If you visit south California, you to have go to Los Angeles whether you like it or not. That’s the cold hard truth. Everything in southern California revolves around L.A.; everyone either lives in the city, or lives somewhere else in a desperate attempt to get out of the city. Sooner or later, then, you’ll wind up in the City of Angels. Why fight it? That’s why I went up to L.A. this weekend. I went with four other Nixon Library interns—Ben, Drew, Sam and Corrie.
The last time I visited L.A. was during my brief stint on Jeopardy. I didn’t get to see much of the city; I spent most of the time at the hotel in Universal City, at the taping location in USC’s Galen Center, or on the bus between the two. My only views of the city came through the window of that bus. I don’t remember much of it. I only recall that every day we passed by the headquarters for Vivid Entertainment. For those of you who don’t know, Vivid Entertainment produces “adult videos”—porn, in short. We always giggled as we drove by.
Our plan was to visit the Getty Museum and then…well, our plans stopped with the Getty Museum. We would wing it from there. Corrie was kind enough, and brave enough, to drive us into the city. Driving in Los Angeles takes a very special kind of skill. Specifically, it demands the ability to merge into a space the size of a walk-in closet while traveling fifty or sixty miles per hour. Only the suicidal drive in Los Angeles. Coincidentally, everyone in Los Angeles is suicidal. That’s why the freeway is always jam-packed with cars.
The Getty Museum stands on a cliff overlooking the big, blue wet thing some people call the Pacific. Before becoming a museum, the Getty Museum belonged to a Mr. Getty. He had a first name, I think, but I don’t have the energy to check Wikipedia. Mr. Getty became unbelievably wealthy thanks to his oil business. What he did with the oil, I don’t know, but he managed to make several gazillion dollars doing it. One day Mr. Getty realized that he was letting his money go to waste. You can only enjoy money by spending it, and Mr. Getty resolved to spend, spend, spend. And spend he did. He purchased approximately 90% of all ancient artifacts discovered in the modern era. An archaeologist would uncover a piece of broken shale that might have once served as a plate; seconds later, a Getty representative would swoop down and buy the piece for several thousand dollars.
Getty blew through a lot of money this way. Nonetheless, he put together a formidable collection of ancient crap. After sorting through his collection and tossing out all the useless stuff—for instance, the tiny chips that might either be flakes from an Etruscan axe or an archaeologist’s dandruff—Mr. Getty decided to display his goods in public. That is not a euphemism for flashing. Rather, it’s a euphemism for founding a museum. Mr. Getty created the world-famous Getty Museum, which draws at least five or six visitors every year. Usually more. Today it got five more visitors: the Nixon interns!
Recently, the museum underwent a few revisions. The management called in an architectural tag team from Boston to make some changes around the place. And by God, did they ever make those changes. The new exterior is meant to look like an archaeological dig. A layer of heavy gray marble covers the ground; here and there stand little pools of water. The next layer up is stone; don’t ask me what kind of stone, because I forgot it five seconds after the docent told us the name. Above that is a layer of concrete, molded to have the texture and patterns of wood. Then comes another layer of marble. It really did look like some half-excavated quarry. The only thing missing was a bunch of dumpy archaeologists with brushes and pith helmets. Incidentally, do people wear pith helmets any more?
The inside of the museum resembles a Roman villa. Sadly, there was no vomitorium, but the rest of the interior looked accurate. I say “looked” accurate because I have no idea what a real Roman villa ought to look like. There should be slaves somewhere, I suppose, and maybe a couple vestal virgins. I looked hard—no sign of any vestal virgins, or vestal women of any kind for that matter.
Out front is an enormous garden. Like shrubs? Then you’ll love the Getty villa’s garden, which boasts more shrubs than you can shake a stick at. It has every kind of shrub imaginable. Granted, that’s not much; not even the world’s most creative man could imagine more than two or three kinds of shrub. A few varieties of herb add spice to the shrubbery; no pun intended, of course. There was tarragon, thyme, and I think I even saw a sprig of basil. Perhaps I just imagined it.
Oh yes, there’s also a bit of artwork in the Getty Villa. Mr. Getty did not waste his millions, not at all. He managed to lay his hands on every piece of rock or marble ever touched by Roman hands. We spent an hour or two wandering around the second story of the villa, home to the largest collection of Roman artifacts outside of Rome. I made up that fact just now, but it may be the truth for all I know. It certainly seems possible.
