Part 24: Accounts of the Life of Edmund Callipeaux

Contributors:
Edmund Callipeaux – artist, college instructor, lives in St. Louis Park.
Quarter Dutch – primetime television producer, Edmund’s studiomate, lives on the East Side.
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Edmund Callipeaux – 24 July 2009, 6:30 p.m.

I’ve been sighting personal hygiene products as I’ve been out and about on my day-to-day. – EC

A blue comb at the Target parking lot.


One of those teeth things at the Target parking lot.


A Q-tip at a Pizano's parking lot


Another tooth thing at the Post Office parking lot.


An empty box of Cruisers at the Post Office parking lot.


______________________________________

Quarter Dutch – 31 July 2009, 1:00pm

“You have to play to pay,” said Edmund Callipeaux as we stood next to my drafting table in the art studio that he and I have shared for many years.

“Oops, sorry. I meant to say, Pay to play. You’ll have to forgive me, I’m only operating on about 90% brain-power…my thinking has been messed up all week,” said Edmund.

Edmund had been struggling with the sleep disruption caused by his recent overseas air travel - - a disruption of his internal clock, otherwise known more commonly as jetlag. This is a condition, or rather, a clause that is in the contract one typically signs with the Devil upon purchasing aeroplane tickets to far and distant lands. The blood-agreement commits the signee to a post-holiday week of not being able to 1) form complete thoughts, 2) utilize short-term memory, 3) simple mathematical calculations are out of the question, and 4) speaking in complete, coherent, and easy to understand sentences is damn near unpossible.

But it’s worth it, right?

Travel, fun, excitement, adventure, and exotic luncheon experiences – all these luxuries come with collateral costs that are not necessarily deducted from your bank checking account.

The situation that Edmund Callipeaux found himself in, reminded him of some advice that one of his uncles had once given to his mother…advice regarding cars and buying them from car dealerships.

The exchange went a little like this:

“You walk into the dealership and you sit down across the table from the salesperson,” began Edmund’s uncle.

“Yes,” said Edmund’s mother.

“You found the car you want, now it’s time to work out the details,” continued Edmund’s uncle.

“Right,” replied Edmund’s mother.

“As you sit down on the other side of the table from this guy, you have to understand that you’re sitting across the table from the devil himself,” said Edmund’s uncle.

“Right,” mused Edmund’s mother.

“Do you understand what I am saying?” asked Edmund’s uncle.

“Yes,” confirmed Edmund’s mother.

“He’s the devil…and so, therefore, you will be screwed by this transaction. There’s no way around it,” said Edmund’s uncle. “You can’t win!”

“Right,” said Edmund’s mother.

“You’re following me here, right?” said Edmund’s uncle.

“Yes,” replied Edmund’s mother.

“So, at these negotiations, no matter what you think may be happening, the fact of the matter is: you will be screwed in the end. There’s no way to avoid this when you’re dealing with a car salesperson. That’s the way the devil works,” said Edmund’s uncle.

“Right,” said Edmund’s mother.

“You just have to be comfortable with the degree in which you’re getting screwed,” said Edmund’s uncle.

“Yes,” said Edmund’s mother.

“That’s the only way to deal with it. It’s you, and it’s and him. He’s the devil. He is Satan. The Dark Prince. Beelzebub. You’re just you - - there’s no way to win. Machiavelli himself wouldn't last five minutes with these guys. And don’t be fooled by the dumb, innocent look on his face, or the mustard stain on his shirt; it’s all part of the ruse,” said Edmund’s uncle.

“Right,” said Edmund’s mother.

“So, getting screwed is just part of the cost of buying the car,” said Edmund’s uncle.

“Yes,” replied Edmund’s mother.

“You’ve got to pay to play.”

“Right,” replied Edmund’s mother.

Edmund's uncle went on to say, "It's what we in the concrete business call the rub."

So, the jetlag is just part of the bargain that is struck at the crossroads where adventure meets lunch in exotic locales.

I looked at Edmund as I saw him struggling to dial his phone, and I said, “Well, I don’t want to seem Pollyannaish, Edmund, but 90% brainpower is better than the 80% you usually run on during the other 51 weeks of the year.”

