Thank you for your 30 square inches

9/5/2006

Dear Mr. Louis Reard

You may not know me. My name is Chris, and I am a big fan of your work.

The summer of 2006 is behind us now, and I just wanted to thank you for your greatest achievement, the bikini. Your remarkable little two-piece bathing suit celebrated its 6oth birthday this year, and I am one of the grateful ones. Summer goes by too quickly, and you, Mr. Reard, have helped to make it that much more enjoyable. I would say "keep up the good work", but you have already done so much.

Best described as four little triangles that cover the breasts, groin and buttocks, your original 30 square inches of fabric was a stroke of genius. When you said a bikini isn‚t a bikini unless it can be pulled through a wedding ring, people listened. My, how they listened.

Although one-piece swimsuits surged in popularity in the 1990s, the bikini has made a serious comeback in recent years. Don‚t get me wrong, sir. The one-piece is a very fine and flattering summer garment, but there is still no substitute for your delicate creation. So, once again, thank you.

Naming your new swimsuit after the nuclear testing at the Bikini Atoll, thinking it would create a burst of excitement like the atomic bomb, was also a smooth move. Your real bombshell was the bikini‚s first-ever model, that shapely nude dancer you found in a Paris nightclub, Micheline Bernardini.

Beautiful models have stepped up to showcase your skimpy little number since day one. I don‚t know who to thank for that, but they deserve it too. In 1957, Brigitte Bardot made a definite splash in her bikini in the film "And God Created Woman." In 1962, Ursula Andress parted the ocean in "Dr. No" as one of the first, and finest, of the Bond girls.
Two years later, the bikini graced the cover of Sports Illustrated for the first time. Today, that magazine‚s annual swimsuit edition is one of the most eagerly awaited issues in locker rooms around the world.

By the end of the 1960s, the bikini was a beach blanket staple, inspiring such classic cinematic fare as "How to Stuff a Wild Bikini." In 1987, Carrie Fisher donned a gold bikini as Princess Leia in the silver screen’s epic "Return of the Jedi". Almost immediately, the picture became the highest grossing film of the original Star Wars trilogy. Coincidence, Mr. Reard? I think not.

As good as your invention was in 1946, it did take a number of years to catch on over here in North America. Down south, the Brazilians have taken the bikini to the extreme, with a back portion so thin it disappears, well, down south. The "thong" or "G-string" is a welcome addition to any beach, but it leaves precious little to the imagination, and we all know imagination is something you had in spades 60 years ago. You have my gratitude, Mr. Reard. Cheers to summer, and cheers to your bikini!

Sincerely, your friend;
Ray.

Sorry grandpa, your tomatoes were rotten

8/30/2006

My grandfather grew all kinds of tomatoes.

He grew big, juicy ones as large and heavy as a human head; the kind that would cover a piece of toast, and then some, with a single, dripping slice.

He grew small, teardrop-shaped ones that he mashed, sealed up in jars, and stored in the basement in the event of the next Great Depression.

He grew tiny, bright red ones that exploded in your mouth, and down your chin, and down your shirt, if you made the mistake of biting into one.

He even grew those crazy yellow ones that looked like leftovers from the Chernobyl disaster.
If he only knew that he was cultivating poison.

Recently, it has come to my attention that the tomato, that zesty little vegetable, or fruit, or whatever it really is, is actually a poisonous berry.

The tomato was first domesticated by the Aztecs, and their civilization is in ruins today. Coincidence? I doubt it. Later, around 1600, Spanish conquerors brought the thin-skinned berries to Europe.

Europeans resisted the New World food, thinking it fit only for wild animals. Early botanists named it Lycopersicon, or “wolf peach”, and it took a long time to catch on. The first recipe for tomato ketchup didn’t appear in kitchens until the 1700s.

The tomato plant is a member of the poisonous deadly Nightshade family. Its leaves are hairy and have a strong odour, kind of like my grandfather, and the leaves, stems, and anything else green on the plant is toxic to humans. Even a small amount can kill a cat. If your ex-girlfriend offers you some green tomato tea after a messy break-up, run as fast as you can in the opposite direction.

The plants contain a bitter alkaloid called solanine, which is the same nasty stuff found in green potatoes, so try not to eat too many of them either.

The poison is the plant’s defense mechanism, which helps to explain why the tomato is so easily cultivated throughout the world, like an invading species, from porches to palaces.

As if it couldn’t get any worse, tomatoes can intensify arthritis and other ailments. If you are thinking about kicking cigarettes, clear out all your tomatoes as well. The fruit contains trace elements of nicotine, and can re-trigger cigarette addiction.

I hesitate to even call the tomato a fruit. It has been listed as a vegetable, for taxation purposes, but the debate continues to rage over what it really is. There is no way I will be convinced the tomato is a fruit, because it can not produce alcohol.

