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63

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#63. I have angled for catfish in the Louisiana bayou.

Actually, ‘angled’ is probably the wrong word for it. More accurately, I dangled for catfish in the bayou that day. But, um, that doesn’t sound so good, so perhaps I should explain.

I was pretty young — maybe six or eight years old, though I could be way off. (Hey, I can’t picture it that well in my mind, and who can tell how old little kids are by looking, anyway? Lay off, would you?)

Anyway, several members of our family (Heh. He said, ‘members’.) took a vacation to Plaquemine, Louisiana, to visit my great-aunt and uncle. Or ‘Aunt June and Uncle Junior’, as our party referred to them.

(How a man could be an ‘uncle’ and a ‘junior’ at the same time was beyond my limited capacity at the time. I suspect it was just a nickname, of course. On the other hand, much of my family has only relatively recently crawled out from the woods and ‘hollers’ of some rather scary territory, so it’s entirely possible that he was simultaneously someone’s son and uncle. Sometimes I wonder whether it’s just that sort of family.)

All right, enough of that. My aunt and uncle were nice people. I’ll save the muckraking for folks who are more deserving. So, anyway, we packed two or three cars full of crap and my parents and I, along with my grandparents (mother’s side) and an aunt and cousin (ditto), drove down to the bayou for a little Cajun adventure.

Unfortunately, I don’t remember too many details from the week. I think I had a lot of fun; it’s just that with all of the other memories around it that I’m likely repressing, that week may have gotten accidentally lumped in and locked away in the vault, too. A victim of indiscriminate mental editing, if you will.

The one thing I do remember, though, is the eight or ten or so of us paddling out into the croc-infested delta river in these army-green, half-assed aluminum rowboats. Or maybe it was gator-infested. I really can’t remember. I just know that I wouldn’t so much as dip a pinky toe into the drink for fear of pulling back a bloody, ragged stub. So we were all a little on edge throughout our little swamp-fari.

But we perservered, and finally made it to a good ‘catfish-huntin’ spot’. Which is where the dangling commenced, and from what I’ve just told you, you can be damned sure that the dangling didn’t involve any part of my tender young body. So if you got this far thinking that we’re taking little Willie for a dip in the pool, you’re going to be disappointed. Sadly.

Rather, the dangling in question was done by the fishing poles that we’d brought along for the occasion. And the reason I call it ‘dangling’ rather than ‘angling’ is that there wasn’t a hell of a lot of technique being displayed by our band of fisherfolk that day. Which was okay, as it turned out, because the fish just leapt onto our hooks. I don’t know whether these were domesticated catfish, or they weren’t used to humans, or maybe there were alligators on the bottom threatening to eat them if they didn’t jump into our boats. I honestly don’t know.

What I do know is that a slightly impatient and fidgety eight-year-old-or-so kid was able to yank in more than one Fish of Considerable Size™. If you could physically hold your damned pole still for thirty seconds — that’s fishing pole, friends, fishing — then you’d get a nibble. You wouldn’t always hook the sucker, but you’d get action almost as soon as the hook hit the water. And we weren’t using any high-tech, fancy-ass equipment, either. None of that. No sonar, or radar, or gadgetry of any kind. The rods were from K-Mart, I suspect, and the bait was dough balls and bits of cheese. And still, the fish came. And came, and came, and came.

It’s what fishing should be like, if you ask me. No long waits for a bite. No tossing fish back in, because they’re no good to eat. Oh, we threw a few small ones back, but many of the fish snagged that day were sixteen inches or longer. Plenty big to add to the catch for future tasty frying. Oh, and if you’re a small child — or, I suspect, a pretty girl — there’s even someone to slip the fish off your hook for you. Which was quite nice, I have to say. My grandfather took on that particular role, and earned more than one *slice* of his thumbs for the trouble. I love ya, Grandpa, but better you than me, at least at that point.

So that’s pretty much my story, or as much as I can remember. I do have vague recollections of eating those catfish — for breakfast, lunch, and dinner — over the next couple of days, and taking quite a bit of fish back home with us. Tasty little buggers, those catfish. And I suppose I’ve never really enjoyed fishing as much as I did that day, with everyone having fun, and in a new and exciting place, with danger potentially lurking behind every rock and at the end of each hook. Very exciting, I can tell you. Boy, if only I’d have been old enough to drink beer at the time, then it would have been the perfect fishing trip!

