Postcards from State Avenue

They quickly found a home. "We just kind of stumbled upon the area and found a great house at a good price," Crosby says. "We love it."

It's their first time at Jalisco's. "We usually go to places on Central Avenue, but so far, so good," Estes says. "I'm really enjoying the décor here." She nods toward the walls decked out in upholstered, raised-pattern '70s-style wallpaper in fetching shades of rust, orange and brown. She also notices the hanging lights that could easily pass as props in a medieval play -- fake cast-iron chandeliers with red ribbon threaded through them.

"I'm thinking a neo-dungeon look. You know, a lot of the restaurants around here are second- and third-generation. ... I'll bet this place is one of them."

The friendly waitress comes over for drink orders and confirms that the same family has owned Jalisco's for 30 years. She points out the appealing all-you-can-eat-for-$4.95 buffet table simmering toward the back of the restaurant and returns with cans of Miller Light.

"We definitely like it over here" says Crosby. "It's a very diverse neighborhood -- we've met Croatians, Poles, Irish- Catholics, Mexicans."

"It's a very tight-knit community," Estes adds. "We live in the St. Peters district, over off of Central Avenue, and when we moved in, we had four different neighbors come over and greet us. We just discovered Polsky Day, this crazy festival and parade that happens every year, on Central Avenue."

Central Avenue is livelier than State Avenue, she says. Susan scrunches her forehead a bit as she tells of Polsky Day. "There's a lot more going on there, more bars and restaurants and just people walking around. One of the most insane things I've seen happened on Central Avenue not too long ago. Some evangelical group was at 18th Street -- which isn't even near a church -- with a guy suspended from a 12-foot cross, covered in fake blood, just writhing around in fake agony. Next to him was a woman with a bullhorn screaming 'I love you!' and next to her was a guy dressed as a demon-devil-type thing dragging a stick on the ground screaming 'I hate you!'

"Naturally, I drove around the block shrieking and then went back for a better look. I'll never forget seeing that." -- Lorna Perry

8:15 p.m.
T-Bones stadium
State Avenue and 110th Street

Two outs, bottom of the fourth. Captain Morgan is eating a hot dog six rows behind home plate.

Wearing his signature red pirate's hat and polka-dot bandanna over locks of jet-black hair, he sits next to his handler, Tom Kelly, who works for Standard Beverage, a Kansas liquor wholesaler. Tonight's the last game of the T-Bones' series against the Lincoln Saltdogs. Kelly is here to make sure the Captain stays on message. Two beers sit in front of them, but Kelly says he's double-fisting because Cap can't drink on shift.

So the Captain lounges, boots up on the chair in front of him. His painted eyebrows jut upward like sharp arrows while he watches players dash across the spotless field in front of 5,319 fans. The sun is setting above him, casting shadows across the ballpark, the NASCAR track, and the massive shopping mecca, with its Cabela's and its Nebraska Furniture Mart, anchoring this stretch of State Avenue, has expanded to four lanes and is lighted like a landing strip.

The Captain's feeling good now. He'd already thrown the first pitch, shouted his requisite raspy greetings and posed for a snapshot with some excitable underage girls, hoisting a leg into one of their arms and spreading his own arms broadly across their shoulders. He made the Jumbotron during the Mascot race by tackling the T-Bones' Sizzle the Bull and then juking past a giant ice cream cone and an oversized pizza to win convincingly."

The Captain, aka Jason Purinton, 32, lives in Lawrence and works a day job in small-town Ozawkie, Kansas, making false teeth as a dental ceramist. He says he stumbled into this swashbuckling role a few years ago, when an acquaintance in a pinch offered him the costume and some cash to hit a Halloween party.

"I fit the profile," Purinton says, flashing a gleaming smile. "You had to be at least 6 feet and you had to be good looking, so I fit both."

Now he's the regional Captain Morgan. He spends summers piloting a 40-foot rumrunner in the Ozarks' Party Cove, winters in sports bars across the metro and at Mardi Gras in St. Louis.

So has he gotten any booty? With Kelly at his elbow, he refuses to divulge his wildest in-costume story, offering instead a tame anecdote about people jumping off boats for free T-shirts.

This season, the Captain added six T-Bones ballgames to his touring circuit; judging by the majority of parents carrying half-full plastic cups, the stadium is an excellent place to build brand loyalty. Meanwhile, he's learned some tricks to keep his own spirits up.

Glue-on facial hair is hot and itchy and slippery when wet, so he grew his own iconic scruff -- a mustache and vertical chin strip. To avoid overheating while getting dressed, he puts on his makeup first, then adds the costume and puts on the headgear last. He's also learned his history, explaining that Captain Morgan was a real pirate who pillaged the East Indies in the 17th century and was later hired by the British as a buccaneer. He became the governor of Jamaica in 1665 and invented his own rum a few decades later, just before he kicked.

"Actually, I'm 350 years old," Purinton says. "It's really fun and, you know, I'm the life of the party." He glances over at his handler.

"Unless I'm at a ballgame with a bunch of kids," he adds. "They think I'm Captain Hook." -- Ben Paynter