The Anecdotal Adventures of Cap'n Hooker
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Have I spoken of the symbiotic relationship between the Captain and I before? It is a common misconception that Cap'n Hooker made her first appearance in a written medium. In reality, however, she is literary ectoplasm and I am her medium.
Literary ectoplasm? Well, at the turn of the century, Charles Robert Richet researched the occult phenomena of spiritual energy channeled by a physical medium and termed them ectoplasm, only to be discredited years later by mythbusters. Monsieur Richet did not live long enough, however, to discover the phenomenon of literary ectoplasm. And so it remained obscured and hidden to modern day science, never to be revealed by the practitioners of the practice, viz we lampooners. Until now, i.e.
I shall speak at length about it, to provide clarity in this narrative.
I shall speak at length about it, to provide clarity in this narrative.
Most writers of sufficient skill possess the power to project literary ectoplasm but do not know of its existence. A great writer is surrounded by what can only be described as a small army of his characters that manifest themselves in the form of ectoplasm. Is it possible that Mark Twain knew of the presence of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn around him as he travelled to Europe in the 1890s? It is a secret that he will have taken to his grave, sadly.
On the other hand, the ectoplasmic abilities of the lampooners are well documented, of course, but are not available for reading to the populace at large. This secrecy was demanded by statute, framed in the Middle Ages by an agency whose name I am not at liberty to divulge. We are born with the ability, our books tell us, and we start displaying signs of its presence in our early teens. Of course, ordinary humans are empowered with these powers at birth too, and it often shows up in early childhood, manifesting mostly as an imaginary friend but is killed prematurely by a parent as the child heads towards adolescence. The parent of a lampooner child does not follow that course of action, instead she nurtures the ectoplasm, giving it the same love she gives her child. In time, the lampooner grows into an adult with the fully developed ability to project his characters beyond the realm of paper.
As I was born in the twentieth century, in a time when lampooners have lost their prominence in the world stage, I was reduced to the level of an entertainer, a position a bard or a travelling minstrel would have enjoyed back in the days of yore. I was good at what I did though, and my presence at parties paid my bills.
And so, it happened that I found myself taking the Captain as my ectoplasmic escort to balls and banquets, parties and programmes, jolly events and jamborees. It did not mean that I did not love my other characters; Foogy Foplin and his manservant Proffie were a comedic riot, Dave the interplanetary Casanova was suave and handsome, the Brothers-In-Arms duo of Loonan and Foogarky always had tales of bravery to tell and a merry song to sing over a tankard of ale; but somehow every invitation I received was addressed only to Mr. Lampooner and the Captain. It was inexplicable.
"It is quite explicable, actually", said an all too familiar voice.
I did not have to turn around. I knew who it was.
"Think back to the Christmas of '53 and it shall remain no longer a mystery."
And I dredged my memories, travelling back in time, until the dials showed twelve, nineteen fifty-three. I was in a lodging house, it was snowing outside, the framed photograph on the wall above the mantelpiece was of a political leader whose face was blurrily obscured. I was asked to pay for my lodgings, in cash or kind and finding myself low on finances I chose to offer my services as payment. They readily agreed, cold wintry afternoons could get monotonous they said and welcomed a song or two. I had to explain what a lampooner did; songs were not our forte, and offered to narrate a story. They gathered around and I closed my eyes and summoned Loonan from the depths of my mind.
The barbarian was not amused at being summoned past his bedtime. He was in a cranky mood and demanded ale, much to the delight of his audience. As the right hand of his ectoplasmic form gripped the tankard that was offered to him, the viewers clapped. This was magic to their eyes. Loonan gulped it down and burped loudly. The children laughed. He did not sing a merry song however. His ectoplasmic form glowered red with boredom and impatience and went back into my head.
I had no luck with my other characters too. They claimed to be occupied and refused to do a favour for their medium. So I had no choice but to ask the last person who I would have considered asking. Captain Hooker, the sauciest scourge of the Seven Seas, or so she claimed. She came into my employ recently; I had created her as the villainess of a children's story where she was supposed to die a horrible death in the briny deep. Dying was the last thing on her mind though, and she sent my handsome hero walking down the plank. And thus, the story never got written. She remained in my head after that, never begging to be written about, but always silent and melancholic.
