortable to sleep in but I must say did not circulate air very well which was not very desirable in the summer months.

One evening we stopped off at a small base in a truly backwater segment of Utah. It was nothing but a few Army men and their wives and other itinerant women who were there to service the Army men who did not have wives. We danced and drank the night away. I knew better than to expect any kind of lady tasting in an area so overrun by bucks. But old Rod Burns---he did not quit that easily.

Rod settled his sights on a straggler who was all alone at the end of the bar. No one bothered to pay her any attention, the poor thing. She was slim up top, a decent countenance, not bad. To shorten a drawn out courting, Rod Burns managed to get her home back to the Airstream. I did not immediately follow. In fact, I wound up drinking too much rum sauce and fell into a drunken stupor under the bar.

The next morning I gathered myself and went back to where we had parked the Airstream for the evening. Well, let me tell you something. The inside of that trailer smelled worse than any mackerel dump I have ever witnessed on any wharf anywhere in the world. Holy hell. I love you!

The Great Muskellunge

What was the Lord thinking when he melded the fire of Satan with the survival instinct of a roach?

The great Chippewa Flowage is a crystaline, cool body of water that sprawls southward from Canada down into the wastelands of Wisconsin; carved not by the indiscriminate hand of the glaciers but by the gentle touch of time and sediment.

This was where I found myself on a rather nasty and brutish morning in the Autumn of 1928; the heart of the inter-war years; a well-rounded good time for all.

A good friend of mine at the time, Jules Gotleib, was living near the flowage running a saw mill, capitalizing on the great timber harvests happening along the Canadian frontier. During the relatively brief time that he had been living in the area of the flowage, he managed to develop a very hearty appetite for muskellunge roe. This roe you see is not easy to come by. In fact, a man can fish his entire life and never catch a muskellunge. But Jules Gotleib pined for the muskie roe with a desire as depraved as that which he craved the loins of his deceased wife.

He begged me to go fishing with him.

As a Retired Rear Admiral, or any Navyman for that matter, I take to the sea for one reason, and that reason is warring. To fish for pleasure is to insult the sea. But, to see the way Jules Gotleib was aching and writhing for the roe...I could not take it. I capitulated and agreed to go muskellunge fishing with him.

So onto the flowage we rode in a respectable mahogany dingy named "The Musker."

The first half of the early morning was spent chumming with salmon fry and worm guts. Then, after a quick repast of raccoon liver and brandy we took to the actual fishing.

Alternating between casts and chants, Jules and I sang and entreated the fish. "Oh ye faithful mutt of the lake come see what is me, I have hand over snout to tear it out, the roe that lies within thee." I did find this rhyme rather strange and not something that I wished to repeat, but I could see that Jules had begun to sweat, falling deeper and deeper into roe withdrawal. And so, I indulged him.

If you are still reading this entry and looking for some kind of happy ending then I suggest---urge rather---you to stop reading, for this story has none.

By the arrival of day's end, Jules Gotleib's muskellunge roe withdrawal had reached a pitch that I have never seen before. He was frothing at the mouth, wagging his tongue back and forth, and wild eyed. I did not relish being alone on a boat with him at that moment. I knew that something terrible was bound to happen: his roe lust had reached an unquenchable point.

With out any ceremony, Jules Gotleib leaped from his seat, rapidly disrobed, and grabbed his flacid member, pulling it at a 90 degree angel away from his pale belly. He then retrieved his fillet knife from his trousers on the floor of the boat and with his member still in his clutch and he lopped it off.

At this point, I was in utter shock, not knowing what Jules was capable of next. To my surprise and horror, he put his severed member into his mouth, biting it in the crazed way a pirate bites his bowie knife when he's about to maraud a ship, and yelled, "All muskellunges like the taste." He dove off the boat into the cold murky waters and was never seen or heard from again. I love you.

The Season of the Great Pestilence

The way I see it, there are relatively few things that Myrtle Beach (home to my retirement community condominium village) or the entire state of South Carolina, for that matter, has to offer. There are a few beaches, there is a large coastal swath (which every Admiral admires) but otherwise, the state is a wasteland for hillbillies and vapid vacationers.

Of course, every generalization has its exception. And I do believe that I have discovered the one diamond in the rough stream of transient carnies who visit our blasted town: The Women's Professional Volleyball Tour

Oh, the bronzed salt cured gams that I witnessed this past weekend when the athletes strolled into town.

Mind you, I have not seen someone playing volleyball since Captain Hornish made it onto one of the minor league professional teams in Papua New Guinea during the summer of '48. Eventually, he was removed from the league for making a deal to throw matches with a local child slave labor trafficker, but that is another story, to be told on another occasion.

