I Want To Be A Pirate
I’ve been binge-watching Black Sails, so much so that it prompted me to read Treasure Island again. And while it has not been the most flowery, Cutthroat Island-ish portrayal of the life of a Caribbean privateer in the 1700s, it has served to solidify something that I already suspected about myself since the first time I was serenaded by the Yo Ho Ho song several leagues below the promenade level of New Orleans Square in the Kingdom of Magic ™: I’ve confirmed that I really want to be a pirate. Not like a modern one wearing Denver Broncos 2013 Super Bowl Champions ™ shirt with a Kalashnikov on a skiff with a barely functioning Evinrude shoddily strapped to the aft who lives in a lawless hellhole on the east coast of Africa, but… like one who lives in an AWESOME lawless hellhole on a tropical island, one full of bars and brothels and street food (RATS ON A STICK!) and pigs running around and stuff.
Here are some truths about being a pirate that Black Sails has taught me:
1. Everyone was really attractive. (Abs and cheekbones galore!)
2. Everyone was totally banging everyone else. (Because they were all attractive and there was also no such thing as the internet or cable. What the hell else are you gonna do? Oh, wait…)
3. Rum! (You could drink rum for breakfast and people would be all, You do you, man! Want some toast? No? Okay, hope you don’t get shot by a musket ball today! [Customary farewell in the customer service industry back then.])
4. Tropical islands! (They really sell themselves.)
5. Treasure! (Heavy to carry around but still awesome.)
6. You get a sword! (Or you could carry a war hammer and be Captain Warhammer.)
7. Beaches! (Also sell themselves.)
8. Headbands. (I like headbands, but you might not. That’s why this is lower on the list.)
And the best part: I’m pretty sure you didn’t even need to have a boat, or even ride on them on the reg. This is the huge bonus for land-lubbers such as myself that get seasick in kayaks. (Curiously, not when sitting on a surfboard..?) You could totally be one of those middle men who doesn’t have to go sailing ever. You could just live on the rad island and work in the brothel (you gotta start as a janitor but you eventually get to bartend, so tough it out) or whatnot.
Hell, if you were some struggling comedian who was sick of the cruise ship circuit back then, think of how great it could be to be Mr. Comedy on Swashbuckler Caye. And because everyone is drinking rum since sunrise, you really don’t need to write that much (this is perfect for me) because even the most dated of “Does Redbeard’s carpet match the drapes?” jokes are fresh as hell for people who forget most of what goes on the previous day. (Two drink minimum is NOT A PROBLEM for this crowd.)
You know what else you don’t have to do when you are a pirate? You don’t have to avoid the internet, or cable for a solid week right now desperately trying to duck SDCC coverage because pirates don’t need tickets to freaking Comic Con. A badass pirate would never be caught dead at the con and also certainly wouldn’t be upset that his pirate buddies couldn’t get tickets to go with him this year (1715?) thereby blowing an almost decade long tradition of attendance. Because pirates aren’t nerds for anything but plundering, rum, treasure, beaches, swords, (headbands) and pleasures of the flesh. Pirates don’t care about spoilers. Pirates don’t stress about J.J. Abrams’ treatment of Star Wars. Pirates don’t secretly hope to secretly run into the guy who plays Spock now in a hotel bar and act like it’s totally no big deal because whatever, he’s not really Spock, just a douche actor dude (but I’m totally gonna tell the story a hundred times even though it’s, like, whatever, no big deal).
Pirates certainly aren’t bummed out that they don’t get to buy cool Firefly stuff at the Browncoats booth. Pirates aren’t Browncoats. Because it’s really hot in the Bahamas; way too hot for a coat. Just like San Diego… where this Browncoat wishes he was.
Did I mention that the Black Sails panel is in Ballroom 20 on Saturday?
I’m such a Sigh-rate, you guys.