62

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#62. I have walked through the underground catacombs of Paris.

And it’s the most indescribably creepy, screaming willy-inducing, surreal place on the planet. So, of course, I’ll describe this indescribable place. And I’ll get it all wrong. So read what’s coming, but know that you’ll have to visit it yourself to really get the idea. I’ll try to find some pictures to help, but you’ve gotta be there to really get the full effect.

First, here’s what I think I know about the catacombs before I look anything up:

Paris has been a city for many hundreds of years. People have been living, and therefore dying, there since the dawn of time, practically. Well, maybe not that long — I’m estimating, of course. But a long, long time, all right? So, they’re big into burying their dead, as I guess most cultures are. But after a while, there was really nowhere else to put them. Old bodies started washing up after heavy rains, and the contents of the oldest graveyards would shift and churn and generally make things very gross and nasty. Good for the dogs looking for something to chew on, I suppose, but generally bad for everyone else. Very bad.

So eventually — sometime in the 1700’s, maybe? — the Parisians decided that something had to be done. So they gathered up all the bones from the oldest, most at-risk graveyards, and moved them, one section at a time, into the catacombs. I don’t think the tunnels were built for the purpose; I think a lot of them were ancient passages built many centuries before, but I’m pretty iffy on that, I’m afraid. Anyway, these benevolent graverobbers took all the bones they could find, and arranged them — femurs, ribs, tibias, humeri, and skull after skull — in the alcoves lining the catacomb passages. These alcoves are large — maybe eight feet tall and just as wide, and ten feet deep or more. And into each of the dozens — maybe hundreds — of these alcoves, they piled bones in geometric patterns, decorating the piles with criss-crosses or strategically-placed grinning skulls. When they finished each, they mounted a plaque to list from which graveyard the bodies had come, and they moved on to the next one.

If I remember correctly, the estimated number of bodies represented there numbers in the millions. Not a lot of millions, but still, millions. Millions of bones from millions of bodies, arranged like art and garnished with millions of skulls. It’s truly a humbling, awe-inspiring, sacred place to see. And creepy. Spine-chillingly, did-that-thing-move, let’s-get-the-hell-out-of-here, goddamned creepy. It’s sooo cool.

Okay, two more items in the ‘Charlie’s Revised History of the Parisian Catacombs‘ version, and then I’ll look up the real info, and tell you what I’ve got wrong. (I feel just like StatBoy. Whee!) Anyway, one other thing that I remembered is that the French Resistance used the catacombs as a base during World War II. The warrens and passages criss-cross everywhere underneath the city, and thus made for a good hiding spot in which to lay low between raids. Just the thought of spending a single night down there — much less weeks at a time, with unreliable light and the stench of fear and war all around — gives me the creeping willies. I guess it beat the hell out of being interrogated by the SS, but shit — what a couple of options!

And the other thing I remember is that I think that the original ‘Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here‘ sign is posted at the entrance to the catacombs. Or something similar, in French. The details are a little fuzzy after three years’ time, unfortunately.

Okay, let’s see which facts my memory has mangled, and get you nice folks some pictoral evidence. Let’s see…

Here are a couple of facts from WebMuseum, Paris: there are bones from an estimated five to six million people in the catacombs. (Hey, so I was on target. Score one for me!) Also, the ‘galleries’ average 2.3 meters in height. (What’d I say? Eight feet? That’s pretty close, too. I’m two for two!)

Let’s see what the WebMuseum ‘Catacombs of Paris’ area has in the way of pictures. Here’s a nice one of a typical gallery full of bones. And here’s a closeup of a skull. And another, with a pirate motif. Arrrr!

Okay, what else we got? Okay, Underground Paris has some good shit. It seems that the tunnels were originally quarries, where the Parisians mined the stone to build many of the buildings around the city. According to the site, they’ve been in continuous use since Roman times. (All of which sounds pretty familiar now. But I didn’t remember, so I’ll say I missed this one. Two to one, good guys.)

