Somebody ought to invent a serum that renders the victim immune.

Some day medical journals will give the same space to the victims of
California hospitality that they now allot to victims of Oriental
famines. For with Californians, hospitality is first an instinct, then
an art, then a religion and finally a mania. It is utterly impossible to
resist it, but it takes a strong constitution to survive. Californians
will go to any length or trouble in this matter; their hospitality is
all mixed up with their art instinct and their sense of humor. For no
matter what graceful tribute they pay to famous visiting aliens, its
formality is always leavened by their delicious wit. And no matter how
much fun they poke at departing or returning friends, it is always
accompanied by some social tribute of great charm and originality.

A loyal Adopted Son of California, a novelist and muckraker, returned a
few years ago to the beloved land of his adoption. His arrival was made
the occasion of a dinner by his Club. He had come back specifically on a
muckraking tour. But it happened that during his absence he had written
a series of fiction stories, all revolving about the figure of a
middle-aged woman medium. In the midst of the dinner, a fellow clubman
disguised as a middle-aged woman medium began to read the future of the
guests. She discoursed long and accurately on the personal New York
affairs of the returned muckraker. To get such information, the wires
between the committee who got up the dinner and his friends in New York
must have been kept hot for hours. Moreover, just after midnight, a
newsboy arrived with editions of a morning paper of which the whole
first page was devoted to him. There were many, highly-colored accounts
of all-night revelries; expense accounts, of which every second item was
champagne and every fifth bromo-selzer, etc., etc.