A Mysterious Note

Introduction

It’s hard to blog during the holidays, or so I tell myself. Too many distractions! On top of that, another distraction presented itself recently that has lodged itself so firmly in my brain, I can’t move on, so I have decided to make it this week’s post. Read on because things are about to get weird.

(By the way, I’m typing with a sprained, or at least wanged, wrist so I’m gonna go fast and not worry too much about literary polish … bear with me.)

A weird note

I was minding my own business on Sunday when my wife said, “We got a weird note slipped under our garage door today.” I was immediately concerned.

It would be weird for a neighbor to leave a note, obviously, since they could just knock on our door, wait until the next time we’re out front, or even just text. Unless they’re really upset about something and don’t want to put us on the spot … but then, we’re pretty easy neighbors these days now that our kids’ multi-keg ragers are a thing of the past. (Kidding! I mean, not to insinuate the multi-keg ragers are still going on … I mean, they never were. As far as I know or remember.)

So, I reasoned, this must be some random passerby leaving a note. And that’s not automatically a bad thing—it could have been something simple like,  “The light in your crawl space is on,” which would have actually been true up until Saturday when I finally mustered the resolve (being claustrophobic) to crawl in there and turn it off. But Saturday being in the past, and the note having been described as “weird,” its message would have to be something like a) “I know why your crawl space light was on,” or b) “I turned on your crawl space light … guess how?” or maybe something even more disturbing. But the theory of Occam’s Razor would say the note most likely had nothing to do with the light in our crawl space.

It was still possible to imagine a note from a rando that wasn’t full-on disturbing. For example, somebody once left a note on my Scion XB, a toaster-shaped car I inherited from my late father, that read, “I will pay you OVER BLUE BOOK for this car, RUNNING OR NOT!” with a phone number listed. I was a bit offended, actually. I mean, why would this rando assume there was a good chance my car isn’t running? Do I look like the kind of derelict who keeps a broken-down car parked in front of his house? I was tempted to incorporate the rando’s number in some graffiti, e.g. “FOR A GOOD TIME CALL…” on a bathroom wall.

Not that the car purchase offer was weird, exactly. Of course the Scion would attract potential buyers, it’s totally gangsta! So what would a “weird” note say? My mind raced, trying to imagine someone I might have had crossed paths with who subsequently might feel like leaving a weird note … unfinished business, perhaps? Naturally the first guy I hit upon was the junkie.

The junkie

Now, before you get all judgmental on me for jumping to conclusions about this or that vagrant being a probable junkie, I’m talking about an actual known junkie. A few years ago my wife and I started finding these small squares of aluminum foil in our front yard, burned black on one side. You can imagine this was a bit disconcerting. My wife called the police non-emergency line, and an officer came out. I chatted about it with him, and he confirmed that the foils were from black-tar heroin, and he was pretty sure he knew who was smoking it. It was this 20-something who lived with his mom a few blocks away, who liked to smoke the heroin in his mom’s Mercedes. I spotted the car not long after but only as the guy was pulling away from the curb. I later discovered where the guy lived (or at least parked most of the time). I thought about leaving a note on his car saying, “Please stop smoking heroin in front of my house,” but I wasn’t sure the admonishment would be taken in the right spirit.

Well, a week or so later, I was about to head out for a bike ride, and was in the driveway pumping up my tires (still wearing flip-flops, not yet my cycling shoes, which as you shall see is important). A little old lady happened by walking her dog and started to chat me up. As we talked, I suddenly became aware that the junkie was parked right out front, in broad daylight, getting his fix! The moment was very awkward; I couldn’t exactly tell the little old lady, “Excuse me, I’m enjoying our chat but I need to step away for a moment and terrorize this junkie.” Fortunately she soon continued on her way, and I ran over to the driver’s side door of the Benz. I was going to pound on the window and give the guy a piece of my mind, confident that if the situation devolved into fisticuffs I would have two advantages: a) my opponent was high and I was not, and b) I alone was wearing a helmet. But he saw me coming, put the car in gear, and took off. I ran after him, right down the middle of the street, rounded the corner, and followed him up the next street, as fast as I could. By the time he took the corner onto his street, I was too out of breath to continue, which was fine … I figured I’d made my point. And in fact, this was proved out: the guy never again parked in front of our house. And in case you’re one of my neighbors who has stumbled across this post and are now livid that I’m disclosing information publicly that could lower property values, this was years ago and I haven’t seen that car, nor any burnt foil, in quite a while. The guy was an anomaly. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have left the mysterious note last Sunday, something like, “I had found your curbside a safe space in which to enjoy my self-medication and it really hurts my feelings that you ran me off.”

To be clear, I didn’t ponder all of this at length, and the amount of time it took you to read the above background is just because you’re getting the story for the first time. For me, all of that flashed across my mind in like a second, with basic images working like macros to swiftly convey the themes: neighbor, rando, crawl-space, black-tar heroin. Within a second that was all past and I was holding out my hand and saying, “Let me see the note.”

The actual weird note

Okay, here is the note (click to enlarge):

There’s so much that’s weird about it, right? First off, it’s on a ripped-off piece of grocery bag, like the guy didn’t have a notepad or even a piece of junk mail to write on. Then, the note starts out in cursive (an arguably odd choice for a rando who scrawls notes on scraps), and then becomes a mix of lowercase and uppercase print. It also mentions CBS, a network that has become so obscure, in this modern above-the-network, cable-cutting Internet era, that I wasn’t even sure they were still on the air. I mean, CBS? Really? I hadn’t been this mystified since that one time my dad said, “Is there a Sears around here? I need to buy some trousers.”

It’s also a little weird to say that a show is both funny and worth seeing … I mean, aren’t all funny shows worth seeing? And doesn’t the fact of the note automatically suggest the show is worth seeing? Who would leave a note saying, “There’s a show on CBS but don’t bother”? I was further nonplussed by the note saying, “on Sunday night,” since the note was left on Sunday. Why not just “tonight”?

Then there’s the matter of the time specified. You’d think that somebody who bothered to write a note recommending a show would be a bit more careful writing out the number. I think it looks like an 8, as does my wife, but our younger daughter emphatically declared that it’s a 5. Her friend S— initially thought it was a 5 but then agreed it actually does look more like an 8. This number is important because if I’m to track down this mystery, I’ll need to see what the show even is. That could help; after all, if it’s a stirring (and yet funny) documentary about a reformed heroin addict, everything would snap into place.

I checked the listings. At 8:00 p.m. there was a sitcom called “The Neighborhood” on CBS. The description on IMDB makes it sound pretty stupid: “A white-bread couple from the Midwest moves to the hood and turn to milquetoast when they try to befriend their rough, street-tough and intimidating neighbors.” I watched a few trailers and man, if those are the highlights, this show is far from funny. In terms of critical reviews, Common Sense Media says, “Regressive racial attitudes and bad jokes mar family sitcom.” So whoever left this note has pretty poor taste.

