A puzzle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in raw bird

Do these men look like they just spent nine months and nine days drifting on a small boat in the Pacific Ocean, surviving on rainwater, raw birds and sea turtles?

The Offending Dish

His Wife, Also Deep-Fried, Happily Demonstrated

A local culinary sociopath at the 2006 Texas State Fair introduced his latest dessert innovation/assault weapon: Deep-fried Coca-Cola, served with whipped cream, sometimes on a stick.

According to one Texas TV station's website, "Gonzales deep-fries Coca-Cola-flavored batter. He then drizzles Coke fountain syrup on it. The fried Coke is topped with whipped cream, cinnamon sugar and a cherry. Gonzales said the fried Coke came about just from thinking aloud."

Usually I contain my harangues against obese America to private, untraceable conversations. But this dish - a particularly offensive addition to the Extreme Frying family, which already includes pizza, candy bars and whole turkeys - requires me to seek the purifying therapy of public discussion. Plus, there's a story of redemption hidden in the coverage: The TV station hosted an online poll, asking whether Joe Public would try deep-fried Coke on a stick. 33% of the respondents said "Absolutely!", 43% said "Heck no!"

And When I'm Done With It, I'll Mail It To Geneva

I was munching on blazing leftover curried zucchini tonight when I noticed a mouse trapped in my wastebasket. In trying to escape, it managed to launch 12 or 13 inches up the side of the container, just a hair short of freedom. Ever the sportsman, I acknowledged its athleticism. Can you imagine if humans could jump 4 times our height from atop a pile of coffee grounds and apple cores?

But mostly I laughed at this mouse's miserable predicament. I hate mice, and I wish to destroy them all. So I finished my curry and cinched up the garbage bag, twist-tied it, and put it out for the morning trash.

My question is this: if I were to catch one and torture it for all the others to see and hear - say I leave it splayed out cruciform on a glue trap with a number painted on its tiny tummy - would it have deterrent effect on the other mice? What if I sawed its head off and placed it on a tiny pike? Is there a downside to taking the moral low road?

[Serial Fiction, Part 3]

There is a woman on the floor

Chava stepped past the woman with a Pacifico in either hand. He still smelled like the shark boat and the rotting cotton nets. He was quiet on the dock that afternoon, and didn't have anything to say about Jesus Ramirez. Tonight, with the old woman lying unconscious, Chava couldn't stop talking.

"We caught plenty of tiburones before we lost the gear," he said. "There were eighty hooks in the water, and shark blood up to our ankles on the deck. Jesus was pleased about that. At night, he drank beer and performed a concert with an air guitar. Then he talked about all the black pussy he had last year on Islas Marias."

As I listened to Chava's quiet, steady telling of story, I noticed that the old woman hadnt stirred. The bar was dark, and flashes of light reflected inside from the fireworks out on the zocalo. The bartender walked around the bar and the handful of regulars stopped their conversations, though not Chava.

"There is a woman on the floor, Antonio," one said to the bartender.

"Yes, I can see that," Antonio said. And he looked at me through the darkness and the smoke from the cigars and the fireworks. I'm the only gringo within 60 miles. Maybe he thinks I'm a doctor.

[Serial Fiction, Part 2]

Jesus Ramirez has died

I turned my head to the direction of the clanging and saw the old woman fall. She looked like a big cake, a spongy mass in a flowery sack. Have you ever seen someone fall unconscious to the ground? Have fate and folly ever given you such a gift? I’ve seen it. They go down in a controlled corkscrew, as though the core of their brain protects itself. The woman didn’t. Her head hit hard on the tile, and her legs splayed out like scattered sticks.

Outside on the zocalo a mariachi was leading the village in a rain-swept grito – “Viva Mexico!”, “Viva Zapatero!” I was waiting at the dock that afternoon and greeted Chava when he arrived. There was a crowd of fishermen waiting to hear about what happened Jesus Ramirez way out at sea, beyond Islas Marias. We tied up the boat and he said to me, “We don’t have to worry about freedom in Mexico. Let’s get drunk.”

[Serial Fiction, Part 1]

La Tormenta


Chava had just ordered his fifth beer when the old woman collapsed onto the floor of the bar. He was holding the sweating Pacifico in his hand and the woman nudged against the bar from her stool and slipped to the ground. She was a big woman in a salt-stained flower camiseta. That afternoon on the town square she was sober, and I thought that she was a dignified old bird and graceful. But when the old woman fell at the bar she took with her a pile of camarone shells and an ashtray, which clanged on the hard tile floor and rolled out the open door and onto the street in the rain.

To be continued