My favorite piece was a small stone tablet that, according to the accompanying plaque, honored the memory of “Helena.” But, the plaque continues, we aren’t sure if Helena was a girl—or a girl’s dog. Rather a big difference there, I must say. I also enjoyed gawking at the miniature Roman jewelry. Each piece was roughly the size of a midget june bug on a diet, yet, within that space, the Roman artist crammed a gorgeously detailed etching. You had to look hard to see it, though. I nearly blew out my corneas straining to see a teeny-tiny cameo carving of a Roman archer.
But I’ve rambled enough! My God, this took more than a week to write. At this rate, I’ll finish writing about my Orange County escapades sometime next decade.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Caveat Emptor
Warning: Reading this story may cause a sudden and irreversible loss of faith in human intelligence.
The World's Most Honest Twitter Feed
11:51 AM: Will Schultz is updating his twitter feed
1:04 PM: Will Schultz is updating his twitter feed
3:30 PM: Will Schultz is updating his twitter feed
7:23 PM: Will Schultz is updating his twitter feed
10:04 PM: Will Schultz is discontinuing his twitter feed
1:04 PM: Will Schultz is updating his twitter feed
3:30 PM: Will Schultz is updating his twitter feed
7:23 PM: Will Schultz is updating his twitter feed
10:04 PM: Will Schultz is discontinuing his twitter feed
Nothing But the Tooth
When it comes to awesome new technology, the military has nothing on dentistry. This invention will turn a mundane visit to the dentist into a thrilling sci-fi adventure straight outta Star Wars!
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Insult to Injury
This is a bit like charging a hanged man for the cost of the rope. Or, in more graphic terms, billing a man eaten by a alligator for the gator's dental care.
Papa Roach
The morning began like any other. I woke up a little before eight, rolled out of bed, whacked my skull on the nightstand, and resolved for the eighth day in a row to move that damn thing a few inches to the left. Then came a delicious breakfast of Honey Bunches of Oats—pardon me, “Honey & Oat Mixers with Almonds.” That’s what you call the Target knock-off version of HB of O. You think that sounds silly? How about their version of Cheerios, “Small Oat-and-Wheatish Crunch Cereal Shaped in a Form Resembling the Lowercase Version of the Letter ‘O’ ”?
But I digress. I finished up breakfast in my usual manner; I licked the bowl clean, then I licked the spoon clean, and I finished by licking clean the book I was reading. An intern can’t afford to waste food. I stumbled over to the bathroom for a hearty round of toothbrushing. As I stood in front of the sink, blinking and squinting like crazy, I saw something in the mirror…something on the floor behind me. I froze. My God, I thought, that can’t be a…
OH MY GOD A COCKROACH AAAAAARGGGHH!
I am ashamed to admit that I leapt at least five feet into the air—straight up. I swear that I nearly cracked my head on the ceiling. Dr. J has nothing on me. I then beat a strategic retreat from the bathroom. Like General Lee at Petersburg, I found myself forced to give up prime territory to the enemy. The bathroom now lay in enemy hands. Or enemy…whatever it is cockroaches have instead of hands.
Immediately, I began plotting my return. First, I reached for my cockroach gun. Then I realized I didn’t have one. This was followed by the realization that such things do not actually exist. Cut me some slack; just ten minutes before, I had been lying in bed dreaming about H.R. Haldeman. You can’t expect me to get my brain in gear that quickly. I’m not a machine!
But I pride myself on being a strategic thinker. My brain sprang into action like a big…springing…thing. I developed an ingenious strategy, based on the many years I spent playing StarCraft. First, I would build up a supply of Drones. Then, I would order one of these Drones to mutate into a Spawning Pool. The next and final step: the irresistible Zerg Rush. Again, though, this plan came to nought. As I feared, it required more Vespense gas.
Finally, I summoned up every little bit of my meager courage and decided to face my fears head-on. I grabbed approximately ten feet of paper towel, took a deep breath, and plunged forward into hostile territory. Then came something I did not expect. The cockroach moved. Specifically, it moved right towards me. I reacted by doing the “Cockroach Dance.” You take two steps to the left, two steps to the right, and a thousand steps backward while flailing your arms and squealing like a little girl.
