Crew Show and the Fascination with Defecation

For those of you who would DARE to say that say, people who work on ships have their minds warped and are only interested in the lowest common denominator, I give you: for an example: Our Crew Show. We did Dr. Know-It-All, with 4 officers. The hotel director, the food and beverage director, the head of security (a terrifying guy from Muldova) and the cruise director. They form a line, field questions, answer them one word at a time. We asked approximately 6. Every single answer dealt with shitting. When did they decide to become naval officers? While shitting. What are they proud of? Shitting. Who will win the (soccer term)? Manchester/Chelsea, which has big fat hairy balls. Also; shitting. What is the meaning of life? Shitting. I’m sure we could get very philosophical about why this is true. Or we could say “awesome, every single answer involved poop.” The hotel director at least threw in the word “curly” which was more colorful but if you hooked him to a lie detector, I’m sure he would be forced to indicate he heard this from another joke at some point. Did the audience love it? Obviously. Is it kind of not fair to expect a terrifying human tank Muldovan, a Frenchman, a gentle Canadian and a (foreign Caucasian)man to do semi decent jokes? Or just maybe not talk about shitting? Sages! Answer!

 

Usually we bow after an answer. Hilariously, no one except the improvisers would do it. So, a nervous gentleman improviser was to the left of the giant human tank

 

Someone else on stage (Ken-doll singer) was pimped to declare his unrequited love for a girl in the audience (beautiful, Barbie doll Ukrainian dancer).

 

We have a famous beatboxer on the ship with the acapella singers (“the most famous acapella singing group in the world”). I have now met 3 professional beatboxers. He uses a very sensitive hand mic and two mics taped to his neck, right over his vocal cords. It actually looks like he has a medical condition and the mics keep him alive.

 

If you need someone to butcher a blackout, who is too bored by something to explain it properly and therefore sets it up to fail after 20 minutes of amusing (for her) pontification on comedy and the k-word heavy inner monologue resulting in a terrible performance, my rates are high.

 

 

Improv Jam and Butts

We did an improv jam last night with a dancer, the standup, the lighting tech, a YC, all of the second city people, one of the a cappella singers, and the cruise director. It was, of course, totally delightful and totally fun and we went from around 11 p.m., when we all pretended we didn’t care about it and were too cool, until 2 a.m. when everyone was geeking out and yapping and laughing very hard that the cruise director was the funniest and made us all laugh until we were crying. The cruise director is an ex-gymnast and an impeccably polite ex-Connecticut, current Canadian with a tasteful haircut. Not the person you’d expect to play a stoner whose rock bottom moment was: “I spent a week in a dumpster once. It was all right.” Everything makes sense again.

 

I would very happily get all of the dancers in a circle and make them all get quiet and say, “now, I want you to be honest with me. In a place of total acceptance, really,” and we’d all make eye contact “WHY DO YOU WANT TO DO THIS.” And if they said “well, I love it.” I’d say, “yes, fine I understand, but WHY. WHYYY. ISN’T IT BORING????? AREN’T YOU BORED OUT OF YOUR MIND?????” Every time I see those shows, I can only imagine being in the show, ending it, finding my boss, and saying “I will never, ever do this again. I hate this, it is so boring, I can’t ever do this again or I will die. I made the wrong decision when I said this would be fun. Everyone is just looking at my butt. I’ll be in my room until you drive me out with dogs. I’m going to eat until I explode.”

 

Or I would say “can we talk about your butts? Now you two, I really like your butts. You, DANCER 443, I have noticed you have a scar on one of your buttcheeks. How did you get it and does it bother you that I notice? And you 4, when you are underlit, I have noticed that it is not flattering to your butts, and they look rippled, which seems unfair, because generally your butts are great. Now gentlemen, when you are in your Elvis costumes, I have noticed that I can tell what kind of underwear you have on your butts, and you, SINGER, have kind of a low butt and your belt looks too tight.”

 

Things I learned about today:

There is glow-in-the-dark mini-golf in Canada. People enjoy getting very stoned and playing.

