A Complaint

Dear Reader,

I am sorry to do this to you. I’ve tried desperately to stay away from writing anything like this in the past but I cannot control the urge to do so any longer. This week has been more stressful than usual and I need to vent. For the first (and hopefully last time ever), I am going to complain about the weather.

Those of you who know me well will know that I am not a fan of the Boston Winter. This is a frequent topic of my banter, as I curse under my breath while putting on my jacket, hat, gloves, neck warmers, ear warmers, extra pants, three pairs of socks, and a portable electric blanket to prepare for crossing the street from my house to the supermarket. Needless to say, the temperatures are not exactly temperate and the winds are not exactly kind.

Routine daily tasks become dangerous trials of survival. It is an onerous challenge to walk on the snowy and icy build-up on the sides of the roads without falling. Add to that vehicles sliding down the streets, splashing freezing slush in your direction makes crossing the street an obstacle course worthy of a Marine recruit.

Frequently, it has been raised to me, that I am merely a warm-blooded Californian who does not understand the joys of living through each of the seasons. That’s balderdash. What most people do not understand is that in California, we do have seasons. To prove it, here are three photos, one of summer, one of spring and one of winter:


Photo taken at Carmel Beach with the sun setting behind the silhouetted rocks of Point Lobos.


Monarch Butterflies drying their wings in the rays of suns. Taken in Pacific Grove, where the monarchs come to live out the winters before their long migration to the borders of Canada.


A photo of the snow while driving by Lake Tahoe.

In most places, one has to wait many months for the seasons to change before it is possible to take these images. But in California, this was all done in a weekend.

You see, the secret to seasons in California is that they do not come to you; rather, you go to them. Carmel, Pacific Grove, and Lake Tahoe each have their own climates and temperatures. Yet they are separated by about 6 hours of driving on the interstate. Thus, you can go visit three seasons, have lunch, and still arrive at your destination for a mid-afternoon nap. That is the way one should enjoy their seasons!

So next time you hear me complain about the weather, you now understand why. In Boston, the seasons are separated by months. In California, they are separated by miles.

The Tyranny of the Cerebral Cortex

It’s good to be the king.

That was what Cerebral Cortex told himself. Cerebral was no ordinary tyrant or absolute monarch. He was the ruling power of his domain. Lord Hippocampus bowed to his every demand. Chancellor Cerebellum cowered under terror. Even the masses of Synaptic Nerves did not dare cross his path.

He controlled his land as tightly as he controlled the royal court. Viceroy Heart never knew which ventricle was under the pay of The Cortex and Baron Epidermis could not keep his pores dilated for the stress that he was under. Not all the aristocracy was against him, however. Baron Liver gleefully put any traitor to work in the toxic environments of the digestive system where they would eventually find themselves in inescapable exile.

But in the far away serfdom of Podiakstan, civil unrest abounded. “We demand better working conditions! We want shorter hours! We want cleaner work environments! We refuse to carry the weight of the Kingdom on our backs while working the dark!” Their leader, Hallux (a.k.a Big Toe), was a mean figure. He was calloused from working endlessly in the pitch black conditions of the mines. His nail was chaffed and a generally offensive odor permeated the immediate space surrounding him. No one messed with Big Toe.

So in secret, Big Toe and his nine associates plotted to overthrow the kingdom. Little Toe (a.k.a Babyface), would innocently curl up and cause the entire kingdom to topple. Middle Toe would cramp itself in the middle of the night. The ankle, meanwhile, would send acute messages to the brain in an effort to overwhelm them with pain.

King Cortex was at breakfast when his world came crashing down. Reports of damage came from all over the kingdom. The upper right limb became immobile. Elite guards of white blood cells were dispatched to repair as much of the damage as possible. Meanwhile, the message from Podiakstan arrived. He writhed in agony. King Cortex was disconcerted. This was the most serious challenge to his authority that he had ever experienced. Should he send down an army of white blood cells to subdue the uprising? Or maybe he could lay siege and prevent supplies from reaching Podiakstan? No. This was too big for him to act alone. He had to call for help. But who could he call?

“911 operator, how may I help you?”
“Pain! Ankle is sprained! I fell and landed on my right arm! I think it’s broken!”
“An ambulance is on it’s way sir. Please hold tight.”

A day later, the arm was in a sling and recovering well. The ankle was put into a cast such that it could not cause any more trouble. As for the mutineers in Podiakstan, they were found guilty of plotting to overthrow the kingdom and every cell in their serfdom was replaced within 20 days by loyalists.

It's good to be the king.

A Practical Joke

And the church bells rang with clarion sound. The pigeons flew out of their nests. Men cheered, women applauded, kids screamed. The pastor smiled and the groundskeeper waved. The town clown finally got married.