What followed was a game of cat-and-mouse that, while hilarious in retrospect, seemed like a matter of life-and-death at the time. Yes, I know very, very, very few people are killed by cockroaches. As far as “lethal animals” go, cockroaches rank somewhere between dust mites and unicorns. Even if the cockroach escaped, it probably wasn’t going to come back later and kill me. But I didn’t want to take that chance. There’s a first time for everything. I didn’t want my obituary to begin, “DIED TODAY. Young intern at the Nixon Library, mangled to death by a cockroach in his bathroom.”
I triumphed, though, through a mix of pluck, brains, and double-ply paper towel. As I flushed by nemesis away, I felt a sense of elation, mingled with exhaustion. Victory never tasted so sweet. And so, pumped up from the battle, I prepared for another day at the office.
But I digress. I finished up breakfast in my usual manner; I licked the bowl clean, then I licked the spoon clean, and I finished by licking clean the book I was reading. An intern can’t afford to waste food. I stumbled over to the bathroom for a hearty round of toothbrushing. As I stood in front of the sink, blinking and squinting like crazy, I saw something in the mirror…something on the floor behind me. I froze. My God, I thought, that can’t be a…
OH MY GOD A COCKROACH AAAAAARGGGHH!
I am ashamed to admit that I leapt at least five feet into the air—straight up. I swear that I nearly cracked my head on the ceiling. Dr. J has nothing on me. I then beat a strategic retreat from the bathroom. Like General Lee at Petersburg, I found myself forced to give up prime territory to the enemy. The bathroom now lay in enemy hands. Or enemy…whatever it is cockroaches have instead of hands.
Immediately, I began plotting my return. First, I reached for my cockroach gun. Then I realized I didn’t have one. This was followed by the realization that such things do not actually exist. Cut me some slack; just ten minutes before, I had been lying in bed dreaming about H.R. Haldeman. You can’t expect me to get my brain in gear that quickly. I’m not a machine!
But I pride myself on being a strategic thinker. My brain sprang into action like a big…springing…thing. I developed an ingenious strategy, based on the many years I spent playing StarCraft. First, I would build up a supply of Drones. Then, I would order one of these Drones to mutate into a Spawning Pool. The next and final step: the irresistible Zerg Rush. Again, though, this plan came to nought. As I feared, it required more Vespense gas.
Finally, I summoned up every little bit of my meager courage and decided to face my fears head-on. I grabbed approximately ten feet of paper towel, took a deep breath, and plunged forward into hostile territory. Then came something I did not expect. The cockroach moved. Specifically, it moved right towards me. I reacted by doing the “Cockroach Dance.” You take two steps to the left, two steps to the right, and a thousand steps backward while flailing your arms and squealing like a little girl.
What followed was a game of cat-and-mouse that, while hilarious in retrospect, seemed like a matter of life-and-death at the time. Yes, I know very, very, very few people are killed by cockroaches. As far as “lethal animals” go, cockroaches rank somewhere between dust mites and unicorns. Even if the cockroach escaped, it probably wasn’t going to come back later and kill me. But I didn’t want to take that chance. There’s a first time for everything. I didn’t want my obituary to begin, “DIED TODAY. Young intern at the Nixon Library, mangled to death by a cockroach in his bathroom.”
I triumphed, though, through a mix of pluck, brains, and double-ply paper towel. As I flushed by nemesis away, I felt a sense of elation, mingled with exhaustion. Victory never tasted so sweet. And so, pumped up from the battle, I prepared for another day at the office.
Balancing Act
"Welcome to Thomas Cook airlines, sir!"
"Hey, thanks. Uh, I've got my ticket right here..."
"Let me see. Very good, sir. Just one thing I ought to tell you."
"Oh?"
"Your ticket says first class, but I'm afraid you've been bumped down a bit."
"Bumped down? Bumped down to what? Business? Coach?"
"No, ballast."
"Hey, thanks. Uh, I've got my ticket right here..."
"Let me see. Very good, sir. Just one thing I ought to tell you."
"Oh?"
"Your ticket says first class, but I'm afraid you've been bumped down a bit."
"Bumped down? Bumped down to what? Business? Coach?"
"No, ballast."
Bizarre Google Search
In honor of the last post, let's do a Bizarre Google Search for "infuriated letter of complaint":
That might be worth writing your congressman about.
That might be worth writing your congressman about.
Virgin Territory
The world's best complaint letter? They report, you decide. I particularly like the line "The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird."