All right, here we go. Check out the Underground Paris page of ‘bone heaps’ near the catacomb entrance. And while you’re there, note that the catacombs were established in 1786 (got that one, though I wasn’t very specific), and that the depth of the alcoves is typically two to three meters (or metres, if you’re one of those people; in other words, six to nine feet or so. I said ten; I’m taking partial credit. It’s not like I was off by fifty percent or anything.)

Underground Paris also has a cool map and lots more pictures of the galleries. Check it out — it’s not quite as creepy as being there, but it does bring back some dank, haunting memories. Deep breath… deep breath. Okay, moving on.

Okay, so finally, here’s a bit of info from a site simply called The Catacombs of Paris: the sign at the entrance to the ossuaries says (in French): ‘Stop! This is the Empire of Death‘. (So I didn’t quite get that one right. And Dante wrote the original ‘Abandon all hope…’ line. You’d think I might have recalled that from freshman world literature class, eh? Still, I think I came out ahead. Not bad for a guy who has to write his name on his palm to remember it, eh?)

Well, that was fun, and entertaining, too, I hope. From what I’ve read, I suppose I can’t really say I’ve been to the ‘catacombs’; the small public grave area is known as the ‘ossuary’, while the catacombs proper snake under most of the rest of the city, with three hundred kilometers of tunnels in all. There’s a whole subculture in Paris comprised of adventurous sorts who roam these tunnels, exploring and playing and avoiding the catacomb cops. There’s even a cool Salon article detailing one man’s adventure with experienced ‘cataphiles’ showing him the subterranean ropes. It’s a pretty long piece, but hey, if you read this, you’re used to it. Check it out.

And while you’re at it, book a flight to Paris, and check things out yourself. Despite butchering some of the facts and details, I can easily say that the old boneyard was the single most unforgettable stop during my one and only weekend in Paris. I’ve never seen anything even remotely like it. So get over there and see it. And then wait three years, and write all about it. Let’s see how much you remember.

61

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#61. I’m very competitive, and take challenges — especially from inanimate objects — personally.

And yes, if you’re unfamiliar with the concept, inanimate objects can throw down a challenge. Really, for the most part, they’re snotty little bastards. Something about not actually being living that pisses ’em off, I guess; I don’t really know. All I know is that more than once, the computer decides to try to make me its bitch, or my contact lens will force me into a game of hide and seek, or the pen I’m using will suddenly stop working for no apparent reason. You know, just for a laugh.

These are the battles I simply must win. Somebody has to show these bastards who’s boss. And I keep hoping that a good humiliating victory — meaning a rebooted and conciliatory computer, a found contact, or a horribly bent and pounded but now-writing pen — will teach them the error of their ways, and I can go back to just fighting with other people, and the little flying critters that try to take over our house in the summertime. Oh, and video games. Yes, I know they’re inanimate, too, but they don’t count. My blog, my rules. Nyah.

But alas, these bitchy little nuisances never seem to get the message. The sidewalk still cracks in just the right way to trip me, and the squeeze bottle of mayonnaise still won’t give up any of its contents, even though I can see that it’s not empty, damn the little pecker. And the TV remote still hides from me just when I need it most. Like when American Idol Junior is coming on, or Everybody Loves Raymond. Frickin’ bastard!

Of course, in the end, I always win. Always. For one thing, I’m persistent. And I’m crafty, and have these cool opposable thumbs to help me persuade most objects to bend to my will. But most of all, it’s because I count ‘total functional annihilation’ as a victory. Maybe I don’t get what I want out of something, but as long as it’s not around to gloat about it, I win. It’s very satisfying, and my unbeaten streak goes back for years. On the other hand, we do go through a hell of a lot of mayonnaise bottles. Even unmitigated success has its price, I suppose.

60

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#60. I never lost a game of ‘Mercy’.

Okay, so maybe this requires a bit of explanation. ‘Mercy’ is a game that we played back in elementary school. I suspect it’s played all over, though perhaps with different names. I can imagine it being called ‘Uncle’, or ‘I Give’, or perhaps ‘Ow, You Broke My Fucking Fingers, You Whore’. But we called it ‘Mercy’. That’s just the kind of kids we were.

