The unbearable complexity of Mr. Shakespeare

“Can’t you just speak like a normal person?!” screamed Mrs. Shakespeare at her husband William. “I don’t know what your problem is, all I know is that your roundabout way of saying things just drives me crazy”. 

“As you like it”, said William. “All’s well that ends well. Really, this is much ado about nothing”. 

If she was completely humorless before he said this, her expression became a notch even more humorless, if that were even possible.

Concerned about the seriousness that charged the air like static electricity, William said “Perhaps my lady would have the pleasure of challenging me to a game of cards?”

“There you go again!!” screamed Mrs. Shakespeare. “Why do you have to say it that way? I find it very... very passive aggressive. If you’re going to insult me, do it directly to my face please.”

“My lady” William replied, and now his expression took on a new level of discomfort. “My lady, as you well know, since I was a lad I was schooled in the fine arts of applying my mind to rhetoric and wit, subtlety and complexity, and the endlessly unsolvable but infinitely describable mystery of our world. Everything they taught me prepared me for a life of crafting language in the most original and artistic manner possible. Do I hear you correctly that you expect me to interact in a most bland and unembellished way? How now?”

It was true. William thought that the whole point of it all - of civilization, of culture, of language and art, and in particular education, was to establish and revel in a certain level of complexity, to journey to the far reaches of it, as far away from mere simplicity and directness as possible. The idea of anything otherwise sent him into a deep state of confusion.

Mrs. Shakespeare sat there gazing at William, her mouth slightly agape, a look of great intensity and confusion also dominating her face. Despite the unhappy circumstances, her face, in fact her whole being, was pleasing to behold - something one of the Dutch masters might have painted with great feeling.

Right as William was thinking these thoughts, Mrs. Shakespeare produced a cigarette, put it in her mouth, ignited it, took a long drag, and then exhaled a smoky concoction of over 7000 chemicals, about 69 of which had been proven by the FDA to cause cancer. After that, she turned away and turned on the television. 

- copyright 2020 by P.T. Gachot

The Ascendancy of Breakfast

One of the most unusual events of 21st century history was the abolition of lunch and dinner and the ascendency of breakfast as the sole primary meal of the day.

Several factors contributed to this development. It didn’t hurt that of the day’s three meals, breakfast was the most well-defined. There are more specific associations with breakfast - juice, coffee, toast, eggs - than with other meals, which are more like blank slates and therefore more difficult to solve. Beyond that, there is universal agreement that no matter when you “break fast” and have that first meal of the day, it is an important meal, an essential meal, THE essential meal.

Who among us doesn’t have fond breakfast memories? Whether it be the sounds and smells of your mom busy in the kitchen while you’re waking up in bed, or a long, leisurely, life-affirming meal at a breakfast / brunch restaurant - those shrines dedicated to the enjoyment of breakfast, a wholesome, Apollonian joy, basking in sunshine and the spirit of newsprint and crossword puzzles - these memories have a power of their own. 

The creators of the aforementioned breakfast / brunch restaurants understand this and stake their livelihoods on the eternal appeal of breakfast. Their customers are active believers in the cause. It is not difficult to understand the leap that breakfast can take for some people when it goes from pleasing ritual and pastime to cult, religion and movement.

That is exactly what happened in the second decade of the 21st century. Breakfast turned into a cult, a religion and a movement. 

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It just so happened that there were people high up in government who were massive breakfast enthusiasts. So, when a grass roots surge in the meal’s popularity swept the nation, these high placed advocates lost no time in seizing the moment. A bill was introduced that proposed the abolition of lunch and dinner and the establishment of breakfast as the sole, primary meal of the day, a meal that could take place any time between 3 am and 5 pm, for as long or short a time anyone wanted. The bill also clearly stated that while certainly it was an opportunity to celebrate familiar breakfast foods in the usual venues, people were also free to define breakfast however they wanted. 

