Paltry Poultry Ponderings

I love to eat animal flesh. While there’s certainly a place in my diet for fruits and vegetables, I’m an avowed carnivore. I briefly attempted becoming a vegetarian. I was in high school, and trying to define my growing sense of self. I vaguely remember concocting some kind of hideous looking (and tasting) nut loaf; and bravely eating it as my family watched with disgust. I recall having a stomach ache that lasted several days, and a lasting aversion to walnuts.

I admire and respect those individuals who refuse to eat meat, on the basis of either philosophical and/or spiritual beliefs. I’m not, however, one of them. If the choice for dinner is between something that’s white, watery, and jiggles in a plastic tub, and a juicy prime rib – I’ll be biting the beef. And if I’m ever on Death Row, I won’t be spending my last calories on carrots and celery; I’ll be chowing down on a juicy filet mignon.

When my sweetie and I went shopping last week, we ordered a free range organic turkey. We bought our bird at a health-oriented, New Seasons store. In addition to an abundance of fetching fowl, we also noticed a lot of Tofurky. For those of you who exist solely on Big Macs, Tofurky is a product that’s made from “a blend of wheat gluten, or seitan, and organic tofu.” It’s even considered kosher, and certified by the Kosher Supervision of America. Although I’m a non-observant Jew, I find this information strangely soothing. If I ever decide to give up my “evil ways,” shave my head, and move to Mayer Sharim – at least I can still celebrate Thanksgiving in style.

While Winola was paying, I took some time to examine a Tofurky loaf. When I picked it up, it had the solidity and feel of a football. Albeit a frozen one. When we got home, I went online and did some research on it. Judging from the repeated raves of various vegans, Tofurky, if prepared right – tastes delicious. Perhaps they’re right.

But Tofurky has one major disadvantage over the real thing: it was never alive. There’s something about the thought of my turkey, grazing and gazing at the sky as it fattens itself for the feast, that’s appealing. I realize that turkeys aren’t Mensa members, but maybe they have a fleeting moment of satisfaction, in the final seconds before their slaughter. A knowledge that they’re contributing, in their own small way, to an American holiday that has its roots in the Puritan tradition. Or not.

I’m probably just anthropomorphizing them. There’s no glory in filling the guts of millions of morons, who are gearing up to go broke on Black Friday. At least the inanimate Tofurky loaf, won’t be belched up by Bubba as he watches the Macy’s Parade. And the dog won’t beg for scraps, because he’s partial to poultry.

The Schmatte of Turin

This morning I read a Yahoo news story about the Shroud of Turin. Apparently, a Vatican researcher claims that a nearly invisible text on this religious rag, proves the authenticity of the artifact revered as Jesus’ burial cloth. The shroud bears the figure of a crucified man, complete with blood seeping out of nailed hands and feet. Believers say that Christ’s image was recorded on the linen fibers at the time of his resurrection. Sorry to sound skeptical, but I doubt it.

I’ve been a thrift store shopper for decades, and have seen schmatte stains that resembled everything from the Statue of Liberty, to a statue of Liberace. Complete with candelabra. If only I’d had the foresight, to photograph and publicize all of my thrift scores. I could’ve had scholars writing books by now.

It’s human nature to see what we want to see, not always what is actually visible. Envisioning Jesus’ image in a piece of cloth, isn’t any more far fetched than pretending that you still wear a size 7 (when you’re squeezing into an 18). Our eyes and imaginations work together to create fantasies. Otherwise, no one over the age of 10, would ever wear skinny, stovepipe jeans.

Critics claim that the Shroud of Turin is bogus; perhaps they’re right. And the zealous believers in the shroud’s validity, could also be correct. Unless Christ comes back to reveal the truth, all of the convoluted conjecture is purely theoretical. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter what he wore or didn’t wear in his final moments. Frankly, I’d prefer to think of him lounging in head to toe cashmere.

“Don’t Know Much About Geography” (“The Boss” & Loss)

Today when I was searching for my glasses, I suddenly realized that I was holding them. But before I felt the usual pangs of middle-age memory loss, I thought of Bruce Springsteen. And snickered. Last Friday night, the legendary 60 year old rocker surprised fans by shouting, “Hello Ohio!” When he was in Michigan. Since it was also Friday the 13th, Springsteen was walloped by a double whammy. I can sympathize with Springsteen. I’m from Michigan, and have driven through the mind-numbing Midwest many times. When I finally exit South Dakota, I’m brain dead from boredom. Only triple shots in my mega mocha espressos, save me from insanity.

