George the Author

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He know a lot of good pirates, though.
So, he talked to them, wrote a book, and claimed to be the utmost authority on pirates.
Except that his book was a complete fabrication.
Well, okay, the dates and events were real.
But George substituted his own name for each of the heroic pirates involved.
With each edition, George grew more bold, daring, wealthy, and famous.
Thankfully, nobody bought George’s book.
He’d appear at bookstores for signings, but nobody showed up.
Eventually, George gave up writing, and took up bowling.

George Turkel

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Instead of raiding and pillaging, he would sit back and observe his shipmates.
Sometimes, he took out a tape deck and interviewed them about their life.
Or he’d interview the villagers that they’d just attacked and looted.
Sometimes, he’d talk to slaves. Or plantation owners.
Progressive and left-wing radio stations would play his interviews.
His books weren’t best-sellers, but they were popular among the disenfranchised and the marginal.
A champion of the common man, they called him.
Or was that Studs Terkel?
I get the two of them confused.

George the Addict

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He did an awful lot of drugs.
This affected his balance, his judgment, and fine-motor skills.
Instead of helping with battles and plundering, he spent a lot of time sitting in his bunk and giggling.
Or he’d walk up to someone and say “Did you know that God spelled backwards is dog?”
And then he’d sit down and giggle some more.
The captain sent George to rehab a few times, but George would go back on the drugs again.
At least he knew where to score the best deals.

George the Greeting Card Writer

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He wrote himself encouraging Post-It Notes, such as:
He stood at the mirror, practicing his menacing leers, and telling himself that he was a good pirate.
This didn’t change anything.
But George did get a side job of writing pirate greeting cards.
With every amputation and newly-installed peg leg, his shipmates also got one of his renowned Get Well Soon cards.
How nice of him.

George’s Website

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Not that you could tell that from his website:
It had a lot of animated GIFs and flashing text. Very 1996, if you ask me.
He wanted, but a domain squatter had snatched it up before he could buy it.
The Twitter account was gone, too. And the best he could get on Facebook was georgethepirate47.
Not that George had much use for social media.
He was out at sea a lot, and satellite Internet can be very expensive.
And pirate taverns rarely double as Internet cafes.


George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Instead of swabbing the deck, he resurfaced it and painted it to create a regulation shuffleboard court.
“That’s very impressive,” said the captain. “Care to play a game?”
Unfortunately, George hadn’t thought to buy a set of pucks or cues.
“Perhaps we can make do with plates and cutlasses and other objects?” he said.
After several matches, their cutlasses they used as cues and the metal plates they used as pucks had scratched up the deck considerably.
“That’s too bad,” said the captain. “How about you swab it now?”

George the Pirate Radio King

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
His crew looted a town with a low-power radio station, and George rigged up the equipment to start his own pirate radio station.
He broadcasted music that other stations wouldn’t play.
Sea shanties, hornpipes, and other pirate tunes.
George became the most beloved radio personality among pirates across the world.
When the authorities tried to shut him down, the captain would raise anchor and sail the ship back to international waters.
One night, lightning struck the antenna and fried the broadcasting equipment.
George shrugged, and started a Spotify station.

Live a little

I picked up a shit-ton of deli at Kenny & Ziggy’s.
Going to drop it all on the table at lunch, chow down, and anybody who walks by who says that looks good, sit, eat, join us, nosh a little.
Because, fuck, what’s life about?
What’s a hundred bucks worth when you’re dead in the ground?
Stack that pastrami and tongue and corned beef and chopped liver high on the challah, slap on some mustard, cut up a pickle, and live a little.
Because that’s all you get to do… live just a little.
And don’t you fucking forget it.

Not an artist

I don’t call myself an artist.
Others do, but I don’t.
I write. I photograph. I arrange things.
I look at the world, take a step to the side, and look again.
I cover one eye, and then the other.
I dream. I set my imagination free.
And when it comes back, I listen.
I listen a lot, picking out things that inspire me.
I frustrate myself and throw tantrums.
I challenge myself to do better.
But I don’t call myself an artist.
I just do what I do.
And when I am done, I do it all over again.


I don’t do it for the money.
I don’t do it for awards or rewards, or likes or faves, whatevers.
I don’t do it to belong or be accepted.
I don’t do it to be needed or wanted.
I do it because it’s what I do.
Whatever it happens to be at the moment.
I try to capture the moment, that one moment which I can never capture.
But I keep trying. I never stop trying.
Some moments last longer than others.
And when the moment ends, another begins.
Sparks and crackles from a fire.
Until the fire goes out.