Friday, July 30, 2004

Framed!

Duran Duran Called. They Want Their Month Back

I have just had an email from my bank which included this astonishing phrase: "within the August timeframe, you can expect [blah-blah-blah]."

Months, weeks, they're all so yesterday; the calendar no longer chugs along of its own accord, oblivious to petty human concern, answering only to the sun and the moon; time is now "framed" --imprisoned by the beginning and end of corporate events. India has agreed to a "reasonable timeframe" for Kashmir, Freddie Mac announces the "timeframe for submitting stockholder proposals," Target obstinately refuses to "give a specific timeframe for the close of the deal," hurling stockholders into spasms of uncertainty.

Not content with mere mind control, corporations are going after time itself. Already they have effected a coup du temps, wresting the calendar from the ancients and their quaint pantheon of rustic agricultural festivals. August, with its extra day stolen from February over 2000 years ago to inflate the ego of a Roman emporer, was once the golden, torrid month when the birds started migrating, when the last of the hay was cut, when the Hopi started playing their flutes like mad to convince a god to make nice with the harvest.

August was also home to National Duran Duran Appreciation Day.

And now it is but a timeframe.

Friday, July 23, 2004

God Is My Concierge

The Almighty wants this woman to experience mainstream entertainment for free

The project manager for my kitchen remodel (it now enters Month 4, yet no light pierces the end of the clammy black tunnel) is one of those people who calls radio stations and wins free tickets all the time. Every day--literally, it's every single day--she is proud to relate that she is going to some awful new show--"Cats" or The Little River Band--completely for free. Since nothing short of 3 stolen revolvers aimed at my temple by schizoid crack fiends could induce me to slog through "Cats," my first impulse, upon receiving the news, was to offer my condolences. I could be wrong, but I think she gave me the stink-eye.

Eventually it dawned on me that the woman more or less revels in these sad entertainments, so the other day, when she informed me that she would soon be experiencing the magic of Sting gratis, I gave her a hearty you-go-girl and asked her how does she do it? I was expecting a description of some elaborate scheme of station-surfing and phone-dialing, but it turns out that it's nothing so mundane as that. It turns out that God Himself is pulling strings for her.

I'd often heard about these privileged few. Each time, I am sorry to say, I had laughed the cold mirthless laugh of an East Coast liberal in despair. When, for instance, I heard about that football quarterback guy who asked God to let the Rams win the big game, I cackled like an old crone on bingo night. When it came to light that George W. Bush believes he has been "called" to the presidency by God, I threw back the head and let rip a sort of death-rattle. I laughed because, possibly, I am cursed with more education than is practical in today's God-is-an-American climate, but also because my audience was laughing, too.

It became a nasty habit.

However, owing to another lifelong habit--that of Pentecostal-church-service-avoidance--I had never expected to meet any of the Chosen Ones in person. Imagine my surprise when a woman standing in my own home announced with a straight face that a Sovereign Being works more or less tirelessly to get her tickets to Clear Channel-approved events. I had no wish to be rude, so the problem quickly became how to not to loose a torrent of superfatted highbrow discourse on the girl.

My efforts in this quarter were not entirely rewarded with success. I mean, when you dangle a switchblade in front of a baby, are you surprised when it stabs itself in the eye? No, you are not. It was the work of a moment with me to blurp with po-mo condescension, "God lets a million Sudanese refugees starve, but he hooks you up with Sting tickets? How come?"

Unfazed, she explained that she works really hard and God's dearest wish is that she enjoy her time off without blowing any dough. In fact, God has been so accommodating with the freebies, she's thinking of asking him to win the lottery for her. She had already used her divine connections to secure fair weather for that evening's minor league baseball game up in Round Rock.

I was so floored by the scope of this revelation that I just let it drop. Besides, I could tell she'd never even heard of the starving Sudanese refugees.