On Saturday morning I retrieved 60 cash dollars from my sock drawer bank, put on a clean pair of sweatshorts, and decided to walk down to the beach to see if I couldn't get close enough to gaze the women who were there to play.

Much to my surprise, the tickets were discounted for people 55 and older. Moreover, after I flashed them my Retired Rear Admiral ID card, they asked if I would like to serve the inaugural first serve to the reigning women's beach volleyball champion Gabrielle Adams. Without hesitation, I obliged.

First, before the inaugural serve ceremony, there was a photo opportunity with the players and me, since I was chosen to serve the inaugural first serve. Let me make one thing abundantly clear, here, before I go any further. I have not achieved an erection since 1987. I might have achieved one in my sleep at one point or another but I have no documentation to suggest as much.

I will assume that you are capable of piecing together the rest of this story: I sat down in the chair in front of the photographer from the Myrtle Turtle Beach Comber;one Ms. Gabrielle Adams sat on the old Retired Rear Admiral's lap; that old Retired Rear Admiral came to life beneath her; she screamed; I celebrated; the Retired Rear Admiral was relieved of his inaugural first serve duties post haste. I love you.

You Learn Something New Every Day

Last night. Strike that.

First, forgive me for my lapse in publication. I have spent the better part of the past two weeks dealing with a case of recidivist syphilis. The physician tells me that even though the halfbreed of a doctor in Calcutta told me that I just had, "Dam Charabati" which loosely translates to love sores, I did in fact have something more serious, ie syphilis. And now that I'm older, with a weakened immune system, the whore's malady has come back to bite me, again.

It burns when I urinate and it hurts my mind when I'm not urinating just thinking about the next time I will have to urinate. I will grin and bear it through this entry though because there is something of superb importance that I need to tell you.

From the first day that I moved into my retirement community condominium I have been suspicious of a young lady (there are, by the way, not supposed to be young anythings living here, this is a retirement community for Godsakes) who lives in the first unit near the south entrance gate. She is a strange bird. She comes and goes at odd hours and does not have gainful employment, as best I can tell. I would expect that with her lack of employment she should look indigent and smell foul. But she does not. In fact, she is quite well put together---a real coquette, by my estimation.

Needless to say I was developing a middling obsession with her. I could not manage to stop thinking about her. If only I were twenty years younger, I thought to myself, I'd break into her condominium, wait for her on her bed wearing nothing but a Burmese loin cloth, and rob her of her essence while she appreciated and fell in love with my being. This of course was all in my head; I can barely lance the syphilis pustules on my groin let alone o'perch retirement community condominium walls with love's light wings.

In any event, this has all come to pass. I found out from Retired Deck Officer James Berphus that she's a Lot Lizard, that's truck stop whore for those of you who don't know. I love you.

Diluvial Condominium

Holy Heaven, the rains have come----prayers answered!

Our shortage of rainfall has been the big talk around South Carolina these past few months; my elder berries in the starboard side yard have not budded nor has my mountain grass in the port-side side yard. Up until yesterday morning, the entire retirement community looked like a dusty Hooverville circa 1931: barren, starved, and dry.

On Tuesday evening the tawdry weather woman on the local evening news broadcast predicted that we were in for some heavy rains. In rare fashion, she was actually right. By Wednesday morning the precipitation had begun. Starved soils and flora were being fed; all was wet and glorious, indeed.

All was glorious, that is, until my roof partially gave way. Exposing me and the interior of my retirement community condominium to the downpour.

In no more than two hours my living room went from resembling a stately Admiral's quarters to looking like a flooded galley on a ramshackle Carribean Rum Ship. Immediately, my seafaring survival instincts kicked in and I began building a float dingy. I took three rolls of aluminum baking foil and the cushions from my sofa and lashed them both to my walker. Finally, I mounted a metal pan on the walker to use as a fog horn.

For the next 36 hours I paddled my way around the retirement community condominium performing chores as usual: cooking, ingesting health pills, tending to pressure sores, and performing my twice-daily self-flagellation routine, working from the shoulders to the buttocks and 'round to the groin.

Quite honestly, I am glad that my domicile flooded. It was like being in The Navy all over again.

Today, I report from the deck of my float dingy: the waters have receded and I am dry docked in the middle of my living room with ruined sofa cushions and no walker for walking aid. No matter, it was worth it. For nearly two glorious days I was not Retired Rear Admiral Richard Butler but Rear Admiral Richard Butler, again.

I love you.

