I have been sending postcards all over the southeast in an attempt to bolster turnout for Joe Biden and other worthy Democrats. Hands down, the award for most interesting street names goes to the city of Corpus Christi, Texas. Check out these exciting samples from today’s dispatch:
Misty Meadow Road
Sable River Drive
Dyna Street
Sea Horse Avenue
Lexington Avenue
Zarsky Drive
El Soccorro Loop
Broomsedge Street
Just now I called up that last entry on Google Maps. Turns out it’s a one-block stretch of concrete on South Padre Island, just across the highway from a stable for horseback riding. I was hoping for some signs of a broom or the edge of a broom, but no, alas, such details remain hidden. Similar streets in the neighborhood are named Seagrape Street, Jessamine Street, and Tamarisk Drive. You just wouldn’t guess such nomenclature in a town whose name literally means “the body of Christ.”
The closest geographically I have come to Corpus Christi are the cities of San Antonio and Houston. As you may know, San Antonio is home to the Alamo and lots of military bases, while Houston is the de facto capital of the planet Stavromula Beta (look it up.) I suspect I learned nothing about Corpus Christi from visiting elsewhere in the Great State of Texas.
Per various trustworthy sources (Wikipedia, mostly), the city of Corpus Christi began as a trading post, was fought over in the Civil War, operates a busy seaport, and has suffered various hurricanes and storm surges. Birds love it there. The San Diego Audubon Society calls the city “America’s birdiest place.” The fast-food restaurant chain Whataburger began in Corpus Christi. The Texas Surf Museum, located downtown, explores the history of surfing and local surf culture. Sports fans can cheer on the Corpus Christi Hooks, who play baseball, and the IceRays, who play ice hockey. Famous natives include the late Allen Ludden, who hosted the game show Password and was married to Betty White, and two of the three Mandrell sisters (Louise and Irene, but not Barbara.)
All that stated, I feel like I don’t know much of anything about Corpus Christi. What’s it like to live there? Just how awful are the heat and humidity? Are Jews allowed and/or encouraged? How did they acquire these fascinating and eclectic street names? The questions just keep multiplying. If you (as in you, reading this nonsense right now) have any insight into the Double C (as I’ve decided to call it), please post something on Facebook or send along an email.
If I were living in Corpus Christi, which is located within spitting distance of the Gulf Mexico—or if you are batting for the Hooks, call it the distance of a lazy fly ball—then I would be worried about global climate change. The sea gets angry, my friends, like an old man trying to send back soup in a deli (look that up, too.) I would vote for Joe Biden like my life depended on it, which it very well might. Of course, I live someplace else, and I am worried about global climate change here, too, because it is called global for a reason. I also am worried about an unfair economy and government corruption and the future of democracy and all the other stuff that us liberals stew over, and really, for very good reasons. All I can do to sway the Corpus Christians (is that what they call themselves?) is send postcards.
Just now, my wife announced that a very injured frog was on the floor of the kitchen. Indeed. The frog, whose profile would fit in a half dollar, had been mauled along the end of one leg, and the upper leg was limp and bloated. The transportation, and probably the damage, was most likely caused by Waffle, our cat, who explores the yard with abandon. There was nothing for me to do but scoop up the frog and take it outside. I nestled it among some fallen leaves by the creek, which has now dried up. Autumn has arrived and winter is approaching, and it’s hard to imagine even a healthy frog surviving the cold weather. I looked at the frog and wondered what it would say if it could speak. The answer, I think, is “ribbit.”
For his 60th birthday, comedian and actor Billy Crystal signed a one-day contract with the New York Yankees. He appeared in one at-bat in a spring training game, and I believe made contact with one pitch en route to striking out. For the record, when I turn 60 years old (which is way off in the future, some uncountable number of nanoseconds, we’re speaking purely hypothetically here) I expect to have no desire to play baseball for the Yankees, Twins, Hooks, or any other team in any baseball league, organized or disorganized. That door has closed, people. It was never really open. As a nine-year-old, and for about the span of two evenings, I actually wanted to be a hockey player. My qualifications were ownership of a stick, puck, North Stars sweatshirt, and about a zillion trading cards. When I tried a slapshot, I invariably collapsed onto the ice. I also couldn’t skate backwards for the life of me.
My personal goals and expectations were once jagged and rocky peaks, and now the edges are a little rounder and the faces a little mossier. All I want now for myself is for my novel to become a best-seller and hit movie, my bank account to swell into lots of exciting digits, plenty of ski days this winter at pandemic-free resorts, health and well-being for myself and family, and victory for Joe Biden in three weeks. But if all I get are those last two, I’ll consider the outcome a major victory. Also, if I ever suffer serious injury, I hope for better medical care than I could provide the frog.