I am aware that true believers have a thousand-and-one ways to explain why God plots ceaselessly behind the scenes to advance their personal agendas, even when these may be at odds with other, equally unreasonable personal agendas, but am at a loss to discern the difference between this worldview and that of the fully delusional schizophrenic.

In retrospect, though, I should have asked her to pray that God finish up my damn kitchen before hell freezes over.

Rock'n'Roll's Bogus Narrative

Why the rockdude must privately scoff at the chick bass player (although in mixed company he says "yeah, she's pretty good")

You know the myths that spring up around risky, adventure-seeking professions? I allude to the myth of the war correspondent, the bull fighter, the diamond thief, the spy, the lone male iconoclast who, by virtue of his charismatic genius, is forever kicking butt and getting laid, inviting lesser men to revere him. These myths aren't for chicks. They relegate us to supporting roles as lovers, muses, crones, or conquests. The male is the hero of life's rich pageant. He is a man of action. He throbs with style and melancholy. And he doesn't exist.

This would be news to one group of adventure-seekers. You may personally inspect a representative individual without going to much trouble. He's draped over the bar at any rock club on any Tuesday night.

See the guy with the rebellious haircut who checks you out to see if you're anybody? He's a rockdude, a local rock star who doesn't have a gig till Saturday, but can no more stay home after dark than he can resist making fun of the guy in that jam band who plays a 6-string bass strapped up around his chest. He is a man of action, making the scene, the myth made manifest.

Central to the ethos of rock'n'roll is the narrative of balls-out aggression channeled by the tortured poet through his pelvic thrust, high levels of blood alcohol, and a Marshall stack. Nowadays this posture has little true sociopolitical impact, but the myth soldiers on. Like fireworks and auto-erotic asphyxia, fake rebellion is dangerous and fun; when he gets it right, the rockdude swaggers along a thrilling precipice between Eros and Thanatos--life and death--and along the way takes on a kind of studly glow, at least at night (by day, the rockdude is a dopesick ghost).

I don't need to spell out for you how this fantasy is unreconcilable with the popular myth of femininity, in which women are always kept isolated from, among most other aspects of human experience, adventure, and where a pelvic thrust always has meretricious, rather than sensual, implications. Any woman who, in real life, attempts to escape the ghetto of ladyfests and lilithfairs into the hostile terrain of the general Rock Club must first ditch the femininity schtick. This step is essential to her self-awareness as a human being, for by femininity we mean not the state of being female, but the government-issue costume of lipstick, passivity, and smiling self-hatred that women are required to wear in public. If she neglects this step, she will be just another piece of stage trim, a cooter with a guitar.

To the rockdude, however, a woman without femininity does not compute. In fact, it instantly renders her suspect. His essentialism prevents him from seeing a woman as anything but the opposite of himself, a fetish object so bafflingly freaky-deaky that he has to write mid-tempo ballads about it. To allow her to succeed would mean diminishing the mythic power of his own phallic rocker energy, so he strains to find ways in which she is unworthy of his admiration. Since today's quasi-egalitarian climate doesn't allow him to openly use her sex against her, he ultimately takes issue with her bass playing. This is lame on 2 levels: (1)it makes him a coward, which (2) means he's just not quite as punk rock as he thinks he is.

In Response to Torture Fatigue

Liberals should just give this Abu Ghraib thing a rest, already; as war enthusiast Joe Lieberman righteously points out, nobody apologized to us for the World Trade Center attacks!

As I may have mentioned, the extent of my exposure to the evangelical position has lately soared to unprecedented levels. It seems that no new day dawns over the Long Horn Bungalow but under the auspices of some superchristian god-bless-the-president message. Yesterday's was a doozy: the mailwoman mistakenly deposited in my basket my neighbor's copy of uber-right Focus On The Family Citizen. Which periodical is some red-hot stuff, I tell you whut. It celebrates right-wing victories against Planned Parenthood, claims Bad Oprah uses "tactics" to sway vacuous housewives over to the Left, and contains how-to articles on "honoring the flag." This month's centerfold is the dude who "proponents of gay 'marriage' don't want you to know about!": an "ex-gay man" who found Jesus, married a deluded fag-hag and fathered some infants. The article deploys this posterboy to advance the theory that since homosexuality is a figment of the sinner's imagination, fags shouldn't be allowed to marry each other. The guy's kids are "proof positive" that people can change, by gum, if only they'd give up "all the music and fleshly living."

