Feature Story - Big Sur Examineher
| Momma does El Nino - ©TP-Tolerated Press Wired Service |
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| Under a sunlit morning sky on this wildly beautiful, scarred stretch of coast, where residents have been stranded for several weeks, since torrential storms and mountain slides spawned by El Nino, cut off the only artery connecting this heart that is Big Sur to the outside world, a new stir arose to fan the flames of it's latest wildfire. |
| That fire can be summed up in one word: Momma. |
| Into this tiny enclave of creatives, counting among them, writers, artists, New Age gurus, refugees from the 60's trapped in time, and just plain rugged individualists, has come a shining beacon to lift the spirits of those trapped by nature's quixotic wrath. |
| She swept into town with her small entourage, a relative unknown entity, to bring a maelstorm of community spirit to this isolated burg. After parking her small, brilliant-red Corvette convertible next to the washed out section of Highway 1 leading into town, she made her way past road barricades through rivers of mud with the more-than enthusiastic assistance of any of the 150 men of the road repair crews who were lucky enough to get within touching distance. Her rainbow-hued Farrago'mo's stayed mudfree, high and dry, while her bikini-clad, wondrously-formed body was hoisted from the burly sinews of one man to the next, until she was at last delicately deposited upon the front steps of the entry way to the Esalen Institute,a nonprofit alternative education organization, best known for it's spring-fed hot tubs where one can bathe naked, while gazing out on the azure sky kissingthe distant horizon of the cerulean waves of the Pacific Ocean. |
| Despite her giggle-filled manhandling by the eagerly helpful crew, she displayed poise and class and surprisingly not a hair out of place (as far as we could tell due to her headgear of a gently wrinkled, subtly scalloped-edged, tan-colored hat, which was jauntily resting upon her... um... shoulders?). She proceeded to totter serenely off, with high-heels a clackin', to enjoy the vista from within one of the many hot tubs perched upon a ridge overlooking the thrusting, pounding, crashing,... uh...water. |
| This reporter will not go into detail about the raucous goings-on that accompanied her first afternoon here, because this reporter lost his notepad in the tub, but needless to say, a great time was indeed had by all. |
| Later that afternoon while hiking among the verdant hills replete with spring wildflowers, followed closely by what some residents swear was a unicorn, she encountered a distraught white rabbit. Upon enquiry as to his dilemma, she found that he was none other than the Right Honorable Bunné du Easter, a somewhat reclusive local who is said to only be seen once a year delivering eggs and candy to all the children, while the rest of the year, is said to be a pediatric dentist in Monterey who hawks Bean-o Plus® as a sideline venture. |
| She listened patiently to his pathetic whinings about not being able to find someone named Alice, who it seems had had the good sense to run off to Carmel with a local dulcimer builder who had struck it rich playing the Arizona Lottery. Being that it was the dulcimer player's truck that was used yearly, after much flirting on the part of Alice, to move their eggs to their intended destinations, Mr Bunné went on at length about his being unable to truck his as-yet-uncolored eggs beyond the mudslides and remnants of tattered road until after the crews had them repaired in May. He was so upset that he had seen no reason to bother with his yearly hand-painting rituals of coloring the eggs just to have them rot undeliverable on the jagged windswept cliffs of Big Sur. |
| Due to these facts, he was now deeply depressed that he would disappoint all who enjoy the Easter holiday, (which we all know was named after Mr Bunné's family in return for their selfless generosity... Mrs Bunné and their 107 offspring were unavailable for comment, but we assume that they were similarly grief-stricken about the current situation... Alice's absconding that is...) |
| Momma was apparently moved to tears. (Editor's Note: We can only speculate about the tears, as what appeared to be a [Brown Paper Bag, Ya Dork!] over her refined and beauteous features [features as described by the reporter] were obscured from view. The envious camera girl speculates that Momma was instead asleep on her heels from the fatigue caused by the earlier hot tub activities). |
| Upon conclusion of Mr Bunné's sad tale, Momma was seen to jerk slightly and run the back of her hand across what we can only surmise to have been her mouth,creating a huge moist spot with, we can only speculate here... drool from her chin. Quickly assessing the situation, Momma was heard to boldly state, "Get with the program, Bugs, Alice doesn't live here anymore! Let's get them eggs the heck outta Dodge!" |
| So with the spouts of whales seen clearly uprising against the subdued orange colors of a sun dropping slowly into the mysterious distant depths of the sea, Momma marched down to the sleepy hollow of this town with Monsieur Bunné in tow and began to organize a monumental undertaking the likes of which this reporter has never seen, or is likely to see again. |