“Hey, that’s true…I hadn’t thought of it that way,” replied Edmund as he put the phone into his pocket after giving up on trying to make the call. – QD

Part 23: Accounts of the Life of Edmund Callipeaux

Contributor:
Dr. Percy Thomas-Douglas, PhD. – Ecologist, Never a finer man has ever lived! Lives in Canberra, AU.
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16 July 2009, 6:00 a.m.

“So, what if your sense of common sense is pretty messed up?” asked my uncle, Ed. “What do you do then?”

Auntie LeTigre and Uncle Ed were visiting Australia from the US and we were staying at a beach house in Northeastern Queensland, near a town called Port Douglas, which has close access via boat to the Great Barrier Reef.


I looked up from my dinner plate while the conversation was temporarily halted by Uncle Ed’s question. We had been recounting the adventures that my Dad, little brother, Uncle Ed, and myself had had that afternoon while my Auntie LeTigre and my Mom stayed back at the beach house and later had lunch in Port Douglas.

Common sense…I have noticed that my Uncle Ed has a rather particular way of reasoning things out. I asked him, “When you say pretty messed up, is that like when you say that the worm has turned?”

“The worm has turned…what does that mean?” asked my Mom.

To which my Auntie LeTigre replied, “Is Uncle Eddie saying that the worn has turned again?”

“I can’t believe that you guys haven’t heard that saying before – you know, the worm has turned,” exclaimed Uncle Ed.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” continued my Mom.

Auntie LeTigre replied, “Eddie thinks that’s an old saying. But he made it up. The worm has turned doesn’t make any sense. Don’t listen to anything he has to say.”

“It means that if things aren’t going in your favor, and then something changes your luck (or vice versa) you say: the worm has turned. And I know that I didn’t make it up…it’s been around for years,” Uncle Ed defended himself.

“Do you know what else Uncle Ed told me,” I explained to the family, “He said that in America they call the knee a Leg-Elbow?”

“Leg-elbow? What is that?” my Mom laughed.

“It’s an American thing. We say, Ouch, I stubbed my leg-elbow, or, I was up to my leg-elbows in cats,” Uncle Ed replied. “It’s a local saying - - in America.”

Uncle Ed then proceeded to chant: U-S-A! U-S-A! RED-WHITE-BLUE! RED-WHITE-BLUE!


As an aside, earlier that week, the first thing Uncle Ed had asked me upon his arrival to Australia with my Auntie LeTigre was, “Do you guys have The Fourth of July down here?”

To which I replied, “No. I mean, yes. But it’s not like it is in the States. It’s just a regular day here.”

We were at the Sydney airport, awaiting our flight to the northern part of Queensland and the beach house we had rented for a week near Port Douglas – and it was July 4th – and Uncle Ed was in full patriot mode. However, I pointed out to him that in America, it was still yet the third of July due to the time change.

“That damn, crazy International Dateline,” mumbled my uncle as he then began to robustly chant: U-S-A! U-S-A! RED-WHITE-BLUE! RED-WHITE-BLUE!


Back at the dinner table, we debated the legitimacy of Uncle Ed’s warped sayings. I looked out the windows of the house and toward the beach. The winter sun was setting, and as the light of the day faded, stars were emerging from the deepening Prussian-blue skies hanging just above the ocean’s horizon.

Uncle Ed posed a question to my Mom and Auntie LeTigre, “So, while we were gone today, were there any more Peach on the beach sightings?”

“Pink,” said my Mom.

“Oh right, I keep getting that mixed up. Any more Pink sightings today?” asked Uncle Ed.

“No, we think that she may have moved on,” replied Auntie LeTigre. “We saw her on the beach earlier this morning, but it’s been pretty quiet over there the whole afternoon.”

The singer, Pink, and her entourage had been staying in a house a few doors down the beach. We all thought that it was pretty exciting to have a celebrity in the neighborhood.

“I guess Bill and Hillary stayed on this beach too; in one of these houses, when they were here,” added my Mom. “We were in Port Douglas today having lunch at the same restaurant they ate at back in 2001.”

