Gandhi

It was such an interesting, long day. We had driven all the way up to a couple of towns at an altitude of ~10,000 feet. The Chevy Volt performed awesomely well. The dog, Jorge (pronounced /ˈʒɔrdʒ/, or “George” for an approximation¹), seemed to be very excited about the new scents and surroundings. He was still very, very cute.

Cripple Creek had an “ice festival” going on, where they displayed several ice sculptures. It was certainly highly intriguing to see huge (bigger, at least) sculptures carved out of ice and the “corners” being surprisingly smooth. I’m guessing, however, that I don’t need to see more sculptures for a while.

On the way to our several destinations, there were several historical (old, as one might put it)… stuff to be seen. Gold mines: lots of gold mines. Interesting piles of wood that appear to have been houses in the very early 1900’s. My companion had lots of stories to tell about what this ghost-town-like area used to be like.

He’s not that old, so there is some amount of doubt of historical accuracy (don’t trust them historians). But then I can doubt the creation of Titanic, too. I wasn’t there, after all.

It was 6:00PM or so when we arrived home. Jorge was tired, or maybe I was just projecting. I fed him dinner and then sat down to ponder how I’m going to spend the rest of the evening.

The details seem a tiny bit blurred out for the rest of the evening, but I remember watching two half-hour shows and checking Woot for anything interesting, just because.

When I was about to fall asleep, I had a thought:

Gandhi.

“He was Indian, right?” I thought. “Yes.”

This wasn’t going anywhere good. Or sane.

“Oh… I get it now. So, the Americans came. From Britain. And they saw all the Indians. And they saw Gandhi and they were like: ‘Hi, Gandhi.’ But then they thought Gandhi doesn’t sound like an American-enough name. ‘We should get you a new name, Gandhi,’ they said.”

At this point, I was wondering why the heck I’m getting these thoughts. I’m either crazy or drunk. Probably crazy; can’t drink alcohol yet, after all. Or maybe some of the grapes I had earlier today were accidentally fermented or something.

I haven’t had grapes in a while. Never mind.

“So then they looked at Gandhi’s hair and saw that it was curly. They thought of the word Luther and they said ‘Your middle name shall be Luther.’

After a while, the Americans figured out that Gandhi likes trees. Especially the branches. He would put the branches on his head, and they would look like a crown. So the Americans decided that Gandhi looked like a king. ‘Your last name shall be King,’ they said.

‘Wait,’ the Americans thought. He still needs a first name. The Americans couldn’t figure out what it should be, so they decided to do a test. One by one, they took their clothes off in front of Gandhi. First was Jack. Nothing happened. Then was Sarah, and nothing happened, either. But when it was Martin’s turn, Gandhi got an erection.² The Americans saw that and said ‘Aha, your first name shall be Martin.’

So Gandhi became Martin Luther King.”

The rest of what went through my mind was… even weirder. (Hint: the Obamas were involved).

Well, I guess, if the trip taught me anything, it would be that history is fascinating. Unverifiable, but fascinating.

Thus, MLK’s roots remain questionable to the skeptics.