Mini-Review: Watergate
Late in the summer of 1974, as the nation suffered through the final days of the Watergate scandal, President Nixon made a last-ditch attempt to salvage his presidency. He called Governor George Wallace of Alabama and implored him to put pressure on Alabama representative Walter Flowers. Flowers sat on the House Judiciary Committee; Nixon hoped that Wallace could persuade the congressman to vote “nay” on the impending articles of impeachment against the president.
But by this time, everything was going against Nixon, and Wallace’s response was simple: no. On hearing this, a crushed Nixon hung up the phone, turned to chief of staff Al Haig, and sighed “Well, Al, there goes the presidency.”
This sorry scene, with the president reduced to dialing for support like some county commissioner, appears near the end of Keith Olson’s wonderful book “Watergate.” Olson’s book is the story of a powerful man who utterly destroyed himself. In his tidy two-hundred page volume, Olson shows how Nixon committed suicide by a thousand cuts, his presidency dissolving into a haze of stupidity and venality.
The scandal did not spring from the empty air. John Dean famously described the Watergate cover-up as “a cancer on the presidency.” Perhaps malaria would have made a more fitting comparison. The Nixon White House was a fever swamp, where corruption flourished and cover-ups were accepted as part of the culture. In the basement of the White House lurked the Plumbers, frantically trying to plug the leaks oozing from the Oval Office. Up above, H.R. Haldeman, John Dean, and other Nixon cronies schemed to wiretap the phones of hostile reporters.
Other, more sinister horrors stalked the corridors of power. Perhaps the most frightening was the so-called Huston plan. A not-so-half-baked scheme proposed by White House aide Tom Huston, it called for a massive program of electronic surveillance against Nixon’s “enemies.” And Nixon treated nearly everyone like an enemy. The Huston plan even called for the internment of troublemakers like those who protested against the Vietnam War. The Huston plan never went into effect, but its very existence is chilling.
Among all this, a “third-rate burglary” at the Democratic National Headquarters in the Watergate Hotel hardly seemed noteworthy. Indeed, Olson notes how the White House went in cover-up mode almost reflexively. It was business as usual in the ultra-paranoid, ultra-suspicious Nixon administration. Nixon’s operatives simply assumed a cover-up was in order. For them, telling the truth was never even an option.
That lit the fuse that would end up blowing Richard Nixon and all his men sky-high. Olson’s book is a story of missed opportunities. Nixon had many, many chances to simply come clean. Had he stepped forth at the very beginning of the scandal, admitted wrongdoing, and fired a couple of his aides, he might have survived. Yet he refused to give up anything willingly. The press, the courts, and Congress had to force every admission out of him. This amounted to a steady drip-drip-drip of damaging stories, a political form of Chinese water torture for the president.
First, he refused to say anything about the matter. Then, he acknowledged the existence of the White House taping system, but rejected calls to release the tapes. Eventually he relented and published the transcripts. But that wasn’t enough; he had to release the tapes themselves. And still he held back. It wasn’t until late in 1974 that he released all the tapes, including the infamous “Smoking Gun.” He could have released the tapes in one fell swoop, but instead dragged out the painful process for months and months. Not even the hardiest presidency could survive the strain.
Nixon, in Olson’s book, remains a fairly enigmatic figure. That is not at all surprising. Great historians have devoted thousands of pages to our thirty-seventh president and have never succeeded in pinning him down. One can hardly expect Olson to capture the essence of Nixon in a book the size of a paperback detective novel. He sketches out the essentials of Nixon: a very intelligent man, certainly, but solitary to the point of reclusive, and bitter to the point of paranoia.
More disappointing is Olson’s failure to explore the peripheral characters of Watergate. Each receives only a few sentences of description. This makes it difficult to fathom their motivations. Why, for instance, was Haldeman so devoted to Nixon? Why did Dean turn on the president? Why didn’t John Ehrlichman do the same? And why, oh why did anyone allow G. Gordon Liddy to do anything? Again, we have to take into account Olson’s purpose. This is not the definitive book on Watergate, nor does it claim to be.
It simply offers a succinct overview of the whole case from beginning to end. Olson arranges everything meticulously, chronicling names, dates, and places with the precision of a Rose Mary Woods. The book’s greatest strength is the attention it gives to the media. Each White House action is paired with a reaction from the press. Over time, the reader watches the last traces of support for Nixon fade away. Many newspapers defended him at the beginning of the scandal. By the end, even the rabidly right-wing Manchester Union Leader called for his head.