Unless … this person is tweaking me? Casting aspersions on my taste? But then wouldn’t the note say something more like, “You’d probably like this”? Nothing about the note made sense.

I checked the listing for 5:00 p.m. and all it said was, “Local Programming.” Not sure what that means, though it brought to mind our old independent station in Denver when I was growing up that would show low-budget shows like “All Star Wrestling.” And my brothers and I would actually watch them, because that’s how little we cared about our time and our brains back then. (Yes, I find this as disgraceful as you do.) Anyway, I didn’t worry too much about that because it looks like an 8 on that note. And would 5:00 p.m. wouldn’t really be “night,” would it?

There is exactly one neighbor (i.e., non-rando) I thought might have left the note. He lives a couple blocks away but often passes by while walking his dog. Of course his handwriting and diction would be better, but who knows, maybe he was heading home after one of the neighborhood multi-keg ragers or something. It was just so easy to inquire, I went ahead and sent him an email asking if he’d left me a note. He promptly replied, “No I didn’t. Besides, I’m more of a severed-horse-head-on-the-pillow-next-to-you kind of message-giver.” (I shall endeavor to stay on his good side.)

Soliciting theories

My wife and I talked over the possibilities about this note. Her theory is that somebody was trying to break into our garage to steal stuff, and had the note on hand in case he got caught—he could just say he was leaving a note. But I’m not buying it, because there was no damage to the door; it would have been a broad daylight break-in when we were obviously home; nothing in the garage would really be worth stealing; and, since the rando wasn’t caught in the act of anything, why did he leave the note? Furthermore, why would it be such an unrealistic one, scrawled messily on a scrap?

I texted a photo of the note to P—,  a friend of mine, asking for his theory. He suggested the note was from a spurned lover. He might have been implying that my wife has been cuckolding me, or he was casting aspersions on my fidelity. Most likely he was being sarcastic or at least facetious. I replied that a spurned lover would send a perfumed letter, or attach the note to a brick thrown through my window. I also pointed out that a spurned lover would be more likely to recommend a Lars von Trier film than an insipid comedy. P—  replied, “I think this person is dumbing it down to your intellectual level … I know the truth hurts.” As you’ve gathered by now, this input was not helpful in solving the mystery.

My younger daughter suspects it’s a homeless guy who somehow had the chance to see this show and is using all the influence he has, and the tools available, to recommend it to others, sliding notes under as many doors as possible, and that there’s nothing special about us to explain why we received it.

Her friend S— has a slightly similar theory: that’s it’s one of the producers of the TV show, promoting it in a grassroots way. In this latter case, I wondered aloud why this promo was on a scrap of paper, handwritten , instead of something photocopied. S— just shrugged.

I asked my brother B— for his take. He guessed it was “someone with an addled mind, or under some unnatural influence?” I’m intrigued by “unnatural” vs. “drug or alcohol.” The broader term “unnatural” doesn’t rule out the supernatural. Still, not a particularly compelling theory. As to 5 vs. 8, my brother couldn’t decide which and suggested I “just tune in to CBS straightaway and start watching, just in case.” I think this was disingenuous because he knows I don’t have cable, or even rabbit-ears. (Do Gen-Zers even know what rabbit-ears are/were? Well, my brother sure does. As kids we’d take turns standing next to the TV holding the aerial because that made it work better.)

I asked my older daughter for her theory. She suggested that the note is a puzzle of some kind, and that solving it would gain my wife and/or me entry into some elite club or cult. If we can’t solve it, we’re not allowed in.

Now, before you read further, it may well be that you have your own theory. If not, take a moment and think of one now. What, to you, seems like the most plausible scenario? Who wrote this note, and why?

Epiphany!

As I pondered all these theories, I suddenly had an epiphany, of the non-religious variety. Is it redundant to say “suddenly” I had an epiphany? Probably, since epiphanies don’t really dawn gradually on a person. Unless they do … probably the insight had been creeping up on me and suddenly achieved escape velocity. Maybe that’s always the way with epiphanies. But I digress (and I could go delete the last few sentences except I’ve kind of fallen in love with them … and yes, I’ve been warned against this, but like I said earlier, I have a sprained or at least wanged wrist).

The epiphany, alas, does not concern the origin of this note, nor its purpose. The note itself remains a mystery. The epiphany, rather, is this: whatever the intent of whoever left this note, the note has become like a Rorschach test. The theory a person puts forth can help shed a little bit of light on “where he or she is at,” as the expression goes. I decided to take a look at the theories in light of what I know about who advanced them:

Theory	Theory’s author and his/her traits
Would-be burglar looking for plausible alibi	My wife, a protective mother
Junkie who used to favor our front yard	Myself, a protective father with a typical male thirst for hand-to-hand combat
Spurned lover	P—, an obviously lonely middle-aged man ;-)
Homeless man seeking to have influence	My younger daughter, a student who has yet to step onto the world stage
Producer of the show trying to grow his audience	S—, a film student and budding filmmaker
Person who is addled or unnaturally influenced	B—, a religious man with a wary eye
Puzzle/intelligence test to screen potential club/cult members	My older daughter who is studying for the MCAT and is understandably nervous about it

Call to action

A minute ago I asked you to pause and come up with your own theory about who wrote this note and why. Now you see where I was headed: you can use your own response as a window into your soul. And with that, I’m going to call this a post … it’s Christmas Eve, after all, and I should be eating cookies with my family. Thanks for tuning in. Come back Sunday at 5 or 8 p.m. PST for another episode of … whatever!

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Email me here. For a complete index of albertnet posts, click here.

2024 Online Holiday Gift Guide!

Introduction

I used to do most of my Christmas shopping at the Westfield San Francisco Centre, which Tripadvisor calls “iconic” and “a premier retail destination.” (In fact, it was at that very mall that I was intercepted by a lotion sniper back in 2010.) Alas, due to a combination of COVID, teleworking, and competition from e-commerce, the SF Centre is practically a ghost town, with entire floors closed down and much of its famous spiral escalator boarded up. If something similar is going on in your neighborhood, fear not: with my annual albertnet Online Holiday Gift Guide, you can shop online without a lot of false starts and dead ends. And as a bonus this year, I’m posting in time for you to actually do some shopping before it’s too late!

I would like to point out that I have not received any free products or other remuneration for showcasing these gifts. In fact, I have never even laid my hands on them. So, caveat emptor! (That’s pig Latin for “due diligence is incumbent on the buyer, not the seller, nor the blogger.”)

Skull bottle opener - $32

As a kitchen gadget, this Crack One Open bottle opener isn’t particularly compact or easy to use. But as a gift, it delivers a complicated message with finesse and precision. That message is, “I know you drink beer, and I even support that, but you must never forget that ALCOHOL KILLS.”

