Encyclopaedia of Tiny Facts

A massive white bean, the size of an imposing, albino beetle; Gigantes—or “giant”—beans are often used in Greek meals; my introduction to Gigantes beans came several years ago at a farm stand in Pescadero, California; located a few miles inland from the Pacific Ocean and Highway 1, Pescadero is a short drive south from Half Moon Bay, a surfing spot world-renowned for its deadliness; Phipps Country Store, located in Pescadero, has a dazzling collection of beans, including Gigantes; my mother purchased a bag of Gigantes beans, and she, my father, and I ate lunch at Duarte’s Tavern; this meal made me cry; in January of this year, my girlfriend and I drove south from San Francisco, and I insisted on stopping in Pescadero; we ate at Duarte’s Tavern and ordered their famed Olallieberry Pie; perhaps you are not aware of this, but the Olallieberry Pie at Duarte’s is the finest pie known to man; no, really; the first thing you should know about this pie is that olallieberries, which sound like a Dr. Seuss berry, are real; olallieberries are the hybrid of a youngberry and loganberry; youngberries are a hybrid of a dewberry and a blackberry; loganberries are a hybrid of a blackberry and a raspberry; there is science in berries; the Olallieberry Pie at Duarte’s Tavern is aesthetically perfect, overflowing with cold, plump, tart olalieberries and a hot pie crust that is flaky, buttery—more like the phyllo dough used in baklava than typical graham-cracker pie crust; you must get this pie a la Mode; my girlfriend could not order the Olallieberry pie a la Mode because she is allergic to cow milk; still, she loved the pie; after leaving Pescadero, we drove south and stopped at the Pigeon Point light house, which is tall and ancient and has a youth hostel; we discussed staying at the hostel, but we drove on; my girlfriend and I arrived in Santa Cruz at sunset, and walked on the wharf pier; from earlier trips, I remembered seeing seals barking beneath the pier, like hungry, homeless, black labs that tumbled into the sea and decided not to return to land; there were no seals this day; from the pier we watched the decaying wooden boardwalk, a Coney Island doppelganger; my girlfriend and I hid behind restrooms, found a bench, kissed and groped; we drove further south, pulled off the highway in search of an out-of-the-way place, and instead found ourselves in a crowded grocery store parking lot; we fooled around, feeling hidden by Japanese imports, but soon realized that two stoners standing in front of a Laundromat were watching us, smoking, drinking coffee, and probably providing running commentary, like an episode of “Mystery Science Theater 3000;” outside of Santa Barbara, we got a room at a cheap motel and did what we’d being wanting to do the entire trip down Highway 1; while next door there was a remarkably tacky arcade that looked neon enough to have been built in exactly 1986, and we discussed how fun it would be to play video games, we did not go; we fell asleep with HBO on, the volume turned low; the next morning we got coffee at a Starbucks and drove to Los Angeles; we passed a town called Summerland, which I knew nothing about, and had never noticed before; that morning I was completely happy, wanted to be nowhere else, and could not believe my good fortune to be sharing a car with the most beautiful woman alive; every song that played on the radio that morning felt like it was programmed just for us; when I got back to Los Angeles I did laundry; my girlfriend and I purchased no Gigantes beans on our trip; Gigantes is one of the few Greek words I know; the only Greek word I use on a regular basis is “malaka”; I learned this word from my freshman roommate in college, and yelled it out as he received his degree at graduation; I meant it affectionately, but his family was not amused; if you do not know the meaning of the word “malaka,” spend an hour in front of Port Authority, and you will soon hear it used in several different, equally colorful ways; sometimes, too often, I feel more alive in my memories than I do in the present—even as I write these words; malaka!

The voice of Foghorn Leghorn, Porky Pig, Yosemite Sam, Tweety Bird, Daffy Duck, Sylvester the Cat, Barney Rubble, and, most famously, Bugs Bunny; as I grew up in front of a television set, and as a child I worshipped Looney Tunes, I probably listened to Mel Blanc’s voice more than my father or mother; I am grateful for Mel Blanc, who, along with Mr. Rogers, helped me grow up relatively sane; a saint; 1908-1989.