I expected her to be in a similar mood when I manifested her, but I was wrong. She took a tankard that was offered to her, gulped it down, twice as fast as the barbarian, asked for another, gulped it down again in record time and then guffawed loudly.
"This be no grog!", she exclaimed, wiping the foam off her lips, "but I love me this drink. It shivers me down to me timbers!"
"It's called ale", I said, "It is brewed from barley crop."
"Ale? Aye, I shall drink one more!", and she signalled for another.
As she drank heartily to her health and mine, I narrated the story of the slimy seaweed of the Sargasso Sea. As I reached the point where the Captain's ship gets mired in the green mass, a young lad stood himself up and exclaimed in a nasal tone, "I don't believe you! Seaweeds don't sing!". He was referring, of course, to the singing seaweed I was talking about, which drew sailors towards its deathly trap.
"Mister Lampooner be right, young lad", said Cap'n Hooker, joining in, "They 'ere called were-seaweed, they be singin' so beautiful that even 'em Sirens o' Sirenum Scopuli go green in envy. I swears I see 'em with me own one eye!"
The boy stared at the Captain in awe. "What happened to your other eye?", he asked.
"Nothin'", replied she, smiling, "I be hidin' it under this patch to claim my pirate pension."
And she told the boy about the hardships she faced while buccaneering the seas. The booty was not so bountiful these days, so she had to depend on the pirate's pension to make ends meet. The nautical rules stipulated that a pirate was to be identified by his eyepatch and the parakeet on his shoulder.
"Then where is your parakeet?", the curious little boy asked next and the Captain related the sad tale of the demise of her bird, the Jolly Dodger.
They wouldn't let her sleep that night. She was a good sport, answering questions until dawn when she sleepily crawled back into my head. I too did not sleep that night, but now I knew more about Cap'n Hooker than I knew about all the characters I have created in my lifetime.
And so it happened. Cap'n Hooker became regular fare in my performances and I now remembered why every invitation I received was addressed to the both of us.
And the identity of the all-too-familiar voice? That was Cap'n Hooker herself. Why was she speaking like that, in a tone of high culture, instead of the lingo of the High Seas? Well, in autumn '64, we were rehearsing a show for the King and...
"And now, we present the tale of Cap'n Hooker and the scaredy-cat Ninjas!", I announced with a dramatic wave of my hand, standing in front of the mirror, "Prepare to go on a journey to the Orient, where-"
"I reckon 'Cap'n Hooker and the Cowardly Ninjas' be a better name fo' the tale", interruped she.
"Yes, the tale of Cap'n Hooker and the Cowardly Ninjas! Prepare to ... wait! How did you come up with that?"
"scaredy-cat be a colloquialism, Mister Lampooner. Do ye think it be soundin' right in a mystical tale o' the Orient?"
"Colloqualism? Isn't that a rather big word for you to use?"
"Ye don't want to be knowin' where I be educated", she replied, winking.
My eyes bulged. It couldn't be. "Oxford?"
She nodded gleefully.
"Then why do you speak like, well, like a pirate?"
"For the Pirate Pension, ol' chum. One has to maintain appearances and all that. Do you remember Pippin, the peg legged cabin boy of our ship?"
"Yes."
"A child prodigy. Probably one of the finest minds of this generation. Forced to act mute for his pension."
I goggled.
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When, where, how, why did Cap'n Hooker study at Oxford? Well, that is a tale for another day.
posted by foogarky @ 8:24 AM,
1 Comments:
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At 11:31 PM,
Mihir Pathare said...
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Bravo!
I wants moar!!
And when doies the bootiliscious capn hooker take her top of?? :S
The Author
foogarky
foogarky is the pseudonym of the fictional construct who battles for supremacy with other constructed personas in the mind of a crazed individual. He describes himself as a man living in a non descript house in Rio De Janiero, Brazil with two dogs and a parakeet.
About This Blog
The Loony Lampoonist serves to parody, spoof and satirize everything that needs to be parodied, spoofed and satirized. Due to the fictional nature of this electronic journal, any anecdotes appearing here ever so often that seem to be personal in nature, would suffer from the effects of conflicting personalities, the creation of fictional events and the inclusion of non existent characters who did not make it to the big league in the author's literary works. Thus, the Loony Lampoonist is also a purgatory for characters and ideas that have missed the limelight.