That’s right, this little doodad is appropriately sobering even as it enables a sweet buzz. That’s a pretty special gift, I think.

Santa Claus sticker – $4

At first blush this Santa sticker doesn’t make much sense. I mean, since when is Santa Claus a life coach or guru? But the full message is, “Believe in yourself since you don’t believe in me anymore.”

This is really for kids: in particular, the ones who just got the devastating news about Santa. And when they stick this on their laptops or water bottles for all to see, they’ll be easing their pals at school into reality as well.

By the way, don’t be surprised if this product doesn’t totally match the picture above. The 5-star reviews include “Super cute little pin that will make the perfect gift for my friend!!” and “Super great little happy pen.” ???

Necklace stacker clasp - $16

Necklaces are the best. They draw attention to a woman’s pretty neck; catch the light in a pleasant way; and, of course, showcase her wealth. A well-attired woman should own many necklaces. The only trouble is, it’s difficult to wear more than one at a time, because they get tangled up. What a waste of potential, to leave necklaces at home …it’s like leaving cards on the table! Well, just wait until that special woman in your life receives this ingenious gift: the Lucky Necklace Layering Clasps Separator!

Not only is this clasp a cinch to use, enabling straightforward display of three necklaces at once, but it’s “designed to be water and sweat resistant to prevent corrosion.” So she can rock the clasp when working out or deep sea diving! Best of all, this item opens the door for next year’s Christmas gift: another necklace!

Rearview mirror cycling gloves - $56

Do you have a cyclist friend who really pisses you off? For example, for Christmas last year he gave you couples’ handholding mittens, right on the heels of your heart-rending breakup? Well, it’s revenge time. Give him these rearview mirror cycling gloves.

Are you kidding me? These are totally Fredtastic! This is the gift that says, “Yes, I really do think you’re a complete idiot!” If he opens this gift in front of you, he’ll have to pretend to like it. You can scrutinize his performance, and then decide whether or not to disclose that he’s been punked.

Optical illusion bowls - $55

These perfectly simple Lessmore Bowls serve up a wonderful optical illusion (exemplifying a known phenomenon, the Jastrow Illusion). As described by the manufacturer, “When placed side by side, one bowl seems much longer than the other. However, when you switch their positions they seem to switch sizes as well!”

So what’s the point? Well, they’re perfect for families with small children: specifically, for defusing sibling rivalry. Breathe new life into the age-old complaint, “He got more than me!” Just dole out the portions into these bowls, switch them back and forth like a shell game, and in no time your kids will be too confused to fight. Thanks, Lessmore Bowls!

Beard bib apron - $16 

Do you have a friend who’s so in love with his beard he can’t resist accessorizing with brushes, combs, special shampoos and moisturizers, and trimmers? Is he sad because he’s run out of ways to celebrate his dashing hipster facial hair? Well, you can surprise and delight him with this Beard Bib Apron!

Granted, beard trimming pitfalls like a messy sink, clogged drain, and wasted towels are purely fictitious, like ring-around-the-collar, but nobody needs to admit that. When your friend mansplains the benefit of this ingenious invention, his girlfriend/wife/other will be (or at least seem) enraptured.

Chalkboard mug - $13

Have you been scouring the Internet looking for a nice mug to give to your coffee- or tea-loving friend or loved one? Well, look no further: this Chalkboard Mug is adaptable to any mood, any sentiment.

But this is more than just a way to increase one’s enjoyment of hot beverages. It’s actually an intervention for those sad sacks you know who can’t resist constantly buying mugs emblazoned with a pithy statement like “YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE CRAZY TO WORK HERE, BUT IT HELPS” or “GUNS DON’T KILL PEOPLE, DADS WITH PRETTY DAUGHTERS DO.” With this mug, your lucky recipient can just rip off any clever aphorism they see, or freestyle with their own bold declaration (e.g, “WASH ME”).

Beer foamer - $96

This Canned Beer Draft System “uses ultrasonic vibrations to create a dense micro-foam that boosts the flavor of any canned beer.”

Now, it’s intuitively obvious that vibrating a beverage cannot change its actual flavor, but that’s not the point. It’s the micro-foam your lucky recipient wants, and this clever contraption delivers. With this little number he can increase the arsenal of cool beer-themed gadgets in his home and thereby impress his friends.

But what if $96 is too much to spend on a friend? For a more affordable version of this gift that would work just as well, get a 3x5 card and (in your neatest handwriting) write, “For a foamier head on your beer, slosh the beer more aggressively as you pour it.” Your friend will love you!

Lemon squeezer - $15

When your friend or family member receives this lemon squeezer, she’s gonna ask, “Where has this been all my life?”

Because you really don’t want to touch a lemon. OMG, don’t even go there. Your hands might smell like lemon oil for days. As the manufacturer says, “With a big smile and no mess, you can simply squeeze your lemons and prepare your salads, juices, tea or any other dish without having to worry about it.” Worry about what? You know, it. All of it. No wonder your loving family member has been so worried … she probably cooks with lemon! This squeezer also “prevents eye splashes” … thank God that nightmare is finally over.

Purse organizer insert - $9 to $35

Does it seem like your wife has at least a dozen purses (and counting)? And is it the case that she can never find anything, because all her purses have completely different configurations with all kinds of hidden pockets that seem to swallow everything from car keys to glasses to her wallet? Well, her life—and thus yours—is about to get a lot easier, thanks to this OMYSTYLE purse organizer insert.

Now she can organize her stuff just one time, with this single, logically designed, easily adaptable insert, and then pop it into whatever purse she feels like carrying for the day. What’s that, you say? All her purses are a different size? No problem! This insert is available in Medium, Slender Medium, Large, Slender Large, X-Large, and Mini! And that’s not all … it’s also available in 16 colors! Imagine the number of permutations available, especially when you combine size, color, and the wide range of purses your wife has. The possibilities are endless!

Steering wheel tray - $18

You might have a humble car yourself … but suppose your friend or loved one has an ultimate superfly ride replete with fancy aftermarket rims, tinted windows, and personalized license plates. What do you get for the car that has everything? Why, this Lebogner steering wheel tray!

Yes, this ingenious product provides a new way for your friend or family member to spend even more time in his car! Perfect for when even the home office doesn’t provide enough privacy (think of that couple who are always looking for ways to avoid each other, and really ought to divorce but you’ve given up hope). This gift is also suited to the guy who realizes he overspent on his car, but can now say, “Hey, it’s not just my car … it’s my office, my dining room, and my vanity!”

History every day interactive mug - $28

This beautiful ceramic mug features not only the dictionary definition of the word history (“A record of the triumphant, terrible, and ceaselessly astounding stories throughout time”) but a QR code which feeds the user’s smartphone “a new historical event that happened on that date.” Now, I know we’re deep into oxymoronic territory with “new historical” but suffice to say, the app provides a synopsis of a historical event that took place on the same date any number of years before.

