We’ve seen these two Tweedledum and Tweedledee-like fellows before. Maybe not these identical fellows, but we’ve seen similar folks.
Here they are, minutes before they begin their performance, while they are still bendable, putting the finishing touches on their costumes.
Soon they will begin their street-side mime routines, becoming frozen and unmoving on the sidewalk, mimicking metallic sculptures stiffly locked in place, awaiting the monetary incentive from a passerby to grind into action. Until then, they will remain still and silent.
While in their static position, these two will appear to have been in the company of King Midas, who turned everything he touched into precious but lifeless metal by virtue of the magical gift he received, fulfilling his insatiable greed.
An uncertain child bearing a small gratuity for the street performers will eventually approach them hesitantly on tip-toe, coaxed on by an encouraging parent. At the moment the child’s meager coin reaches the performers’ basket, the frozen sculptures will leap into action, gyrating through a crazy series of excited moves, brought spontaneously, and briefly, to life.
Gradually, the robots will appear to run out of power and again hibernate, stiffly awaiting their next coin-induced spasmodic flurry of movement.
Other children’s touches will again break the Midas spell over the characters, periodically unfreezing them. During these moments, the children’s innocent, Un-Midas Touches will briefly assuage the urgent need and greed displayed by the metallic figures.
For a few moments, they, like ourselves, will shake off isolating temporal concerns and, once again, remember what it is to be fully alive.
Recently, I was invited to a social gathering by friends who were expecting their first child. The big event at the festivities would be their announcement whether their unborn child were a boy or girl. Having never experienced this sort of sex-of-a-baby disclosure, my curiosity was naturally aroused. How would they pull this event off?
At the gathering, the crowd gradually grew, and as the guests exchanged pleasantries, we nibbled on a wide variety of appetizers. We carried our plates to long tables set up outside, and eventually the entrée was ready. At this German-themed happening, our hosts served us bratwurst with all the trimmings. Through prearrangements, my food selection was vegetarian Italian sausage, which resembled the reconstituted crook end of a squash, unevenly splashed with brown shoe polish. Not bad, if I ignored its texture and tensile strength that resisted the attempts of my knife and fork against its rubberized skin.
My curiosity over the sex of the baby-to-be grew with each bite of my faux Italian sausage. How would the happy couple announce the news? I imagined they might recite a bogus postdated newspaper article from the Los Angeles Times, cleverly declaring the birth and name of the child. Or perhaps there would be a trumped-up theatrical opening of a highly decorated gift box–from within, the parents would draw out a tiny pair of baby booties in the appropriate sex-identifying baby color. Maybe—just maybe—there would be a sonogram image of the baby in utero, enlarged large enough to see the gender-disclosing details of said baby. I quickly discounted the latter option as being in questionable taste, even at this warm and embracing celebratory event.
So how would they announce the baby-to-be’s as-yet-undisclosed sex?
None of that happened. Instead, the host proclaimed the presentation of a cake—and, suddenly, a moment of inspiration hit me—of course! The cake decorations, I surmised, would happily declare the sex of the child-to-be. Tiny model cars and trucks would announce that the baby would be a boy! Alternatively, the decorative presence of equally tiny dolls would identify the child as a girl! What could be more obviously cute, clever, and informative?
I edged over to the cake table, which a throng of guests already surrounded. Standing on my tiptoes in the back row and holding my iPhone high above my head, I peered over those in front of me, straining to see the cake decorated with a tiny toy truck or doll. To my chagrin—there was nothing there, except for a large and beautiful white-frosted cake. No truck. No car. No doll.
And then it finally hit me. The currently non-gender-identified baby’s sex would be revealed when the couple cut into the cake! Of course! When the cake was sliced with a knife, something embedded in the cake would cleverly identify the sex of the baby. But I quickly recoiled when I imagined the various choices of doohickeys that might give a clue of the baby’s gender. Horrors!
No…now I was certain that, instead, they had tastefully selected a plastic baby boy or girl doll and placed it carefully into the cake prior to cooking, so that when the cake was sliced open, the appropriate doll would reveal the baby’s gender. Yes! That was it! How cute!