For example, if someone felt that a mountain of baked ziti drenched in pesto sauce resting on a ten inch Margherita pizza captured the spirit of breakfast, then they were free to call it breakfast. If someone else defined breakfast as a glass of V8 juice followed by a jog around the block, a yoga routine, and re-reading certain short stories by William Faulkner, then that too could be called breakfast. For another person, it may involve sipping a can of Hawaiian Punch while composing poetry by their favorite window. In fact, just about any food or activity under the sun, so long as they were legal, could be defined as breakfast.

The beauty of the Breakfast Bill, which passed unanimously, was the extent to which it simplified life on the one hand, and opened the door for a creative re-structuring of life on the other. Most people found the transition very liberating. Never again did they have to worry about what they would have for lunch or dinner. The few meals that fell outside of breakfast - popcorn and herb tea with a movie, or 2 am lemon juice followed by a hot bath - were universally tolerated. Afternoon coffee with a pastry was generally considered part of breakfast.

After a few years of implementation, there was a consensus that any food or activity occurring ANY time of day could be called breakfast, although technically, according to the books, it still ran from 3 am to 5 pm.

Not surprisingly, there was an increase in the number of breakfast restaurants. Also not surprisingly, the combined effects of simplifying life and fostering creativity resulted in a happier population.

So there you have it - the ascendancy of breakfast.


- copyright 2020 by P.T. Gachot

Soft Lips Obispo

As the twenty-first century wore on, life in California got stranger and stranger. A good example was the state lottery and what you could win besides money. In the summer of 2035, the prize was this: twelve changes to the official state map, any changes that the winner wished, permanent until future lottery winners made further changes. 

That was the summer that Mr. Patel and Mrs. Katel had the winning ticket. Being of an eccentric bent, they were delighted with the prize and lost almost no time breaking out their Rand McNally, Thomas Guides, and AAA fold-up maps.

“I’ve been waiting my whole life for this” raved Mr. Patel, small bits of foam forming at the corners of his mouth like a rabid dog on the prowl. He said that to his neighbors and to the local news channel. Sometimes he said it in his sleep. Mrs. Katel’s response was somewhat more contained, although inwardly the gears of her mind were fast at work at this unprecedented opportunity to make geographic name changes.

The Patel-Katels set their minds to the task and each came up with a list of six proposed changes to the map of California.

Mrs. Katel’s list:

1. California becomes Caliphoneya (spoken with a deep southern accent).
2. Barstow becomes Barstool.
3. Santa Cruz becomes Santa Cruzcontrol.
4. San Bernardino becomes San Berniesanders.
5. Carpinteria becomes The Carpenters.
6. Ojai becomes Oh-hi-there.

Mr. Patel’s list:

1. San Luis Obispo becomes Soft Lips Obispo.
2. Bakersfield becomes Baker’s Dozen.
3. Solvang becomes Solvent.
4. Truckee becomes Truckstop.
5. Route 14 becomes Route 14.5.
6. Ojai becomes Ohio. 

They hadn’t anticipated that they would pick the same city. In a state the size of California, the largest state in the union by population, that seemed unlikely. They would have to choose one of the two names, then add a twelfth change.

For the twelfth change, they agreed to turn Soledad into Soledad O’Brien. But on the subject of Ojai, they could not agree.

“What do you mean turning Ojai into ‘Oh-hi-there’?” shouted Mr. Patel. “That’s just plain silly. Clearly the town is calling out to be renamed ‘Ohio’, giving it the solid Midwestern backbone it always secretly craved!”

To which Mrs. Katel responded, “Solid Midwestern backbone? The town craves no such thing! You clearly don’t know Ojai. The people there are way more likely to go for ‘Oh-hi-there’. They will embrace the humor, the innovation.”

“Innovation?” said Mr. Patel. “You call that innovation? Maybe a ten-year-old’s idea of innovation. Would you be willing to change it to ‘Jai Alai’?”

“Jai alai?” responded Mrs. Katel. “You mean that Basque bouncy-ball game they play in Bridgeport, Connecticut? No! That would be a terrible name for Ojai. Sorry but I’m not changing my proposal for Ojai.”

Which left them with no choice but to contact the Lottery Commissioner so as to resolve the dispute. The Lottery Commissioner invited them to his office in Sacramento.

