I have had this joke with myself, for as long as I can remember – my entire life.   It was that I wanted to end up living in an old trailer in the desert, a 3 legged dog in the “yard”, flies buzzing above his head, a broken down pickup truck, hubcaps or painted rocks lining the driveway.

I imagined being alone there, peaceful, a place to reflect, write, live out my ‘golden years.’   I’ve shared this notion with quite a number of people over the years, and the reaction has been mixed:  some people were horrified, some slightly bemused as I am; some thinking it indicated some sort of imbalance.  (But whom  of us can honestly say we are 100% sane and rational, by any definition?).

The “location” has changed over the years.  The first place I remember “choosing” and the spot that held the prize the longest, was on the Antelope Valley Highway, which runs between the far northern suburbs of Los Angeles (Santa Clarita), and Victorville, CA, on I-15, the road from Los Angeles to Las Vegas.

The next area I “picked” was Baker, CA, up I-15 a piece, midway between Barstow, California, and the western Nevada border.  If you’ve ever driven past here, you know about it – it’s the home of the world’s tallest thermometer (which rarely works), and is a layover on your drive to Las Vegas – or anywhere.  There are some coffee shops, gas stations, and not much else.  There is “Alien Beef Jerky”, and there is a Big Boy restaurant, which used to be called “Bun Boy”, and if you’re really, really old, like me, you’ll remember this stop was  frequent joke between Johnny Carson and Ed McMahon (tho I can’t tell you why – I don’t know).

At times, another location, tho I have never been serious about it, is the Salton Sea, as close a place as you can come to hell on earth, probably, in the far southern extremities of California.  An inland salt water ‘sea’, the location is most well known for the tons of dead fish and birds that pile up on the shore every week, from the salinity and diseases that accompany ultra high saline and high temp mixes.

Recently, I’ve been fascinated with Tonopah, NV, a place I first heard about when reading about Howard Hughes’ time in Las Vegas.  Tonopah is on US 95, called by many as “the loneliest highway in America,” and I might agree.  Tonopah is halfway between Vegas and Reno, and the highway has little going for it, in the way of rest, relaxation, culture, towns.   A few brothels dot the highway, once you are outside of Clark County, NV, where the state’s legal prostitution statute does not apply.

Brothels are not the attraction for me.  I’m not sure, other than I’m pretty sure I am going to spend the last years of my life alone, and I am pretty sure friends and relatives aren’t going to be beating a path to my door to visit, so I might was well be as far off the beaten track as possible.

I had enough money to retire nicely when I left Hong Kong.  If I had as much sense as money, I just would have stayed. Life on “my island” in Hong Kong was ideal for me, and it was a very low cost of living, but Central Hong Kong, and whatever you needed or wished for, was a mere 30 minute ferry ride.

The older you get in life, in my opinion, the harder it is to see what’s ahead.  As a teen, and possibly all the way into your 40s, you see (or at least most of us do) a brilliant future ahead, peace, prosperity, and happiness.

At some point you realize the futility of this vision. For most people, it doesn’t happen.  As it didn’t for me.

It’s been  months since I’ve picked up a crayon, er pen, er, sat at the keyboard to scratch out one of
these babies, and I’d like you to believe that’s solely because I have been deep into the research for this issue. But that’s not so. I’ve just been too busy.

A reader recently asked me to dive right into this topic, and I agreed to examine the ins and outs of
the whole topic. Her question? Who invented the vibrator, Peter? I stroked my goatee, looked skyward and inward for an answer, searching my built in analog
database of such useful trivia, and thoughtfully answered: “Dunno.”

But I promised to find out. So here’s the scoop, but with the following caveat up front: batteries are not included with this story.

So Sherman, set the wayback machine for the 1600s, and we’ll discover how this marvelous invention came to be.

A mere 400 years ago, women sufferedfrom a condition known as “hysteria.” The symptoms were irritability,
irrationality, and anxiety. A quick visit to their physician relieved them of the symptoms. Treatment was the same old thing, every time. The physician wouldplace one finger in the vagina, and rub the exterior of the genitals with his other hand, until such time as a “hysterical paroxysm” occurred, which seemed to relieve all the tension.

The woman would leave the doctors office, fully relieved until the symptoms appeared again, and the doctor would return to the rest of his duties of the day, such as they were, menial things like handing out suckers to kids with plague, consoling lepers who had lost a vital limb or two, and so on.

