Feeling Crabby

I'm happy to report that nothing particularly interesting has happened in my life since the last update. So this week, I'm reaching into the mental archives to share one of those goofy moments in life, which serve as evidence that God has a sense of humor.  I realize that this is an excercise in public self-humiliation; but they say a true artist must suffer for his/her work. And I couldn't think of anything better. So here's this weeks glimpse into my strange little world.


This particular moment of humility began a few years ago, while my family was in Sarasota, Florida to watch the Reds prepare for yet another spectacular losing season. While there, of course we tried out all the typical beachside seafood places.

Now, before I proceed any further with humiliating myself, I want to make it clear that this incident was completely the fault of one John Schrode, who purports to be my best friend. John is on a never-ending quest to corrupt me into a clone of himself — I’m guessing, for spare parts. With all his heart, he longs for me to love what he loves (excluding Mrs. Schrode), to hate what he hates, and to generally see the world through his eyes. Sometimes, his zealousness leads to trouble…for me.

Before we left for Florida, John suggested (insisted) that I try Alaskan king crab legs for the first time. It's one of the few types of seafood I’d never sampled — frankly, the damn things always scared me. I have a problem with any food that:

A. Requires proper training to eat

B. Looks at you while you consume its flesh

One night, we ate at a restaurant with the very appropriate name of, "Sharky's." It was a pretty cool place, right at the base of a long pier. I suppose, if you didn’t like your appetizer, you were welcome to take it out on the pier and use it to catch something you might like better.

I strongly considered chickening out of my quest for crab, and just ordering the half-ton beach burger instead. But, with the thought of incurring “The Wrath of John” in mind, I decided to give them a go.

With an overflowing plate of spiny appendages placed before me, I felt like a walrus on a rocky beach, preparing to devour my kill. It reminded me of a pile of giant spiders, and I had no clue where to begin. Fortunately, our cute waitress took pity on me, and offered to crack the first appendage.

After much cracking, digging, pinching, and semi-pointless butter dipping, I finished most of my monster crab legs. And they were actually pretty good! Way too much work for a meal though. Dinner should not require manual labor. It should arrive in front of me, as if by magic. Hell, I don’t even like making tacos. I’m going to dismantle an armored crustacean — I don’t think so!

On the way home from dinner, we stopped off at Wal-Mart to get a few necessities. Out of curiosity, I took a brief stroll through the seafood aisle. After examining the crab leg selection, I discovered that the restaurant had served me "stone" crab legs, and not "Alaskan king" crab legs. That disclosure was as astonishing as it was disheartening. You’re telling me there are even BIGGER crab legs than those I had just dismantled — that I had not yet experienced the nirvana of true king crab conquest?

I puttered around in the seafood section a while longer, examining all the selections, and re-confirming my personal pledge to never get anywhere near a raw oyster. Why would anyone consume (on purpose) something that looked like snot on the half-shell? In any case, before long, the necessities were in the basket and we headed back to our condo. I buzzed around the grounds a few hours and then headed in to hit the bed.

Just as I was about to hop into bed, I glanced down and discovered that I had somehow carried home an unintended souvenir from the restaurant. Delicately balanced on my right foot, in all it’s pink glory, was an entire (stone) crab leg! It had been proudly displayed there, all through the restaurant — through Wal-Mart — and all around the neighborhood surrounding our condo. And nobody noticed...or bothered to say anything if they did.

You know...I'm just lucky I didn’t get arrested for shoplifting under-sized, armored crustacean appendages in the dagone Wal-Mart seafood section!

The following year, we were hanging out in Panama City Beach (no, not at Spinnaker’s). One night, after returning “home” from an Applebee’s, my (then) nine-yr-old niece suddenly, and totally, freaks out and yells, "Eww! What's that?”

She points at my left foot.

(Can ya' see this coming yet?)

Cautiously, I look down at my feet. There — a good hour after dinner — a smallish, ice-cube-sized chunk of chopped steak (with just a hint of mushroom sauce) sat proudly atop my best dress shoe.

What is wrong with me?