“This is what we’re going to do” said Commissioner Schwarzenegger. “We’re going to flip a coin. Heads, ‘Ohio’, tails ‘Oh-hi-there’. May the better man win.”

The ‘better man’ turned out to be Mrs. Katel.

And that is how Ojai changed its name to ‘Oh-hi-there’.

- copyright 2019 by P.T. Gachot

The Case for Common Sense

The Patels lived in a warm climate and one had to be mindful about buying groceries and leaving them in the car. Sitting in the sun with the windows rolled up, a car quickly turned into a greenhouse, a great place to grow certain varieties of plants, but also a very effective way of spoiling all kinds of foods.

For this reason Mr. Patel always made a point of seeking out shady parking spots. Even if there was no food in the car, he preferred keeping the interior of his car cool. It was just more pleasant that way, and any clothing or cd’s or other personal items would not get compromised by the searing rays of sunshine - sunshine that seemed to get stronger every year, regardless of whether or not you believed in global warming.

Furthermore, Mr. Patel did not mind seeking out the shadiest spots even if it meant parking in the farthest, most remote areas of a parking lot. The way he looked at it, Americans - himself included - were the most overfed people on the planet, and if they had to sacrifice “convenience” for walking long distances to and from the store, it was a good thing, an opportunity for badly-needed exercise. 

Mr. Patel was happy with his parking habits, and to his way of thinking they just made sense. But the community did not see it that way. There was a strong built-in tendency to park as close to the store as possible, and to refuse to make a connection between parking in the blazing hot sun and having your perishable foods spoiled. It was just considered impolite to make that connection.

Later, when people’s banana yogurt and organic eggs and frozen Lima beans were compromised, they were quite fond of throwing a fit about how their food was ruined, and how bad their luck was. This was followed by a stream of angry curses so virulent they would make a drunken sailor blush.

To Mr. Patel’s way of thinking, this was crazy. It simply lacked common sense. With the best of intentions he wrote an editorial in the local newspaper, the title of which was “The Case for Common Sense”. In it, he proposed planting more trees in parking lots, building solar panels and other design techniques that could solve the whole problem.

The community did not take well to Mr. Patel’s editorial. He was shunned in every possible way. First he was branded as “eccentric”, and not long after that terms like “subversive” and “threat to society” were overheard. Finally the floodgates were opened and labels such as “socialist”, “communist”, “hippie” and “tree hugger” were freely directed at Mr. Patel.

None of these words really bothered Mr. Patel very much, but when word got out about an angry mob carrying baseball bats, he made the decision to live like a savage in a remote corner of the Mojave Desert.

Actually he liked the desert very much, so it was really a blessing in disguise. Before long he found a nice, shady cave hidden in the mountains and was crafting spears out of palo verde branches. He frequently hiked to the tops of the nearby mountains where he found the vistas spiritually uplifting. For food he would suck on the juices of cacti and the fruits of Joshua trees. Sometimes his wife would bring him a change of socks and underwear.

This is how Mr. Patel ended up living like a savage in a remote corner of the Mojave Desert. 

- copyright 2019 by P.T. Gachot

Land of Enchantment my Ass

Heading west after their visit to Big Bend National Park, Mr. Patel and Mrs. Katel pondered where they would rest their heads that night. Looking at the map, the logical destination was Las Cruces, New Mexico.

But then Mr. Patel remembered the time they got lost in Las Cruces, and he had no desire to repeat that experience.

“Why don’t we stay in one of the smaller towns near Las Cruces?” he asked. “There may not be as many amenities, but it will likely be less stressful.”

“Okay” said Mrs. Katel. “Let’s give it a try.”

So they found themselves in Deming, New Mexico, population around 15,000. Mr. Patel and Mrs. Katel had some experience of small western towns, so they had some idea of what they were in for.

And sure enough the town more or less fit their expectations. A chain motel at one end, just off the interstate, fit their humble needs to a tee. There were even laundry facilities to wash their grungy clothes, covered with Big Bend dust.

“Is there somewhere in town where we can stock up on supplies?” Mrs. Katel asked the desk clerk. Sure enough there was a Walmart just down the road.

So after checking into their humble room in the humble town they took advantage of the daylight and made the short drive to Walmart.