Hysteria was a socially acceptable medical condition and treatment during that time. Only one problem. The doctors were treating so many women per day, that THEIR hands were getting stressed, and they were having trouble focusing on those lepers. Two hundred years pass, (guess the doctors were a little slow to figure out how to improve service, or hadn’t been to too many trade shows or something), and a water massager was
introduced – this eliminated a lot of the physician’s stress and fatigue (“physician, heal thyself!), but the downside occurred because patients started coming in for the therapy even when they weren’t apparently suffering
from “hysteria.”

A new method would have to be devised, because doctors didn’t want their patients overdosing on therapy, now, did they? The late 1800s saw the advent of the steam operated massager, which not only further alleviated the doc’s own stress, but also allowed for quicker turnover of patient or “reception room churn” as we know it today. This must have been about the time when doctors started going to conventions to
find new ways of creating billing to help pay for their own little luxuries in life. But word of the wonder of the steam powered massager traveled over hill and dale, and articles extolling its virtue began appearing in medical journals and consumer magazines.

Only in America, would an entrepreneur notice this publicity, and “ker-ching!” turn it into his little version of the American dream, by improving on this wonderful device, and making it 1) portable, and 2) user-friendly. Women started buying them for the home, doctors got pee-ohed, and decided henceforth that only the brand new concept of psychotherapy would clear up hysteria for evermore.

The “use at home” version signified the ‘beginning of the end’ of the social acceptability of the vibrator. If women were using them in private, society knew they were “up
to no good.” And since it was no secret what they were being used for, the first porn movie producers (yes, even back then) started showing them in films, and vibrators went into the closet (or nightstand drawer, as the case may be) where they remain to this day.

Advances came fast and furious with the advent of electricity. Hamilton Beach rolled out a new model in 1902, but I don’t they think promoted it as “every kitchen needs one!” (But maybe?!) The good news? It came with its own oil can!  (Did the tin man know?)

So since the 20s, “massagers” just haven’t been
advertised in the same manner as they used to be. Even tho there have been ‘startling’ advances in technology thru the decades, like this late 20s version from HB. Kinda looked like the hand held blenders of
today…HEY…wait a minute!!!!!!!!

Not much changed with these babies til the 70s, and Norelco, the company “whose name spells Christmas,” came out with the “Vibo Wand”, quiet, lightweight, and practical (I’m told). And that color! Women flocked to their department stores and mail order catalogs to scoop them up.

Today, of course, vibrators come in all sizes, shapes, and actions. From 16″ jellies to the amazing “Pocket Rocket” (5 designer colors), which I understand is pretty de rigueur for the beginner. I also hear it can be quite fun in movie theaters.

The point of this essay? There is none. Like I said, I’m just answering someone else’s question. And I
guess I didn’t answer it at that. But men, you shouldn’t be “threatened” or intimidated by vibrators. Join in the fun. And women, buy more of ‘em. I have stock in Duracell.

I’ve eaten more oysters in the two months I have been in NO, then I have probably consumed the entire rest of my  life.  I’m storing up, of course, because I will have to abstain from downing them during the dreaded “R” months, or so the local story goes.

I’ve admired shuckers from afar.  Well, not that far.  What possesses a person to make this career move?  And what achievement appeared on their resume that
so demonstrated their skill with a small knife, that some restaurant manager glanced at their background and said “YES! YES” you are our new shucker!”

Curiosity got the best of me (it always does), when the direct questioning method failed.  Seems shuckers don’t talk much.  Or at least not to me.  They just stare down at the pile of shells in front of them, shove their latex-clad hand (oooh, latex!) into the icy brine, pluck one of dem silvery babies out, examine it momentarily, contemplate the whereabouts of the”hinge”, slide their knife into the appropriate spot, and voila!, the
shell pops open, a quick motion of the knife frees the muscle from its shell,and its ready for a bath of some combination of ketchup, Tabasco, horseradish,
Worcestershire, wasabi, pepper, however you prefer.    Or even “au naturale.”

One would think there are openings for shuckers everywhere, all the time.  At least I thought so.  But after walking into a couple of places around town, it
didn’t seem like it would be so very easy to break into this mysterious trade after all.

So I headed up Highway 61 til I was nearly at the border of Kenner (luckily I had my passport), and pulled in to the parking lot of the Louisiana Job Service.  I figured they might know the ins and outs of shucking, if anybody would.

The parking lot wasn’t very crowded, but the office was. Like any government bureaucracy,  you are completely on your own to figure out where to go, and whom to talk
to.  There were two different offices side by side, the one on the left ended up being the one where you go when you’re not working and want to get paid for it, the one on the right is where you go when you aren’t working, but think you might want to.