Watergate defies an easy explanation. Can you capture it in one sentence, one paragraph, one book even? No. Not at all. But you can try. And Keith Olson had made an excellent try in his book “Watergate.”
But by this time, everything was going against Nixon, and Wallace’s response was simple: no. On hearing this, a crushed Nixon hung up the phone, turned to chief of staff Al Haig, and sighed “Well, Al, there goes the presidency.”
This sorry scene, with the president reduced to dialing for support like some county commissioner, appears near the end of Keith Olson’s wonderful book “Watergate.” Olson’s book is the story of a powerful man who utterly destroyed himself. In his tidy two-hundred page volume, Olson shows how Nixon committed suicide by a thousand cuts, his presidency dissolving into a haze of stupidity and venality.
The scandal did not spring from the empty air. John Dean famously described the Watergate cover-up as “a cancer on the presidency.” Perhaps malaria would have made a more fitting comparison. The Nixon White House was a fever swamp, where corruption flourished and cover-ups were accepted as part of the culture. In the basement of the White House lurked the Plumbers, frantically trying to plug the leaks oozing from the Oval Office. Up above, H.R. Haldeman, John Dean, and other Nixon cronies schemed to wiretap the phones of hostile reporters.
Other, more sinister horrors stalked the corridors of power. Perhaps the most frightening was the so-called Huston plan. A not-so-half-baked scheme proposed by White House aide Tom Huston, it called for a massive program of electronic surveillance against Nixon’s “enemies.” And Nixon treated nearly everyone like an enemy. The Huston plan even called for the internment of troublemakers like those who protested against the Vietnam War. The Huston plan never went into effect, but its very existence is chilling.
Among all this, a “third-rate burglary” at the Democratic National Headquarters in the Watergate Hotel hardly seemed noteworthy. Indeed, Olson notes how the White House went in cover-up mode almost reflexively. It was business as usual in the ultra-paranoid, ultra-suspicious Nixon administration. Nixon’s operatives simply assumed a cover-up was in order. For them, telling the truth was never even an option.
That lit the fuse that would end up blowing Richard Nixon and all his men sky-high. Olson’s book is a story of missed opportunities. Nixon had many, many chances to simply come clean. Had he stepped forth at the very beginning of the scandal, admitted wrongdoing, and fired a couple of his aides, he might have survived. Yet he refused to give up anything willingly. The press, the courts, and Congress had to force every admission out of him. This amounted to a steady drip-drip-drip of damaging stories, a political form of Chinese water torture for the president.
First, he refused to say anything about the matter. Then, he acknowledged the existence of the White House taping system, but rejected calls to release the tapes. Eventually he relented and published the transcripts. But that wasn’t enough; he had to release the tapes themselves. And still he held back. It wasn’t until late in 1974 that he released all the tapes, including the infamous “Smoking Gun.” He could have released the tapes in one fell swoop, but instead dragged out the painful process for months and months. Not even the hardiest presidency could survive the strain.
Nixon, in Olson’s book, remains a fairly enigmatic figure. That is not at all surprising. Great historians have devoted thousands of pages to our thirty-seventh president and have never succeeded in pinning him down. One can hardly expect Olson to capture the essence of Nixon in a book the size of a paperback detective novel. He sketches out the essentials of Nixon: a very intelligent man, certainly, but solitary to the point of reclusive, and bitter to the point of paranoia.
More disappointing is Olson’s failure to explore the peripheral characters of Watergate. Each receives only a few sentences of description. This makes it difficult to fathom their motivations. Why, for instance, was Haldeman so devoted to Nixon? Why did Dean turn on the president? Why didn’t John Ehrlichman do the same? And why, oh why did anyone allow G. Gordon Liddy to do anything? Again, we have to take into account Olson’s purpose. This is not the definitive book on Watergate, nor does it claim to be.
It simply offers a succinct overview of the whole case from beginning to end. Olson arranges everything meticulously, chronicling names, dates, and places with the precision of a Rose Mary Woods. The book’s greatest strength is the attention it gives to the media. Each White House action is paired with a reaction from the press. Over time, the reader watches the last traces of support for Nixon fade away. Many newspapers defended him at the beginning of the scandal. By the end, even the rabidly right-wing Manchester Union Leader called for his head.
Watergate defies an easy explanation. Can you capture it in one sentence, one paragraph, one book even? No. Not at all. But you can try. And Keith Olson had made an excellent try in his book “Watergate.”