So, how it works is this. You and your opponent face each other, and clasp both hands, interlacing your fingers together. Then, you try anything you can think of to bend the other person’s fingers backwards, using your big manly muscles. Or your big girly muscles, though this was usually a dudes-only kind of thing around our particular schoolyard. Your mileage may vary. In any case, the first person to feel their fingers about to snap and cry ‘Mercy!’ was the loser, and jeered mercilessly until the end of time. Or until recess, when they’d have a chance to redeem themselves. Whichever came first.

Anyway, I never lost at this game. Not once. Which is not to say that I was the strongest kid in my class, or even probably the toughest. But damn, do I have some flexible fingers. (Ah yes, I can hear the ladies among you swooning even now. Excellent.)

You see, I could beat my fair share of oppoenents through strength or cunning. There’s a strategy to the game; it’s a bit like boxing, only without the punching. And, um, the ring, the judges, the referee, predermined results, illegal betting, doping, cheating, greasy promoters, toothless impotent commissions, subjective scoring, division into rounds, weigh-ins, knockouts, shirtless competitors, ringmen, movies dedicated to the sport, trash talking, doctors on call, rules against biting, and girls in bikinis holding up flashcards during a break in the action. But except for those things, it’s exactly like boxing. (Of course, so is birdwatching; what the hell do I know?)

But there is some strategy involved — you can concentrate on one hand, or attack with both at once. You can try bending down from above, or up from below. You can introduce a twist, to get the other person’s wrists and elbows tied up, too. You can talk during the match, to distract your opponent, or you can stare them down to intimidate them. There are as many styles of playing as there are… um, well, fingers, probably. Yeah, something on the order of ten styles or so probably just about covers it. This isn’t go, after all.

Anyway, I could take down a lot of people with brute force and guile alone. And for the record, I liked to attack with the right, and twist when I got the victim in a bad spot. I’d simply hold my ground with the left, and take the fight to the other guy’s weak hand. (Or strong hand, if he was left-handed, though I don’t remember many that were.)

But what if the other guy had the same idea, and was *gulp* stronger? Or what if they twisted right away, dropping a monkey wrench into my game plan? Well, sometimes I could recover, and make a fight out of it, and eventually worm my way to victory. But once in a while, I was the one in a pickle. I’d fight the good fight, and charge up the hill, only to be pinned down, cut off from support and out of ammo. That’s when the magic fingers would come in handy. That, and a high tolerance for digit pain, of course.

My fingers will bend backwards from the base at a ninety degree angle without a lot of discomfort. Maybe everyone’s will; I don’t know. But I suspect that it’s fairly uncommon, or the ‘Mercy’ game wouldn’t be a lot of fun for most people. Because when I got in a jam, I’d just relax the hand under duress and let the fingers go any which way they wanted. Or, more accurately, any which way my opponent wanted. But it’s hard to bend someone’s fingers further than ninety degrees or so when you’re essentially holding their hand. Your own fingers — and that’s your own stubby, awkward, chubby little fingers, if you’re a kid — tend to get in your way. And that’s what happened. I’d essentially lose, but I’d never say the magic word. The other kid would grunt and strain, and I’d wriggle around just enough to avoid him getting real leverage somehow, and eventually, we’d end in a draw. It was one game — and just about the only game — I couldn’t lose. I was king of ‘Mercy’.

Which got me just about as much attention as you’d expect it would, which is none. But it’s still nice to have done something — anything, really — in this world, and retire undefeated. The undisputed ‘Mercy’ champion of Cammack Elementary School, in the eight-to-nine-year-old division, ultra-featherweight class. Hell, they should erect a plaque for me, or put an award in the trophy case. Lord knows nothing else of importance ever happened around that place. Mercy.

59

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#59. I can ‘go the other way’ in softball.

No, ya chowdahead, that doesn’t mean that I play for the other team. And no, it doesn’t mean that I ‘play‘ for the ‘other team‘, either. None of that.

What it means is that I can hit the ball towards right field, even though I’m right-handed. I can push the ball the ‘other way’, instead of pulling it toward left field. (Or, all too often, the shortstop.)

