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May 01, 2010

Whuuuuuuh? Did "FissureFilms" just call himself a "Capman,"
as in a "Caption Man?"

Yes, I did.

...Like he's some sort of professional caption writer? What, he's got business cards that read, "Mr. Bla BlaBlaBla - VP of Caption Writing?!"  Puhleeeeeeeze!

Easy now.  You know as well as I that if such a profession existed, most of us would be CEOs of our own Caption corporations by now.  Which by the way is how my imaginary business card currently reads: "Mr Bla BlaBlaBla - President & CEO..." "VP?!" Puhleeeeeeeze!

I refuse to accept the term "Caption Addict" or "Cap Addict," even though the latter has kind of a nice ring to it, to describe myself.  I invite you to do the same. I believe the work  we do here is born from passion, not addiction.  You will not hear those incriminating words, "I can stop anytime I want," spewing emphatically from this here dog's snout.   Because the truth is, I can't stop. It's in my blood, my soul, my shaggy DNA.

I have been writing captions as far back as I could control a crayon.  My mother's fashion magazines and my father's now worthless baseball card collection are evidence to this calling.
  Also, unlike most of my friends, I never minded going to see the doctor or the dentist because their waiting rooms were always stocked with fresh selections of unadulterated pamphlets and magazines for me to examine and diagnose.  Pity the tyke who got a hold of any issue of Highlights after I'd been through operating on it.  They'd never see Goofus and Galant the same way again, or any of their male friends for that matter.  To think my mom thought I read Highlights for the word scramble!  
To this very day, waiting rooms are some of my favorite places to "work."

"The Dr. will see you now."

"See me-- now? I think not.  I just walked in!  And fork over the Marie Claire, lady!  It's for the patients, not you!"

I also LOVE to fly.  Vacation, family visits, business, it doesn't matter as long as there's an inflight magazine in the seat pocket and ink in my pen, I'm as giddy as the spoiled brat sitting behind me kicking the tray table off its hinges the entire flight. I am somewhat concerned, however, given the way things are going with the economy, if airlines ever get so bare-bones cheap as to discontinue Inflight magazines or-- God forbid -- that slick pictorial orgasm spattered with things we MUST HAVE to EXPERIENCE LIFE AT ITS FULLEST: "Sky-Mall,"-- friends,  I will be forced to strap bombs to my shoes...
Alright,  before this nonsense gets too long for anyone to even consider reading it, and before  Homeland Security receives word that someone blogged the words, "bomb" and "airlines" in the same, shamefully long, run-on sentence, allow me to share with you a couple of pages from a 1986 high-school journal of mine I found in our storage room this weekend.  The journal was from my one and only "creative writing" class.  I think I actually got an "A" in the class - which leads me to believe,  after reading many of my entries, that my teacher either felt sorry for me or must have been on major drugs.

Ok. Not bad. I don't know why my 24 year younger self felt that the better alternative to white water rafting to grandma's house would be taking the bus as opposed to driving or flying but I do think the "asthma attack" line is pretty believable . It certainly matches the guy's expression. 

It appears sometime in the hours between Sunday November 2 and Monday November 3, 1986, I grew some pretty darn big cojones to turn in this beauty:

I'll post more pages soon..."What cockpit?"...Jeeze!