 

 

Clash of Nations/Races

Crew bar ended last night with a large, 40-ish frowning mustachioed gentlemen of color (Honduras? Nicaragua? St. Lucia? South Africa? Dominican Republic?) informing myself and my Canadian roommate: “I hate white people.” I said “haha” and figured he was joking and my roommate said “what?” and he said, angrier, “I hate white people.” He said this a few more times and my roommate, who is a sweetheart and a liberal said “My name’s Ashley, what’s yours?” To which he replied “Fork you” but without the fork and a much stronger and scarier word. To which she replied, “no sorry, what’s your name?” to which he replied “FORK YOU” again with no fork. No one died, we slipped into the passenger hallway. Perhaps we shall not close down crew bar again. Also, the next morning I recognized him as the man serving my roommate an omelette. Maybe he did not recognize us because we all look the same. Fingers crossed!!

 

I had a long talk with a Romanian cruise staff guy who is just back on the ship. He is 25, and has a degree in Journalism, Fitness and one other thing. He is an ex-pro soccer player. He told me at length how Romania is so boring because everyone knows his dad and then he told me about his dad, who runs a monestary and the Patriarch there will probably be the next Patriarch if the current Patriarch (eastern orthodox pope) dies. He was fun to talk to until he said all the gypsies should be rounded up in a stadium and shot, to which I said “that’s terrible” to which he said “no, no, only the bad ones.” I was told earlier this week that all the Romanians on the ship are gypsies and they had to be taken away from jobs that required interaction with passengers. The waiters would say things like “are you finished” in a very direct and straightforward way (or rude and pushy) that made passengers complain. So Romanians run the show, but they are not the soft face for the passengers. Also, for a while the Romanians “got smart.” Instead of “just dating stripes” (officers) “they got smart and said ‘I don’t just want dinner, I want money.’” So the officers started: paying. Now it is apparently much better and the crazy underbelly prostitution section of the ship is all located on Deck 2. This is where you can get anything. We’ve been doing our laundry on Deck 2. Maybe we are taking a chance. It is usually a deserted laundry room. Maybe this is why.

I’m reading a ton of P.G. Wodehouse, because he makes me laugh so much. He has a perfect way of describing people. I shall now attempt to do same. There is one girl whose face is incredibly animated during the dancing shows. She’s a great dancer and a beautiful woman and very thin, but she has 3 main expressions.

1)      An orgiastic mother 1 second before a standing ovation for her daughter’s first and perfect piano recital. Or maybe: someone encountering a long awaited God in the flesh, holding her favorite food, dripping and steaming.

2)      A bull aiming for the toreodor’s cape, smiling because when it ate the toreodor’s brother it caused a sensation and a party with all the other bulls and that same party is going to happen tonight.

3)      Spastic, laser staring glee.

This is partially because I cannot imagine being constructed with an innate desire to dance, smiling the whole time like everything is incredible. I could only do their job as a punishment or a penance or a hostage trade. People are different.

 

 

A Ballroom Workshop

Visual present:

There is a woman reading in the library, 60-ish with short hair and glasses, who is reading via holding her lips like she wants to show you her 4 central top teeth, but is too shy to make eye contact.

 

Yesterday was the workshop. I was the peon slave who was there to simply help illustrate various concepts, so I got to do some of the exercises with people. A very laughie-lady next to me said “I NEED A PARTNER!” and I discovered she is 81, although she looked no older than 70. We do 3 exercises to show how improv works, first showing how it doesn’t, then showing how it does. Not working: you start every sentence with “no” and you go back and forth. Well, when you are 81 and are doing something just for fun, you have no need to follow rules and, frankly, what do you care about doing improv correctly. So we did the “no” sentences for about 2 rounds at which point it downgraded into “you sound like my husband. He is so negative. He never wants to do anything, he always says ‘nooooo.’ But I don’t mind. I’m 81, yes, and he’s 83. I’m here and he’s in bed (although he does have a heart condition). And really, we have a lot of fun, we love to dance.”

 

Round 2 was saying “yes, but” at the beginning of every sentence. This went well for 2 rounds and then downgraded into “I mean it, my granddaughter said ‘you’re 71?! How come you don’t have a walker or a wheelchair!’ and I’m not 71, I’m EIGHTY one. Yes but.”