I’d love to say this is the perfect gift, but really it isn’t. First of all, the definition printed on it is wrong. We all know that history—far from being “ceaselessly astounding”—is actually famously boring. Meanwhile, the daily tidbit is just too short … you read it in like 30 seconds and then have nothing interesting to look at while you unhurriedly enjoy the rest of your coffee. On top of that, the daily rotation of reading material is too frequent … it would mean washing your mug every single day, which just isn’t practical. But the most important failing of this mug is that it’s the same dull subject—history—every single time. Wouldn’t it be better to have a weekly cadence of longer pieces, spanning all kinds of subjects, from how-to guides to fiction, from food & drink to music to parenting to … I think you can see where I’m headed here. I’m talking about an albertnet mug.

Obviously I could go to one of those custom add-your-photo websites, Shutterfly or whatever, and make the QR-equipped albertnet mug myself, and probably make a killing selling them. But honestly, I can’t be bothered … I’m too busy writing. So I hereby give you, gentle reader, permission to take this idea and run with it. Here is the fully functional albertnet QR code for the back side of the mug.

Seriously, I’m happy to let you take all the credit and receive all the gratitude for this thoughtful, one-of-a-kind gift, as I’ll be perfectly content with all the new readers I’ll be getting. That can be your gift to me, the tireless blogger who has tried all year to amuse and enlighten you. Thank you in advance!

Other albertnet holiday posts

• 2023 Last-Minute Online Holiday Gift Guide!
• 2022 albertnet Last-Minute Online Holiday Gift Guide
• 2021 albertnet Online Holiday Gift Guide
• 2020 albertnet Last-Minute Online Holiday Gift Guide
• The 2019 albertnet Online Holiday Gift Guide
• Interview With Santa Claus
• The 2018 albertnet Christmas Guide
• The Christmas Eve Doldrums
• A Cure for Holiday Consumerist Bloat
• The Black Friday That Wasn’t
• Santa Denial, and How Lance Armstrong Taught Me to Lie
• Fiction – The Happiest Christmas Story I Know
• My 2012 Holiday Newsletter: the Cat’s POV
• My 2011 Holiday Newsletter – Head Lice!
• My 2010 Holiday Newsletter – Importance of Santa Mythology
• Holiday Mall Report: the Lotion Sniper
• My 2009 Holiday Newsletter – Retail in the UK
• The Suppressed 2008 Holiday Newsletter
• Descent Into Chaos: My 2005 Holiday Newsletter

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Email me here. For a complete index of albertnet posts, click here.

From the Archives - Bits & Bobs Volume XVI

Introduction

This is the sixteenth installment in the “From the Archives – Bits & Bobs” series. Volume I is here, Volume II is here, Volume III is here, Volume IV is here, Volume V is here, Volume VI is here, Volume VII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume IX is here, Volume X is here, Volume XI is here, Volume XII is here, Volume XIII is here, and Volume XIV is here, and Volume XV is here. (The different volumes have nothing to do with one another and can be read in numerical order, alphabetical order, in birth order, or in whatever order your Ouija Board advises.)

What are Bits & Bobs, in the context of this blog? They’re like little literary snacks … brief passages from old emails or essays, or things I’d have scrawled on a bathroom wall if I were a vandal. Though generally written to a friend or family member, they’re tidbits I figure my albertnet audience might get a chuckle, snort, chortle, or at least a smirk out of. Read these aloud to your friends, family, colleagues, or a stranger on the phone, ideally a telemarketer. Or copy them onto Post-its and stick them all over your house for inspiration!

January 17, 2005

Welcome to Gmail! I’m glad my special exclusive invitation hit its mark. I hope you consider me kind of elite to have made this new platform possible for you. Of course, it’s hard for me to feel superior when you got a cooler address than I did. Alas, dana.albert is always taken when a new email platform sprouts up. Anyway, as you start using Gmail I entreat you to never click on any of the Adsense “sponsored links” (i.e., ads), lest you help launch a new way to advertise, which is the last thing this country and world need.

Gosh, that’s a less-than-cheery paragraph, I now realize. I’m pretty fed up, I guess. We took the kids to San Francisco today for a nice stroll along the new waterfront, where they’ve restored a wetland. It was absolutely frigid, with a howling cold wind. L— cried continuously. A— had a blast, though: she saw her first helicopter, her first container ship, her first motorboat, and her best (if not first) view of a seagull, quasi-hovering not 10 feet away. Then we went to House of Nanking, where A— pronounced most of the food (scallops excluded) “too spicy,” and L— tore up the place, even flinging food at the couple at the next table. We had to take turns walking her outside. We got home and put both kids to bed, and tried to get a nap ourselves (I’m fighting some bug), but the phone rang every 20 minutes, and no handset was near. So I have half-napped, which is a recipe for grogginess and a sour disposition. So, have a better one!

December 3, 2006

What do I mean by “damn fritjes?” Why, I’m glad you asked! “Fritjes” is a Dutch word, the diminutive of “frites,” which needless to say are fries, as in French fries. There’s a story behind this. When my mom was married to the man who had formerly been her landlord, and whom we thus always called The Landlord, or more precisely The Landlo’, they traveled quite a bit. This was fun for my mom except that the Landlo’ was, well, a total dick. I doubt you could find a single living human who would describe him in any other way. I suppose if he’d met a nun somewhere along the line she’d choose a different description, like “sinfully cruel and unredeemable,” but you get the idea. Anyway, he didn’t really “tour” places, he “did” them. As in, “Do you think we can do the Sorbonne in under twenty minutes?” Travel, to him, was a way to check off all the “been-there” lists. He was terribly impatient in general and I think travel just exacerbated the trait. Anyway, G—, when showing them his adopted country, went for the slow-absorption style that reasonable people tend to favor. The Landlo’ was having none of that. If there wasn’t a famous landmark to be checked off and mentioned later to some disinterested, and doubtless uninterested, third party back home, he wasn’t interested. About the only specific thing on G—’s list was fritjes. He really loves the fritjes in Holland, and for good reason. They really do them right. There are stands all over the place. As far as he (and thus I) know, everybody in the country always orders “frites mit.” That means “fries with.” You’ll be happy to know that there’s no need to specify with what; of course “mit” means “with mayonnaise.” They don’t skimp, either. As far as I can tell, frites mit is about the only luxury that the temperance-addicted Dutch allow themselves, unless you count raw herring.