Monday, June 22, 2009
Mockin' It
Proof of what I always suspected: NBA mock drafts are worthless. What's more, the people who compile the mock drafts hate them even more than I do. Poor Chad Ford. He must carry years of repressed self-loathing in his heart.
I suppose, though, I had better make a quick mock draft of my own. Here goes:
1. Los Angeles Clippers--Blake Griffin
2. Memphis Grizzlies--Blake Griffin, in the very reasonable hope that he will refuse to play for the Clippers
3. Oklahoma City Thunder--Ditto the above, only add "or the Grizzlies" to the end of the sentence
4. Sacramento Kings--Not even going to try this year, that's how depressed they are
5. Washington Wizards--Have been hearing good things about this Gilbert Arenas fellow
I suppose, though, I had better make a quick mock draft of my own. Here goes:
1. Los Angeles Clippers--Blake Griffin
2. Memphis Grizzlies--Blake Griffin, in the very reasonable hope that he will refuse to play for the Clippers
3. Oklahoma City Thunder--Ditto the above, only add "or the Grizzlies" to the end of the sentence
4. Sacramento Kings--Not even going to try this year, that's how depressed they are
5. Washington Wizards--Have been hearing good things about this Gilbert Arenas fellow
The Mail Always Gets...Whatever
Dear Mr and Mrs. Smith--
I would just like to apologize for my failure to deliver your letters for the past few days. I assure you that I made every effort to get your mail through. I was, however, distracted by more pressing issues; namely, why is it that some people's bellybuttons poke out, while others poke in? I have yet to resolve this question. As such, I apologize for any futures delays that may and will occur.
Sincerely,
Neil Goddard
I would just like to apologize for my failure to deliver your letters for the past few days. I assure you that I made every effort to get your mail through. I was, however, distracted by more pressing issues; namely, why is it that some people's bellybuttons poke out, while others poke in? I have yet to resolve this question. As such, I apologize for any futures delays that may and will occur.
Sincerely,
Neil Goddard
A Visit to Huntington Beach
Huntington Beach is a lot like Santa Monica beach, if you upped the sandiness quotient a little more. Visitors to Huntington Beach are advised to do some stretching beforehand; it’s a damn big beach to walk across. I needed to stop at leas four or five times to catch my breath, and once I had to lie down and take a quick nap. Got to save my energy and all that stuff, you know.
I had brought along one of my bath towels in hopes of passing it off as a beach towel. I don’t think anyone noticed. More importantly, I don’t think anyone cared. I had also greased myself up with liberal handfuls of SPF 50. And I don’t mean “liberal” in the Zell Miller sense. We’re talking full-blown, national health care, no war in Iraq, impeach Bush, tax the rich 100% Ted Kennedy-and-Barbara Boxer love child liberalism. My skin didn’t just absorb UV; it reflected it, turning me into a walking mirror. I caught one beachgoer admiring his reflection in my chest hair.
Question: what does a Nixon intern do at the beach? Answer: read about Richard Nixon. I spent the first hour munching on the last couple chapters of Keith Olson’s “Watergate” (mini-review forthcoming). Then, with Olson out of the way, I dove into Andrew Greeley’s “The American Catholic.” Do I know how to have fun or what? Again, this is why I don’t get invited to many parties.
Yet I could hear the ocean calling my name. “Will, Will,” I thought I heard it whisper, “you stupid pasty nerd, put down that multi-volume sociological study of American Catholicism and jump in the water.” How can I resist a siren song like that? Not me. I think I was born with water on my brain. Wait, that doesn’t sound quite right.
So I stripped my shirt off, causing everyone within a five beach-blanket radius to recoil in horror at the sight of my spindly arms and potbelly. I dashed the last half-mile or so to the water, took a deep breath, and plunged in. And died instantly of hypothermia. My core temperature dropped from a healthy 98.6 degrees to a frigid -500 within seconds. When I came up for air, I had to elbow aside a couple small iceberg floating nearby. I took a look down at my hands and saw they had turned a delightful shade of lilac rarely found outside a Crayola box.
Yet I persevered, not out of pride, but rather because my limbs had frozen into Will-flavored popsicles. You know what? After a few minutes, it wasn’t so bad. Oh, sure, my blood did coagulate into a Slurpee-like consistency. And my entire body went numb, as if I had been jabbed by a Novocain syringe the size of a baseball bat. But I still got used to it. Heck, if I could get used to living in a college dorm room, I could adjust to anything.