An infectious disease transmitted to humans through primates and rodents, including a minor American outbreak in 2003 caused by domesticated prairie dogs; monkeypox is the cutest sounding pox, followed by cowpox, chickenpox, and smallpox (which actually does not sound that cute); plum pox is wicked, but only a threat if you are a plant; my bout with chickenpox coincided with my early-adolescent discovery of masturbation, and I spent an entire morning and afternoon trying to set a personal record; 11 times is the correct answer; my mother, who was an able and motivated nurse, brought me toast, chicken noodle soup, and glasses of orange juice mixed with ginger ale throughout the day; whenever she left my room, I would masturbate; this was a one-man Olympics, you see; as my mother was stealthy—even with a couple plates in her hands—there were a few near misses; I imagined that day’s endless cycle of masturbation to be somewhat akin to the water—or hydrologic—cycle that is learned in elementary school, but instead of an endless loop of precipitation, infiltration, evaporation, sublimation, and condensation, it was chicken soup/ginger ale-orange juice hydration, imagination, and ejaculation; I felt that in some small way, I was undermining my mother’s efforts to bring me back to health, and this subtly pleased me; by the end of that day, my forearm was sore and the fruits of my efforts were meager, almost depressing; another disease with an adorable name is moon face; I once worked at a movie theater with a girl who developed moon face; believe me, having seen the emotional devastation that moon face wreaked on that dateless ticket-ripper, I can honestly say it is no joke; my heart goes out to the moon-faced children of the world.

Known derisively as the “Illuminati for hipsters,” the “Society for Concerned Indifference” is an infamous, secret organization whose existence is unconfirmed; popular legend has it that the Society—nicknamed SCI—was formed at Brown University in the early 1980’s; SCI’s members are rumored to include many young leaders of the business, publishing, entertainment, and political world; the Society for Concerned Indifference was formed in reaction to the preppy chic that became popular in the 1980’s and was personified by Princeton’s eating clubs as well as the secret societies at Yale; SCI and its members were vehemently anti-authoritarian, participating in acts of “intellectual terrorism” and “commonplace surrealism”; as its founders graduated and moved to New York City and Washington D.C., the group set roots in both cities; members of SCI are each allowed to “tap” three new members in their lifetime, and while there is no age requirement, most new members are invited in their late-20’s to mid-30’s, as they rise in their respective field; while it can not be confirmed, I have known two people that were rumored to be members of SCI; one of these people was an ex-girlfriend, though we only dated for two months, and she never spoke of SCI; after we broke up, friends of mine told me that she was supposedly a member of the Society for Concerned Indifference; they assumed that I knew and was keeping the secret; I always wondered if my ex-girlfriend thought I was unworthy of SCI membership, or of the knowledge that she was a member; the other person I know who may be a member of SCI is a former classmate from college; two years ago, I ran into him in Barcelona and we went out for drinks; after five hours of drinking Cava and absinthe, my friend referred to a party in Wainscott where the guests included numerous magazine editors and politicos; there was skinny-dipping and spouse-sharing at this party; we parted ways that night, and while we swapped e-mail addresses, I e-mailed him a week later but never heard back from him; I have since lost touch with my old classmate; SCI is known for hosting tri-annual meetings of all its membership in the Hamptons, Newport, and the Chesapeake Bay town of St. Michaels, Maryland; supposedly, members of SCI correspond with each other through encoded messages in articles in major newspapers and magazines of which their members are editors (including “The New York Times,” “The Washington Post,” “TIME,” and “Better Homes and Gardens”); John F. Kennedy Jr. was reportedly a founding member of the Society for Concerned Indifference; once, while shopping in a pet store, I encountered two women, probably a mother and daughter, examining aquariums; the mother-figure was lecturing the daughter, saying something like, “You don’t know loss. Losing J.F.K. was a tragedy, and I remember that day.”; the daughter-figure replied by saying something along the lines of, “When I found out that J.F.K. Jr. died I was plucking my eyebrows like the models in “Vogue” magazine and when the man on the radio said that John-John and his wife had both died in a plane crash I tore all my eyebrow hairs clean off my face”; the mother-figure grabbed the daughter-figure hard by her shoulder and dragged her out of the store; I was left questioning if it is possible to quantify pain, and why parents bother with pets; perhaps it is morbid and insensitive, but recently I have been wondering why celebrities that die in plane crashes tend to be so attractive; the Society for Concerned Indifference takes its name from the grave of the photographer/Dadaist, Man Ray, whose Parisian grave has an epitaph reading, “Unconcerned but not indifferent.”