Anyway, as the Landlo’ dragged my mom and my brother around at his breakneck pace, cussing and looking at his watch every five seconds, poor G— decided to cut his losses and forget every single local attraction he’d planned to show them, except fritjes, since that at least still seemed possible. He reminded the Landlo and our Mom to keep an eye out for a fritjes stand. Finally the Landlo’ decided he (and thus they) were done with Holland and started to drag them back to G—’s place. G— meekly protested that they hadn’t had any fritjes yet, and the Landlo’ blew sky high and gave the poor guy a blistering diatribe about “you and your damn fritjes!” From that moment forward, G— has never called them anything but damn fritjes, and neither has our mom, and once the rest of us heard the story, the name has stuck with all us brothers, kids, nieces, and nephews as well. It’s gradually spreading from there (e.g., to my friends and colleagues). Needless to say, if you ask one of my daughters if she’d like some damn fritjes, she’ll know exactly what you’re talking about. “French fries” might throw her, though.

February 29, 2009

[I sent the following email to a mass audience of family and friends.]

I am pleased to introduce my web log, or as they say in the Internet space, my “blog.” (It is with great trembling thrill I use these élite modern words like “space” and “blog.”) Please stop whatever you’re doing and go—right now!—to www.albertnet.us, and check out my Intro post and my first (real, non-intro) post, “Wrecking the Car.” While you’re there, click the “Follow” button and become an official albertnet follower. To the first person who does this, I will send a spanking new patch kit from biketiresdirect.com, postage-paid. I’ll bet you’re wondering, “What’s in it for me, a man or woman of acclaimed Command Presence, to become a mere follower?” Well, for one thing, when you do this something will be enhanced about your “dashboard.” I was reading about this somewhere but I can’t remember where. Think of being a follower as social and/or intellectual Armor All for your dash. (If you happen to know what a “dashboard” even means in this context, please drop me a note and explain it to me.)

Anyway, the main benefit of following my blog is that you’ll help me gain other followers. Right now I don’t have a single one, and it’s kind of embarrassing. I had hoped that before I turned forty I’d have scores of minions, not just followers, but as so often happens I’m needing to adjust my expectations. By clicking that little button, you’ll be seeding my future success. (Think of me as a virtual busker who doesn’t yet have a single coin in his violin case.) Oh, and please leave comments for me on the page as well. If you don’t have anything nice to say, say something arch.

March 2, 2009

No, I didn’t get a Prius [to replace my 1984 Volvo wagon]. Fuel economy be damned: I’m tired of Priuses. They’re kind dorky and far, far too common. (I used to call Albany the Volvo Belt, but now it’s clearly the Prius Belt.) What we bought is a newer Volvo wagon, about which Robert Frost would write:

Whose car this is I think I know;
It’s not his old grey Volvo, though.
This fly-ass ride is newer, so
I’d have to guess he’s pimpin’ ho’s.

Okay, that was lame, but at least it rhymed. Anyway, the Volvo we have now is a barely used (pre-depreciated, I like to say) V70. I couldn’t get a stick shift model without going to like Miami, which was, alas, out of the question. It’s my first automatic transmission but surely not my last <sniff>.

March 15, 2009

I have a couple of household items I no longer need, that I hereby offer “free to a good home,” as they say.

Item #1 is a Silca floor pump (they call it a “track pump” for some reason), black. It’s less than fourteen years old. It’s made of a Columbus tube (Cromor, their cold-drawn seamless chromium molybdenum tube, in this case non-butted for obvious reasons). The brass chuck is only a few years old. It works okay on presta but shraeder is a pain in the neck. The gauge sort of works, sometimes; its clear cover is gone and the needle does its own thing. The hose leaks at both ends so you have to pump really fast and there’s a constant hissing. It’s possible to repair this pump by cutting off the stretched-out ends of the hose and crimping a fresh, tight section over the chuck and pump base with the little wire doodad. I did this repair a number of times before something in me just died and I couldn’t do it anymore.

I also have a microwave oven by Sharp, and it is. Works great, and you can turn off the beeping. Carousel. Dedicated Hot Dog button (like a macro). Popcorn button (though microwave popcorn should be illegal because it’s gross, and air-poppers work so well). Compu-defrost. Auto-sense. Interactive help menus. It’s eleven years old. The catch? It’s pretty disgusting in there. It’s rusting. There’s an accumulation of food shrapnel on the ceiling and walls that we’ve given up trying to remove. In the heady dot-com days we’d probably have just pitched it, but times have changed and who knows, maybe you belong to a nursery school co-op that wants a dedicated microwave for defrosting mice for its snake. Or for your home. Yours if you want it.

March 16, 2009

You’ve probably read about the shocking revelation that cyclists tend to have poor bone density, because we don’t carry enough weight around on our skeletons. For some reason cyclists, among other very lean athletes, are singled out by these studies. It is true that, statistically speaking, runners suffer far fewer broken collarbones than cyclists do. But some researchers have proposed that this is because runners almost never get driven into the pavement at 30 or 40 mph. I would like to propose a follow-up study comprising a control group of typical runners plus a test group who are subjected to high-speed impacts with asphalt to test their collarbone strength. I think YouTube would be the ideal way to showcase the results.

In light of this disconcerting stuff, I want to share some good news for a change. We’ve all known for a long time that ice cream and cheese are chock-full of calcium. But that’s not the only way forward for bone health. New studies are showing that alcohol suppresses bone-weakening hormones, so we should be including more of that in our diet. Meanwhile, there are minerals such as boron and silicon that occur naturally in beer (more so than in wine) and that also promote bone health.

Below are some links on the great news about beer.

• http://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-385602/Drink-beer-beat-crumbling-bones.html
•  http://www.medscape.com/viewarticle/490673

Meanwhile, running is hard on the joints, plus I’m no good at it, and it doesn’t give you great belches like beer does. So stop worrying about your bones. Ride your bike and drink your beer (though not at the same time). That’s my 0.71 rubles, anyway…

November 18, 2008

Thanks for the email! Gosh, so much to reply to there. To start: the way you describe the dread you felt when you moved that furniture, worrying that it would crush you? I had to chuckle because that’s how I’ve felt my whole life! At least you have an upper body. “Gosh, I wish I had a cyclist’s body,” said nobody ever. Swimming has been good to you, even if you haven’t done it in years and years. You’ve still got the muscle memory there (literally hundreds of miles of muscle-feeding capillaries that dudes like me lack) so you’ll get it back the moment you go back to the pool or get a rowing machine or whatever. I’m trying to rehabilitate my shoulder still, and I want to add some muscle there to hold everything together now that the ligaments are permanently severed. Maybe when you’re here for Thanksgiving, we can do my little circuit training regimen together (barbells, this weird sport-cord thing, a soccer ball, and a big exercise ball—you’ll see).

But what’s this about cigarettes? You literally smoked a whole pack in one day? What’s up with that? Don’t punish your body, dude, it’s done nothing to deserve that. I assume you’re not planning on smoking during your visit (not in front of my kids, or I’ll stub the cigarette out on your arm!). I’d recommend you quit right now, so if there’s any withdrawal it won’t be distracting you during your vacation.

Wow, I just picked this big booger and flicked it away, and I heard it hit the window. It’s like that sucker had wings.