Auntie LeTigre said, “Bill signed a big dinner plate that the restaurant now has framed and hanging on the wall. It’s kind of strange, the plate read: Bill Clinton, Sept. 11, 2001.”

“That’s right,” replied my dad, “They were here that day.”

“That is kind-a strange,” Uncle Ed said.

“However, it would have been the tenth back in America when it was the 11th here,” I added.


Uncle Ed looked at me while squinting through his eyelids and gritting his teeth as he tried to figure out the time changes between the US and Australian longitudes. My Dad then continued his story of what he, Uncle Ed, my little brother, and I had done that day while my aunt and Mom were on beach-celebrity-look-out.

“We saw a ton of Gators!” exclaimed Uncle Ed.

“Crocs, Edmund. Crocodiles. We have saltwater and freshwater crocodiles in this part of Australia,” replied my Dad.

“Oh, right. I keep getting that mixed up,” said Uncle Ed.

“The crocodile lagoon was awesome,” I said. “There were crocs everywhere!”

“In this one pond, there were so many gators, I mean crocs, that it looked like you could run across their backs to get to the opposite shore!” Uncle Ed said.


“Yes,” my Dad said. “And did you know, that during the gestation of a crocodile egg, the sex of the baby crocodile is determined by the temperature of its nesting environment?”

“Yeah,” said Uncle Ed, “The sexuality of a baby croc is determined by variations in a couple degrees centigrade during gestation! Isn’t that amazing?! They have no Y chromosome or something crazy like that.”

“Not sexuality, Uncle Ed,” I explained, “Sex…as in Gender: Male/Female. The temperature of the gestating egg determines whether the baby croc will be male or female.”

Uncle Ed raised his right hand to signal silence. And with eyes closed, he lowered his head and slowly shook it from side to side as his lips readied themselves to proffer the word No as a response to my statement. However, just before he made the slightest of Nnnn sounds, his eyes popped wide open and his pupils darted quickly around the dinner table while the rest on his face held a blank, dumbfounded expression.

“At any rate,” my Dad said, “we took a boat tour through some wetlands where we met Big Ted.”

“Big Ted is 5 and a half meters long!” I said.

“That’s like 17 or 18 feet!” Uncle Ed said.

“A crocodile that’s 18 feet long?!” asked my Auntie LeTigre. “Dang!”

“Dang!” Everyone at the table repeated in unison.

“And Big Ted is relatively small compared to the twenty-eight foot crocodile they recently caught in the Northern Territory,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Uncle Ed, “and the guy driving the boat through the swamp told us that Big Ted could easily overturn the tour boat we were in – if he wanted too – he was that strong and ornery.”

“And Big Ted wasn’t that happy to see us. He swam right alongside the boat and then under the boat for a while and then he batted a smaller crocodile with his tail and she flew about a meter out of the water,” I said.



My Dad then added, “There were crocs all over the place: on the land; in the water; near the boat; under the boat. The boat pilot/park ranger was very excited - - exclaiming that Big Ted doesn’t normally come out into the water and up to the boats.”

“He’s the Alpha male crocodile,” said Uncle Ed.

I added, “Big Ted likes to make it known that he’s the boss. The park ranger said that once, Big Ted broadsided the boat, shifting it two meters toward the shore.”

Uncle Ed then said, “I looked on from my seat near the front of the boat as the park ranger was getting extremely excited about seeing Big Ted. The guy kept maneuvering the boat to get a better view of beast. What I saw was Big Ted and about 35 people in a smallish-sized boat. Then I noticed that our captain, or rather, the park ranger, was kind of young looking; real young looking actually, and there were no visible lifejackets or life rafts on board. And the kid kept repeating, over and over, how easy it would be for Big Ted to flip the boat; all this as he maniacally backed up, turned right, and then starboard, or whatever, and then to the portside, all the while keeping the boat as close to Big Ted as possible!”

My Dad then said, “There were smaller crocs in the water all around the boat too.”





