Unlike Marty’s story, we don’t have any idea who those other guys are, or why that guy has that keyboard, but Massi has been proclaimed the “Finest Spoon Player Ever at Dooley’s.”

The barkeep was a little confused by Massi’s request for “wooden spoons” and replied in his best Boston, “Ya meen lahk sah-lad spuhns?”

You can see the metal soup spoon result of great moments in International communication.

Just in case you’re home, nursing a hangover and are feeling sorry that St. Patrick’s Day and the attendant drunken silliness is over for another year, fear not!

The Mariners are gearing up again for the Mystic Irish Parade which is right around the corner. And by gearing up, I mean I have to figure out which corner of my truck I threw my uniform into and perhaps, if it really really really needs it, wash the shirt and pants. Never, NEVER the jumper.

Notice two things: my jumper is hung up (on a hanger) AND I know where it is.

“Woody,” the latest legend-in-the-making incarnation of the pirate in chains, was at my house last night, begging for more leather to replace the shackles and chains he lost in New Haven. He claims there was a woman involved. I say, Who loses their chains? Ridiculous. In case you’re wondering, I gave him the leather, but only on the condition that he stand up on a bar in Mystic and sing us a song.

Anyhow, the Parade is running quite late this year because Easter Sunday is running exceptionally early.

Aside from the Mariners, the other guests of note are available here. A quick perusal yields many of the usual suspects, but one new group of four footed fame was brought to my attention, The Budweiser Clydesdales. Now I can’t say that I’m a big Budweiser fan, but I have enjoyed some of their advertising in years past.

Here’s the original classic:

And here’s another, that makes me glad there’s a whole summer of shenanigans ahead.
The Parade steps off @ 11am, from the lot opposite Mystic Seaport Museum and ends up just across the drawbridge. The Mariners will then be seen throughout town wherever fine beverages are found.

Only seven more days before the Mariners open their 2008 season on the windy streets of New Haven. We’ve been in spring training since late January and can only hope our tunes, hands and hearts are ready. Some of us also hope we know where our uniforms are.

It’s been 49 years since a group of Guilford Men decided they and the Fife and Drum world were both ready for this group, and as we prepare for our 50th Anniversary Festivities for the summer of 2009, we tip our collective bandannas to their visionary brilliance.

The current incarnation of the Mariners is also full of visionaries- from the musical, to the theatrical, to the poetic, to the just plain ludicrous. Here’s two now:

Anyhow, another such latent talent has emerged in the last decade in the form of our own “Little Dick” (another story entirely) giving us his own version of ‘100 bottles of beer on the wall’ or ‘the 12 days of Christmas.’ He posts a tidbit for each of the 100 days leading up St Patrick’s Day (differently each year, dear reader) I could try and wax philosphic, somehow trying to explain these bits of witty and truly trivial bits of knowledge, but instead, I’ll share seven with you, for the days until the Mariners take to the streets of New Haven.

Seven: “96 days until SPD in NH (AND a fun sexual position for dyslexics!). ”

Six: “88 days until SPD in NH. 88 is a great number. It is a numeric palindrome; it reads the same forward and backward. It also reads the same upside-down! Finally, it is the hull number for INDIGO; she was the 88th boat of her type produced. 88 is the number on our sails. ”

Five: “64 …will ya still need me, will ya still feed me….”

Four: “56 days until SPD in NH. 56 is the sum of the first six triangular numbers (making it a tetrahedral number), as well as the sum of six consecutive PRIMES (3 + 5 + 7 + 11 + 13 + 17). Adding up the divisors of 1 through 8 gives 56. Since 56 is twice a perfect number, it is itself a semi-perfect number.”

Three: “49… Little Dick, sorry to steal your thunder, but I was awake, and I’m so fired up about the parade, and so bummed out at nothing new to read on the board I figured I’d post Saturday’s count for you. I know, it was out of line. Sorry.” J.Mawn

Two: “33 days until SPD in NH. Rolling Rock - From the glass lined tanks of Old Latrobe we tender this premium beer for your enjoyment as a tribute to your good taste. It comes from the mountain springs to you. “33”

One: “27 days until SPD in NH. 27 is a perfect cube (3×3x3=27). If you are 27 years old, the last time your age was a perfect cube was when you were 8 (2×2x2) and probably didn’t notice. The next time will be when you are 64 (4×4x4) and probably won’t notice again!”

