Guest editorial: Don't call him Ishmael, or Queequeg; call him Ahab

Time Traveler: I have been abandoned. The Portuguese Pirate has abandoned civilization and retreated up into the forest above French Meadows. He now calls himself Chief Squatting Bull and talks to the trees. That kind of fits his vegan lifestyle. I have tried to talk him out of this dangerous life course he has chosen. After all, we all remember that Euell Gibbons croaked on the Dick Cavett Show whilst snarfing down a twig from a pine tree. Besides, it could be dangerous. A bear could sneak up in the middle of the night and make off with his wheat grass juicer. And we all know how annoying a band of chattering chipmunks can be. Not to mention the harsh squawk of the mountain jays keeping him from his reverie. I fear the poor man is going to return malnourished and exhausted for lack of sleep. As for me, I'm staying put where we are all civilized; where all we have to worry about is a few thousand innocent misunderstood juveniles going around taking over cities, breaking windows, burning down buildings and blinding police officers with laser lights. But that's OK as long as these protests stay peaceful. I do worry a little when I hear that our boy genius governor is releasing thousands of state prisoners. Oh, what am I saying? Thousands of criminals running around without visible means of support hiding behind masks and dark glasses. What could go wrong? In any event, what with the Pirate absent and the Sourdough Sad Sacks off on a new scam … er … adventure, there is very little I can find amusing in the world around me. So I decided to dig into the archives of past columns and found an old one that is mildly amusing. It was about me as a 5-year-old kid living in a rural part of El Dorado County without brothers, sisters, neighbors or electricity, and how I entertained myself. Once again, here is the story of Ahab: Once in a while, when our battery-operated radio came in, I would listen to Gunsmoke, and when it didn't, my dad read Zane Grey novels to me. So I mostly played cowboys and Indians, and I wasn't particularly concerned about which side I was on. But one night, my dad outdid himself and took me into town to watch Moby Dick at the State Theatre. My world changed. For a kid who barely encountered a television, the size and grandness of the old State Theatre was stunning. Carpet everywhere, uniformed men leading us to our seats with flashlights; hell, even the walls had curtains. I was awestruck. Then, the movie started. Some guy appeared on the screen and wanted me to call him Ishmael. Well, that was OK by me, but afterward, the New England Quaker dialogue was pretty much lost on me. But it didn't matter. A fairly young Gregory Peck - playing an old, bitter, wrathful sea captain - got the point across. We had an angry old man who was really mad at a real large fish. I don't think my mouth shut during the entire film. If there was a cartoon, I don't remember it. I sucked that movie up like a sponge and the next morning I knew I was going to be a whaling man. All I needed was an ocean, a whaling ship, a harpoon and a whale. No problem. First, the harpoon: Oddly enough … the stone poker, rake handle and a roll of friction tape all disappeared at the same time. Next, the ship: I set a ladder against the outside wall of the house over the kitchen where the roof was fairly flat. Jutting out of the roof six feet or more was the stove pipe, supported more or less upright by rusting guy-wires. This is what appeared to the untrained eye, but I saw the main mast of a sailing ship. I was standing on the deck of the New England whaling ship, The Pequod. Across Rattlesnake Road, which ran directly in front of our house, was a field of rye grass. As I watched, a breeze picked up and pushed the yellowed grass back and forth in waves; my very own Atlantic Ocean. The whale was a problem. My pillow was my first choice, but the ship's owners kicked a fuss, so I opted for a potato sack stuffed with rags. Close enough. Who was I to be? Ishmael was too boring. Queequeg, the tattooed South Island cannibal, was appealing, and he had a tomahawk. But it took too long to tattoo myself with a ballpoint pen and I turned the sheets blue at night. Again, the owners objected. Finally, I settled on Ahab, a character a little kid could get his teeth into. Ahab had a whale bone leg, but I couldn't find any whale bone lying around, so I stuffed a baseball bat down my pant leg and Ahab's voyage of vengeance had begun. Any car driving down our road was a whale sighting and off the roof I would go, dragging my wagon across the road to fight the great Leviathan on the vastness of my own private Atlantic. One young couple on a nice Sunday drive never knew how close they came to being harpooned and boiled in oil. As Ahab, I chased the white whale around the Cape of Good Hope, Norway's maelstrom, and even to Perdition's Flame. I decided the Cape of Good Hope was the walnut tree. Norway's maelstrom was where the outhouse used to be. I didn't know where the hell Perdition's Flame was, so I didn't go there much. I hacked and stabbed the Great Fish on all sides of earth until the potato sack got pretty tattered. And besides, old man Jones started running cows in that field, making the battle more treacherous with cow pies. So, sadly, I returned to land, a lone survivor of the sea.