Uncle Ed continued, “Then the nearly post-pubescent park ranger says to us, ‘When dealing with crocs, you just have to use common sense.’ I thought to myself, Common Sense? One might argue that using common sense while taking a bunch of people out into croc-infested waters might dissuade oneself from using the 20 foot boat to harass the 18 foot Big Ted; a monster, mind you, that is also the only thing in the immediate area that is higher on the food chain than all the screaming people in the boat put together!

“And wouldn’t common sense also dictate that a bunch of guns must also be brought along on any swamp/croc tours too?” exclaimed Uncle Ed.

“I saw no guns on that boat, not even a flair gun. Not even the toy gun that the baby-faced park ranger probably used to dress up as the Lone Ranger for last year’s Halloween. What I did see however, was the cherubic park ranger, totally unarmed, using a boatful of people to buzz the largest known monster-crocodile in the area - - Big, Big Ted, who according to Junior was over 90 years old, and crotchety as all getup,” said Uncle Ed as his eyes became more and more wild looking.

Then my Dad said, “Yes, but who is the greater fool? Is it (A) the man who takes a boatload of 35 people out into croc-infested swamps with no lifejackets and no guns, and who then uses said boat to repeatedly taunt the biggest monster croc known for 500 kilometers…or is it (B) the one who places his life into that man-child’s hands?”

I then said, “And besides, we don’t have Halloween in Australia.”

“What? No Halloween?

“And no Fourth of July? You’re kidding me.

“Those are two of the best holidays we have! Especially Halloween!” replied Uncle Ed.

Turning back to the rest of the table, he went on to say, “All I know is that when the man-child was talking about using common sense, I was thinking back to the sign at the entrance to the park that read how the management wouldn’t be held responsible for any quote/unquote: accidents. I should have seen the word accidents, and then I should have used my common sense to think: guns, I need guns.”

“Well, in Australia, much like the USA, you cannot sign away liability, nor can people be absolved of responsibility by hanging a warning sign at the entrance of a Crocodile Park,” my Dad said.

“Guns are what matter when a pissed-off Big Ted is chomping on a boatload of innocent people who unwittingly placed their fate into the hands of a teenage-man-child-park-ranger whose never learned the difference between fantasy and reality because the kid never got to dress up for Halloween!” exclaimed Uncle Ed.

I replied, “Maybe it’s like when we went snorkeling at the reef the other day. They had us wear Lycra bodysuits to protect us from jellyfish, while telling us that no jellyfish were in the area at this time of the year. Then they said to watch out for White- and/or Black-Tipped Reef Sharks, Bronze Whaler Sharks, Hammerheads, and Sting Rays; AND then they said to jump into the water and have fun!”


“Hey! That is really messed up too! Why didn’t you mention that when we were jumping off the boat at the reef and into our watery graves?” asked Uncle Ed. “Common sense would have held that they should have given us underwater guns for protection!”

“I didn’t bring it up because nothing happened to us - - we weren’t in any actual danger,” I replied in my defense.

“By the way, speaking of danger,” my Mom said, “one of the palm trees in front of the beach house dropped another coconut today.”

“How many is that since we arrived?” asked Auntie LeTigre.

“I think that makes five coconuts total,” I said.

Uncle Ed leaned back into his chair and said, “It’s funny how the owners of this place hung a hammock right between two of those crazy palm trees that are filled with massive coconuts waiting to drop down - - and take someone’s head off.

“Saltwater crocs in the water; killer palm trees in the sky; traps everywhere; jellyfish, sharks, Sting Rays; in addition to snakes, spiders, and all sorts of lizards and reptiles; Bill Clinton here on 9/11; Pink; it’s tropical paradise mixed with hell on Earth - - the ultimate turning of the worm!!” exclaimed Uncle Ed.

To which my Dad replied, “You know what they say about Queensland: Beautiful one day, and perfect the next.” – PTD

Killer palm trees!


Hammock of Death


Beach


Sign on beach.


Shark-free waters? Doom lurks behind every bit of coral at the Great Barrier Reef!




Who can tame this wild land?