 

Round 3 is saying “yes, and” at the beginning of every sentence, which went better, although she’d just throw “yes” and “and” wherever, even after starting her sentences with “no because.” Pretty great.

Animal Preserve: Barbadosh

We took a tour and got there for the afternoon feeding. The monkeys get there first and pick through the sweet potatoes and sunflower seeds. These monkeys are descendants of pet monkeys from Robert Blight of the Mutiny on the Bounty fame which is a story all should read. Sometimes the turtles don't move fast enough, which means they will be stools:

But sometimes it is more comfortable to have your potato in a tree. You know, more natural:

Here is a monkey bored, annoyed, waiting for lunch to be brought out. 

These are tortoises underfoot, which looked like paving stones. One woman accidentally stood on one. She felt terrible. 

This is proof that the world still has mystery. What the hell is this alien? That is the size of a small german shepard, and so out of proportion that it looks smaller in a photo? Why, it is half rat, half deer! Sure! Cross those! Ladies and gentlemen, a (creepy) mara: 

The Barenaked Ladies and Sarah McLachlan

The Barenaked Ladies are here. This week is a charter cruise. It’s called Ships N’ Dips and features Canadian bands from all over and is run by BNL. That’s what you say. “BNL.” Which is also the bad corporation from Wall-E, which I know because they play it on the cruise movie channel every day.

 

This morning, at 10 a.m., they had the Barenaked Photo. Everyone gets on the pool deck and drops trou at the very same time. The average age here is around 40 and there seems to be a large lesbian contingent. There was a bouncer at the entrance to the pool deck saying “you in the photo?” to people coming in wearing bathrobes or towels or whatever. Then the bouncer would say “you’ll sign the waver at the end, it’s on the other end of the pool.” One guy, not in a bathrobe or towel, said sadly “I didn’t sign up” and walked away. Since people are 40 and have sense now, people got up in time to get breakfast first and then go to the photo. Since people are 40, some of them are very large, and a few gentlemen had a hard time keeping their bathrobe shut. Two generously apportioned guys came into the buffet and held their robes shut dantily, just pinching the side.

 

After the photo, they all came out, vaguely proud of themselves.

 

Today’s quote: a large woman who is probably a grandma brought to watch the kids: “We can’t sit this far away from the buffet! This is forever!” Forever=50 yards. So. Good to know.

 

NOW: also here is Sarah McLaughlin. She is playing 3 concerts because she said “I want to take my family on vacation” and someone heard that at a party and there you go. This is how it all works.

 

My roommate and I are ushering her concert. For those of you who are of a certain age and are female, you realize this means “I am probably going to cry in public” because Sarah McLaughlin was with you when you were a cripplingly dramatic spaz and told you “there are lots of cripplingly dramatic spazzes, it’s all right.” Although back then you probably thought she was saying “you’re normal and perfect and everything you do makes sense.” PHILOSOPHY!

 

There are all sorts of Green/begreen/environmental groups on the cruise. After a year of cruising, this is making my brain short circuit. After a year of following rules, hearing a comedian say “aren’t these blinds shitty?” about the shitty blinds in the main lounge, makes me want to say “YOU CAN’T SAY THAT YOU’RE GOING TO GET FIRED!!!!”

 

Crew Funeral

The guy who passed away was named Leonard Alexander, everyone called him Alex. He was from St. Lucia, he was 51, had two twin boys and a wife who was pregnant with another one. He was 2 days away from finishing his contract and had been working with NCL for about 16 years.

 

This is all totally insane, or totally normal. They had a memorial service in the Spinnaker Lounge, the big bar where we were going to have a crew party last night, which got cancelled. I thought of about 55 reasons why we shouldn’t go, even down to “it is against St. Lucian custom, we will insult their culture,” which must be what everyone thinks to try to get out of funerals because they are so upsetting. I also heard an announcement and willed it to be an announcement saying the guy was fine and it was just a serious coma and there was a mistake.

