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.