In all my life, up until a couple of years ago, I had never heard of a Bomb Cyclone. Now, we have Bomb Cyclones all over the place. One hit California last week, sending all sorts a weather patterns awry. And of course, there was one right at Thanksgiving that sent the country spinning. But, what are they, really, and why all of a sudden are they popping up all over the news?
The only definition I’ve been able to ferret out, essentially says a bomb cyclone is a system with rapidly dropping atmospheric pressure. Falling air pressure. And air pressure is caused by its density. Less dense air, all of a sudden.
Regardless, I’m on a bit of a tangent. My point is Bomb Cyclones. We have them, frequently. We didn’t use to. That is my other point. They used to be called “storms” back in the day. I liked it way back, when things were actually called what they were.
Yes. We used to say things and do things, and that was all there was. We’d pay taxes, change the oil in our cars, be respectful of others, and such. All of these things are now called “adulting.”
It is a generational thing mostly. Which is also annoying. Everyone has a label now, according to the year we were born. Again, growing up, when we’d want to know how old someone was, we got a straight answer.
“How old is Gwen?”
“Oh, I think she’s in her early 20s.”
Simple damn enough. These days, we have Millennials, Generation X, Baby Boomers, iGen, the Silent Generation, and on. You need to carry around a little manual with all the names and corresponding dates, just to figure out someone is 36 years old. If you can hear me grumbling, it is for good reason.
Of course there are my all-time nails-on-the-chalkboard phrases.
“At the end of the day” — which follows the worst, “It is what it is.”
Ugh. Say anything else. Say, shit happens. That’s how the cookie crumbles. Let the cards fall where they may. It’s the roll of the dice. Anything.
Say that we’ve run out of fruit punch and the party’s over. Just don’t say “it is what it is.”
And I have not said what I came to say. I’ve traveled off the path again. I was talking about Bomb Cyclones. Mostly because the one in California caused a horrible event. A horde — we are talking thousands and thousands — of large, fat worms all appeared on a central California beach. Apparently, these worms, that are called innkeeper worms, were spooked out of their burrows by a bomb cyclone. The other term for them, is penis fish, because, well, they look a lot like a penis.
They are ancient creatures. These worms can live their entire lives underground, where they make big u-shaped burrows beneath the wet sand. They let other creatures live in the holes with them, hence the “innkeeper name.” Regardless, the central California beaches look like they are covered with penises. Or do they become peni when there are more than one?
No matter. The penis fish is why I’m writing. Finally I got to it. I think this is one more incident from heaven during those first seven days of creation. Late in the evening on “animal and fish” day, God and the Angels were tired and getting punchy, I’m sure. Kicking back, not quite quitting time, but they were cracking open a few bottles of cold beer early, and winding things down.
And God said, “Oh, I think I’ll make a monkey with a nose like Cyrano De Bergerac and call it a Proboscis Monkey.”
“Ba ha ha ha ha…”
Then Gabriel, always going one further. “No God, why don’t you make a fish that looks exactly like a penis, and call it a Penis Fish,” he laughed heartily.
There was a dead silence and everyone, God and all the Angels, stared directly at Gabriel, some, shaking their heads.
Finally, after a few moments, God waved his hand casually.
“Oh, what the hell.”
Maybe the lesson? We should call ‘em like we see ‘em.
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“It ain’t what they call you, it’s what you answer to.”
― W.C. Fields
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“The menu is not the meal.”
― Alan Watts
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“I read in a book once that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but I’ve never been able to believe it. I don’t believe a rose WOULD be as nice if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage.”
― L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables
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