COMMENTS & CURIOSITIES
Peter Buffa
Attack of the Giant Squid. Is it a horror movie? A new rock group?
Another Y2K prediction? Nope. It’s this week’s news, along with some
other interesting stories. So what’s up with the sea creatures? Even as
you read this, giant squid are squidding along the Newport coast.
Thousands upon thousands of them, lurking just beneath the surface --
moving silently in one, enormous gelatinous mass. They’re alive, I tell
you, alive! Whew.
That was spooky. Anyway, it’s a phenomenon that occurs every few
years, as large numbers of jumbo squid -- up to three feet long -- head
for points north from Mexico and Central America. Now why am I bothering
you with this? You probably don’t care a lot about squid. I can live with
that. But it is the mission of this column to bring you information that
is not only bizarre, but of no imaginable use whatsoever -- a
responsibility that I take quite seriously. And, truth be told, I’m a
squid fan. There. I said it. I love squid.
They’re easy to cook, once you learn a few tricks. Properly prepared,
which is rare, they’re delicious. Let me make some squid “fra diavolo”
over linguine for you, and I can almost guarantee a religious experience.
Although agnostics can be a tough sell. I hate to sound like one of those
people who have discovered a way to feed the world by turning tree bark
into granola bars, but squid is very cheap and plentiful around the
world. Fresh squid is the tastiest, of course, but cleaning it is a
little tricky. For the novice, I’d recommend buying it already cleaned,
either whole or as filets. You can find it at Yaohan Market in Costa
Mesa, on Paularino Avenue near Bristol Street. But let’s cut to the
chase. Like politics, when it comes to squid, perception is everything.
Is Pat Buchanan serious? Doesn’t matter. If you think he is, he is. Same
thing with squid. Perception is what gives them a bad rap.
It’s all those tales from the sea. Jules Verne was a real problem, too.
It is true, though, that giant squid in the open ocean can grow to 50
feet or bigger. Yes, they are ugly with a capital “ugh,” and the big ones
do look like something that only Sigourney Weaver could handle. But the
squid we’re talking about are maybe eight inches long. If you’re still
squeamish, I understand. It’s the appearance of the chubby little things
that limits them to the delicacy file. But if I call it something else,
your perception turns on a dime. “Calamari.” See? Now you like it. When
that plate of fried calamari arrives, you try to be discreet, selecting
just the right piece, dipping it carefully in the marinara sauce. But
before long, especially if the next course is taking forever, it’s a
feeding frenzy -- one hand slapping away the other and males being
admonished for popping pieces in their mouths like jelly beans.
What separates the true squidophile from the dilettante, of course, are
the tentacles, which though hard to deal with at first, are the best
part. Isn’t that interesting? From the time you were a little kid, the
part you couldn’t look at, let alone put in your mouth, was always “the
best part.” But, if the tentacles are what send you over the edge, no
explanation necessary. It’s an acquired taste. You’ll get no criticism
from me, even if you are being an incredible baby about the whole thing.
But lest you think that ours is the only coast that holds interest, here
is an odd tale from Cape Town, South Africa.
A college student from Wales was on holiday in Cape Town, traveling in a
tour bus on a busy highway. He must have gotten hold of some spoiled beer
-- a lot of it -- because he decided that trying to moon passing cars
from the tour bus was a good thing. Unfortunately, the window from which
he chose to display the international symbol for “Hi!” was an emergency
window. Exactly as designed, the window popped out, dumping the mooner,
trousers at half mast, directly into the path of the moonies.
Fortunately, no one was hurt, except for our hero who escaped,
incredibly, with minor injuries. A hospital spokesman reported, “His
condition is stable and he has requested that we do not give out any
further information.” I can see why.
Finally, from Texas, a new definition of “sports nut.” As some of you
know, I am manic-compulsive about the Yankees. I can’t help it. I was
born in the shadow of Yankee Stadium and earned my first dollar there,
hawking programs and dogs. But in the future, when people tell me I’ve
gone around the bend about the Yankees and that I should seek
professional counseling, I’ll have just three words for them -- “William
Prince Davis.”
William Davis was a bad man and he did evil things. He cost innocent
people their lives and spent a good long time on death row in Texas.
Until Sept. 14th, that is. On that day, Davis was relieved of his earthly
burden and dispatched to the ultimate court of appeals. When asked if he
had a final statement, Davis said he did indeed. He made a brief
statement, apologizing to his family and the families of his victims.
When the warden asked if he was done, Davis nodded yes, lay back and
closed his eyes. Just as the warden signaled for the lethal injection,
Davis popped back up and said, “Oh, one more thing ... how about those
Cowboys!” Now that, my friends, is a fan. God bless Texas. I gotta go.
* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Fridays.
E-mail him at PtrB4@AOL.com.
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