—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—
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Bell’s Seasoning II - The Spawning

Introduction

Having been a drone for the better part of two days (as you shall soon learn), I am bound and determined to do something with my brain now. So why not blog? (Don’t answer—rhetorical question.) To get you in the mood for serious literature, I shall start with an epigram:

”They have a saying in Chicago, Mr. Bond. Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. The third time, it’s enemy action.” –Auric Goldfinger (in Ian Fleming’s Goldfinger). 

Do I have an enemy meddling in my affairs? Read on and decide for yourself.

The quest for Bell’s

What is Bell’s seasoning? Well, I’m glad you asked. It is nothing less than the key to Thanksgiving, as documented at length here.  Bell’s goes in the stuffing and is, I believe, instrumental in its apotheosis from dried bread cubes and celery (useless on their own) to stuffing, that supreme Thanksgiving dish. (At this meal, I could probably do without the turkey, and could almost do without gravy —but without stuffing, you might as well forget the whole thing and get takeout Chinese.)

As documented in that first Bell’s post, one of the few ways I contribute to the Thanksgiving feast is to procure this all-important seasoning. That’s a harder task than you might expect. Some stores carry Bell’s, many don’t, and for some reason I can never remember where I got it the previous year. It’s just a blur … like when you have this vivid dream that somehow gets erased within minutes of your waking up. If I were smart I’d have checked out that previous post, though this didn’t occur to me until after my quest.

My strategy

Phoning a store for a stock check is nearly impossible these days. Even if you manage to get past the Interactive Voice Response system and are transferred to a human, they usually shunt you off to some other department and you bounce around until you give up. Or they put you on hold, try to find the item, get distracted, and eventually someone else picks up and you have to start from scratch—or, more often, the line just goes dead. I did phone Andronico’s on Solano Ave because they have legit customer service. It turns out (I only now discovered when rereading my last Bell’s post) that’s where I got the Bell’s last time. Alas, the clerk yesterday advised that they’re out of stock. This answer came swiftly, meaning she’d rather make up an answer on the spot than bother to check, or they’d had a run on Bell’s and I wasn’t the first person to ask.

So forget phoning. I decided to just stop in at this or that store in a gradually increasing radius until I found the Bell’s. Surely somebody would have this and my circle wouldn’t grow to encompass all of northern California … right? I had some time, because I started on Tuesday. (Only an idiot would brave the markets on the day before Thanksgiving, right?)

Store #1 – Berkeley Natural Grocery

This was a no-brainer. I was walking back from the mailbox, several blocks from my home, and Berkeley Natural was right on the way. I dig this store because a) it’s my “corner grocery,” b) they used to give my kids balloons (click here for details), and c) my younger daughter worked there one summer. Alas, though they have lots of bins and an admirable spice section, I did not find Bell’s there. I knew this was a wild card, my “fail-fast” foray, anyway and the effort cost me almost no time.

Store #2 – Magnani Poultry

This is where I went to pick up our turkey. It was supposed to be mobbed—they told us Monday would be a lot better than Tuesday for the pickup—but who wants to store a fresh turkey that long? Early signs were not good—there was no parking anywhere nearby and I had to park in a nearby neighborhood and walk a few blocks—but it wasn’t that crowded in there. I took a number, was served pretty quickly, and was told that the turkey pickup was a separate line, but since I had the guy, I bought a pound of organic local grass-fed beef from cows that are “encouraged to socialize.”

I got my turkey and yikes, it was $115. For that much, I hope it also had been encouraged to socialize. I should have just hit one of our neighborhood’s many stray turkeys with my car … it wouldn’t be hard to do. But then, I’d have had no idea how to pluck it. Plus, what if the impact didn’t kill it? (This is how I rationalize the $115.) I also picked up a quart of frozen turkey stock and—could it be, their extensive spice rack included Bell’s? It did not, alas. All kinds of rubs, sauces, and seasonings, but no Bell’s. There’s the rub.

Store #3 – Monterey Market

I walked over to this place because it’s just across the street from Magnani and has all kinds of cool stuff (beyond their produce which is excellent and cheap; for example, around $0.40 for a bunch of cilantro). They have like ninety kinds of mushroom, fifty kinds of pepper, all manner of salsas and spices and extracts, and … no Bell’s. But hey, it was only like a five-minute detour and I got in some really great people-watching, everyone from restaurant owners to frugal housewives to college professors to tech bros, and a variety of ethnicities including those who actually know the differences among the ninety kinds of mushrooms and fifty kinds of peppers.

Store #4 – Lucky

It was time to stop messing around and actually do some research. The website for Lucky, in the neighboring town of El Cerrito, indicated that this very location did in fact have Bell’s in stock. This is a bit of a schlep so I never go there. In the parking lot an old, run-down guy seemed to need help getting out of his car, and called out for assistance. I was happy to oblige, but when I reached him he said he just needed money to buy a sandwich. This was a bit perplexing. I mean, he had a car, right? How broke could he be? But then, he was sitting sideways on the car’s back seat, legs sticking out, with no driver in sight, so who knows, maybe it wasn’t his car. Maybe he just needed to sit somewhere and found this car unlocked. The smallest bill I had on me was a five. Oh well … happy holidays, dude.

 I made my way through the front door and immediately encountered a large security turnstile, manned by a security guard. I got through that and the next thing I came upon was the “Convenience Section,” an area containing pricier items like cigarettes and booze, all fenced in with a locked door requiring customer service assistance. “Convenience” indeed. The fluorescent lighting at Lucky was that overly intense type that makes you feel like you’re being interrogated. The whole scene was pretty downscale. I made my way over to the spice section and—denied! Here is the gap where the Bell’s should have been:

I headed to the customer service counter, which was oddly situated beyond the checkout lines so I had to squeeze past people. The place was teeming with shoppers. At the service desk I waited behind a woman with a giant clear jar of what looked like granulated ginger, but it was the size of a coffee can, and had been penetrated by moisture so the contents were like cement. She was having a protracted negotiation about a refund or exchange and there was a language barrier, so it took some time. Finally it was my turn. “You mean the spice mix in the yellow box, with the turkey on the front?” the clerk asked. Yes, yes, yes! She said, “Oh yeah, we have that. If it’s all out in Aisle 2, go to our seasonal display.” She pointed toward that area and assured me there’d be more Bell’s there. I headed over and scoured the area. Nothing.

But surely there’d be more in the back, right? I decided to head back toward customer service, but didn’t feel like squeezing through a checkout line again. Seeing some people on their way through the inbound security turnstile (it had two big gates, you could drive a truck through it) I decided to slip through there instead, like piggybacking in reverse. Well, this set off the security alarm, which was exceedingly loud and shrill. The security guard gave me a withering look that said, “Man, you’re a damn fool.”

The next clerk at customer service rang up her boss on the red line. He took forever to answer. “My boss isn’t answering!” she said, bewildered. Finally the boss answered and said I should head way to the back almost by the double-door exit, near the dairy, where there’s yet another holiday display that would have more Bell’s. I found my way there but it was another fool’s errand.