Losing the Craneheart Award

My minions,

This past Friday evening I was awarded the Craneheart Peerless Award for courage by The Navy. It was a great honor, a thrill, really.

The kind people at the church recorded the event and have sent me the acceptance speech transcript. I thought you might like to read it.


RETIRED REAR ADMIRAL RICHARD BUTLER ACCEPTANCE SPEECH

[Craig Scuntz addressing the attendees]

Mr. Scuntz
Hello and good evening fellow seaman. We are gathered here this evening to honor a great man, a great Navyman, the Retired Rear Admiral Dick Butler. Please join me in welcoming him to the dais, here he is. Here he is. He's coming now. Here he is. Rear Admiral Dick Butler.

[Mr. Scuntz begins weeping]

[Mr. Scuntz still weeping]

[Mr. Butler hobbles onto the dais]

[Mr. Butler to Mr. Scuntz]

Mr. Butler
Get a hold of yourself you ninny. Stop crying. Stop crying you sap. I'm here to talk, you're ruining it. Get off. You're a queer. You are why we have a bad reputation.

[Mr. Scuntz attempts to embrace Mr. Butler]

Mr. Butler
Away. Off of me.

[Mr. Butler hits Mr. Scuntz in the knee with his cane]

[Mr. Scuntz exits stage left]

[Mr. Butler into the microphone]

Mr. Butler
Am I on? Is this thing working?

[to Mr. Butler]

Transcriber
Yes. It's on. Go ahead.

[Mr. Bulter begins his speech]

Mr. Butler
The Sea has been good to me: As a child I never knew the Sea, then it was all I knew, and now, as an old man, it is all I can remember.

[A young man heckles Mr. Butler (unintelligible)]

Mr. Butler
Be quiet. You. Deck boy. Shut your yap.

Young Man
I’m your son you cunt.

Mr. Butler
Pardon?

Young Man
You raped my mother in Puerto Rico.

[Large Navalman escorts the shouting young man out of the audience]

Mr. Butler
Good grief. That’s not possible.

Ah. Ah. Yes. So it is a great honor to be here this evening…

[Mr. Butler begins staggering]

[Mr. Butler begins to moan]

Mr. Butler
Ohh. Hornish. Hoooooooorniaash. Ohhh.

[Mr. Butler removes his boots]

[Mr. Butler removes his pants]

[Mr. Scuntz approaches Mr. Butler]

[Mr. Butler begins urinating on Mr. Suntz]

[Mr. Scuntz shrieks]

Mr. Scuntz
Ahh. Oh my God. Heathen. He’s godless. Arrest him. Take him away. The award is revoked.

Mr. Butler
Good, you ninny. You’re why the Navy is the laughing stock of the armed services today. I would cut your throat if I weren’t drunk.

[Mr. Butler is taken into custody by a Naval Policeman]

I love you.

A Major Award

Today I retrieved the mail to find this:

Dear Retired Rear Admiral Mr. Richard Butler,

It is with great pleasure that we inform you of our plans to bestow on to you the greatest Retired Rear Admiral honor that a Retired Rear Admiral can receive.

Please join us on May 10th, 2000 hours at the South Carolina Methodist First Second Home Church to receive the Craneheart Peerless Award for Courage.

The award ceremony will be followed by refreshments and a chant along led by Retired Admiral Mr. Richard Dryfus.

We look forward to honoring you.

Sincerely,

Craig Scuntz

THE NAVY


It would appear that I will need to begin un-mothballing the formal dressy blues and finding a date. It has been too long since I've been awarded; I await the ceremony with great vim.

Time for some Chopin and mustard pudding. I am a happy man. I love you.

Leave it to the Russians

Har har har. This morning I woke, spent a half of a full hour pumicing my feet then set about reading the morning paper. I happened on to a delightful story about a good old Russian boy who was out cavorting with his men and had a bit too much to drink (I doubt whether or not there is such thing). He stumbled home; raided the refrigerator; shoved a few bangers in to his mouth; and nodded off. However, he awoke to his wife telling him he had been stabbed in the back.

From what I gather, if it wasn't his wife who actually stabbed him, he was stabbed somewhere between leaving the place where he was imbibing a little Russian nectar (vodka), and when he arrived home? Peculiar, I suppose.

Although, I can tell you that I have had more than one similar experience of my own. I was with Deckhand Mercurser on a secret mission to pickup a super-charged outboard boat motor in Tijuana back in 1971. We took one of the Jeeps from the base in San Diego and headed for the boarder on our day off. We must have arrived in Tijuana around dinner time; that's when we met Ramon and Gerard. Two mild, bronzed, short, Mexican chaps with the motor connection.