One of the benefits of not being a famous figure, is that I can make similar memory mistakes like Bruce’s, and not have millions of people laugh at me. For now. With the advent of YouTube and the possibilities for instant cyber infamy, I might someday be caught with my “pants down”; because I forgot to pull them up, before I left the restroom. Not to sound paranoid, but at any moment an Allen Funt clone could aim their camcorder at me and say, “Smile, schmuck – you’re on candid camera!”

Fortunately, Springsteen has a support staff to “wite-out” his errors . He hires pr peons to write pithy public press releases, stating that he received straight A’s in geography. And he can also afford to hire tutors, to insure that he doesn’t screw up his states again. Unfortunately, unlike Bruce, when I fuck up, my administrative assistant can’t shield me from social scrutiny. I have to take the hits, alone; like most of us.

I feel reassured to know that “The Boss” and I, are sharing the same old “boat.” A boat that could easily capsize, especially, if he plays a concert in Washington D.C.; and forgets that he’s in the nation’s capital. At least he knows that he was “Born in the USA.”

In the Dark, on Black Friday

Although I’m Jewish, I was born without a special Jewish gene: the love of shopping. Jews are to retail, what teenagers are to orthodontists: neither business would survive without them. As a child, my mother had to practically plead with me, just to buy a pair of jeans; and not much has changed. Mom’s mantra was: “Save at sales!,” not “Save the whales!” It wasn’t her fault. My grandmother’s love of tchochkes ruled her roost. I’m surprised that she didn’t die, surrounded by doilies and dollies. Fortunately, however, the Schechter shopping gene skipped a generation with me.

So when I read about annual events like Black Friday, a day that’s dedicated to crazy and collective commercial consumerism, I’m completely in the dark. Just the thought of being crammed into a crowded Wal-Mart, with women wearing size 2X lime green polyester pants, gives me the Hebrew heebies. I don’t understand how anyone can spend the night in a Best Buy parking lot, just so they have a shot at an electronic toy; a cheaply manufactured “Made in China” piece of crap – that will probably be broken by Christmas. Call me weird, but I’d prefer to be in my bed sleeping at 3am, instead of freezing my ass off with hundreds of freaky and frenzied fucked up folks. Just waiting so that they can be the first five idiots, to buy a beanie babyish popular product. I’d rather be out of line, rather than stand in line, any day of the week; especially on Black Friday.

I’m appalled, when I read about people being stampeded to death, by hoards of humans hungry for the latest overpriced gadget. How many more deaths will it take, for the shopping sheeple to stop following the flock? Who do we place the blame on for this national nuttiness? What possesses people to pay exorbitant prices for expensive electronics, at the price of others’ lives? Obviously, there isn’t one answer or solution to this problem.

Perhaps if our government, wouldn’t exhort us to spend more money during the holidays, we’d focus on more important matters; like spending time with our loved ones; perhaps if the media would stop showing images of greedily grabbing adults, we’d turn to our ingenuity in creating our own special presents; and perhaps if we changed our value systems to valuing people over profit, the Black Friday insanity would finally end.

It’s no wonder that our children, are begging for bigger and better prezzies; they’re emulating their parents’ behavior. While Junior whines about wanting the latest MP3 player, his parents are also kvetching about their HDTV being outdated. Supposedly, we’re a nation of “individuals,” yet we’re like consumer cattle being herded into a chute; trampling the other cows in order to save a few bucks.

I’ve been reading that retailers are prepared this year, with new security plans to prevent more Black Friday “accidents.” The best way to avoid “accidents,” is by avoiding the conditions that cause them. If more people shopped online, from the comfort and safety of their homes, they’d still support the economy. Thrift stores are also a safe bet for shopping. You can find bargains galore, and not be in danger of losing your life. I’ve been going to Goodwill for decades, and have yet to see anyone dying over long lines and pushy people. You might snag that perfect cashmere sweater for your sweetie, and better yet – be alive to give it to her.

“Put a lid on it”

I just went to the restroom at a local coffee cafe, and for the umpteenth time was forced to put the toilet lid down. I’ve had it. I’m so sick of doing mens’ dirty work for them, that I’m ready to revolt. What is it with you guys?! How much effort could it take, to put the fucking lid down; you had the strength to lift it up?

I’m a woman, so perhaps it’s simply a matter of mscommunication. For once, I’ll give you guys the benefit of the doubt. I’ll assume that your inconsideration and lax behavior, are due to external influences, like: your toilet training was interrupted, you have more important matters on your mind, or you’re too busy writing your phone number on the wall. But whatever the case may be, the end results are both annoying and irritating. To millions of women; not just me.

If we can put a man on the moon, why can’t that man put the lid down? (Fortunately, for the astronauts, they don’t have to worry about that issue.) It’s not that difficult. All you have to do is shake and zip, while your other hand is lowering the lid. It’s basic physics: what goes up, must come down. Did you ever stop to think, “Who will put the lid down?” Of course not. You’re too concerned with running your mouth, running a marathon, or running around. I know that it’s hard to comprehend, but we women are busy, too. And even if we weren’t, it’s not “our job” to do yours.