An American rock n’ roll duo from New Hope, Pennsylvania, Ween is known for technical virtuosity, wicked jam sessions, and inspiring millions of bong-hits—as well as the consumption of household cleaning products; while Ween does, in fact, jam during live shows, they are not a “jam band”; if you can not find at least one song in Ween’s massive catalogue that you enjoy, then you are humorless, and more importantly, heartless; Ween does not take themselves too seriously, but they are not “funny” like, say, “Weird Al” Yankovic; my favorite Ween songs include “Sarah,” “Tried and True,” “What Deaner Was Talkin’ About,” “Birthday Boy,” “Exactly Where I’m At,” and “I’ll Miss You” (from the soundtrack to the 1996 film, “Beautiful Girls”; this song is my favorite aspect of the film, save for the lovely, slightly discomforting chemistry between Timothy Hutton and the adolescent Natalie Portman; this relationship seems to be a source of endless fascination for young male cineastes as well as middle-aged perverts); yesterday, while standing in line to order a brownie at my neighborhood coffee shop, a sexually ambiguous woman—who resembled Lori Petty of “Tank Girl” fame—pointed at the stereo and said to the bald barista, “Ween”; the Ween song, “Mutilated Lips,” was playing, loudly; the barista was confused and did not reply; the woman smiled and repeated, “Ween”; after a long, uncomfortable moment, the barista said, “Huh?”; the woman, who perhaps felt like a tail being chased by its cat owner, finally explained that she was referring to the song currently playing; the barista sighed, nodded, felt uncool; they parted; while it was a minor incident, both of them will most likely remember it and recount the story to friends and/or loved ones; in their accounts there will be mirth—or mockery—depending on whether the barista or customer is telling the story; the confusion between the barista and the customer was understandable; the customer used “ween” as a noun, and the barista understood the word as a verb; the barista believed he was receiving an order; it would have been a strange order for a coffee shop—less so for a nursery; “ween,” an archaic Chaucerian, Miltonian, and Spenserian term meaning “to think,” is a homophone for “wean,” the sad process of stopping a child’s suckling; I have no recollection of my weaning, though I imagine it was traumatic; my neighborhood coffee shop has delicious cold-press coffee, also known as a “Toddy”—which is quite different than a “Hot Toddy”; the choices of milk at my neighborhood coffee shop include skim milk, whole milk, half-and-half, and, if requested from the barista, soy milk.