Why is this important? Well, I play in a more or less recreational league. Not entirely recreational, mind you. We don’t pitch to our own team, or anything. All of us know in which direction to run the bases, and which end of the bat to hold, and even what the ‘infield fly rule’ is. (And no, you cradle-robbin’ pervs, it has nothing to do with whether there’s ‘grass on the infield‘. Man, you people just don’t stop, do you?)

But it is a slow-pitch, co-ed weekend league. We don’t hold practices, or team meetings, or anything like that. Some of the people show up mainly because we go out for drinks and food after every game. We’re weekend warriors, and frankly, a lot of us aren’t all that… um, warriory. If you know what I mean.

And most of the other teams are like that, too. Which means that they’re lucky to get seven or eight people every week who really want to play, and have the experience and hand-eye coordination to do so without the likelihood of a massive self-mutilating injury. Which further means that there are a couple of people out there in the field who are thinking of something else, or wishing they were at home, or wearing their glove on their head. And those are the people you want to hit the ball toward. Naturally.

So where do most of those people end up? At second base, or in right field, where most right-handed hitters don’t go. (Yes, the first baseman is also on that side of the field, but you need someone who’s at least focused and alert enough to catch balls thrown at them by the other infielders. And if they can do that, there’s at least a chance that they’ll also manage to snare your ground ball. So you generally want to avoid first basemen.)

The approach is simple. When you get to the plate to hit, you want to take a quick glance all around the field. Find the person whose eyes are screaming, ‘Please! Do not hit the ball here! Oh, for the love of Christmas cookies, please Lord, don’t let the ball come at me. I’ll never kick my dog again, but please keep the ball away from me!‘ There’s always at least one of these. (In our league, anyway. I imagine it’s probably different in the majors. Unless you’re playing the Tigers, of course, but that’s different.)

So, you find your target. They’ll usually be at second, or in right field. So, of course, the next item on the agenda is a little bit of subterfuge. Stare down the third baseman. Take a practice swing toward left field, and stand in the box as though you’re trying to pull the ball right down the third base line. This will accomplish a couple of things. First, it’ll get the players on that side of the field all tensed up. They may even start jabbering to each other. ‘He’s comin’ over this way.‘ ‘Look alive. Here it comes.‘ Maybe they’ll even pull the people you’re really aiming for towards them for extra defense. Poor, misguided fools.

Your little ruse will also cause your target to relax a bit. ‘Ah, good. He’s not gonna hit it to me. I can go back to watching the clouds, or daydreaming about Melissa Joan Hart. Dum de dum, de dum de dum…‘ You’ve got them exactly where you want them.

Now, when the ball’s pitched, you change your stance. Step back with your back foot, and in with your front foot, and you’re ready to shoulder the ball to the right side. Wait just an extra half-beat, and slap an inside-out swing on the ball, driving it toward your quarry. If they’re lucky, they may manage to get in the ball’s way. Maybe even flag it down and keep it in front of them. But barring a miracle of some kind, you’ll end up on first base. There’s also the chance that they’ll freak, and run screaming away from the ball. Or let it go through their legs, or trip over their shoelaces trying to get to it. Now it’s a footrace. You’re pretty much guaranteed second base at this point, unless of course you’re one of those shoelace-tripping-over types yourself. And if the ball gets past them in the outfield, well — you may just go all the way. Such is the beauty of going the other way.

See, that shit doesn’t happen in left field, or even center. You’ve got to launch a ball in our league to get it past most left-side outfielders, and put it in just the right spot, too. Usually the better fielders are over there, and they know what they’re doing. They get a lot of balls hit their way, and the practice makes them better every game. Meanwhile, the right fielder is typically over there, picking his nose or scooting around the outfield on his ass like a dog, and nobody makes him pay for it. That’s why I learned to hit the ball that way. Not only does it make it easier to get on base and score runs, but I’m teaching a valuable lesson while I’m at it. If you’re out there between the lines wearing a glove — even if it’s on your foot — then you’re fair game. Either play the game, or get off the field. ‘Cause I’m comin’ after you. You’d better be ready.