Most people, when they visit the shore, either 1) stay close to the beach and stand around in the shallows or 2) grab a boogie board, surfboard, or raft and take it way way out there. I’m too hyper for the first and too cowardly for the second. When I go to the beach I simply repeat the same process over and over again. I run head-on into the waves, flailing my arms and squealing like a ten year old at a Jonas Brothers concert. The wave then smacks me upside the head and turns me upside-down. After I finish wringing the saltwater and starfish out of my nose, I get up and do it all over again. It’s fun!
Eventually, though, I had to get out of the water. After taking a few minutes to chisel the ice off my joints I rejoined my fellow interns. We took a little stroll up the beach, decided we were hungry, and strolled back to the car. After forking over the $500 necessary to find a beachside parking spot, we took off for Huntington proper. Main Street was closed off; the town of Huntington was celebrating its 50th straight day without a shark attack.
Finding a parking spot in Huntington was an ordeal that makes one question the very concept of the automobile. We drove around the city at least five times, as if we were the entrants in the world’s slowest NASCAR competition. The countless bicyclists zigzagging across the road didn’t help matters. Apparently, millions of cyclists make their home in Huntington, and every single one possesses an intense death wish. How else to explain their near-suicidal navigation?
Huntington in full festival mode is truly a sight to behold. Little kiosks stood along every street, on every corner, down every alleyway. Some kiosks sat on top of other kiosks. I’m pretty sure I saw a kiosk down in one of the storm drains. Each one had a cheerful person handing out flyers for free Slurpees or free tattoos or free tattoos of Slurpees. I took a couple of each. You never know when you’ll need a nice big tattoo of a grape Slurpee covering your upper back.
We ate dinner at a restaurant called BJ’s, and I confess I giggled a little at the name. OK, I giggled quite a lot. I sat down to dinner in a state of near-hysterics, actually. Dinner was fine. What really mattered, though, was the dessert. BJ’s specializes in something called a “pizookie.” This sounds somewhat like an unspeakably obscene sex act performed by a Thai prostitute for forty bhat. In reality, though, the name simply combines the words “pizza” and “cookie.” As a college student, I highly favor both foods. I would live on pizza and Oreos, if it didn’t mean dying at age thirty with a heart the size of Manny Ramirez’s head.
Hungry after a hard day of reading about Nixon, we ordered giant-size pizookie, a massive cookie cake piled high with two cows worth of ice cream. It arrived at our table at approximately 6:50 PM. By 6:53 PM it had all but vanished. I was the last one to give up; for five minutes I kept scraping the bottom of the pan with a spoon, searching desperately, hungrily, maniacally, for one last fragment of chocolate chunk cookie. Never have I felt such sympathy with the cookie monster.
Everything that came after the pizookie was an anti-climax. We watched the sun set over Los Angeles; it really looks beautiful refracted through the L.A. smog. As it dipped down over the horizon, it swelled until it looked like a massive tangerine about to squash Venice Beach. Eventually it vanished and left us standing in the dark. The only sound was the waves lapping at the bottom of the pier. That, and me, grumbling that someone had taken my share of the pizookie. Truly an enchanted ending to a magical day.
I had brought along one of my bath towels in hopes of passing it off as a beach towel. I don’t think anyone noticed. More importantly, I don’t think anyone cared. I had also greased myself up with liberal handfuls of SPF 50. And I don’t mean “liberal” in the Zell Miller sense. We’re talking full-blown, national health care, no war in Iraq, impeach Bush, tax the rich 100% Ted Kennedy-and-Barbara Boxer love child liberalism. My skin didn’t just absorb UV; it reflected it, turning me into a walking mirror. I caught one beachgoer admiring his reflection in my chest hair.
Question: what does a Nixon intern do at the beach? Answer: read about Richard Nixon. I spent the first hour munching on the last couple chapters of Keith Olson’s “Watergate” (mini-review forthcoming). Then, with Olson out of the way, I dove into Andrew Greeley’s “The American Catholic.” Do I know how to have fun or what? Again, this is why I don’t get invited to many parties.
Yet I could hear the ocean calling my name. “Will, Will,” I thought I heard it whisper, “you stupid pasty nerd, put down that multi-volume sociological study of American Catholicism and jump in the water.” How can I resist a siren song like that? Not me. I think I was born with water on my brain. Wait, that doesn’t sound quite right.