Well, that’s our countdown and a random selection of the brilliance that is our own Little Dick.

Parade steps off at 1pm, The Mariners will be at Rudy’s shortly after sunrise.

Here is a funny story…

So the Mariner Christmas Party was last night and a good time was had by all. Though to most this appears to be a fairly ordinary, fairly yummy bottle of Jameson’s, it’s route to the Firehouse was somewhat roundabout.

 

The Mariners have a goodie/gift raffle at this party that has become nothing more or less than a bottle grab, mostly of beverages to be consumed late that night or at the Christmas Muster in Old Saybrook the following day.

Our very own Roger Hunnewell had the good fortune to win this bottle, neatly wrapped and safely stowed in a showcase tube. Roger was pleased, as the mystery bottles are often not so yummy. To our horror, he was adamant that he was neither going to open it that night nor share it. Dick and I were well lubricated, if not yet over-served, and we might have been a tad envious, as Boston Bob Terelak’s bottle of Tullamore Dew was approaching levels not seen north of Lake Lanier.

While Roger was distracted, which was almost constant that night, some dick removed the important contents of said display cannister and replaced them with a collection of salt and pepper shakers removed from the par-tay tabletops. Dan’l was reminded NOT to leave the contraband Jameson’s stashed at the soon-to-be-demolished VFW.

In the end, Bob went home with an empty bottle, Roger went home with a tube full salt and pepper shakers, and well, the Jameson’s is on it’s way to Old Saybrook with me. Thanks Beav.

A New England afternoon in early summer. You know the kind: blue skies, white clouds, sugar maples swaying to the moisture laden air, sweet with salt fresh from Long Island Sound. All the peace and tranquility of a quiet Connecticut town.

Until the ‘entertainment’ began. I had never seen or smelled anything like it. The sulfurous roar as the canon announced their approach. If I could understand ‘canon-ese,’ I would certainly have heard it crying, ‘Fag a Baile! The Mariners are coming!’ And then the sea of red and white stripes and hats and ‘kerchiefs and pewter swinging at hips, and oh, the continued roaring of the drums and the wailing of the fifes as they got closer and closer, until I could see the tooth baring yelps of men, the barefoot-swagger, the pirate in chains leaping through the crowd, matched in enthusiasm and vigor only by the children jumping up and down for joy at the spectacle.

I know. I was 8. I was one of them.

And like a boy signing on board a sailing ship, some part of me left home that morning and hasn’t returned.

It’s been 27 years since that morning when The Mariners marched into my world, never to depart. I have wondered in the interim how eight-year-old me knew, even then, that this was the thing and the place for me. There are different flashes of memory- how it moved me, the music, the noise, the commotion, the pure power and joy; I still wonder, what makes it so magical? And other things I never could have known at that point, like how talented and amazing each and every member of this disorganization is; how they have become family, friends, brothers, counselors, role models and confidants to me through the intricacies, trials and victories that have filled my days. My feelings and ideas have evolved over time, and yet, only in small and inadequate ways have I ever been able to understand or explain.

This seems to be a universal failing among Mariners. ‘Friends.’ ‘Family.’ ‘Heart and Soul.’ All the usual monikers have never explained, never painted a picture worth looking at that even hinted at the model the artist was attempting to render. I was beginning to believe the old religious mantra, “For those who believe, no proof is necessary, for those who do not, no proof is possible.” I was reminded also of a long-standing tradition among sailors to take in hand a painting or photograph of a vessel, stare at it until the smallest inconsistency or error is found in its content and then discard it, never to be looked at again. This seems the fate of definition.

And so it was with amazement and joy that, this August, in a bar, in a somewhat less than reputable section of a very old town, my good ‘friend,’ Greg Bacon, did the job for all time, capturing it for me. With seventy-five or so absolutely soused companions, he masterminded, orchestrated and conducted a cry we have all unwittingly rallied to, one that does as good a job as any at conveying who we are, and why we dedicate our lives to the relentless and sometimes reckless pursuit of human decency and dignity in the most raucous, life-loving and affirming way we know how- because simply, “We Are The Mariners.”

 

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