We spent the next 12 hours living it up, drinking tequila and playing man-on-man beach volleyball. It must have been 600 hours by the time we nodded off on the beach. When I woke up to the scorching sun I noticed that I had a 7-inch-long, inch-wide burns on my thighs and stomach. It was like someone was rubbing something hot on me while I was sleeping. Ramon and Gerard told me it was a sand eel; I never did figure it out. I also never got the motor. I love you.

Captain Hornish Has Arrived

My fine friends, the mortal remains of Captain Hornish arrived today, in all of their splendid glory.

For those of you who are new to the Retired Rear Admiral Richard Butler Diary, I will painfully remind you that one of my dear friends, Mr. Captain Hornish, was eaten by a Giant Mekong Catfish a few weeks ago on the Mekong River.

His pickled penis and epaulets now rest on the mantle above my faux fireplace.

I love you.

Marauders in the Mind

My minions:

I suffered a terrible Korean War flashback this morning and it has rendered me useless. I spent almost all of the day splashing around in my bathing tub throwing raw hot dogs at enemies who were not there.

No matter, everything looks like it's on the up and up now so I should be back to my old self by tomorrow morning. I plan on having a corn tonic before bed, that usually does the trick. I love you.

Incapable Capable Hands

Hello. Yesterday, I went to prepare my usual, Monday morning repast of Lake Trout and strawberries when I realized that I ate my last trout last week (Goddamnit!)

I have a magnet on my refrigerator that came pre-affixed when I purchased my retirement community condominium: it advertises Capable Hands, a free automobile service for the elderly in and around the Myrtle Beach area. So I called.

Some two hours later, a young, ruddy-faced, wench picked me up in a dilapidated automobile van. She was nice enough, but a very slow driver. Repeatedly, I scolded her for driving like an idiot; I also told her she could stand to lose some weight.

Eventually, we arrived at the Publix market; I got out of the van and did my business.

When I returned to the Capable Hands van, the hog driver wench had the gall to say that I took "long enough." At this point, the Rear Admiral in me took over and I bashed her in the face through the open driver side window with the raw Lake Trout that I had just purchased. She shrieked like the ninny that I knew she was and sped away.

So that's why I did not have an entry in my diary yesterday: I only returned home this morning. My odyssey from the market back to my home took me the better part of 24 hours. I love you.

An Ode to Hornish

For those of you who have not read my previous entries, I will be brief. My dear friend Captain Hornish was eaten by a Giant Mekong Catfish last week.

Long ago I was broke, temporarily court-martialed, and addicted to heroin; living in New Orleans and playing in a Creole jug band. So I decided to write this song for Deceased Captain Hornish. I love you.

P.S. This previous entry will give the song the requisite context.

Here is "Hornish's Lament"

A Fan to Some a Menace to Me

I lay in bed this morning gazing toward the window off the starboard side of my retirement community condominium master bedroom bed transfixed by the rhythmic whirling of the small electric table top fan that I purchased from a Walgreen's several months ago.

This fan, its noise, the constant droning, it comforts me, in a way. Without it, I would sleep and wake in utter silence---that terrifies me. However, on this particular morning the circular whirling of the fan put me into a trance and I was immediately transported to another time---another life, really.

I was 18 years old, just a little boy who knew nothing about the world. I had been Shanghaied and forced aboard the HMS Conch by a rouge Navy recruiter who was, in fact, not even working for the Navy anymore but had brokered some sick deal with a few of the homosexual engine men working aboard several Navy Destroyers.

This rouge recruiter, whose name I have forgotten, would take young men out on the town in San Diego and get them liquored something fierce. I recall him buying me several rum drinks...they were called...ah...yes...Slippery Seamans. And so I imbibed enough Slippery Seamans to deprive me of any modicum of good judgment. When I woke the next morning, I had signed up for a 2 year tour of duty aboard the HMS Conch. Oh the terror I felt upon being presented with my papers of commitment. I hadn't, at the time, even a velleity of interest in becoming a Navyman. But so I had, and so I would.

The next few months are a blur. I remember being taught how to shovel coal in the engine room and not understanding why it had to be done nude and in tandem with another man. I was more than capable of lifting a shovel's worth of coal myself, but the Captains insisted that we straddle one another buttocks-to-crotch wise and do it that way. The experience was not entirely bad. It was the most conditioned my body has ever been. I was by all accounts a Grecian adonis.

So that was that, my time aboard the HMS Conch. I love you.

Greatest Fears Realized

Hello. It is with great regret and sadness that I report this afternoon the news of Mr. Captain Hornish's passing.

