Lobsterquest

I’m not one of those insufferable types who rolls out of bed and greets the day wide-eyed and full of annoying gusto. In fact, two of the most glorious words in my lexicon are snooze button. They run a close second to coffee. Coffee—the stuff of life. Without it, I’m a violent criminal. Potentially, anyway.

To make matters worse, Saturday night I had practiced the ancient art of insomnia. I tried to compensate by sleeping in late but only accomplished the in late part. So it was with laser focus that I arrived Sunday at the Lobster Festival in Redondo Beach, my roadmap peepers scouring the perimeter of the seaside lagoon for the stuff of life.

Immediately I began to suspect that the Lobsterfest had almost nothing to do with lobster. Food stands abounded, everything from burgerritos (probably safer if you don’t ask) to pad thai. However, the many lobster booths with myriad crustaceous delectables I had been expecting to find were a fairytale. Santa Clause. The Tooth Fairy. Inexpensive cellular. I walked with grumpy determination from booth to booth. What I discovered was far more shocking than the scarcity of lobster, something that rocked me to my very core. There. Was. No. Coffee.

Now distrustful of the whole event, I dragged my uncaffeinated body back through the food stands to pick up some lunch. That’s when I happened upon the event’s sole lobster vendor. Two dishes were available: A 1.25 lb lobster meal for $20 and a 2.2 lb meal for $40. Discuss. First, the pricing. Generally the price break happens when you buy more, not less. Doubling the price for less than double the food? Hardly surprising for an event that DOESN’T EVEN HAVE COFFEE! Second, I like lobster. Like. But love is the only thing strong enough to pry $40 from my clutches for lunch, especially when I had to fork over $3.50 at the ATM to get that $40. (I’m thinking seriously of going into the ATM business.)

My wife, who was beginning to look worried (she’s been on the business end of my coffee issues), sweetly suggested we eat something else. So we picked up cuisine that resembled digestible food, which we wolfed down lest we miss out on the “lobster” festivities.

After, let’s call it lunch, we exited the food section and walked to the other side of the lagoon to the vendors’ booths. One of the first was an oxygen bar. I secretly wanted to try it but couldn’t get the Budweiser “Mr. Oxygen Bar Inventor” ad out of my head. “You opened a business with only one true competitor: the earth’s atmosphere.” I slunk away sheepishly.

A couple of booths later, I stumbled upon a vendor who truly embraced the lobster spirit. He was sporting a bright red lobster hat and gloves. Yeah, I’ll take three of each. I don’t have enough social problems.

Perhaps I needed to look further to find the heart of lobsterness in this festival. The Harley Davidson paraphernalia booth offered tattoo sleeves for those who don’t possess enough youthful lack of foresight to get real ink. They also had knickknacks and T-shirts. Nothing with lobsters on motorcycles. The Body Glove concession wasn’t selling any lobster wetsuits. No lobsters were won or lost in the Tommy Bahama Barefoot Poker tent.

What has happened to the lobster spirit in this country?

Finally, I found the real lobster-related merchants. There was a Ford booth. Perfect car for lobster fishing. A couple of massage stands, no doubt wonderful for relieving the aches and pains of an all-day fishing expedition in a Ford Lobster Car. Time Warner had a booth. Lobster pay-per-view? And of course the mandatory slew of tchotchke vendors, all of whom had probably eaten lobster at some point in their lives. By the way, none seemed to be ringing up any sales. I’d have paid a thousand dollars for a thimble of coffee…

Finally we arrived at the main (Maine?) event of the Lobsterfest. What was that you ask? Why, the Beach Boys tribute band, of course. Beach—lobster—a stretch, but it beats the Ford connection, right? However tenuous their lobster link, the Beach Toys played the old surfin’ songs with perfect harmonies and musicianship, note-for-note renditions. Unfortunately they copied the early look of the band with equal accuracy, attired in identical green-and-white striped shirts and white slacks that probably looked dated when the original band wore them. Today, well, let’s just say I’d rather wear the lobster hat.

We took in the music for a while, despite the band’s fashion statement. Gray clouds hung over our usually sunny South Bay. I picked at melancholy thoughts about my life. My financial scarcity mentality. My nagging ingrown toenail. My appalling lack of coffee. The sun didn’t poke through once. But then I realized there was a bright side: we weren’t boiling in the heat. And neither were many of the poor lobsters.