 

My roommate and I got there just as it was starting. The lounge piano player was playing funeral music at the front of the stage on the white show piano. They brought in the flower arrangements from the chapel and set them around the stage. The Crew Welfare guy (who makes sure the crew is happy) went around asking people to sit in the middle of the audience. They were filming the proceedings to send back to his family, and wanted to make sure it didn’t look at all empty, which it wasn’t. Everyone was very somber, and if you thought about anything too long, you wanted to puke.

 

There were some “haha weird” moments, like they used the projection screen to say “Memorial Service” and had a picture of Alex with his birthday and yesterday’s date. They don’t know that you can click “view>full screen” and that will get rid of the toolbars on top and the toolbars on the bottom and the arrow and the selection handles around the picture. This is what I concentrated on, this and the cheeseball theater lighting that they had to use, with flourishes and dramatic spins, and the fact that a woman got up and said “I never met Alex and I wasn’t going to read this poem, but now I will” and made a big deal about how it was written 3,500 years ago by a king and p.s. 3,500 years ago, which is 3,500 years ago. And then she revealed that it was Psalm 23, but it was a crap new translation, so “lo that I walk through the valley of the shadow of death” was something else because that woman has no sense of tradition or ritual and she is tiny and pea brained and if someone got in a fistfight with her, maybe there wouldn’t be a memorial service. These are called misplaced emotions, and the only person I could really beat in a fight is the chaplain or whatever job that foolish simpering ponytailed flake with her crap Bible had.

 

This is basically because everything else was totally heartbreaking. The service was lead by a white woman around 40-ish who had the demeanor of a lounge singer who was used to singing. She was dramatically respectful and handed the mic off to the Swedish captain in his dress uniform, who was monotone and read a few words and a little eulogy and then a poem about life and how you are to live life happily. Then we had a moment of silence and the Ukranian piano player played a jazzy version of “Amazing Grace.” The lounge singer opened up the floor to anyone who wanted to remember him.  No one did for a while, so she smoothly asked people to sign the guest book for his family and that we could stay as long as we wanted. Then a guy came down and took the mic. He was a St. Lucian guy in all light beige, shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. He said Alex liked to give advice and was always giving advice like “save your money” and “buy something you can see, so you know why you’re working.” He talked about Alex’s family and how much he loved them, then how much Alex touched his life and gave him advice that he should have gotten from people closer to him. Then he tearfully talked about his last conversation with Alex, where Alex told him he looked like a monk because he had a bald head, which was the same haircut as Alex. And the guy said “no, I look like you” and Alex said “Well, I’m the old monk. You’re the new monk.” And it was stupid and small and trivial and I think everyone in the stupid Spinnaker was crying.

 

In between people, there was always a pause where the lounge singer wrapped it up, and then another person came down. A tough, rapper-dressed guy came down front, the kind of guy who looks like he would trade iphone porn, and could barely talk because he was so upset about the guy’s baby on the way and how excited he was for his new baby and how much he talked about it and planned, and why couldn’t he have just died NEXT year, which was funny and true and crazy and made me want middle eastern mourners to rend their garments.

 

The lounge singer wrapped it up and then my anger target came down to ruin things with her shit translations.

 

Then another guy from St. Lucia spoke, that Alex said “we’re here for a reason, not a season.” Then two more women spoke, one who read a poem that pointed out how pointless it is to get stressed out, and we all got upset. Then finally a woman came down from the casino, because Alex worked in the casino bar. She said how kind and nice he was and how he always told her that you never know what is going to happen. Then she said “we will really miss him in the casino” which was funny and true and heartfelt and insane and made me want to puke or rend my garments.

 

I then ducked out of there. All of the entertainers were probably over-emoting and I cannot keep it together in those situations. There is a collection for his family, which is very good and crew bar was nice and humane and didn’t have creepy hip hop making our ears bleed. 

 

I talked to our room steward earlier in the day who said “nah, that thing in the Spinnaker sounds…no. I’m just going to drink a couple bottles of wine and go to bed.”

 

So. I read a bunch of Chaucer and learned that “eek” meant also and they say “cleped” for named. Like “he was cleped Tony.” And tomorrow we’ll do improv where the memorial service was and use the same mics. Totally weird.