| She called together all of her assorted entourage who had scattered about the town, after they had piled out of what looked to be a wheezing, smoking, primer-riddled Vega, that they had had to park behind Momma's convertible. They had been forced to wade through the muck themselves as by that time, the road crews were apparently hard back at work (staring toward the hot tubs). The motley crew included a stunning lady known by the mysterious pseudonym of the Sorceress, obviously a new age guru, followed closely by her two disciples, Anastasia and Bethany. |
| At a discreet distance back from the group was a startingly handsome young man in an elegant Armani suit with satin lapels, paired with the most atrocious pair of brown, lace-up loafers imaginable, who seemed to be scratching his posterior in a very agitated manner. (We were unable to ascertain his name due to the hubbub of a randy little unicorn named Randy suddenly taking a much too fond liking for our camera girl.) The man had apparently had some help from a knowledgable woman as pertains to his wardrobe, so what was with the horrendous shoes? We could find no time to ask amidst the ensuing nigh-on-miraculous event. |
| Upon Momma's assembling of the ragtag group in the parking lot of at Esalen, the road crews, who also had been staying at the costly retreat, came out to lend their support. They were quickly joined by a large crowd of musicians, artists, writers, and refugees from society, including a girl who resembled the questionable Miss MoniKa Lewdinsky, who some were to tell us later had met up with the wondrous Momma when she had asked Momma for pointers during a wild night on the town somewhere back east. Momma announced her plans to assist the Right Honorable Mr Bunné and the grounds soon became an unimaginable swirl of motion as eyenumbing shades of paint was dumped unceremoniously into each of the hot tubs. |
| Lily-white eggs were uncrated and passed from artiste to artiste and dipped into tub after tub, then recrated in an astounding array of kaleidoscopic rows. As one would suspect, the temptation to rush the job led to a slight degree of messiness, which led to almost the entire town dipping not only the eggs, but themselves as well, sans apparel, into the brightly colored paint-filled tubs. Soon everyone was a Picasso in motion as they scurried about fishing for loose now-boiled eggs. |
| (Editor's Note: Yeah... sure... fishing for eggs... right...) |
| Due to the fact that she had had to go make a phone call during the worst (or best) of the uncontrolled melee, Momma could still be easily discerned from the rest of the crowd, only by the fact that her ample bosom had gotten in the way of her own frantic egg-dipping into a tub of neon-green pigment. |
| Just as the last of the multitude of eggs were nestled into their boxes, there could be heard a thuckita-whupita noise growing ever louder as a Coast Guard helicopter, full of ardent Momma admirers from Santa Barbara, came into view hovering overhead. With gazes of rapture at Momma, while waving around a magazine that looked to be "Bay Watch Babes", with a cover graced by none other than Momma herself, they lowered a hoist and latched onto a huge net that had been strategically placed around the crates of eggs upon which Momma had positioned herself. With Mr Bunné, who had a huge smile upon his face, under one arm, and holding a large multi-colored egg in her other hand with her arm wrapped around the hoist cable, she yelled to the chopperjocks that it was time to go see her etchings... she rose out of our lives as quickly as she had breezed into them. Some say that she hitched a ride on the Guard bird back to her car, as it was mysteriously gone the next morning when this reporter went back to see if he might ascertain her identity through something to be found there. Others later alleged that they had seen her car being whisked through the air by the selfsame Coast Guard helicopter that had come to the rescue of Easter because of their love for Momma. |
| The same mysterious disappearance syndrome affected her cohorts as well, as all that could be found of them was traces of calamine lotion and black cloth fibers on one of the road barricade sawhorses. Found as well as a pearlescent substance on the leg of a pair of jeans belonging to one of the few female members of the road repair crews, who swears she'd had a quite interesting dream about a multi-colored unicorn that night. The jeans have been sent in for further analysis. |
| In summation of this startling event... This sleepy, isolated haven that had been so shut off from the world, was blessed with a miraculous occurrence. Our roads will be restored by May they say now. But one wonders if we care. As a community, we sit stunned by the difference to our mundane existence that this one woman could make in just hours... and we'll sit as well with our eyes to the skies with wishes of her return on those whupita'ing rotors. |
| All this reporter knows is that for an afternoon in time, our lives were touched by a ray of sunshine so bright that it was... well... unbelievably bright...and we are the richer for having had the honor. |
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| Haywood Jablomie |
| Features Reporter |
| Big Sur Examineher |
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