Part 22: Accounts of the Life of Edmund Callipeaux

Contributor:
Nelson Boaggs Esq. – Sommelier, taxidermist, lives in Canberra, AU.
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28 June 2009, 3:41 a.m. EST

chor·gan·ize [chawr-guh-nahyz] super-verb, -ized, -iz⋅ing.
1. a super-verb invented by Edmund Callipeaux.
2. to form as or into a whole consisting of interdependent or coordinated parts, in an extraordinary way.
3. to massively systematize: to organize in a super-crazy, extreme fashion.

Edmund Callipeaux never organizes, he always chorganizes! – NB

A globe: A method of chorganizing land and sea into a cool little ball that lights up!



A jukebox: A machine that chorganizes 45s by the degree in which they Rock Out!



An unchorganized counter top!



An unchorganized chair!



Wonder Bread packaging: A way of chorganizing slices of bread!



A mirrored shelf: A tool for chorganizing little toys!

Part 21: Accounts of the Life of Edmund Callipeaux

Contributor:
Merle Higgins – curmudgeonly outdoorsman, lives in Minneapolis.
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19 June 2009, 4:00pm

Don’t ask me why, but I was in an “art” museum, in Chicago a few weeks back.

The band, Black Oak Arkansas, was giving a free concert at the Frank O. Gehry amphitheater, in downtown Chicago at that new Millennium Park they have. So, I decided to make a regular vacation out of it by taking the Amtrak from St. Paul to Union Station, and right into the heart of the city, or what Chicagoans call the Loop.

Back in the day, I would’ve just hopped a freight across Wisconsin and down into Illinois. But these days, the bulls and crazies that work for the Union Pacific make that sort of thing pretty tuff to pull off without getting yourself pinched and thrown into the slammer.

And what's worse is that I had to stay at this hotel called The Intercontinental. (It’s right by the Chicago River, on Michigan Avenue.) It was fancy and all, but they didn’t even have Blatz beer in the room mini-bar OR the regular bar downstairs. And everyone one in the place was all dressed up like they were always on their way to church or somewhere. And when I started blasting Black Oak Arkansas’s hit song, Hot and Nasty, on my tape player in the room, I got myself into a whole heap of trouble. I told them that I was just getting myself psyched up for the concert!



Outside, Michigan Avenue was filled with yuppies; the river wasn’t green – probably because of Greenpeace or someone; the air was hot and humid – like a sauna – I expected it to be windy, but the only thing blowing was the crappy music coming out of the Neiman Markus store I walked past; and when I finally got to this big, fancy Millennium Park, what do you think I found? Yep, you guessed right: Freaks – a WHOLE mess of them.

The park was packed with freaks. Every idiot this side of the Rocky Mountains who is dazzled by the mere thought of looking at a shiny, new penny, was mobbing this giant thing they call, The Bean. I’m not making this up: they call it the Bean because it looks like an upended, mirror-clad Kidney Bean that’s about the size of an Airstream trailer. I’m not making this stuff up: The. People. Were. All. Standing. Around. Totally. Amazed. That. They. Could. See. Their. Reflections. In. This. Bean. Thing.

Correct me if I’m wrong: most bathrooms have mirrors in them, don’t they? Have these people never been in a modern bathroom before? Have they never seen a mirror?

And get this - - and I keep telling you that I’m not making this stuff up - - so you have to believe me when I say that there was a guy milling around amongst the crowd of people...and he was dressed up like…like…. Well, he was dressed up like….

I don’t even know if I can finish this story.

(And I haven’t even gotten to the part where I run into Edmund and LeTigre Callipeaux at that damn museum.)

If I tell you what I saw, you’re going to think that old Merle is all hopped up on goofballs or something. But those of you who know me; know that I don’t do any of that crap. I may be known to polish off a half-dozen oilcans of Foster’s Lager on my drive from Lyndale and 28th to Snelling and Highland Parkway, over there in St. Paul. But, Merle Higgins, son of the famous humorist, Joseph J. Higgins, does not go in for that hippy-freak crap! No, Sir!

Okay. That’s settled. I’ll continue with my story.

There was a guy dressed exactly as Johnny Depp from Pirates of the Caribbean. He was signing autographs and posing for pictures right in the shadow of the Bean thing.

There. I said it. I know what I saw. You can say what you want.

Damn.