To Mr. Patel it looked like any other Walmart anywhere else in the country, with all its good and bad points. But to Mrs. Katel there was something distinctly wrong with the place. To use her terminology, it was “starting to bug her.”

Mr. Patel tried to wrap his mind around his wife’s suffering, and what he came up with was this: every time they went down an aisle in the store, some people - maybe an entire family - appeared out out of thin air, thus obstructing their path. This seemed to be happening constantly.

Mr. Patel agreed that this was distressing, but that in the grand scheme of phenomena it was something he was prepared to deal with. Not so Mrs. Katel. To her, this was dealbreaker material. 

“Land of Enchantment my ass!!!” she screamed in the middle of the Walmart, so loud that it was followed by a deafening silence.

The motto of the entire state of New Mexico was on the line.

A very well dressed man appeared in front of us, and he introduced himself as Enrique Calderón, manager of that particular Walmart. He invited us into his office.

I was impressed with the Old World furnishings of Enrique’s office. Lots of dark wooden furniture, carved in the Spanish style, and red velvet drapes on either side of a picture window looking out on a fantastic panorama of mountains and desert.

“Please” said Enrique. “Have a seat.” We positioned ourselves on antique chairs worthy of Queen Isabella.

Enrique quietly poured what appeared to be a very fine old bottle of port into two snifters, which he handed to me and Mrs. Katel.

“I have a rancho on an island in the Sea of Cortez. I would very much like you two to be my guests for the coming weekend. Don’t worry about expenses, I will take care of that entirely.”

The offer seemed very generous to me, and since I’ve always had a soft spot for the Sea of Cortez, I enthusiastically took up Mister Calderón on his offer. We all clinked our snifters and drank a microscopic sip of the fine old port.

The next day a car came to pick us up at our motel. Enrique made arrangements with the motel and the rental car company - the vehicle would be kept safely at the motel and cost us nothing. 

What followed was a combination of car, airplane and boat ride that happened so quickly that before I knew it we were on Enrique’s island.

Enrique himself met us at the dock where the boat let us off. He greeted us warmly and led us to the ‘casita’ where we would be staying, which was located next to his house. A swimming pool separated the casita from the main house.

Enrique invited us into the main house. The furnishings were reminiscent of his office in the Walmart in Deming. He silently poured us small amounts of what appeared to be very fine old port.

“Salud” he said as we clinked our glasses and had a microscopic sip of the fine old port.

“Put your bathing suits on” he said. “We don’t want to miss the vaquitas.”

Vaquitas of course are the rare, endangered dolphins that inhabit the Sea of Cortez. After putting on out bathing suits, Enrique led us back to the dock where we arrived. We noticed three kayaks ready for embarking.

In no time we found ourselves in kayaks floating on the Sea of Cortez. Enrique said “Follow me around that point”. In about five minutes we rounded the point.

There in what was a fabulously configured cove, part island and part mainland, we were surrounded by frolicking vaquitas, hundreds of them, leaping in and out of the water. It was a splendid sight on a splendid sunny day, colorful and refreshing, with blasts of fresh salty sea and air.

In this way the unpleasantness of one bad experience at Walmart was resolved.

- copyright 2019 by P.T. Gachot

Family Values

Where we grew up, there was a print of a painting on the wall of our childhood bedroom that was the first thing we saw when we woke. It was a scene of an early horse-drawn fire engine racing through a nineteenth century city street. It was an overall dark painting with red brick buildings and the brown hues of early American northeastern cities. It was a strange thing to see every morning upon waking up, but as a family we never discussed it.

It was similar in spirit to the lithographs of Currier and Ives, except that it wasn't their work. Instead it was the work of Ernest Opper, who called his 1889 painting "Fire-Engine on Broad Street, Elizabeth, New Jersey". It hangs in the museum of the Rhode Island School of Design.

The facts about this painting did not come easy. It took half a century for them to surface. As a family, we never discussed it. The painting was just there, a given, as unexplained as the sun or the moon or the sky.

No one even knows how it got there.

As a child I think I took it as a message about the world I was born into. It was a world that was evidently dark, built of brick, and on fire.

