Parody:
Twenty straight days of obsession over your new project. You don't eat right, you don't sleep well, you daydream about the day your character will finally set ablaze the antagonist with your loving verbs. Then you get a telephone call. Fox's MadTV plans to do a parody version of your award winning novel and they've managed to talk George Clooney and Angelina Jolie into playing the lead roles. They want you to toss together a funny little skit to poke a little fun at your novel. Can you write it down real quick? It's due today.
Ahoy
Abandoned pirate ship my ass, he thought, and he ...
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Ahoy! by Wolfgang Glinka
Dressing up as a pirate for a day is not normal in a grown man. Enjoying it is positively strange.
Ok, it was a fancy dress party, Pirates of the Caribbean, naturally and he was certainly not going to go as an octopus.
So it was to be a pirate, of course. Not just any old generic one either; it was definitely going to be Jack Sparrow.
Swashbuckling? - Well, in a way. Romantic? - Well, kinda. Funny? - Unquestionably. Camp? - More than Christmas and Halloween combined. A pirate? - Like you've never seen before.
Johnnie Depp in his greatest role....well according to this sad pirate wannabe. There was no question: the little accident-prone, sentimental, drYly humourus Jack Sparrow was one of the silver screen's great creations.
This was a grab it whilst you can moment for someone unused to glamour in any of its usually confusing forms.
It became very important even though, to be honest, it was only going to be a party. There would be friends of course, that was good, but he saw them all the time. Nothing special there. Fancy dress was something he had always dreaded - hoped to avoid throughout a life not noted for its party-going. So it must be Jack Sparrow...it was that little pirate that made it special.
He hired the costume as soon as he got the invitation. There were to be no half measures and no economies in this some how significant event.
So he got the tatty frockcoat, the faded lace cuffs, the scruffy boots and the dirty open chested shirt. His concern for detail was obsessive.
Then there was the wig.....it has to be ragged, untidy, dirty and tied in a pig tail at the back...his own thin 21st hair would be totally concealed and his appearance transformed in a secret ceremony behind his locked bathroom door.
A bit late in life to be making his mascara debut for sure but Jack Sparrow is a faded New Romantic down to his earring and wickedly decadent eyeliner.
There was some struggling, some swearing and some smudges before he emerged triumphant.
Jack Sparrow had been born again...and he was to play his part in the grandest of manners.
And so he did.
He strutted, minced even, flashed his eyes and volleyed his wit round the room. All who saw him, knew him and yet they were amazed. This was indeed his finest hour - at least as far as the office was concerned.
If anything, his drunken, exhilarated return home from the party was an even greater triumph. His teeth stained red with the wine, his movements uncontrolled and suspiciously loose limbed, his grin fixed and rapturous and his laughter verging on the maniacal.
Put simply, his family were terrified. They had never seen him so drunk, so dressed up or so happy. From their reactions it was obvious that they didn't like it. Just as they hated him staying up most of the night playing mischievous pranks.
And that was it.
Next morning, hung over, dry mouthed, dirty, he awoke feeling terrible. Scattered across the floor was the discarded costume, the wig lay on a chair ruined beyond restoration, his pillow was smudged with mascara.
None of this mattered.
He opened his eyes, stared into space and a tear formed, then another, then more.
If a pirate ship had drawn up outside his window, he would have jumped out of bed, donned his costume, buckled on his sword and with a laugh, a leap and a bit of a totter, he would have leapt from the window and sailed off for the high seas - never to be seen again.
Wolfgang Glinka
I drive by it every day, but it takes me a year before I notice the glowing red “open” sign in the window of the red house. Above it, a sign with the name of an unfamiliar Italian saint and one additional word: restaurante- doesn’t light up. It takes another six months of routine Friday night dinners out at strip mall chain restaurants before I convince my husband to venture into Alfie’s home with me.
“What you like to eat?” he asks in a halting Italian accent, smiling and placing his hands on the protruding belly of his once white apron. He’s leaning over me, scrutinizing me with his eyes.
“Do you have a menu?”
Removing his hands from his apron, he proudly presents his protruding belly, running his fingers up and down his waistline, “Is right here. What you like to eat?”
Skeptical, I raise my eyebrows and turn to my dinner companion for help. He inconspicuously rolls his eyes, but shrugs and offers an appetizer suggestion, “Fried calamari?”
“Monkey food!” Alfie throws his hands up in disgust and his face flashes dark before smiling down at us again. “How about a nice mozzarella? I make it here. Homemade. From scratch.”
Shrugging and nodding at each other, wondering what we’ve gotten ourselves into, we agree to try his homemade dish. He shuffles away from us, stopping to speak to the only other soul in the room, a tailless orange cat curled up on a dining room chair. Alfie croons lovingly to him in Italian before continuing on to the kitchen.
My husband’s eyes open wide, going from the cat to me with disbelief. “Let’s go,” he whispers, “There’s no one here.”
But I shake my head, finding myself intrigued by Alfie’s affectations, “We’re here. Go pet the cat.”
Shaking his head, he tries the bread, dipping it in olive oil, “At least the bread is good.”
Taking in the room, I am amused by the eclectic images surrounding me. Spray painted gold effigies adorn one wall while thumb tacked, ripped and curling soccer posters cover another. A set of keys hang off a paper mache frieze of Italian saints, while a framed puzzle of different types of pasta clings to the grape vines of the wallpaper. A plastic wine rack sits in the windowsill, backlit by the red open sign that first caught my attention. A soprano sings an aria while I sip my wine and worry why my husband and I are Alfie’s only guests at 6pm on a Friday evening.
Alfie returns, places our mozzarella salads in front of us, and bows before returning to the kitchen. It takes only one bite, and all apprehension disappears. With one bite, I am overwhelmed with excitement at having found a true restaurante in a city full of Applebee’s and peanut shell chains.
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