All I know is that I had to get the hell out of there.

The guy had the hat, and the sword, and the boots, and the whole insane getup. People’s minds must be all mush – because it looked to me like they were paying him money to get a photo or two.

In fact, I’ll make a bet with you: I'll wager that the reason there was a whole flock of folks gathered about that mirrored Bean thing is because the actual Kidney Bean they each have residing between their ears sees that big shiny thing as some sort of god. And that Captain Jack Sparrow impersonator must of been their St. Peter, or someone.

I had to get the hell out of there!

Turns out that the Frank Gehry amphitheater was just across the way from the Bean thing. So, I wandered over and found a big grassy area with a stage at one end that looked like it was in the shape of a pile of sheet metal that had been thrown off of the top of the Sears Tower. I looked around and thought that it was odd that the place wasn’t more crowded for the big concert that night.

“Oh, well,” I said to myself, “I must be early.”

So, I strolled about. Eventually, I found this walking bridge at the opposite end of the amphitheater’s grounds. I followed another crowd of people up onto the bridge, and over a street, and right up into the third floor of this new art museum they had just finished building.


And that’s where I ran into the Edmund and LeTigre Callipeaux.

“Oh, hello Merle. What a surprise to run into you here,” LeTigre greeted me.

“I’m a bit surprised that I’m here too,” I replied as I waved off shaking Edmund’s hand. The idiot had an ice cream cone that was melting and running all over the place and making a terrible mess.

“Don’t touch me with that sticky hand of yours, Edmund,” I said as I looked back across to the amphitheater, “Are you two here for the big Black Oak Arkansas concert?”

They looked at me like they didn’t understand English. But, I wasn’t surprised, those two yuppies probably only like Jazz music or something.


“So, Merle, are you heading into the museum? You can join us, if you’d like,” Edmund said.

“I might as well. It doesn’t look like things are going to get going out here any time soon,” I replied as I waited for Edmund to open the door to building for me.

Once inside the museum we bought our tickets to the exhibitions and I had to check my sportsman’s bag that I carry with me on my travels. Luckily, I had decided that I didn’t need to travel with all the guns I generally take with me on trips. I figured that it’ll take longer than five months before things completely go to hell after eight years of safety with George Bush steering the ship.

As an outdoorsman, I appreciated all the new, Green technology that went into building the new wing of the art museum. It was a nice place – well lit with natural sunlight. It had a huge, huge three-story atrium and a huge gift/bookshop and a huge fancy coat check room. $300m sure does buy a lot of atrium space and hangers to hang your coat on. Evidently, it doesn’t buy a lot of stairs or elevators though. About twenty tired looking people were camped out for the lone elevator and some idiot had stopped midway between the first and second floors to consult his visitor’s map on the narrow set of steps, blocking any movement past him.

We finally made our way up the stairs and into one of the galleries on the second floor. We walked by a bunch of quote/unquote: art that looked like somebody’s kid had spilt something on a board or something. Then we walked into a room where some videotape showed three or so clowns having nervous breakdowns. (I kind-a like that one; always have hated clowns for some reason.) And then we walked by a whole bunch of white panels that were hung on a few walls.

“This guy has done nothing but paint white panels or canvases for the past fifty years, or so,” Edmund beamed. I thought to myself: When I get home, I’m going to Menards and I’m going to buy a piece of that crappy white bathroom particle-board and I’m going to take it to a gallery and sell it for a million dollars.

I think that the directors of this museum must be worshipers of that shiny Bean out there.

Then we walked by this big sculpture of an old Cypress tree. And I must admit, it was something. As an outdoorsman, I have a certain fondness for trees, and I don’t know if the thing was art: some guy had just cast a big old hallow tree with some sort of plastic, but I liked it for some reason. I don’t exactly know why.

I asked a museum guard who the artist’s name was.

“Charles Ray,” said the guard.

“I didn’t know that he was also a sculptor,” I replied.

The guard looked at me blankly. “Dumbass,” I thought to myself. Nobody talks in these museums...everything is so important. The guy probably went home and had a heart-attack because someone dared ask him a question.