But wait! Perhaps the heat from cooking the cake had melted the plastic baby hidden within the cake. And even if not, could slicing into the cake with a knife possibly maim the doll representing their future baby? Good grief! No, no! A thousand times, no! Please, don’t do it! Don’t cut the cake! Just announce the baby’s sex to us verbally! Please! We’ll act just as excited as if you had baked in clever clues or a gender-announcing doll! Don’t go through with this nightmare!
It was too lake. The knife descended, as, hand-in-hand, the couple made the first, horrifying slice into the cake.
I couldn’t look. Please! Please! No hideous amputation of the embedded, perhaps melted plastic baby!
The crowd cheered, “It’s a girl! It’s a girl! Congratulations!”
When I dared look back at the cake, there was no gender-identifying doll in the cake. There was nothing. Nothing but white cake with strawberry filling.
“Strawberry?” I asked my cheering neighbor. “What does strawberry filling have to do with the sex of the baby?”
“Pink,” she responded. “It’s pink. And pink is traditionally, well, a girl’s color.”
“Yeah! Of course! I know that!” I retorted. I turned my head to avoid displaying my own growing pink blush.
I didn’t say it aloud, but I was secretly proud of myself for having figured out what a blueberry filling would have meant.
In life’s social rituals, we don’t get the choice whether we are the smart and clever ones or the duller learners. When we find ourselves among the latter, it’s a good practice to keep a cool head, a closed mouth, and try to be a quick study.
Ha! It’s county fair time again! Time to discover who won this year’s gooseberry jelly first prize! And we’re awestruck by the winner of the formal dining table decor competition: a country music-themed homage featuring a look-alike Brad Paisley hat for the centerpiece, Roy Rogers-inspired silver bullet salt and pepper shakers, and decorative accents honoring Dolly Parton.
We eagerly launch ourselves into the fair’s enormous display halls, searching out our favorite gadgets, hawked by gung-ho purveyors demanding to know how we survive without their trinkets, which, by the way, are seriously discounted–today only–at a Special Fair Price Reduction. How could we fail to take home the orange sponge thing that, with one magic swipe, can absorb a baby elephant’s entire trunkful of water? Or maybe we will choose to purchase one of the countless competing sets of hi-tech cookware, compellingly presented by the non-stick humor and extravagant propaganda of the frying pan merchants—these futuristic copper-cored titanium-clad industrial-strength pots and skillets will present a lifetime of culinary treasures!
Another prime reason for a trip to the fair is the excuse to dump our allegiances to healthy fruits and veggies, long-extinct in this environment. Onward, to sample the fair’s gastronomical fares! We unceremoniously discard restraint, loosen our belts by several notches to accommodate the impending added girth, and the maniacal self-indulgent search for serious fair nosh begins.
The grub is easy to come by. A mound of barbecued tri-tip is squeezed between oversized buns and lathered in sauce. The ensuing energetic consumption sends warm brown goo splashing noses, dripping down chins and sloshing in pools on shirts and shorts. The gigantic Texas Turkey Legs appear large enough to have belonged to a variety of miniature dinosaurs. Oversize hot dogs are smothered in cheese, lathered with chili and accompanied by a combo order of cheese fries and onion rings. The setting is rife for virtual—or actual—heart attacks.
How to choose what to eat? Each would be a perfect choice!
Then our eyes fall onto the Totally Fried vendor’s cart. Totally Fried! What a delight! Our salivary glands cramp at the notion of Totally Fried Chicken Sandwiches accompanied by Totally Fried Krispy Kreme doughnuts, Totally Fried Klondike ice cream bars, Totally Fried Kool-Aid, Totally Fried frog legs, Totally Fried avocados, Totally Fried caramel apples, Totally Fried FryBQ ribs, and Totally Fried Twinkies. How to choose among such treats?