Another line.  Forms to fill out.  Questions answered about the answers.  Instructed to sit down and wait, they’ll call your name.  They called my name only five minutes later, and I thought “How great is
my life?”, but only for a moment.  They informed me I would have to wait until my details were “in the system”, and then I could look at the job listings on the computer, and once I had identified a couple of prospects, THEN and ONLY THEN, could I come in and talk to a real person.

I went home to wait.  I tried to sign on the website every ten minutes, eagerly anticipating being able to peruse dozens of fascinating potential new career moves.  “Invalid password” came up over and over again.

Flustered, I looked for ways to beat the system.  “Ah ha!”  “Guest entry.”

I snuck in the back door that all computer systems have.

“Let’s see,” I said to myself, “shaver, shipper, shopper,
shyster….”

WHAT?
No openings for shuckers?  I must be looking in the wrong place.

I navigated  some the web site some more.  “Ah-hah!” he cried. “Shucker!”  I had found it.  Listed under “Service Occupations”, a number of listings, offering oyster shucking as a career move at the princely sum of $5.00 an hour (did you know Louisiana is one of the
few states that doesn’t have a minimum wage law?)

I wrote down the job numbers of the shucker position openings and returned to the Job service office. I was told to sit and wait and my name would be called.
After a period, it was, and I met with a ‘career counselor’, who told me I could get two referrals a day, and asked me for the job numbers, which I passed
on.  She methodically went thru the listings on her computer, which included more information about the job, location, wage, and so on.  I ruled out several because of their addresses (geographically undesirable for one reason or another).  Finally, we had my “two for the day” and she called the restaurants to see if they still had the openings and what the application procedure was.  In both cases, the positions were still open, and I was to just walk in during a certain time of day and as for Mr. “So and so” for an interview.

I still had time to make the appointments if I hurried, and the first one didn’t last too long.  It ended up being at the Mardi Gras Truck Stop on Elysian Fields,
and the moment I walked in the door, I knew this was not the place for me.  (Even tho they were offering premium wages – starting at $7.50 an hour).

The second place was in mid-town, and although I had a firm appointment, the owner was a no-show.  The bartender said I could talk to the owner’s wife, however,
that she made the real decisions, anyway.  Against my better judgment, based on previous experiences of working for husband and wife teams, I did meet
with her, and, during the first five minutes, she pronounced me over-qualified for the position, but if I was interested, they were going to fire all thechefs, and I could have a job cooking.  (It’s simply amazing to me thatneither job service or this restaurant asked about my experiences or references – next week I will simply HAVE to apply to be a neurosurgeon!).

She said to call back on Monday, because she hoped to have “made the changes” by then.  Her reason for firing the staff was simply because they wereunreliable, they wouldn’t show up, they wouldn’t call.  This is a
neighborhood tavern and cafe, open from 11AM – 6AM, and after glancing at themenu, I saw the most challenging task would be preparing breakfasts in the
middle of the night, when, she said, the majority of their clientele were police.  (Are they the only ones that consistently eat at the places I frequent?).  They also needed “pot-cooking” experience, whichinvolved getting the daily specials ready (gumbos, etoufees, and the like)
which I claimed  to have.

She was happy with her decision, but I could see in her eyes that question  – “willhe show up?”

She ended the interview with a question:  “You wouldn’t know any shuckers, would you?  We really need one.”

I said I would check my rolodex.

Oyster Trivia:

• Four species of oysters grow naturally in the U.S.,
  three of those species are found in Louisiana waters.  The dominant species here is Crassostrea Virginica
• Estimated number of Oyster Po-Boys sold at Mother’s Restaurant, each day: 40
• Average number of fried oysters on a Mother’s
  po-boy: 20-25
• Approximate weight of a sack of oysters  – 100
  pounds.  Wholesale price $30 – $34.00 (fresh live). $5.95 a pound shucked. (Wholesale price of a Christmas tree in Louisiana – $14.00;
  of ‘slaw grade cabbage – $160.00 a ton!)
• And since you really wanted to know, the wholesale price of rabbit livers is $2.65 a pound.
• Marine Fisheries industry in Louisiana grossed $585 million in 2000.
• Louisiana produces 20% of the oysters consumed in the U.S.

Food For Thought:  Does it bother anyone that most of the seafood caught and sold in Louisiana (and shipped to other states) comes from the waters which lie at the end of the 100 mile stretch of the Mississippi River
known as “Cancer Alley?”  (Home to seven oil refineries and between 175-300 industrial plants, depending how you count?) As if they don’t produce enough industrial waste – Louisiana has a burgeoning industrial waste
industry, and takes in about 300 million pounds a year from out of state.