I crouched down and peered through the length of the hallow tree. “What do you know? A fake plastic tree right in the middle of some big-buck museum,” I said, as that same museum guard scolded Edmund for being too close to the tree-sculpture.


Edmund then started half humming, half singing this high-pitched melody, and I told him to shut up, because he was annoying me. (Edmund has a terrible singing voice.)

“And don’t touch this thing with your sticky, ice cream hands!” I said, trying to control my anger.

After we left the room with the fake plastic tree, we ended up in a room with a pile of candy on the floor, in a corner. After pausing to look at the candy for a few minutes, Edmund approached one of the museum guards. He actually asked him if he could take a few of the colorfully wrapped candies.


“Are you trying to get us kicked out of here?” I whispered through clenched teeth as I grabbed his sticky wrist.

“Yes, you may take as many pieces as you like,” replied the guard – to my surprise.

What the?

“What do you do if everyone takes all the candy,” I quickly asked before the guard walked away.

“We just add more to the pile at the end of every day,” was his response.

“Weird,” I said as I looked back over at the colorful pile, “What kind of art is that?”

“The artist’s name is Felix Gonzalez-Torres, and his artwork is like this. You can take it home with you if you want,” Edmund said as he walked toward the corner of the room.

“This feels strange,” Edmund said as he looked around to see that everyone standing in the gallery was watching to see what he would do next.

LeTigre pulled out her camera to take a few photographs of Edmund picking a few pieces off of the pile. He said that he was going to try to get one of every different wrapper color.


After Edmund had selected his candy pieces, he showed them to LeTigre while a few other people walked up to the pile to remove some candy themselves. In a way, it struck me as kind of sad. I couldn’t figure out what the big deal was, because any little kid could throw a pile of candy into a corner and charge a million bucks for it.

But, for some reason though, when Edmund encouraged me to take some candy for myself, I agreed. And as I bent down to take a piece, it felt strange. I felt strange. I didn’t like how people were watching me. And I wanted those yuppie freaks to do something else and leave me alone.

It was odd…and I still can’t quite put my finger on what was that was going on. It just didn’t seem right that something, even something as trivial as a pile of candy, would just disappear, taken, only to be restocked by the museum staff like nothing had happened.

I took some of the pieces of candy, but I sort of wish that I hadn’t. I don’t even like eating those sorts of hard candies anyway.

I don’t know.

That’s why I like splitting a six-er with my friends while we play a couple rounds of cribbage, or we take a boat out and throw in a few lines. Times like that, things just aren’t that complicated: I know my buddies are rotten cribbage players, and I enjoy taking their money.

It’s easy.

But there was something about that tree and that pile of candies that still vexes me like an itch I can’t scratch - - and it’s been over a month - - like my Mom used to say, “It’s put a thinking spell on me.”

Those damn Callipeaux museum lovers. Why do I keep finding myself either over at their house, or running into them on the street?

They drive me crazy!

Oh, and by the way, not only did I waste my whole afternoon in that dumb museum. Turns out that the whole trip to Chicago was a complete bust anyway! Somehow, I misread my ticket, and Black Oak Arkansas wasn’t playing at the Millennium Park/Frank Gehry amphitheater after all.

Those hell-raisers played that Saturday night, just south of Chicago, at Fletcher’s Mile #1 Roadhouse, in Gehry, Indiana! And I missed it!

How the hell did I get that mixed up? – MH

Merle's candy

Part 20: Accounts of the Life of Edmund Callipeaux

Contributors:
Kidpowertool – unemployed dairy professional, lives in Key West, FL.
Guy Cheblo – chef, corn expert, adventurer, lives in New York, NY.
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Kidpowertool – 6 June 2009, Midmorning

Strange Food Collection Update: NEW ACQUISITION!

corn – Corn – CORN! – KPT
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Guy Cheblo – 6 June 2009, 11:30 a.m.

As a corn expert, I was impressed with the product. And it only makes sense that an entertainment company would eventually find their way into the corn business. Corn is entertaining…I’ve been telling people this for years! However, I feel that the below package design would be less confusing and move the product more quickly off the shelves!

Edmund snorkeling sells corn! – GC