Therefore, I propose that someone invents a device that won’t open the door, until the toilet lid is in its proper place: down. It’s obvious that mere words won’t work, to change your childish behavior – but this sure will. Think of it as a Pavlovian technique to re-train the male gender. Once men realize that they’re a prisoner due to their own stupidity, they’ll change. Instantly. Because if they don’t obey the restroom rules, they’ll spend the rest of their lives sleeping on a filthy concrete floor. With no sex, or food, or the Super Bowl; because the only bowl that they’ll be seeing, is a toilet bowl.

Unfortunately, however, there’s a fatal flaw to my idea: men won’t allow this to happen. Since it’s still primarily a “man’s world,” men are “running the show.” The Johns are in charge of the “johns.” At least for the foreseeable future. So I’ll have to grit my teeth, as I lower the lid. And write another nasty note to tape to the wall: “Your mother doesn’t live here, and neither do I.”

“The Goy & Oy of Sex”

I was born and raised by Jewish parents, and have spent a lot of time around Jews. I’m a reformed Jew, and “observant” only when it comes to people watching. So it hasn’t escaped my attention, that Jews and gentiles have different philosophies regarding sex.

Although I dislike many aspects of my assimilated Jewish culture, I think that Jews generally have a healthier sexual attitude than gentiles. Catholics, for example, have the Vatican to cope with. In 2000 the Vatican denounced “the brutal transgression against God that is the enjoyment of sex for its own sake.” They also listed 244 phrases which are ” regarded blasphemous when uttered in a non-procreative context.” Apparently, according to the fun-loving Pope, you can’t whisper sweet nothings like: “God, your breasts are beautiful,” (I was unaware that God had breasts, “I feel so complete when you’re inside of me,” and “I love to watch your belly rise and fall after we make love.” In my 52 years as a lusty lady, no one has ever said that to me; unfortunately, men usually roll over and fall asleep afterwards. Fortunately, women don’t. But they typically want to nosh after they nibble.

My question is: who wrote those sexy statements? I imagine that it was a bunch of celibate Catholic men. So how in “God’s name,” did they figure out those phrases? I’ll bet that after the Pope went to bed, they discovered how to access internet erotica. Or perhaps they’ve been reading Dan Savage’s kinky column. In any event, it makes one wonder about what those holy honchos do after hours. In addition to the 244 phrases, they also cited 183 different “wholly sinful” sexual acts,” including the following: “the discrete, occasional manipulation of one’s own genitals for for pleasure; intercourse positions designed to heighten sexual ecstasy; and intimate, post-coital cuddling and conversation with a loved one, outside the bounds of of the marital bed.” It sounds to me like they’ve subtracted all of the ingredients that make chocolate delicious. Frankly, I wouldn’t want to bite their bitter bar.

Jumping back to the Jews, Jewish law says that “sex is not considered shameful, sinful, or obscene.” Sex is not a necessary evil for the sole purpose of procreation.” While the Torah doesn’t endorse unbridled orgies and porn parties, at least they recognize that having sex won’t send you to Hell. I haven’t read the Talmud lately, but it even “encourages foreplay.” It doesn’t, however, mention black fishnets and crotchless panties.

I’m glad that Jews don’t need to go to confession, like the Catholics. It would be a waste of time to “commit sins,” and then have to confess them to a priest. Not that I’ve ever done any “abhorrent acts.” But even if I had, I certainly wouldn’t share them with a “Jack in the box.”

“Don’t sweat the small stuff” (it could kill you)

I’ve heard of a bad schvitz, but this is ridiculous. Last week in Sedona, Arizona (the modern mecca of spiritual shysters), three people died in a Native American sweat lodge. Additionally, twenty other participants became ill. A huge price to pay, for the $9, 000 forked over to James Arthur Ray; the illustrious leader of the sweat. Apparently I’m one of the vast majority of unenlightened slobs, because I’d never heard of Ray. I also don’t watch Oprah where Ray often appears, to preach his unique brand of “harmonic wealth.” Judging from Ray’s own modest proclamations, if you follow his philosophy you’ll soon be sharing stock secrets with Bill Gates. But don’t purchase that personal jet, just yet.

Even after assiduously reading Ray’s arrogant assertions, I’m still a tad confused, as to the differentiation between ordinary, pedestrian wealth and extraordinary, harmonic wealth. It appears that harmonic wealth isn’t only about accruing boocoo bucks, but having a life that’s both harmonious and healthy. Throw in a few Beemers and a McMansion, and you’ve got the picture.