Imagine, if you will, the future psychiatric requirements of that family. The blood runs cold.

But anyway (here's where I finally come to the point), a propos of the fucked-up but totally pervasive "brown people get what they deserve" ethos, the aforementioned magazine also contains an article detailing the feeble Iraqi character and its lack of moral development. They all lie, they all steal, they all lazily expect the government to take care of them. It features a photo of US troops pointing their rifles at debris piled up in a bombed-out street, with the caption "US soldiers are mystified that Iraqis let garbage accumulate in their yards and streets." Wow, debris in war-torn Iraq, what a puzzler! And it really detracts from that day-at-the-spa feel that an occupying army expects and deserves.

Fortunately for the lying, thieving brown horde, American Assemblies of God is on the scene! Whew, that was close! A comforting photo shows an Arab woman attending a Pentecostal service in Baghdad. After all, the author says, everything good about civilization is a direct result of Christianity! Go USA!

see also Torture Fatigue in AlterNet .

101 Most Salacious Makeovers

In which the author reports some facts about a television program



I was a-glazing a couple of scallops yesterday evening, when, ever alert, I became aware that the TV was tuned to that easy-breezy 24-hour Hollywood celebrity infomercial channel. The announcer could not contain his enthusiasm for the current segment, called "The 101 Most Starlicious Makeovers." I'd missed the crucial exposition scene, so I remained largely unenlightened by the exact definition of "starlicious." Whatever it is, Tina Yothers apparently possesses it in spades, whereas Danny Bonaduce has more of it than Prince but less of it than Elvis. The nonsense interested me strangely, and I proceeded to breathe deep of the televised fumes.

The show's format consisted of back-in-the-day footage of Kirstie Alley (or Pamela Anderson, or Bruce Jenner), which the viewer was then invited to compare with more recent images of the star. These before-and-afters absorbingly spotlighted Hollywood's grotesque plastic surgeries, staggering feats of coiffure, and dramatic body mass vicissitudes (in Hollywood, whenever drug addiction and serious disease fail, weight loss of 5 or more pounds is achieved primarily through stomach-stapling. Also, weight gain need not be a deal-breaker if one is, in fact, starlicious to begin with and doesn't mind a second career jello-boxing Tonya Harding).

The E! network has on retainer a cabal of enigmatic philosophers and mathematicians whose area of expertise is the assignment of numeric value to starliciousness. Thus, by some inscrutable ritual, is Pink's makeover ordained more starlicious than the Olsen twins'. This system enables producers to arrange the makeover vignettes countdown-fashion, providing a convenient cliff-hanger at every commercial break (i.e. every four minutes). Who will make the Top 67? Don't miss the thrilling reveal!

Supplementing the footage of Botox Nation was insightful commentary by many obscure 27-year-old television personalities. To disabuse the viewer of the notion that these third-tier sycophants were exceptionally well-coifed nuclear physicists, helpful captions identified them: "actor/model," "actor/ comedian," "actor/writer," and occasionally the triply-talented "actor/author/comedian." Based on their uniformly urgent desire to peel away any recalcitrant layers of obfuscation separating me from the vital intelligence that Jennifer Aniston is "hot" (or, in the case of Joan Rivers, "hot, for an old lady"), I now believe these were the same brilliant aesthetes who contributed extempore sociopolitical analysis on "Starlicious Makeovers'" progenitor, last year's gripping "I Love The 70s." This, if you'll delve back into memory's suppressed crevices, was the show that elevated the relentless declaration of celebrity hotness to a previously unimaginable pinnacle of gratuitous redundancy (e.g. "Mary Richards was HOT!"), thus stripping the adjective--and the Seventies-- of all meaning. My suspicion is that actor/singer/models love enunciating the word "hot" on camera because it allows them to demonstrate how good they look wrapping their lips around, you know, vowels.