Store #5 – Ranch 99

Ranch 99 is a giant Asian grocery in the Pacific East mall in Richmond. It wasn’t all that far away, since I was already pretty far north. It was a long shot I figured, but then this place is vast and has, like, millions of products. Once in the mall I had a lot of other businesses to navigate, but eventually found Ranch 99. Walking around in there was like a Willy Wonka experience, one tantalizing aroma after another, none of them exactly recognizable but like being at a Chinese restaurant and/or an open-air bazaar. They have half an aisle just for seaweed, and more kinds of cup-o-noodles and ramen than you’ll ever see anywhere. I scanned several hundred wacky spices, but no Bell’s. So I headed over to the seafood department to look at the lobsters. Check this one out:

From this (hastily snapped) photo it’s hard to grasp the scale of this lobster. It was the size of a small dog. Now, unless this critter had been living in this tank for years, which I very much doubt, he (or she) was waaaaay over the size limit on lobsters and should have been thrown back in the ocean (details here). This was basically an illegal lobster.

Not wanting my trip to have been in vain, I searched for something to buy, that I couldn’t get elsewhere. I hit pay dirt with this cookie tin, perfect for a Christmas gift for one of my daughters:

But alas, it too was not meant to be:

Store #6 - Oaktown Spice Shop

Google Maps found me a sneaky way home, which took me on this frontage road and then right up Solano Ave where we have a Safeway. The Safeway app said they were out of stock, but I figured, what the heck, maybe it’s wrong? So I started to head up there and passed right by this giant spice emporium I’ve somehow never noticed before:

This place was huge—I mean, floor-to-ceiling spices—but it’s all this homegrown Oaktown stuff, no third party products like Bell’s. The clerk was very helpful, letting me sniff various products designed to enhance poultry and even stuffing. I’m getting over a cold (don’t worry, I was rocking a COVID mask) so I couldn’t smell all that well, but suffice to say nothing smelled even remotely like Bell’s. So it would be as inappropriate as, say, putting jelly on a hot dog instead of mustard. No way.

Store #7 – Safeway

This is where I normally shop and I found the spice section very quickly, and almost just as quickly ascertained that they were either out of Bell’s, as their app had warned me, or didn’t actually stock it and only made it available online through some partner, like they’re trying to be mini-Amazon or something. But hadn’t I bought Bell’s here before? I decided to check out the discount shelves where they put overstocked and discontinued items. I mean, you never know, right? No Bell’s, but I found this:

Huh? Girl Scout Seasoning? Is this for, like, cannibals? Next I headed over to the “Manager’s Special” shelf, at the other end of the store. I’ve found weird products there before that I liked, and normal products oddly reduced, so I figured what the hell. Alas, no Bell’s, but I did find this:

How about Crushed BS? Is that good in stuffing? Dang. At least when I wandered the shelves for something else to buy, so as not to go home empty-handed, I found a crazy QR-code-driven digital deal that saved me—I kid you not—$18.40 on eight cans of cream-style corn. Since when is this humble product so expensive? At this point I realized my blood sugar was getting precariously low so I headed home, made Southwestern Corn Goo for my visiting daughter, and called it a night.

Store #8 – Berkeley Bowl West

Berkley Bowl is a great supermarket. When I was in college, friends would say to me, “What?! You don’t know about Berkeley Bowl? You of all people would love Berkeley Bowl.” I ignored all their advice because I thought it was a bowling alley. Why, I’d wondered, do all these people thing I’m a bowler? Finally someone clarified that it’s a grocery. So yesterday I checked online and confirmed that their Berkeley Bowl West location (the one nearer me) had Bell’s in stock. At this point my wife had a list of stuff she forget to get for our feast, so it wasn’t a special trip (though it’s a lot farther than I usually go to shop).

Their parking lot was large and cramped and full. I made a hot lap in vain. They even have a parking garage, but I just didn’t feel like it. I took another lap and got lucky. It took ages to walk across that giant parking lot and get a cart. I made my way to the spice section and—denied!

I found a customer service clerk and asked if they had any more in the back. “No,” she sighed. I asked if their other location would have it. “They do carry it, but there is no way I could find out if it’s in stock.” Well heck, if they won’t disclose that proprietary information to their own employee over the phone, I didn’t see any point in calling them myself. I decided I better just head over there.

Now, if you’re starting to think I’m bat-shit crazy to stick with this obviously doomed search (as my wife certainly does), you should know that this will be my first Thanksgiving in at least twenty years without my mother present, either at her place or ours. No, it’s not that I’m some momma’s boy or anything; it’s just that to let my wife to fly solo on the feast without having Bell’s seasoning would be like setting her up to fail. I don’t want to put that kind of pressure on her. If my family isn’t making spontaneous and heartfelt yummy noises over the stuffing, it will be pretty obvious.

Store #9 – Berkeley Bowl

I headed up to the original Berkeley Bowl. Traffic was murder. Every single motorist in the Bay Area was on the road, and many of them were angry, probably hangry, and honking. I so badly wanted to judge them, for being so utterly stupid as to wait until Wednesday before finishing their Thanksgiving shopping, but here I was, one of them. Having to withhold judgment was just insult to injury. I arrived to find another huge parking lot, also cramped, seemingly designed for nothing but Minis and those little Fiats. I totally lucked out and found a spot next to a guy at the end of the row who was so worried about his (albeit humble) car getting dinged, he was at the very far edge of his spot, meaning I had room to squeeze in despite the SUV encroaching on my other side. I headed in past throngs of people going in both directions. It was like a music festival or Burning Man. Oddly, when these masses of people aren’t in cars, I don’t mind them at all.

Now, this is the Berkeley Bowl where my brother M— worked, and I’m going to tell you a fun story about that. M— worked in their excellent seafood department, and was impressed at how well it was run. But he had trouble making friends with the staff, who—being career blue-collar guys—might have assumed he was a fly-by-night college kid or something. One guy in particular, Jose, seemed a bit cold. Well, for various reasons, M— decided to move back to Boulder, and on his very last day working there he waited on a rather snooty old lady who told him something like, “Make it snappy.” She seemed so privileged and self-important, M— just couldn’t bring himself to move very quickly. Gone was his normal verve; he somehow felt like he was underwater and everything was happening in super-slo-mo. Eventually the lady became exasperated and demanded of Jose, “Why is he so slow?” Jose, taken aback, didn’t really know what to say and after an awkward pause, replied, “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?” Flummoxed, she could find no other response to this suggestion than to turn to M— and ask, “Why are you so slow?” M— stared at her and said, “Because I’m stupid. Okay?” He handed her her purchase and she stormed off. Jose looked over at him and said, “M—, you’re okay.”

