The General's Visit accompanied by the Philosopher King

My parents visit every 14 months or so, and each visit has unmistakably the same flavors. Within a packed span of less than 40 hours, there is mounds of sea creatures consumed preferably live if not raw as well as the gluttony of figs, blueberries, peaches and the like. EJ(my birth mother) will wake up at 4 in the morning making herself useful scrubbing and cleaning the kitchen. Planned activities in Berkeley which I thought would consume the whole day would take no more than 2 hours(going to the marina ends up as 15 minute excursion), and hence there is a lot of hanging out in pajamas rehashing the stories of old. At any point, Hugo can spring the requisite political philosophy lecture, thankfully only one per visit.

Only a month ago when I visited my parents, Hugo was heavily into German philosophers. At the breakfast table, he singsongs in his most casual tone, "H, do you know Kant?" To which J tartly replied "You mean personally?". We all giggled. Who wants to be harassed with the categorical imperative so early in the morning.

So this time I thought I was on the alert. While we were all lazing about all too pleasantly, he snuck in a "Do you know this Bandam?" To which the right reply would have been "Yes, I don't think Kick Boxer II was as good as Kick Boxer I." But too late as he gave me, C and the walls a full lecture on Jeremy Bentham and the rise of utilitarianism. There's something special about a man who thinks people want to hear a speech on Bentham with no pretext or context. You can get the flavor in his very words below (I'm not making this up. He actually e-mailed this yesterday.)

Dear C and H:

It was one of happiest trips. EJ and I enjoyed very much, and we were glad to see you have a happy home. Happiness lies in satisfaction. There are three ways to obtain satisfaction in economic sense: (a) to reduce demand or desire, (b) to increase income or productivity, and (c) to maximize utility subject to limited budget.

Obviously my dad's advice comes to late for Mick Jagger. As the duo is my genetic template, I'm ever on the alert for my biologic destiny.

Out with Chickenbetes

Dr. C has confirmed that I have a severe recurring case of chickenbetes. Peter Stewart first diagnosed this condition in the early eighties; nothing, absolutely nothing except the immediate consumption of chicken will relieve the sufferer's symptoms. Hence my relapse at the RoliRoti truck at the farmer's market Friday. My case appears to be triggered by a mounting series of external events:

• 1. Unsatisfactory fried chicken special at Mel's Diner


• 2. The imminent opening of the new Berkeley's Popeyes on San Pablo. (The only time it's worth going to a fried chicken joint is when the grease is fresh. I'm lucky to have found at least 2 non-vegetarian friends in Berkeley. Sadly, K who would chomp down at Popeyes with me has left for Chicago yesterday. I'm afraid to ask A who gifted us our chickens.)


• 3. C's no slaughter policy. C looked me straight in the eye last week. He said "Let's get this straight. Nobody eats our ladies." I guess that nobody is not me.

If one doesn't go shopping regularly, one does not have the visual muscle to handle the sheer number of physical objects. C and I idled a perfectly good Sunday on shopping. In the blur of a hundred thousand objects, only a coffee splashed wedding dress for sale at Urban Ore hooked. It was a deep stain on the heart and splash stains all across the skirt. I think the clerks probably put it up for entertainment value only.

In an odd interim on San Pablo, we visited a wedge of a store where an old Chinese man sold only cracked giant pots mended with epoxy. He followed us around everywhere- although the pots were already cracked, and no way we could heave one out of the store without commotion.

cracker wars

A late night snack bites both of us. C grabs the last box of grissini, dipping them unsuccessfully in a jar of honey(he chose the wrong kind- all crystallized). I, in an effort to grab one, karate chop his breadstick- split half in his mouth, half falls in the honey jar. Despite the deadly accurate aim, it was an accident. Honestly!

Seeing C growl over his box, I'm forced to scrounge around for my own box of saltines and favorite blue cheese. While I spread the cheese onto my first cracker- C looks at me intently. I spread my cheese a little too vigorously, and the cracker busts in my hand. C nods at me knowingly- with the look of satisfaction. He brags "I broke that cracker with my mind."

Unfazed, I stack a pile of four crackers on to my plate- fully ready enjoy my snack regardless of cracker breaking mindwaves. While I divert my attention for the briefest second to restore the twisty tie to the cracker package, C in plain sight drives a finger straight through my entire stack of saltines. What an outrage!

C claims it was purely an accident. This unnecessary escalation has my mind spinning. I cannot think of a response witty enough- I make C eat every bit of the destroyed cracker pieces. Without water!

The next day after dinner, I ask C to prepare the table for the cheese plate while I surf the web. When I go back into the dining room, I see a plate of busted stack of crackers. I cannot live this down. C grins again with satisfaction- he says the vacuum attachment I've left on the floor has made him trip over and his finger landed perfectly in the center of these crackers. I grumble since more perfectly good crackers have fallen victim. He says he only wanted to make me laugh. I can't win because it's true- I am giggling. So Aristotle is right again. One can't win against humor.