Yesterday's ruminations caused me to think about Captain Hornish a great deal. Late last night I worked myself into a frenzy and ultimately made a phone call to the renegade branch of the Thai merchant marine that Hornish, supposedly, was Captaining.

It seems that the rumors were true: he and an inordinately muscular and masculine gang of ladyboys had taken control of the merchant marine and turned it into a de facto pirating operation. Over the course of the past 15 years Captain Hornish and his band of sissy soldiers were raping and pillaging tourist boats---the details are too sordid to recreate. Nonetheless, this is how he chose to live out the twilight of his life and I will not pass judgment upon him.

The telegram that I received a few hours ago informing me of his death describes that on one of his recent "missions" he had developed a pressure ulcer and it had begun to fester. Unfortunately, for the Captain, much of his time as a marauder was spent in and around the Mekong River. Anyone who knows the Mekong knows that it is home to the Giant Mekong Catfish, an absolutely docile and harmless giant, bottom feeding beast that can reach enormous weights and lengths. As I said, the Giant Mekong Catfish is harmless, unless, unless, you have an open wound. The scent of human blood and infection turns the beast from a nonchalant catfish into a ferocious thing with an unquenchable blood lust.



And so it was Captain Hornish's fate to be torn to bits by the giant fish. All that was left of him were his epaulets and a small piece of his penis. The head ladyboy of his operation has promised me that his remnants will be delivered to me within the next week; his epaulets in a small box and his penis in a small jar of preservative. God rest your soul Captain Hornish. I love you.

A Candied Delight

Last evening I was feeling especially chipper; for a Monday evening, especially. I am not sure where this flooding of essence came from, I have not been with a woman in 27 years and 11 days.

I took to the veranda off the southwest side of my retirement community condominium to spy the traffic coming in and out of the local whore's condominium. I counted three men coming and going over a 4 hour span. I cannot say whether or not I would indulge if I were given the chance. I fear that my reduced physical capacities might prevent me from pleasing a woman, even a whore.

In 1961 Captain Hornish and I were furloughed in Buenos Aires for a long time, we had many idle hours with one another. We enjoyed evening beach runs and morning mojitos in the bathing tub. It was truly an enjoyable period of my life, that is, until he found out that he had impregnated a Thai ladyboy at some point over the course the past year and he had to go to Asia at once. That was the last time I saw Captain Hornish.

In any event, I am going to finish my beet salad now. I have garnished it with corn crackers and sweet beads. It should be delectable. I love you.

Let's Not Guild the Lilly

I rose very early this morning; 0400 or 0500 at the latest. Something in my retirement community condominium was making me feel uneasy? I had already urinated the requisite 7 times throughout the night. My last solid bowel movement was less than 12 hours ago, as I counted. What in blasted hell was it?

Ah yes, I remembered...the toast that I was milking was left out on the table. You cannot ever leave a milking toast out over the night. The toast had turned rancid and peppery; absolutely not fit for consumption. And now, I am left to decide whether or not to try again. I confess, I am very afraid that I haven't the composition for another effort.

It was either '75 or '76, I cannot promise which, when the free spirit of the free livers and thinkers was finally dying. I dare say that I felt ambivalent about the direction our nation was headed. I am a man of tradition and a man of the sea.

The rules of the sea do not always agree with the edicts of the land dweller. I had by this point, grown more than accustomed to the fleshy tyranny of the sea. Self abuse was not only permitted but encouraged on the ships. Time was passed, hell--entire wars were passed, getting lost in and exploring the folds and convolutions of the male form. And now, I was faced with the shame that seed spilling drew from the terra firmites. I am strong but I am week. This post is dedicated to Captain Hornish: a true friend and guide of the spirit. I love you.

Good Afternoon from the Deck

Hello. The weather is sour today. I awoke to two pigeons mating on the faux banister outside the south-facing window of my retirement community condominium. The larger male pigeon had taken the smaller female pigeon from the back and was defecating while making intercourse with her. It was a sight to see. Primitive. Joyous. Carnal.

It reminds me of February 12, 1948. I was stationed with a loose band of Norwegian Naval castoffs in the North Sea. We had been assigned the chore of investigating a massive cod die-off that was happening. No one could figure out why the fishery was on the brink of collapse when it had been healthy just months before. Nonetheless, cod are bottom feeding fish, that means they have no teeth. We used to heat the dead cod up and have our way with their mouths and then boil them and eat them. I have never felt more vigorous in my life and I have always ascribed it to the large amounts of semen I must have been ingesting each time we ate the boiled fish. I love you.