Ted's my youngest nephew. He wants to be a paleontologist and clone T. Rexes.

I had an excellent time at Amos's place. He is a gourmet cook and his wife is just as wonderful as he is. And I was raised up not to talk about myself, but to gossip about others.

So....

Amos lives in a tar-paper covered shack down by the docks in San Diego. His primary occupation is what the Brits used to call "mudlarking" -- tromping around in the mud hoping to find something worth selling. To do this he cannot wear any footwear, and so his legs are encased in black stinking muck from the soles of his feet to just above his knees. He plays a Martin "Gibson" guitar and doesn't sing very flat very often. He has a decent taste in wine, and what he drinks is even better than "Boone's Farm." To thank him for a wonderful evening, here are the words to one of the songs I sang:

JOHN COOK
Tom Rowe

        Oh, John Cook, ye have taken us to hell;
        Locked up in the ice off Baffin Island.
        We've been here for a year, now the water's comin' clear;
        Won't you set for home, John Cook, without the oil?

We sailed her out from Gloucester, to hunt the mighty whale;
A crew of twenty seasoned whalin' men.
With Slocum at the helm and me and Drury haulin' sail,
And the Captain shouting orders at the wind.

The Captain's wife had begged to go and Cook could not deny her;
For Annie Cook was sweet and young and fair.
She's been this last year down below, a'huddled near the fire;
The whaler's lot was more than she could bear.

        Chorus

With one year gone and one to go we'd less than half the oil;
Four hundred barrels filled and in the hold.
The Captain turned her north'ard where he knew we'd find the whale
But instead of whales we found the bitter cold.

The Atlantic Queen did shudder as she braved the ocean gales;
But her master would not heed the mate's advice:
Oh, Captain, turn her south'ard and damn the hellish whale;
For if you don't we'll soon be trapped in ice.

        Chorus

Soon the ice stretched all around the proud Atlantic Queen;
And nine months gone the food began to spoil.
The Captain paced the foredeck, tortured, torn between,
His love for Ann and lusting for the oil.

For Annie Cook had begged her John to take her home to Gloucester,
Or sure it was she'd lose her sanity.
And the crew of the Atlantic Queen had charged her lord and master
To point her south or face a mutiny.

        Chorus

The Captain made his choice, he'd not return without the oil.
His pride was more important than his wife.
And when there came the mutiny he shot the Steward Boyle;
To take the Queen they'd have to take his life.

Two more weeks, the ice cleared north, we set out the whales to find;
We took three beasts before the second day.
Michael Boyle had lost his life and Annie Cook had lost her mind,
And the Captain's coal black hair had gone to gray.

        Chorus

And here's another that I didn't sing, really:

SQUID-JIGGIN' GROUND
A.R. Scammell

        Oh! This is the place where the fishermen gather
        With oilskins and boots and Cape Anns battened down.
        All sizes of figures with squid lines and jiggers,
        They congregate here on the squid-jiggin' ground.

Some are working their jiggers while others are yarnin'!
There's some standin' up and there's more lyin' down.
While all kinds of fun, jokes and tricks are begun
As they wait for the squid on the squid-jiggin' ground.

There's men of all ages and boys in the bargain,
There's old Billy Cave and there's young Raymond Brown.
There's a red rantin' tory, out here in a dory,
A'runnin' down squires on the squid-jiggin' ground.

        Chorus

The man in the whiskers is old Jacob Steele.
He's gettin' well up but he's still pretty sound.
While Uncle Bob Hawkins wears six pairs of stockin's
Whenever he's out on the squid-jiggin' ground.

Now says Bobby, "The squid are on top of the water,
I just got me jigger 'bout one fathom down."
When a squid in the boat squirted right down his throat,
And he's swearin' like mad on the squid-jiggin' ground.

        Chorus

There's old Uncle Billy, his whiskers are spattered
With spots of the squid juice that's flyin' around.
One poor little b'y got it right in the eye,
But they don't give a damn on the squid-jiggin' ground.

Now, if ever you feel inclined to go squiddin',
Leave your white shirts and collars behind in the town,
And if you feel cranky without your silk hanky
You'd better steer clear of the squid-jiggin' ground.

        Chorus

Gee, I hope that he gets bailed out soon so that he can read this....