So I stripped my shirt off, causing everyone within a five beach-blanket radius to recoil in horror at the sight of my spindly arms and potbelly. I dashed the last half-mile or so to the water, took a deep breath, and plunged in. And died instantly of hypothermia. My core temperature dropped from a healthy 98.6 degrees to a frigid -500 within seconds. When I came up for air, I had to elbow aside a couple small iceberg floating nearby. I took a look down at my hands and saw they had turned a delightful shade of lilac rarely found outside a Crayola box.
Yet I persevered, not out of pride, but rather because my limbs had frozen into Will-flavored popsicles. You know what? After a few minutes, it wasn’t so bad. Oh, sure, my blood did coagulate into a Slurpee-like consistency. And my entire body went numb, as if I had been jabbed by a Novocain syringe the size of a baseball bat. But I still got used to it. Heck, if I could get used to living in a college dorm room, I could adjust to anything.
Most people, when they visit the shore, either 1) stay close to the beach and stand around in the shallows or 2) grab a boogie board, surfboard, or raft and take it way way out there. I’m too hyper for the first and too cowardly for the second. When I go to the beach I simply repeat the same process over and over again. I run head-on into the waves, flailing my arms and squealing like a ten year old at a Jonas Brothers concert. The wave then smacks me upside the head and turns me upside-down. After I finish wringing the saltwater and starfish out of my nose, I get up and do it all over again. It’s fun!
Eventually, though, I had to get out of the water. After taking a few minutes to chisel the ice off my joints I rejoined my fellow interns. We took a little stroll up the beach, decided we were hungry, and strolled back to the car. After forking over the $500 necessary to find a beachside parking spot, we took off for Huntington proper. Main Street was closed off; the town of Huntington was celebrating its 50th straight day without a shark attack.
Finding a parking spot in Huntington was an ordeal that makes one question the very concept of the automobile. We drove around the city at least five times, as if we were the entrants in the world’s slowest NASCAR competition. The countless bicyclists zigzagging across the road didn’t help matters. Apparently, millions of cyclists make their home in Huntington, and every single one possesses an intense death wish. How else to explain their near-suicidal navigation?
Huntington in full festival mode is truly a sight to behold. Little kiosks stood along every street, on every corner, down every alleyway. Some kiosks sat on top of other kiosks. I’m pretty sure I saw a kiosk down in one of the storm drains. Each one had a cheerful person handing out flyers for free Slurpees or free tattoos or free tattoos of Slurpees. I took a couple of each. You never know when you’ll need a nice big tattoo of a grape Slurpee covering your upper back.
We ate dinner at a restaurant called BJ’s, and I confess I giggled a little at the name. OK, I giggled quite a lot. I sat down to dinner in a state of near-hysterics, actually. Dinner was fine. What really mattered, though, was the dessert. BJ’s specializes in something called a “pizookie.” This sounds somewhat like an unspeakably obscene sex act performed by a Thai prostitute for forty bhat. In reality, though, the name simply combines the words “pizza” and “cookie.” As a college student, I highly favor both foods. I would live on pizza and Oreos, if it didn’t mean dying at age thirty with a heart the size of Manny Ramirez’s head.
Hungry after a hard day of reading about Nixon, we ordered giant-size pizookie, a massive cookie cake piled high with two cows worth of ice cream. It arrived at our table at approximately 6:50 PM. By 6:53 PM it had all but vanished. I was the last one to give up; for five minutes I kept scraping the bottom of the pan with a spoon, searching desperately, hungrily, maniacally, for one last fragment of chocolate chunk cookie. Never have I felt such sympathy with the cookie monster.
Everything that came after the pizookie was an anti-climax. We watched the sun set over Los Angeles; it really looks beautiful refracted through the L.A. smog. As it dipped down over the horizon, it swelled until it looked like a massive tangerine about to squash Venice Beach. Eventually it vanished and left us standing in the dark. The only sound was the waves lapping at the bottom of the pier. That, and me, grumbling that someone had taken my share of the pizookie. Truly an enchanted ending to a magical day.
Bizarre Google Search
Let's see what a search for "fire brigade" turns up. I'm expecting something suitably whimsical and wacky:
Further proof that Paul is dead, I suppose.
Further proof that Paul is dead, I suppose.
Lightning Never Strikes Twice
Breaking news: Man stands in giant field holding a big metal pole and gets struck by lightning.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)