Did you notice on that Dave Barry Substack article I discussed yesterday that on the map of Florida he likens to the male reproductive system, he had labeled the body of water below it the “Gulf of Canada,” and also put a note underneath the map that said, “Source: Harvard University School of Medicine and Geography.” So funny. I hadn’t noticed the labels on my first go-round.
Also, for those interested in Barry’s history, please see this. Apparently, Barry has been writing these Substack pieces since January. I read quite a few of them last night and laughed and laughed.
Also, that piece I just linked starts like this:
When people hear that I’m starting a Substack, the question they always ask is: “Dave Barry? Isn’t he dead?”
I’m delighted to report that the answer is: Not yet! I’m still alive, and along with an estimated 85 percent of the Earth’s population, I have a Substack, which I invite you to subscribe to.
This other piece of Barry’s tapped into something that has long bothered me – secretly, because I thought it was just me. But I”m happy to see I’m not the only one who has the difficulty he describes, although I may be an extreme case. As a nightowl, many times when I’ve been in a hotel, I’ve gone to take a shower in the wee hours of the morning and spent at least an hour trying to figure the thing out before I’ve either given up or reluctantly woken my sleeping companion to help crack the code. My husband used to be very very good at that, but perhaps it’s a facility that declines with age. Barry writes:
Hotel shower controls are so complex that they could represent a serious threat to America’s national security, and yet untrained civilians who — we repeat — maybe had a couple of vodkas the night before are expected to somehow know how to operate them. …
Anyway, the good news is that I finally did figure out how to operate that particular hotel shower. Unfortunately, I’ll probably never be in that hotel again, and whatever future hotel showers I encounter will be completely different, thanks to the strict Hotel Shower Manufacturers Official Code of Ethics, which states: “No two hotel showers, even in the same hotel, shall have the same controls.” They’re working on a new wrinkle where the shower controls in your room will actually control the shower in another guest’s room, and vice versa.
Yes, it’s an exciting time for the hotel-shower industry.
I didn’t realize I’d missed Dave Barry, but apparently I did. I’m glad he’s back. We need humor these days, perhaps more than ever.
Speaking of humor, the other day I was describing to a friend the time Gerard and I ate at this restaurant near the beautiful Columbia River Gorge. The restaurant is now defunct, so I won’t be sued for libel (I don’t think) for what I’m about to write, but despite glowing reviews I can say it was probably the worst meal I’ve ever been served in a restaurant. Both Gerard and I ordered the specialty and we had high hopes:
The general rule is the smart diner never went wrong ordering the specialty of the house. And the rule holds true here, with the original chicken ‘n dumplins ($14.50). Enough food to feed two (or one, today and tomorrow), the meal starts with your choice of soup or salad and includes chicken, dumplings and green beans. The vegetables are forgettable, but the chicken is a feast of skinless dark and white meat stewed until fork-tender; the two enormous dumplings, each larger than our fist, are shot through with rich chicken flavor; and the chicken gravy, thanks to its secret ingredient, is pure umami.
It was ghastly, and it was big. Really really big, the dumplings much bigger than my fist and even considerably bigger than Gerard’s fist, and swimming in the most tasteless and gluggy gravy imaginable. The dumplings were dense as neutron stars and even more tasteless than the gravy. The whole thing was so awful I could not eat it and neither could he, and we were not picky eaters ordinarily.
All around us, people were happily chowing down with gusto, and the restaurant was full. We couldn’t understand it at all, but the upshot was that we started to laugh and became nearly helpless with laughter. When a waiter came over and asked how we liked the food, I had to pretend to be having a coughing fit. We paid and left without eating, and got into the car and laughed for about fifteen minutes before we could drive away.
After that, all it ever took for both of us to erupt into gales of laughter was to mention that restaurant.