And so, on to the spice section. Guess what:

No, that’s not a repeat of the first Berkeley Bowl picture. It’s just the same old story. Gobs of the competing products on either side (I got really sick of looking at this fancy Colman’s mustard powder and Old Bay seasoning, whatever those are) but the Bell’s was totally gone. The customer service clerk said, “Gosh, that’s odd, this was just stocked this morning!” There wouldn’t be more in the back, she advised, but they might have more in the boxes atop the shelves. She climbed a stepladder and rooted through at least a couple dozen boxes up there, wheeling the ladder down the entire aisle before finally giving up. But hey, at least she tried.

(By the way, did you notice that the Bell’s at this rather upscale store sells for only $3.79, whereas at the down-market Lucky it was $5.19? I’ve seen this disparity before and I just don’t get it…)

Store #10 – second Andronico’s

I decided to head home via Shattuck Ave, which would take me by another Safeway, this one much more chichi than the one near my place. Along the way I passed an Andronico’s I’d totally forgotten about. Since the first Andronico’s acknowledged that they normally did stock Bell’s, this seemed well worth a shot. The parking lot was completely full, and parking in the surrounding streets was no better. On my second hot lap I got lucky and a SUV was pulling out. This was a weird spot right up against a brick wall, but I had plenty of room. Maybe I was just too tired and frazzled, but my first approach was way too shallow and then I felt like I was committed. It took me a good bit of sawing back-and forth to nestle in there, during which time an old geezer in a motorized wheelchair oozed so gradually across my path it took all my patience to wave nicely at him and put on my best fake smile, and also during which time some other dude, as if to rub it in how far I was from the wall, passed by my car on that side. I finally got ‘er done and headed in to the store.

This had to be the flagship Andronico’s. Fricking giant place. I found the spice section, which was quite large and I counted over twenty different kinds of salt. They had stuff I hadn’t seen anywhere, but—you guessed it—no Bell’s.

Store #11 – second Safeway

The Safeway on Shattuck has the largest parking lot of all, and it was 100% full. They had a garage too, with a digital sign to indicate available spaces, but it was broken. I finally found a very narrow spot in the 15-minute section, between a big concrete median and a battered pickup truck full of all of somebody’s possessions, parked diagonally so it infringed significantly on my target spot. I just couldn’t get in there because my tires kept hitting the median. No wonder nobody had taken the spot. I finally managed to find parking along the street. I headed in, braved another crazy crowd, found the spice section, and I know you’re not gonna believe this, but … they didn’t have Bell’s. I was beginning to feel like the narrator of Poe’s “The Raven” who seems to take a masochistic pleasure in asking the bird question after question because he knows it will only reply, “Nevermore.” He’s basically torturing himself, as was I.

As a last resort, I double-checked the websites for Sprout’s and Whole Foods. Here’s what Whole Foods said:

What a blatant lie. “We can’t seem to find this product” actually means, “We have chosen not to stock this, even though we have an entire aisle for homeopathic remedies, aka snake oil.” I’m not necessarily averse to placebos, but they shouldn’t cost an arm and a leg; Whole Foods is basically stealing from clueless people. They’re dead to me. Sprouts showed me bell peppers, some kind of beer with Bell in the name, and hundreds of unrelated spices, but no love.

Well, that was that. I was done. Nobody could say I didn’t try. In fact, I realized it would be better not to even mention stores 10 and 11 to my wife. She already thought (knew?) I was crazy to be so persistent … why salt the wound?

Store #12 – Rose & Grove Market

As I headed home I realized there was one more store I could try, which had been next door to the bike shop I worked at in college (which is where I met my wife). Oddly, I’d never set foot in this little store, but always grasped it was a Berkeley institution. (Its very name attests to its longevity, since the street it’s on, Martin Luther King Jr. Way, was called Rose Street until 1984.) Rose & Grove is not a big place but hey, you never know. I decided if there happened to be street parking right out front, I would take that as a sign from God that it was worth checking out.

Well, guess what? There was a parking spot right out front—unbelievable! So I headed in. Now, if this story were an “ABC After School Special,” Rose & Grove would have had Bell’s Seasoning and the holiday would be saved. But what I encountered was almost the opposite: they had almost zero inventory. All the shelves were bare except for some booze behind the counter. The clerk informed me that they’d gone under and would have a new owner in a month or so. The end of an era, and the end of my quest.

“Wizard of Oz” ending

Oddly enough, my story has a happy ending, along the lines of “there’s no place like home” in “The Wizard of Oz.” No, I didn’t wake up and realize all this had been a dream. Rather, I arrived home defeated, but had a backup plan: on Monday night, foreseeing possible Bell’s supply issues, I took from the freezer a fresh box of it I’d put away last year. My mom has said it freezes just fine. But when I opened the box on Tuesday, I discovered to my great disappointment that it had almost no smell. Since I’m getting over a cold, I had my daughter smell it to double-check. Instead of saying, “Mmmmmm, that smells like Thanksgiving!” she frowned and said, “It doesn’t smell like anything.” Unlike Han Solo, the Bell’s had not survived the cryogenic freezing operation.

But now, in desperation, I gave it another sniff. Eureka! As it thawed out, it must have regained its potency. Like magic, it now smelled like Mom’s stuffing! I had my daughter sniff it again, and she agreed. It’s not ideal, but we should be fine. What a relief.

Enemy action?

What remains to solve is how so many places could possibly be out of Bell’s at the same time. It couldn’t possibly be coincidence. So I started to wonder if I’ve made any enemies who might want to thwart me in this quest. I’ve certainly seen evidence, when shopping, of a doppelganger at work, who buys up, say, all the Bonne Maman apricot jam (but no other flavor!) when it’s on sale because he has the same taste as I do and is just as much of a cheap bastard. But that has a logical explanation: he’s stocking up, same as I would. But who needs more than one box of Bell’s (or two, if freezing one for later)? What would be the motive?

Maybe it’s that first blog post. Maybe somebody read that, decided he hated me based on my writing style, and is an eccentric millionaire, and so went around buying up all the Bell’s, or (if he’s not local) hired some taskrabbit to do it. That could be. But then, why would somebody hate my blog that much (other than the Velominati, Andrew Tillin, or Margolis and Liebowitz)? This enemy action theory just doesn’t seem very realistic.

But then a much simpler explanation occurred to me. Perhaps my last Bell’s post simply hit the mark, and convinced all my readers that this particular seasoning really is the key to Thanksgiving. Maybe across the country, even across the world, including my own locale, people are buying up the Bell’s in droves. To test my theory, I looked up the stock price for Brady Corporation, which makes Bell’s seasoning. Sure enough, its price began a dizzying climb in late 2015, right around the time of that first post. I appear to be a victim of the very success my blog has brought about!

Yeah. That must be it.

Well, if you’ve made it to the end of this post, especially if this was after your big feast, congratulations. And have a very happy Thanksgiving!

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