Still, I was mildly troubled by the Totally Fried offerings. Where was the Totally Fried butter I had anticipating sliding down my gullet? Imagine–a butter stick, perfectly fried in, what else—butter—then rolled in cinnamon to create that perfect treat, comprised of 100% saturated fat—what a delight!
There’s time to think over our choices, as the distinct smell of an ill-maintained barnyard drifts our way, demanding our attention. And we’re off! Who could miss the Fairview Farms domestic animal display area, to view the endless milking of bovines, and the eternally cud-chomping goats with staring and unfocused geometrically-challenged pupils.
Where else is there the opportunity to see—and smell—those gargantuan hogs, rubbery snouts buried and rooting in mud, eagerly gorging themselves on anything that will fit into their gaping mouths! As an added bonus, it’s hard to believe our good fortune—last year’s blue ribbon winning hog, “Mighty Mickey,” makes a return showing, this year appearing as the pure-pork pepperoni featured atop Luigi’s Flying Pizza! We hurry over to sample him, to see if he serves up this year on the plate as proudly as he paraded last year on the hoof. Thumbs up. He tastes better than he ever smelled.
After eventually exiting the fair, our waddle to the car in bloated, cholesterol-charged, sweat-drenched bodies reminds us of one obvious fact.
We ourselves are now, unmistakably, Totally Fried. But at least we have a whole year to purge the lard from our bodies and repent from our recalcitrant ways before we try it all again.
The Praying Mantis on the SidewalkThe Praying Mantis in the Parking Lot
Six years ago, I spotted an oddly-shaped green leaf on my sidewalk. It was a skinny leaf, as though torn from a larger piece. Scrunching down on my knees for a closer look, I realized it was no ordinary leaf. Instead, I stared into the rotating, alien-looking eyeballs of a praying mantis. His weird eyes really did rotate like the bulging eyes of a chameleon. I could track the tiny black pupils staring back at mine.
He stood directly between me and the door of my house. I wanted him to hop or jump or fly or whatever it is that he does, directly away from me.
Instead, he dared me to squish him. He wasn’t a bit afraid. Every move I made, he followed with his stare. He became a Godzilla-like monster to me. Would my wife arrive home and find me, hours from now, still locked in a sidewalk staring duel with this fearsome-looking creature?
I imagined his brain had me figured out. His calculating calmness meant to weaken me, his intentions to do me harm once I gave in to the madness of the ever-creeping fear.
Seizing upon a solution to the impasse, I grabbed a twig, and, holding it bravely at arm’s length, I poked him. Godzilla stood his ground on the sidewalk, eyes rotating toward mine, defying my efforts, as if to say, “Is that all you’ve got?”
I poked again. This time, his large front legs, the ones he seemed to be praying with, flexed open, then slowly closed. Maybe he really was in prayer–in prayer for this giant oaf of a being who was interrupting meditations that I could not perceive.
In time, he unlocked his rotating-eyeball stare. Perhaps his prayers had concluded. Perhaps he spied a tasty-looking beetle in the weeds. Perhaps he felt sorry for me and decided to let me go. Legs still held in reverence, ever so slowly and proudly, he strolled forward to the edge of the sidewalk and dropped over its edge to once again enter the bug kingdom.
I may be the only human he ever makes contact with. I wonder what impression I left behind?
Postlude
Two weeks ago, I was crossing a parking lot, when I spotted an oddly-shaped brownish-tan leaf. It was a skinny leaf, as though torn from a larger piece.
This time when I scrunched down, I recognized that I was staring into the rotating eyes of another praying mantis.
By now, I knew that a praying mantis changes color from green, in a wet environment, to brown, when it is dry.
By now, I knew that a praying mantis possesses ultrasonic hearing, much like a bat; this one had heard me coming.
By now, I knew that a praying mantis has exceptional eyesight and can see movement up to 60 feet away; her rotating eyes could see me better than I could see her.
By now, I hoped that somehow this praying mantis had placed herself in a parking lot to help me recall her long-deceased green relative, and to remind me that the seemingly most insignificant of life’s encounters should not pass unnoticed and without gratitude.