Fruits make wine, brandy and many other lovely products to enjoy on a hot day. The tomato does not, and that is why you will never find a bottle of tomato ice wine in your local wine region.

It is an aberration, and should be avoided at all costs. Just ask the Aztecs—if you can find one.

It was Jimi, not music, at its best

8/22/2006

“It was the place to come to. It wasn’t just a rock and roll show. It was not just about the music. It was really about that decade and that culture.”
— Michael Lang, Woodstock Festival promoter

The next time an old hippie strolls up beside you and starts on again about how Woodstock was the greatest concert of all time, be a pal and tell Moonbeam or Skywriter or Peachblossom or what-have-you the truth, and say Woodstock wasn’t nearly as good as you might remember, man.

Historically speaking, the Woodstock Music and Art Fair was a concert for the ages. Billed as three days of peace and music, it brought half a million young people together to rural New York over the weekend of August 15-18, in the summer of ‘69.

Moonbeam would have you believe there were over one million beautiful people enjoying the free concert. Not exactly. The concert at Max Yasgur’s pig farm actually cost the bargain price of $6 per day, for a grand total of $18 for the whole event.
It didn’t actually become a free concert until enough peace-loving hippies burst through, or over, the fences that were put in place to keep the great unwashed, freeloading masses under wraps.

By and large, the performances were not that good. Some stand out, such as Santana, The Who, Canned Heat, Richie Havens, Janis Joplin, and Joe Cocker, but many were flat-out forgettable.

Originally, the promoters wanted Roy Rogers to close the show with his trademark “Happy Trails”, but had to settle for a hot, young, virtuoso guitarist named Hendrix, who just happened to live nearby.

Due to a rainstorm and the problems of organizing so many different bands, by Sunday night the acts were as backlogged as the crowd was waterlogged. Jimi Hendrix was asked to play Sunday at midnight, but refused to bump any other artists. Rather than rip through two or three songs with the crowd at its emotional and narcotic high, Jimi asked to play his full set on the Monday morning.

Taking the stage when most rockers are heading to bed, Hendrix and his band downed a jug of wine and played one of their all-time best sets. It was a tour de force of Hendrix music, with the smash hits mixed in with new songs, all walloping the concert stragglers with Jimi’s unique wall of sound.

Early on, when Tommy James was asked to play the concert, he refused, deciding a free show at a pig farm didn’t really appeal to him. That’s what is was, of course, until the event made it so much more, minus a few lies and lame-duck performers.

Woodstock served to punctuate what one generation could, and wanted to, become; and it planted the seed for the excess that lurked greedily around the corner of the 1970s. In the end, Jimi Hendrix became the perfect poster boy for that generation.

Not just another fishy story

8/15/2006

Go fishing often enough, or long enough, and you are going to hear some stories.

The people who tell stories swear their lies are true, and swear Bob Izumi will strike them down if they are not. It’s too bad the people who tell stories don’t have a good fish for every one of their good fish tales. It might amount to one, even two, each.

For starters, there’s the story about the angler who stopped fishing long enough to eat an orange. While peeling the fruit, he accidentally lost his grip dropped the orange into the lake, and could only watch as it sank into the murky depths.

Seconds later, an enormous northern pike sailed out of the water, and began thrashing madly at the surface, in obvious distress. Moving quickly, the fisherman managed to scoop the trophy fish in his net, only to find it was choking... on an orange.

And then there’s the story about the trapper who stopped trapping long enough to realize he was stranded deep in the north woods for the winter.

With little more than a cabin, a rifle and his wits to see him through, the trapper managed to shoot a bear, large enough, and with enough meat to ensure his survival until the spring thaw.

The only problem was, the trapper had no teeth and would be unable to chew the tough, old bear. So, he pulled the bear’s teeth, fashioned a crude set of false teeth, and spent the winter happily eating the bear... with its own teeth.
And then there is the story about the father and son team who were fishing in the local derby. Their luck was anything but good, so the young man decided to pop his lure along the bottom, in hopes of waking up a sleeping giant deep in the water.

Suddenly, his lure stopping moving, obviously hooked on something big. With fishing pole bent under the strain, he carefully brought the heavy fish to the side of the boat; only to find he had hooked an old tackle box that had sunk to the bottom of the lake. The name on the box read: Bob Loblaws.

Inside the tackle box was a sealed container of three homemade fishing lures. The boy picked out what appeared to be the best of the lot, tied it to his line, cast it into the water, and hoped for a turnaround in luck. He didn’t have to wait long.

A massive fish took the lure on the first cast, and fought hard and long against the hook. When the weary fishermen finally wrestled it into the boat, their eyes grew wide in amazement at the sight of the biggest, fattest fish they had ever seen.

At the tournament weigh-in, the fish not only won the tournament, but broke the record for the heaviest fish ever caught in that lake. The name of the previous record holder... was Bob Loblaws.

Actually, I’ve never believed that fish tale—but I have no doubt the one about the bear is true.