His shtick-full existence had caused the clown to become rather lonely since very few people bothered to talk to him and really understand what he was about. As time wore on, his antics became stale and his clowning lost it's edge. That was when the citizens of Townsvilleburg decided that it was time to mobilize. The clown had to get married.

It was not easy task mind you. I mean, who in their right mind would want to marry a guy with a pale white face, red nose, a permanent goofy grin and orange hair who wore shoes that were eight sizes too large? It was hard to get to know him too. If you approached him directly, you'd get shot in the eye with a jet of water that sprayed out of his fake flower on his plaid coat.

The citizens put wanted adds in the major newspapers all across the country - from San Francisco to New York, from Chicago to Cape Canaveral - calling out to the citizens of the world "We need a wife for our clown!" Applications poured in from all over the globe including exotic places such as Zimbabwe, Timbuktoo, and Rhode Island.

So they held an audition. They screened nearly three hundred candidates for the role of Town Clown and they wanted to be just as rigorous for the role of First Lady Clown. The prospectives had to dance, sing, act, perform stand-up comedy, acrobatics and cook - all while dribbling a basket ball. They even hired a city clown and she had to make him laugh. Have you ever tried making a clown laugh? It's hard.

After the initial screening, they settled on five potential candidates and called in their town clown. He walked into the auditorium and saw the lineup of women. Five lady clowns stood lined up in the middle of the room. He began to walk in front of them, pacing up and down. The third one squirted him with her fake flower. He shook her hand with an electric buzzer. They gave each other a great big smooch.

The wedding was brief but all of Townsvilleburg was there. As they left for their honeymoon, the town clown said to his new wife, "You know, for a town of their size, they treat us clowns pretty well!"

"I'll say" said his wife. "And wait till the Mayor sees the Jack-in-the-Box under his pillow!"

Musings

Good evening, and welcome to this week’s celebrity interview. I’m Larry Sommers. This week we are very lucky to have with us a woman of great stature in the world of literature. Her works are rooted in the Greek traditions but has inspired writings in virtually all languages of the world. Her talents are unmatched and along with her eight sisters, they form a dominating force in the artistic development of the western hemisphere. Please welcome, a very special guest, Erato, the muse of poetry.

Erato: Thank you Larry, thank you very much.
Larry: So Erato, you are best known as a daughter of Zeus which makes you a demigod. I know I will get in trouble for asking this of a lady, but how old are you?
Erato: Oh, you don’t have to be embarrassed. I’m nearly 4,000 years old.
Larry: You don’t look a day over 18.
Erato: (Giggles) I know. It’s what happens to us demigods.
Larry: You are the muse of poetry. What is it that you do exactly?
Erato: Well, it’s my job to be inspirational to poets. Anyone who wants to write a poem will find me there. You see, the ancient Greeks – as we call them today –wanted to communicate as beautifully as they could. Prose was not enough. After I was born, I worked with the great poet Aristpapoutsi and inspired him to integrate rhythm into the written word. His work became an instant bestseller. Scribes couldn’t carve stone tablets fast enough. We sold nearly 500 copies. Keep in mind, only 600 people in the known world could read at that time. It is unfortunate that none of his works survive to this day.
Larry: What is the most challenging aspect of your job?
Erato: Really, the most challenging part is illiteracy. For instance, during the height of the Greek era, I had four under-muses and they each had several underunder-muses, each with a full compliment of workers and staff. Responsibilities were divided by languages and regions. Enough poems were being produced to keep all of us very busy. However, during the dark ages, the entire department was let go and I easily covered all of Europe alone. After a few centuries of that, I was even in danger of being downsized and sent to early retirement. Luckily, the renaissance kicked in when it did!
Larry: What do you consider your best work?
Erato: That’s a tough one, as there’s so many great works. There are really two that stands out. The first one is Dante’s Divine Comedy. That took so much effort both of our parts. You see, Dante, by that point, wasn’t really interested in writing anymore. He felt that he was pass his prime and was more inclined to tend to his vineyard. It took years to convince him to write seriously again. When he did, he really put his heart into it and voila, you get Purgatory.
Larry: What’s the second one?
Erato: Sam I Am. It looks so simple yet if one takes the time to examine the underlying structure, one can see the works of a genius.
Larry: Well, that’s all the time we have for now. Thank you for joining us, Erato.
Erato: It was my pleasure.
Larry: And now, an inspiration:

My guest for next week -
You won’t find him anywhere
The Unknown Soldier

An Improvised Story

Once upon a time there was a princess that lived in the Castle-in-the-Clouds. She was a fair maiden and although her cloud was neither the largest nor the highest in the sky, it was by far the whitest. Her skin and hair was pure blonde and the reputation of her beauty extended throughout the skies and beyond.

