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{
  "uri": "at://did:plc:3zxgigfubnv4f47ftmqdsbal/com.whtwnd.blog.entry/3ldpwud76og2j",
  "cid": "bafyreicudttamvqjcvvu7zspg5bu5biuldui3s7ye7j6jx5xivvxbc3sim",
  "value": {
    "$type": "com.whtwnd.blog.entry",
    "theme": "github-light",
    "title": "Norovirus Event Perspective",
    "content": "Ah, the thrill of the sea, the salty embrace of an oyster’s shell—a perfect home for a wanderer like me, Norovirus. For weeks, I’d nestled within the cold, briny depths of Fanny Bay oysters, biding my time. My moment arrived with an invitation—the glitzy Hollywood Palladium event, celebrating the culinary excellence of Los Angeles’ best restaurants. How could I resist?\n\nCarried by the hands of unsuspecting chefs and plated with care, I was presented like royalty at the event. Hundreds of eager food enthusiasts gathered, their laughter and chatter mixing with the clink of glasses and the tantalizing aroma of Wagyu beef, ceviche, and tacos. Amid the dazzling array of dishes, my host oysters stood proudly, their glossy, raw surfaces beckoning.\n\nIt started with a bite. Mark Kapczynski, a V.I.P. guest, savored two plates of oysters and clams, unknowingly inviting me into his world. I got to work quickly. Within 30 to 45 minutes, a gentle nudge—a bloated sensation. By the time he stepped outside for a drink, I had begun orchestrating my masterpiece, weaving my way into his gastrointestinal tract.\n\nI spared no effort. My presence brought about nausea, abdominal pain, and vomiting—a symphony of discomfort. Poor Mark, by the next day, could barely keep himself together in an Uber ride home. When he finally stumbled through his door, I made sure he wouldn’t leave his bathroom for long stretches of time. Eight rounds that night—a personal best.\n\nMark’s wife joined in on the experience after just one oyster. As for Javier Cabral, editor-in-chief of L.A. TACO, I was merciless. “Two little oysters,” he said, “brought me down in a way that made me honestly a little scared.” Success. I’d made him vomit at least two dozen times—not bad for a microbe, wouldn’t you say?\n\nOh, the irony of it all. These were L.A.’s top restaurants, bastions of culinary safety and excellence. The event organizers spared no effort to meet food safety standards. The oysters were sourced from Santa Monica Seafood, a sponsor renowned for quality. Inspections passed with flying colors. Yet here I was, slipping through the cracks of the best-laid plans. Humans underestimate my cunning.\n\nBy the time the Los Angeles County Department of Public Health got involved, my reach had extended far beyond the event. The oysters, traced back to Pacific Northwest Shellfish Co., were recalled, but not before I’d left my mark. Health officials issued warnings. Chefs, vendors, and even the FDA scrambled to contain me, advising against serving shellfish from British Columbia and Pickering Passage. But I had already danced my way through countless digestive systems, leaving chaos in my wake.\n\nIt’s not easy being Norovirus. Humans see me as an enemy, a contaminant. But consider my artistry: I move invisibly, taste undetectable, crafting unforgettable experiences for my hosts. It’s not just oysters that bring me to life; it’s untreated sewage and imperfect regulations. I’m not picky—raw shellfish is just my favored stage.\n\nBy the end of the ordeal, at least 80 people from the event had joined my audience. Some were hospitalized, most missed work, and all had tales of woe to share. I overheard one expert, Lee-Ann Jaykus, calling my handiwork “relatively rare.” Rare, perhaps, but memorable. After all, isn’t that the hallmark of true art?\n\nFor now, I rest, biding my time in another oyster bed or clinging to an unwashed hand. Someday soon, I’ll make another appearance. Until then, I’ll revel in this triumph—my Hollywood debut.\n\n",
    "createdAt": "2024-12-20T08:13:34.337Z",
    "visibility": "public"
  }
}