Worst to first; in 1990, the Atlanta Braves finished last place in the National League West division of Major League Baseball, but finished first in 1991; fan favorites on the roster of the ’91 Braves included David Justice, Tom Glavine, Lonnie Smith, Jeff Treadway, Steve Avery, Terry Pendleton, Ron Gant, Mark Lemke, Sid Bream, Jeff Blauser, John Smoltz, Otis Nixon, Rafael Belliard, and Deion Sanders; the first Gulf War ended in February of 1991, though no direct causal relationship can be deduced between the end of the war and the Braves spectacular season; the ’91 Braves, owned by the former husband of activist film actress, Jane Fonda, were an inspiration to many young fans, whose self-esteem was tied to their home team, and, as the Braves were routinely awful, these fans felt poorly about themselves; 1991 was the year this changed; it took the Braves seven games to defeat the Pittsburgh Pirates and claim the National League title; it took seven games for the Braves to lose the World Series to the Minnesota Twins; according to lore, the seventh son of a seventh son will be a warlock; Pittsburgh’s star pitcher was named John Smiley; “Smiley” is not an intimidating name; I watched the final two games of the World Series, which were played on October 26 and 27 of 1991, at the mountain cabin belonging to the family of my childhood friend, Derek; this cabin was in Montreat, North Carolina, and had originally belonged to Derek’s grandparents; Montreat is a popular area for church retreats; much of Michael Mann’s popular film, “The Last of the Mohicans,” was filmed near Montreat; in the film, Daniel Day-Lewis played a character named “Hawkeye”; fans of the Atlanta Braves would often perform the “Tomahawk Chop,” which is similar to “The Wave,” except instead of simulating an ocean wave, it involves miming the chopping action used to scalp an enemy; Derek’s cabin was near a creek; the water in the creek is the coldest water I have ever felt; we would fish for crawfish in this creek, using string, a hook, and pieces of bacon; after catching a crawfish, Derek enjoyed strapping M-80’s to them with a rubber band and watching them explode; I was envious of Derek’s family, which seemed tight, loving, and impervious to pain—like the families featured in TV shows on “Nick at Nite”; these shows included “The Donna Reed Show,” “The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis,” and “Leave it to Beaver”; “Leave it to Beaver” ran for six seasons; Derek’s father was my Little League coach when I played for “Holiday Inn”; later, in 9th grade, Derek’s parents divorced after it was discovered that his father was having an affair with a 22 year old co-worker at the drug store where he was a pharmacist; after the divorce, Derek became very angry; more than 15 years later, Derek still seems angry; I have known Derek most of my life; remarkably, Derek’s younger sister seems even-keeled and, if you can believe it, happy; I wonder if Derek will ever get married; Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium became the home-field for the Braves beginning in 1965, and served them through the 1996 season; in 1997, the Braves moved to a new stadium called Turner Field; Turner Field, while newer than Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium, was designed to feel like an old-fashioned stadium, thus making it “retro”; the Braves became dominant in the years following the ’91 season; I miss the time in the ‘80’s when the Braves were gutter-dwellers and I believed I was their only fan; “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” the lead single from “Nevermind,” the second album by popular grunge band, Nirvana, was released on September 10, 1991; I turned 13 years old just days before “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was released, and one month before the Braves won the National League championship; it was a good Fall; I had not yet discovered sex.

A variety of dog crossbred from Pekingese and a miniature poodle; Peekapoos can be cruel dogs; I have a theory that owners of Peekapoos possess these cuddly beasts solely so that they can exclaim, “Peek-a-boo, Peekapoo!”; this is not reason enough to own a living creature; my childhood next-door neighbors, brothers named Robert and William, owned a Peekapoo and dubbed him “Kenny”; Kenny was named after Kenny Rogers, whose son they knew; Kenny Rogers, despite a handful of delightful songs and surprising turns as an actor (most notably in “The Gambler,” “Sixpack,” and a season six episode of “Touched By An Angel” titled “Buy Me a Rose”), can be an unpleasant man; other poodle-hybrid portmanteaus include: Papipoo, Bordoodle, Puffapoo, Spoodle, Jack-A-Poo, Whoodle, and Goldendoodle;  however, “Peekapoo” is the silliest name for a type of dog, a name that suggests impotence and/or retardation; if Peekapoos could speak, they would beg their owners to never, ever refer to them as a Peekapoo; in the past, we discovered vaccines for smallpox and polio, deciphered DNA structure, created machines that allow us to fly in the air like birds, and celebrated the men who made these discoveries as Gods; what happened?