                                                                            *******

As a family, we never discussed what kind of cheese we liked. There was always lots of Swiss cheese, and later Jarlsberg, which as a child I ate a tremendous amount of. I ate it partly because I liked it and partly just because it was there. 

This behavior proved unhealthy as I ended up in the hospital with some sort of clinical constipation that to this day I don't fully understand.

It wasn't until much later, when I had gotten out in the world, that I experienced a broad spectrum of cheeses. Eventually, after several decades of sampling, it emerged that I was a Gruyere man. This was an important discovery because, once I realized that I liked strong salty cheeses with a bite, I also realized I didn't need to eat as much to be satisfied. In other words, Gruyere is a highly efficient cheese, getting you faster to your cheese destination. Whereas Jarlsberg and Swiss keep me eating more and more in the hope of arriving at a destination that never materializes. Well, sometimes it materializes, but it takes longer.

All of this seems true, but as a family we never discussed it.

                                                                            *******

The house we grew up in had lots of scratchy wool socks that went up fairly high above the ankles. That meant that the covered portion of the legs felt scratchy. I think this was supposed to make the long, cold winters tolerable, but I'm not sure it worked in my case. I seem to remember that the winters were cold AND scratchy.

To be fair, some of these socks didn't fit me at all. Sometimes they were so loose that the scratchy wool was a good half inch away from my leg. This extra space was perfect for storing snow while walking outdoors. Unfortunately the snow melted upon going indoors.

It wasn't until later, when I had gotten out in the world, that I experienced a broad spectrum of socks. Eventually it emerged that my sock of choice was very different from those old woolies. 

My sock of choice stops at my ankle, is made of smooth cotton or synthetic material, and clings tightly to my feet. My legs stay warm because I spend most of my time in warm places.

Not that there is anything wrong with scratchy wool socks, but as a family, we never discussed it. We never discussed the nuances of socks, scratchy or otherwise.

                                                                             *******

There were two shards of soap in the downstairs bathroom. One was white and the other was yellow. Neither of them got very soft while showering. Neither of them was particularly effective. As a family, we never discussed how we felt about those shards of soap.

I think those shards may have dated back to when my mother passed away. In that case they were fraught with the spirit of that difficult time. Or they may have dated to when my father fell and injured his hip, forcing him to take up residence in the downstairs bedroom. In that case the shards were fraught with the spirit of that difficult time.

Since I use that shower on my visits, I was always confronted with those two shards of soap and the fact that they didn't get soft and were fraught with the spirit of those two difficult times.

Since both of those events were in the past, and I felt that my desire to get clean in the shower was legitimate and sincere, I decided to replace the two old shards with a fresh bar of Yardley. Yes, I am a Yardley man. It gets better results and makes for a better experience.

Still, we never as a family discussed any of this. To this day, we never formed a cohesive, comprehensive, family-wide philosophy of soap.

- copyright 2019 by P.T. Gachot

Floppy by Design

It was evening in the historic part of Lewes, Delaware and the moonlight shimmered on the river. Whether the moon was full or not was another question.

"What a pretty full moon" said Mrs. Katel.

"Well, actually, I don't think it's completely full" followed up Mr. Patel, contorting his face somewhat to assess the moon. 

"What do you mean?" his wife responded. "If that's not full, I don't know what is".

Mr. Patel continued contorting his face and said "If you examine the lower right-hand edge of the moon, you can see that just a sliver of it is missing".

"What are you talking about?" said Mrs. Katel. "That thing is full."

Mr. Patel then said "I may be wrong, but it may behoove you to get your eyes examined. I may be wrong, but then again I may be right."

To which Mrs. Katel replied "Are you being passive-aggressive?"

"No, I am being aggressive-aggressive."

"Do you mean active-aggressive?"

"Yes, I think so. Does passive-aggressive have a hyphen?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know? You just used the term."

The conversation continued in this vein and eventually they returned to the subject of whether the moon was full or not. 

"Are you crazy? That thing is full!"

"Well, actually, technically, it's not."

"Are you out of your mind?!! You need to get your brain examined!!"