These days,some universities have “Entrepreneurs in Residence”,whateverthat means.  This morning, like most
mornings, the Hummingbird Grill has P.O.I.R.  (police officers inresidence).  Other denizens include a couple of street people, a girl just off the Greyhound, suitcaseby her side, tattered romance paperback in her hand, trying to make herself as small as possible to avoid eye or any other contact with anybody or any thing in the Hummingbird, and me, accompanied as usual, by the New York Times crossword puzzle, and two Uniball Deluxe Fine Tip pens.

I’ve become a regular, which I guess means only that the nite waitress, Rusty,  has seen me often enough that she brings my coffee w/o asking, andknows enough
to call me by my nickname, “Hon.” (How DID she know that?)

It was kinda dicey sliding in to the Hummingbird this morning.  I had to  dodge the city workers who were power washing the sidewalk in front of the cafe – and in their “spare time”, washing a car or two.  They must not be well paid, for in addition to supplementing their income withcar washing, they helped themselves to a bundle of newspapers when I slipped my 50 cents into the Times-Picayune machine.  Maybe they sell the papers to co-workers. Maybe they just use them to dry the cars.

Styx was playing on the jukebox as Randy took my order.  I usually go for the “Early Bird Special”, which is available 24 hours, so I’m not sure what the name means.  It’s 3 eggs, choice of ham, bacon, sausage, and grits orpotatoes, toast or biscuit.  A bargain at
4.00.  Coffee extra, no charge for water.

One of the regular “troublemakers” wandered in and sat at an unbussed table and started eating off the plates that had been left there.

Rusty has developed a sure-fire method (according to her) of dealing with these types of patrons, by proclaiming loudly “the person that waseating those
pancakes has AIDS!”  Seems to do the
trick and helps clear the room without having to bother the P.O.I.R.

It takes five people to run the night-shift at the Hummingbird.  In addition to Rusty, there’s the cook, who does a marvelous job of juggling several cast
iron pans on a 12”x12” gas grill.  He never talks, you don’t talk to him.  Even if you are sitting at
the counter, Rusty takes your order and passes it on to him.  Union rules, maybe?  There’s a ‘mop boy’, a
dishwasher in back, and a cashier.  With your change, the cashier is fond of giving out financial advice.  I
think he’s going to be the subject of the next TV commercial for that E-stock broker that ran the ad about the two truck driver that owned an island.

The low end of the menu is an order of grits for 1.35,
Well, actually a side of gravy (brown) is only 1.05, but I haven’t seen anybody order that.

The high end is an open-faced turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes, gravy, dinner salad and roll for 7.50.  It’s available Sundays only.  In between the high and
low price range, you’ll find the usual greasy spoon fare, everything from fried egg sandwiches to 1/2 Fried Chicken dinner.  Is that half-fried, or half a chicken?

Chile-cheese fries weigh in at 2.60 and off the Richter scale in fat and cholesterol.  I can never figure out the difference between “chile” and “chili”, beyond knowing that in this case, they really mean “chili.”

Most big-city greasy spoons have a certain element of “charm.”

The Hummingbird seems to have been absent from school the day they passed charm out.  But I like it.  It’s a good place to listen to people’s stories in the middle of the night, or imagine you’re playing a role in a Paul Simon song “laughing on the bus, playing games with the faces….we said the man in the gabardine suit was a spy…”

The sun started to peak through the smoke-stained window at the cafe as Carl Palmer and Steve Howe’s voices wafted from the jukebox  theirterrific
harmonies in the 1982 hit “Heat of the Moment” from the group Asia.  Not as interesting as the material
from their days in ‘Emerson, Lake, and Palmer’ or ‘Yes’, respectively, but a nice ditty for a piece I
would label as “new music.”

Most days I miss the past.  At places like the
Hummingbird, I get to relive it every night.

Catch the crew of the Hummingbird nightly at 804 St. Charles, 24/7.  Catch Asia on tour this winter if you find yourselves in cities like Lorsch, Germany.

If I were Don Henley, I’d find something romantic about the Hummingbird, the way he did about the “Sunset Grill” in LA.  But even the Sunset Grill is not what it was, in LA they tear down anything that is more than 20
years old, and the Sunset Grill today is a gleaming new white stucco building, instead of the dilapidated old shack with stools on the sidewalk, with all its old charm.

The Hummingbird is just old.  Charm costs extra these days.  Sometimes just ‘old’ is charm enough.

(Ed. note.  A short time after I wrote this, the Hummingbird closed forever, so someone could gut and rennovate the beautiful old historic tenement hotel it occupied the bottom floor of.  They started construction, stopped a few months later because of Katrina, and the building sits deserted to this day. Tragic.)