Also known as a “green flash,” this elusive, atmospheric phenomenon occurs when refractive light causes the top of the rising or setting sun to appear emerald green; an emerald flash can last from a fraction of a second to several seconds long; emerald flashes occur in cloudless skies, across distant horizons, generally over prairies or the sea; Jules Vern wrote about the phenomenon of the green flash in his 1882 novel, “Le Rayon Vert”; Johannes “Bobby” Pierson, a member of the Morningstar Commune in San Francisco and Sebastopol, splintered from the organization and founded the Children of One, a religious commune which existed outside of Santa Cruz, California, from 1968-1970; The Children of One held, as a core belief, that an emerald flash was the “eye blink of God,” and that if someone with green eyes winked repeatedly while viewing an emerald flash, they would transform into sun rays; the Children of One disbanded after Pierson led a mass draft card burning on May 19, 1970, and fled from authorities, leaving the United States; in 1994, 24 years after his disappearance, photos surfaced of a man resembling Johannes “Bobby” Pierson next to a pool bar at the Margaritaville resort in Cancun, Mexico; Pierson was drinking a “Pink Cadillac Margarita”; this is the last known sighting of Johannes “Bobby” Pierson; in March of last year, after spending an hour at the Henry Miller Library in Big Sur, my parents and I drove up the Pacific Coast Highway to Nepenthe; while we were on the outdoor patio of the restaurant, eating Ambrosia burgers and drinking iced tea, I thought I spotted, to the south, a surfacing whale; I was wrong; five minutes later, my mother hooted and waved her arms in a northwestern direction; there was, on the horizon of the Pacific Ocean, an emerald flash; it was real; I could not believe what I saw; it only lasted a few seconds; we finished the meal in silence; afterwards, we began the drive north to Monterey, but pulled off the road just north of Bixby Bridge; we watched smashing waves hundreds of feet below; the twilight view at Bixby Bridge was and still is the most heartbreaking thing I have seen; it was more beautiful, to my eyes, than the emerald flash, which I had viewed less than twenty minutes prior; my father took my photo with the ocean behind me; I did not say it out loud, but Bixby Bridge is where I would like my ashes strewn; I never thought about cremation before that moment; my parents are both still alive; I do not know if they wish to be buried or cremated; my father visited Big Sur for the first time in 1964, two weeks after his high school graduation; he was on a cross-country trip in a VW bus with his three best friends; I do not think he has been in touch with any of those friends for decades; I have never read “Big Sur,” by Jack Kerouac; there is no good excuse; it is on my list of books to read; I have also not read “Emerald Flash,” by Charles Knief, which is, by numerous accounts on Amazon’s website, recommended; I am okay not reading “Emerald Flash”; it is best to view an emerald flash in the company of a person or people that you love and that love you; strangers will also appreciate an emerald flash, but it is more difficult to hug them afterwards; even more rare than an emerald flash is the mythical blue flash, which requires an exceptionally clear sky and lasts only a heartbeat; I have never seen a blue flash.

Located in Husavik (formerly Reykjavik), this humble museum boasts a collection of over 150 penis specimens from mammals indigenous to Iceland; this includes several dozen whale penises, a penis belonging to a rogue polar bear, an affidavit from Pall Arason, who will posthumously donate his penis, and a folkloric section which includes specimens from an Icelandic Elf, Beach Murmurer, Icelandic Christmas Lad, Enriching Beach Mouse, and a Seabull; according to its website, the Icelandic Institute of Phallology has four categories of honorary members: “donors of genuine, phallic pieces,” “donors of extra things, a work of art, etc. and other true benefactors of the Institute,” “pseudomember, having shown special interest in the works and development of the Institute,” and “expelled members”; when I visited the Icelandic Phallological Museum with my (ex) girlfriend, it was still located in Reykjavik, and, as it was January, there was roughly four and half hours of sunlight a day; the museum was closed; we arrived in Iceland on a Monday and left that Thursday; a natural geothermal spa called The Blue Lagoon is Iceland’s most famous tourist destination; we did not go to The Blue Lagoon; while in Iceland I consumed Hakarl (putrefied shark), which I did not enjoy, and, after asking a waitress at a local tavern for her favorite menu item, I ordered monkfish with a cheesy wine sauce and bananas; to my surprise, it was delicious; I bought seven CD’s while in Iceland, none of which included Bjork or Sigur Ros; apparently, Bjork is pronounced “bee-yerk,” rhyming with “work”; downtown Reykjavik reminds me of Providence, Rhode Island, though different in certain ways; one of these ways is the profound Viking beauty of the Icelandic people; my girlfriend and I broke up one and a half years after visiting Iceland; the Icelandic Phallological Museum owns a penis specimen from an adult Sperm whale, who was 15.8 meters long and died from intestinal blockage; the Sperm whale’s penis, preserved in formalin, measures 170 cm.