At first it appeared that the producers of "101 Most Starlicious Makeovers" were hawking cognitive dissonance, flat out. Joan "Security Here Is Tighter Than My Face" Rivers, hot? Dick Clark, "as edible now as he was in 1957"? Julio Iglesias should get his mole reattached because "it isn't fair to the mole"? Yet even disinformation this blatant couldn't hold its own against the hypnotic torrent of gushing approbation for the stars' ever-wackier cosmetic vagaries. Chinks began to penetrate the armor of my ethos. Maybe having a couple of croquet balls stapled to your chest really is attractive. Maybe stuffing your lips with human cadaver meat really isn't gross.

But what were the criteria for starlicious makeovers? They seemed deeply esoteric, if not downright occult; the makeover in question might be a great success (Patricia Heaton, whoever that is) or a career-flusher (Jennifer Grey). It could be x-shtreme (Cher), or merely a judicious deployment of couture (Nicole Kidman). It might be full-body amputation (Sharon Osbourne) or a somewhat less invasive procedure, such as divorcing a millionaire (Ivana Trump). Sometimes it isn't a makeover at all, but a simple matter of growing up to be pretty (Prince William). In more than one instance the makeover wasn't even human, as when Video Games--the entire technology--made the 50th percentile.

In the end, I determined that there were only 2 qualifications for Most Starlicious Makeover. The subjects had to be in video format (B-list or above, past or present ), and there had to exist archived evidence proving they once looked kinda different than they do now. But because even the most grisly, mockworthy facelifts drew from the panel only a sort of doting avuncular benevolence, I was eventually able to puzzle out the secret thrust of the program:

Famous people are great!

___________________________

Note: Of "101 Most Starlicious Makeovers"' final countdown, you are of course eager to learn that Michael Jackson more or less copped the top 2 slots. The consortium ranked him #2 for his general transformation from young black boy to old white woman, but the gold medal went to the most famous body part on Earth; his nose, exclusive of the rest of him, stands alone at the zenith of starliciousness. Cher, the taut drum-head, galloped home with the place money.

Truth in Film Through Fashion

Sunday Night Double Feature (unifying theme: The Protagonist Wears Yellow)
Kill Bill Vol. 1 (Tarantino, 2003)
3 Women (Altman, 1977)
___________________________________


I'm no film student, so after "Kill Bill" I was all like "why are the snooty critics all up in Tarantino's shit? This movie is pretty amusing."

By the end of the double feature, I'd found out why the snooty critics are all up in Tarantino's shit. Snooty critics probably watch real films all the time, whereas my own intake has dropped off in recent years. I had forgotten that glitzy, smug, geeky in-jokes do not cinematic genius signify, and until I saw "3 Women," I was perfectly willing to accept "Kill Bill" as something like art, on accounta it's clever.

You may accuse me of comparing apples and oranges, but to you I say, there is a measurable qualitative difference between a shiny, tasteless 2-lb. Golden Delicious and a splotchy little organic satsuma mandarin. "Kill Bill" cost $65 million and is fancy, but it's "3 Women," made in 1976 for the price of a middling Manhattan apartment, that delivers the real jolt. Not only will it reawaken your slumbering passion for Shelley Duvall, it will put you in mourning weeds for cinema's lost philosophic purpose. One has only to compare the yellow costumes. Uma Thurman's sexpot moto-suit is a relentless, shallow, neon yellow*, whereas Duvall's pastel canary outfits ooze the meta-pathos of existential crisis. They don't make'em like "3 Women" anymore, dude. In fact, Hollywood now uses this film as a How Not To Make Movies Guide. The breathtaking Duvall galloped home with the gold at Cannes. Bonus: Sissy Spacek in a coma! Esplendido.