In the end, they could not agree to disagree, and in the moonlight began to physically wrestle one another on the ground. Mrs. Katel had Mr. Patel in a headlock, then managed to get his arms behind his back. Pinned down on the promenade by the river, face down, Mr. Patel first felt his wrists tied together tightly with a zip tie, then his ankles with her scarf. For the finale, a strip of packing tape was applied to his mouth.

He was unable to move but he could hear Mrs. Katel's footsteps as she wandered off. Feeling a bit exhausted, he decided to get some sleep.

In the morning he was able to break off the zip tie with the help of a nearby iron fence. He then walked to his hotel, where he learned that Mrs. Katel had checked out and left with the rental car.

There really wasn't much choice than to take the ferryboat to Cape May, New Jersey. The ferry left Lewes throughout the day, and it was what they were planning on doing anyway. It was even conceivable that he would see Mrs. Katel on the boat.

The ferry ride was pleasant but he did not see Mrs. Katel. Instead, he slowly ate a pretzel and sipped coffee while gazing at Delaware Bay. When the boat started to rock, a car alarm went off on the lower deck. Since Mr. Patel was a foot passenger, it wasn't his problem.

He didn't see Mrs. Katel, but he did meet someone who identified himself as a Navajo Indian named Gerald, who was exploring the east coast.

"I like to see what's going on in my own country. I heard they built a big city called New York, so I plan to see that next."

"Well that's exactly where I am headed, Gerald, and I can tell you a thing or two about New York."

The two worked out an agreement. When Gerald learned that Mr. Patel was without car, he offered to give him a ride. In exchange, Mr. Patel would share his considerable  knowledge of the geography and history of New York.

So when the ferry landed in Cape May, the two got into Gerald's pickup truck and drove up the Garden State Freeway. When they got to the New York metro area, Mr. Patel helped navigate the way through Staten Island and over the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge.

"Is Verrazzano-Narrows hyphenated?" asked Gerald.

"Yes it is" said Mr. Patel.

Then, just as they were crossing the bridge and Mr. Patel started explaining exactly who Giovanni de Verrazzano was, Gerald's pickup truck lifted straight up in the air approximately 1000 feet.

Now anyone who is familiar with the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge knows that it is already very high up relative to the city's topography and that the view is as impressive as it is terrifying for anyone who had a fear of heights, as Mr. Patel famously did.

So imagine being raised 1000 feet higher than the bridge. Gerald said he didn't understand what was going  on, but that as a Navajo, he was open to it. Mr. Patel was quaking in his boots, but since the view of all of New York City was so spectacular, he pointed out to Gerald each of the five Burroughs, the Atlantic Ocean, New Jersey, Long Isand, JFK airport, Long Island Sound, Westchester, Connecticut, and many, many other features.

This went on for approximately ten minutes; then Gerald's pickup truck magically lowered itself back on the bridge, and they proceeded into Brooklyn along the BQE.  

Due to the strangeness of their experience they agreed that what was needed was to stop at a Starbucks in suburban Nassau County, Long Island. 

Over green tea lattes they hatched a plan wherein Gerald would drive Mr. Patel to the Orient Point ferry at the end of Long Island, then head back to New York City. The fact was Gerald was curious about all of New York, and he was as interested in seeing the surrounding areas as he was the city. He was a Native American and he cared about the land, the topography and the geographical nuances.

So they drove east to Long Island's North Fork, stopped at farm stands, had more coffee in Greenport, told jokes, laughed, and agreed to meet some day in the high desert of Arizona.

Meanwhile, Mr. Patel boarded the ferry to New London, Connecticut. It was actually quite similar to the ferry that ran between Lewes and Cape May. 

He got comfortable in a seat at a table and gazed at Long Island Sound.

Right then, Mrs. Katel sat herself directly opposite him at the table. She had that sort of loaded gun smile that Southern women are so good at.

"Can I get you a coffee?" she asked, exuding a love that transcends all zip ties, all Zip codes, all misunderstandings, all betrayals, all separation of time and space. It was real love. 

"Yes" said Mr. Patel.

- copyright 2018 by P.T. Gachot