Every day she would wait by the window for a prince to come and take her away. However, most princes these days were interested in only the princesses that lived in the really big clouds or the really high ones. This distressed her greatly and she would spend many hours looking forlornly out the window.

Until one day, she got so fed up that she officially declared herself a maiden in distress. She sent her couriers out to all the neighboring kingdoms seeking a knight in shining armor to urgently come and rescue her.

Because of that, several knights came gallivanting towards her cloud asking for her hand in marriage. In order to choose between them, she set them in competitions to fight for her hand. It was a great circus and people from all the kingdoms came to catch this one-in-a-lifetime event.

Because of that, the cloud treasury grew by ten-fold from the tax revenues of the spectators. The princess looked at the money she made and realized that there was quite a business to be had!

And ever since then, she was known not only as the princess that lived in the Castle-in-the Clouds but also as the CEO of RoyaltyMatch.com, an exclusive dating website for princes and princesses.

Her husband was simply known as Bob.

Competitions to Follow

The World Cup, the Olympics, the Superbowl. These are just three of the great competitive events that are broadcasted worldwide and enjoyed by millions of fans. And yet these are merely three competitions out of the thousands that take place around the world. This entry is here to merely inform the reader of other competitions that are out there.

Every July, the Bulwyer-Lytton literary contest announces the winners. It is given to the person who writes the worst opening sentence to a novel. Bulwyer-Lytton wrote the opening sentence “It was a dark and stormy night…” that has been immortalized by Snoopy in Peanuts comic strips. All of the entries are a fantastic read and you can find the past winners here at their official website (http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/).

The 2006 winner submitted this entry:
Detective Bart Lasiter was in his office studying the light from his one small window falling on his super burrito when the door swung open to reveal a woman whose body said you've had your last burrito for a while, whose face said angels did exist, and whose eyes said she could make you dig your own grave and lick the shovel clean.
Jim Guigli
Carmichael, CA

What about a more physical contest? Have you ever hear of chess-boxing? It is for those people who thinks that chess needs to incorporate full-body contact and that boxing needs to be more intellectual. Mind you, I do have a lot of respect for these athletes. Not everyone can castle a rook while throwing an uppercut. (http://site.wcbo.org/content/e14/index_en.html)

Elephant polo has made quite a splash in recent years. Apparently the Malaysian team knocked out the favorites to win. Teams of three sit on top of African grey elephants carrying 8 foot long polls and try to knock a softball-sized object into a goal. It is the perfect game summer league sport. It would be trivial to bully those pesky baseball players off the field so your team can practice. (http://www.elephantpolo.com/)

The competitive world of Rock-Paper-Scissors is also a season to follow closely. It is a sport where one nervous twitch can cost one the competition. Injuries can devastate the careers of these great athletes. The human body is not made for repetitive motion and RPS competitors, if they throw too many scissors in a row, may find themselves with a bad case of repetitive-stress-injury or even tendonitis. (http://www.worldrps.com/)

So let us come up with our own! There are many great ideas that have not been done yet. Submarine drag racing? Add figure skating as an event for the World’s Strongest Man Competition? Or start the International Hungry-Hungry Hippo congress? Leave a comment with your ideas!

The Great Stink

Festivals are always named after their theme. The Cannes film festival and the Rockport Chamber Music Festival are just what they seem to be. Burning Man is about embracing the counter culture that culminates in burning an effigy of a man. But there are some festivals that not only have a descriptive name but also have an apt nickname. The Gilroy Garlic festival, commonly referred to as “The Great Stink” is one that falls into the latter category.

Mind you, there is nothing stinky about garlic if you’re from the area. If one is driving down the highway, one can tell that they entered Gilroy city limits by the odor wafting through the air conditioning unit. Indeed, the smell is inescapable as one window shops in the downtown and surrounding areas. It would be imminently suitable to nickname the entire city as the Great Stink, not just the festival. For garlic lovers, of which I am one, the smell is heavenly.

Over 100,000 people come to the festival every year to partake in garlic steak, garlic chicken stir-fry, garlic stuffed mushrooms or roasted corn-on-the-cob with garlic butter. Some braver folks will taste garlic ice cream or garlic chocolate. Still others will walk away with garlic mayonnaise, pickled garlic and garlic pesto - ready to try them on recipes from their new garlic cookbooks. Dedicated visitors will pick up their souvenirs of the event that is now in its 26th year.

Here, there are no chasings of greased pigs, but there is a mad garlic-dash similar to an Easter egg hunt. There are no apple pie baking competitions but there is a cookoff. There is no three-legged race, but there is a garlic pealing competition. All of it being family friendly, olfactorically stimulating and gastronomically adventurous.

Because of this festival, I can enjoy my garlic flavored cashew nuts, ponder a recipe for garlic jam while wearing my garlic shaped cap. I just hope my neighbors on my flight don’t mind the stink!