*compare to Bruce Lee's track suit in his final film "Game of Death," which also features supersized Kareem Abdul-Jabbar martial-arting way freakshow

Tuesday, July 20, 2004

Our Pen Pal From Maui Takes On The Escolar

From The Maui News, July 20, 2004

[See "Crap Shoot," as well as my fervent escolar page, for the backstory. Also, I reproduce Mr. Eagar's informative piece here because The Maui News does not, apparently, archive their articles.]

By HARRY EAGAR
Staff Writer
The Maui News

KIHEI -- Which sounds better on the menu of a pricy, white-tablecloth restaurant? Hawaiian escolar or Ex-Lax fish?

It's the same fish. The one that is forbidden in Japan (a country that celebrates the often-deadly fugu or blowfish), discouraged in Britain and blamed for epidemics of diarrhea in Australia. The same one that was temporarily banned in the 1990s by the Food and Drug Administration but is now promoted as gourmet eating across the United States and on Maui.

Sylvia Hewitt of Maui had an unpleasant encounter with the fish -- named walu in Hawaiian -- at Nick's Fish Market, and again at the Maui Onion Grill at the Renaissance Wailea Resort. She did not suspect it was the fish until learning about it in The Maui News earlier this month, and she says she definitely was not warned beforehand that it can cause acute distress in an uncertain but apparently substantial number of people who eat it.

A lot of people like walu. In England it is sold (illegally) as expensive (and endangered) Chilean sea bass. Jeff Hanson, owner of Eskimo Candy Seafood in Kihei, says that he'd never heard of the fish until a couple of customers asked if he could get it for them.

"We serve it occasionally in our market," he says. "Some people are kind of sensitive, so we kind of tell people."

But his employees didn't tell me when I ordered it a couple of weeks ago. Executive chef George Gomes of Nick's and Sorrento's on the Beach said through a company spokeswoman that when it occasionally shows up on the menu, customers are cautioned. But Hewitt says she never was, and it ruined what was supposed to be a special (and expensive) night out.

Hawaiians knew better. They have a word, maku`u, which is defined as explosive, uncontrollable bowel discharge caused by eating great quantities of walu.

What constitutes a great quantity is undefined, but for some people it doesn't take much. An Austin, Texas food writer, Jill Posey-Smith, has been on a crusade to ban escolar for two years, since becoming sick for several days after eating it in a restaurant in St. Louis. Other foodies, like Jen Karetnick of Miami New Times, have also publicized the dangers of eating walu -- or escolar, white tuna, Hawaiian butter fish, rudderfish and ruddercod or cocco, other market names for fish from a family with the unmarketable family name of snake mackerels.

Alton Miyasaka of the Hawaii Department of Land and Natural Resources Aquatic Resources Division says, "We don't regulate their sale," but the Department of Health could.

"I would say," says Miyasaka, "that it's probably not good business to sell
food that makes people sick."

Eating fish in Hawaii carries a certain risk. Ciguatera poisoning of reef fish is a problem at times and places, and there is no way a consumer can tell whether a fish has picked up the poison except by eating it, Miyasaka says. (There is a test, but it costs more than the fish is worth, so nobody uses it. The official policy is, chance um.)

The Department of Health considers walu "not a poison." Laura Lott of the Communications Office explains that in 1994, the FDA issued a directive banning the sale of escolar, but in 1997 the FDA revised its views, "stating that no regulatory action will be supported based on the
purgative effects of the fish."

Since then, DOH has advised local dealers to be careful of proper temperature control, since walu is a histamine/scombrotoxin-forming species; and to pay attention to portion control and proper method of cooking. DOH forbids the use of "Hawaiian butter fish" as being misleading.

Gomes says it would normally be grilled and accompanied by an acid (citrus-based) sauce, to help drain out the indigestible oil. The fish, whose most common common name is oilfish, is full of waxy esters, which humans cannot handle. Australian health authorities have reported several instances where large numbers of people purged, apparently as a result of eating oilfish. (There are two species, found in deep tropical waters worldwide; the Hawaiian species is Ruvettus pretiosus.)

"It does have that reputation," says Miyasaka.

Brooks Takenaka, a manager at United Fishing Agency, which runs the Honolulu fish auction, says fishermen target walu here, along with all other bottomfish. In other places, oilfish is a by-catch of tuna hunts. Local fishermen call it the Ex-Lax fish, he says. But "we don't toss 'em out."

Walu is "pretty highly priced" and available every day at the Honolulu auction. It brings from $2 to $4 a pound, sometimes a little more, at wholesale. Size and availability vary with the season. Landed fish in Hawaii range from four or five pounds to 20 or 30, although oilfish sold in Mexican markets can get much bigger, more than 100 pounds.

Right now is a low period for oilfish, says Takenaka. Takenaka says he considers it "a matter of responsibility for people who are in the know" to pass on information about what they sell.

"Number one, it is a fine line how much people can eat."

Hanson compares walu to aku. He does not go through the Honolulu auction, he says, and gets his fish direct from Maui and Big Island fishermen. That means he isn't offered much , but he has customers who ask for it. And, he says, they want it fresh. He knows that health authorities recommend freezing aku, to kill parasites that can transfer to humans. But his customers wouldn't buy it if he froze it, he says.

"People eat what they want to eat."

Posey-Smith has another take on the matter. At her Web page devoted to damning escolar (www.twistyfaster.com), she writes: "Sometimes seafood wholesalers, wrestling with thorny principles of supply and demand, feel unburdened by scruple. The chilling fact is, they just make stuff up in order to sell fish."

When she protested in St. Louis, the retailer told her that it was the "Gulf escolar" that caused the problem, and he sold only "Hawaiian escolar," the safe kind. In reality, Posey-Smith says, it's all the same, whether it's called scourfish or Hawaiian butter fish.

Her final word on the subject: "Remember to question fish authority."

Monday, July 19, 2004

Crap Shoot

Two years later, I'm still all churned up about the Ex-Lax Fish

I've just been composing another dissertaion, this time in response to an unfortunate reporter in Hawaii who ate some escolar fish, got sick from it, looked it up on the internet, found some Riverfront Times blurb I'd written on the subject like 2 years ago, and emailed me forthwith to find out whether the vigilant St. Louis public health authorities had quickly acted to prevent future restaurant-goers from involuntarily going mano a mano with such strange and savage forces of nature as only the murky deep could contrive to infuse in a single entree.

This is going to be a fish story, so if you need stimulants, now's the time.

The plot so far:

Escolar, in case you wisely avoid eating trendy seafood, is the common name for a couple of species of snake mackerel (Gempylidae) which are netted inadvertently in tuna catches. Enterprising wholesalers hawk these gloomy-looking fish to restaurateurs as an eonomical substitute for the politically incorrect, endangered, expensive, and really delicious Chilean sea bass. They get away with this because escolar tastes pretty good, like warm butter, if butter were like a delicious fish. The trouble is that escolar owes all this buttery deliciousness to an indigestible waxy ester (gempylotoxin) that acts on human innards much like that fake fat Olestra--you remember Olestra, and its quaint "anal leakage"?--only with extra-super-painful-explosive results. I know this because two years ago, when I was still young and full of hopes and dreams, I personally ate some escolar. The episode robbed me of my legendary vim for several days. Several days!

As for my youth, my hopes, my dreams--well, I never saw them again.

That dining out can, without warning, turn from a pleasant diversion to a matter wherein lives hang in the balance mirrors the economy of the seafood industry. The world of fish-mongering is a torrid one. Sometimes seafood wholesalers, wrestling with thorny principles of supply and demand, feel unburdened by scruple. The chilling fact is, they just make stuff up in order to sell fish. Maybe they got some cheap shark, so they pass it off as expensive swordfish, or they chop it up into little cubes and call it scallops. Because who's gonna know? Are you an ichthyologist? No, you are not. Once you chop off its head and slice it up, a skink's as good as a cod to a blind man.

Or they invent romantic and misleading pseudonyms, euphemistically called "market names," to divert the consumer's attention from brutal truths. Take scrod. It isn't a species, but any old Atlantic fish weighing under 2 pounds. "Pacific red snapper" is a totally bogus alias for rockfish, a homely, antisocial, and endangered creature that has nothing to do with real red snapper from the Gulf of Mex (as a further complication, rockfish means striped bass if you're in Maryland).

So pervasive is this practice of piscine obfuscation that the U.S. Food & Drug Administration, in an effort to quash the resulting torrent of fraud, publishes a compendium entitled The Regulatory Fish Encyclopedia . This gripping thriller lists all available fishes, their vernacular names, their Latin nomenclature, their habitats, photographs of the fish (both whole and fillets), and reproductions of gels showing their unique protein patterns.

Which brings me to the so-called "Hawaiian escolar." Undeniably more poetical an epithet than "snake mackerel," it is technically bogus all the same. But dumb restaurant owners don't know this, because at night they're not curling up next to the fire with a hot toddy and The Regulatory Fish Encyclopedia. Their glib and oily fish salesmen wave a few 2-dollar fillets at them, tease them with comparisons to sea bass, tempt them with the word "Hawaiian" which they confuse with a promise of 72 virgins, and in their mind's eye they can already see it on the menu, pan-roasted with pistachio butter for $22.95, cha-ching.

Thus did the RFT publish, following my scathing indictment of the wanton proliferation of lethal escolar dishes in mediocre restaurants two years ago, a communique from some dumb restaurant owners. R.L. Steamer's, which I think closed this year, was a mediocre restaurant apparently enjoying a brisk escolar trade at the time. Mr. and Mrs. Steamer (!) sternly called my escolar expertise into question. Any idiot, they said, quoting their glib and oily fish salesman, knows the difference between Gulf escolar and Hawaiian escolar! Never mind that they dumbly named their dumb restaurant in the apostrophe-crazed-franchise tradition of TGI Friday's; the poor chumps had been brainwashed. They truly believed in the gastrointestinal harmlessness of Hawaiian escolar. The Gulf variety makes you sick, they insisted, but the Hawaiian kind--the only kind they serve--is absolutely devoid of "the elements that cause gastric distress."

My pen pal from the Maui News, a man who ate a poison fish fillet in Paradise and barely lived to tell the tale, would beg to differ.

What the Steamers chose not to know is that fish dealers are the only people on earth who make geographical distinctions amongst escolar. The FDA doesn't. The Center For Food Safety & Applied Nutrition doesn't. Ichthyologists don't. In fact, there is no such thing as Gulf escolar. There is no such thing as Hawaiian escolar. The world over, all escolarian taxonomy is identical. They are gempylids. If you eat them, they make you poop. A lot. They're not all that good to look at, either.

I burden you with this information so that you might

a) think twice before buying Chilean sea bass, which not only has been fished nearly to extinction, but stands a large likelihood of having been switched for escolar on the down-low, and

b) avoid like the plague anything that someone has actually had the balls to admit is escolar, Hawaiian or otherwise (because the FDA, though it limply warns against importing the purgative fish, removed it from the Banned Fish List in 1992. I have been unable to ascertain why. Probably for the same reason it gave the green light to Olestra; some jolly government prankster though it was funny, the idea of overweight Americans running around in stained underwear with fistfuls of fat-free Cheez-Waffies. I am generally against banning things against the possibility that a few morons may injure themselves--caveat emptor and all that--but people get really ill from this fish, and anecdotal evidence has it that one woman actually died of it. Of course I blame the patriarchy), and

c) remember to question fish authority.