So how could such a popular paragon of profit fuck up, and turn a sacred ceremony into a dangerous death trap? Beats me. I have an issue with anyone who appropriates and exploits, “bits and pieces” from indigenous cultures, and then charges people for partaking in events. A sweat lodge was originally intended for “ritual cleansing and purification,” not to make some narcissistic white guy even richer. Ray actually had the chutzpah, to call his workshop for the wealthy a “spiritual warrior seminar.”

Gag me with a 24 carat spoon. A spiritual warrior doesn’t need to pay some schlub thousands of dollars to become evolved; because they’ve earned their “war wounds” by trial and error. A spiritual warrior doesn’t need to listen to the metaphysical version of a used car salesman, because they walk their own path. A spiritual warrior doesn’t fast for five days, and then pig out at a brunch. And a spiritual warrior, sure as hell doesn’t wind up sitting with sixty other schmucks in a 120 degree “heated hut,” experiencing “blood, sweat, and fears.”

I’ve endured the joys of a sweat lodge. Once. Frankly, I’d prefer listening to Barry Manilow while having a root canal – to ever setting foot in another lodge. After several hours of feeling like a roasted Costco chicken, I emerged from my ordeal. I was as wrinkled and wrung out as an old dishrag. But I was truly “enlightened”; I vowed to never join a gym that had a sauna.

I’m fortunate that I don’t have the dough, to go to an expensive newage (sewage) retreat. I can achieve my own enlightenment in the privacy of my bath. All I have to do is cram towels under the door, so no steam escapes, turn on the shower, and throw some stones in (for authenticity). I can also light scented candles, put on an Enya cd, and meditate about buying a new kind of cat litter. I might not become as “evolved” as those spoiled, suburban “spiritual warriors,” but I’ll have something valuable that they don’t : my life.

Reverend Moon: Loony Tune

“He’s baaack!” That madcap, marriage-maniacal, matchmaking Moon is at it, again. This week in South Korea (nu, you were expecting maybe Las Vegas?!), Reverend Moon joined 45,000 couples in conjugal bliss. Oy. Although I can’t speak from experience, having never been married, I’d imagine that one wedding is stressful enough – let alone 45,000. That’s a lot of hora dancing, if you’re Jewish. I shudder to think of the catering costs; Ixnay the shrimp and spread the Spam.

To research this post I went online, and discovered that Koreans don’t throw rice, even though it grows in abundance there. Instead it’s a tradition, to wallop the bride with red dates in order to encourage fertility. So much for the white wedding gown. And wouldn’t it make more sense to throw Viagra? Additionally, some Koreans like to “incorporate either ducks or geese into the wedding ceremoney.” I feel sorry for the schmucks who have to clean up the fowl (foul) crap. Especially after Moon’s massive nuptials. Do you suppose that Moon will foot the fat bill for 45,000 honeymooners?

While I bear no ill will towards any of his happy newlyweds, I do harbor a personal resentment for the Moonies. Decades ago, they attempted to recruit and ensnare me in their infamous cult. I was in my twenties and visiting a friend in San Francisco. He invited me to a Moonie potluck, and I had nothing better to do, so I accepted his invite. Time has blurred most of the depressing details, but I still recall their magnificent mansion. We were greeted by the kind of ecstatic welcome, usually reserved for sports’ stars.

That made me slightly suspicious. Why were these strangers acting like I was the Messiah? Or at least an Avon rep. But I didn’t have any miracles to perform, nor possess any beauty potions and lotions. I was overwhelmed by all of the hugging and attention. I’m a friendly person, but this was weird. It was like having a Welcome Wagon posse attack you, with no gifts to give.

Jack and I tried valiantly to join in their Moonie merriment, but it was a stretch. For both my smile and stamina. We were relieved when it was finally time for dinner. But not for long. They served us some kind of Hare Krishna-ish food, but without the orange robes and tambourines. Everything tasted the same: bland and boring. When I asked one of the ever-grimacing greeters if I could have some salt, she reacted like I was asking for speed. “We never use any kinds of spices,” she smugly said, “that would be too stimulating.” I later surmised that when you’re basically brain-dead, almost anything can be considered “stimulating.” Including “Mr. Ed” re-runs.

The highlight of this “enchanting evening,” culminated with the singalong. We all stood in a straggly circle, holding hands, and gazing meaningfully into each other’s eyes. Although I didn’t know any of the words, I tried to go with the flow and quietly hum. I couldn’t wait for the singing to end, and for us to flee the place. But they had other plans for us. Jack grabbed his coat and threw me mine. Suddenly, however, our garments were gripped by our now serious hosts. “It’s too late for you to drive,” one of the moronic Moonies menacingly whispered to us, “far too late.” He had a good point; we should’ve ran, right before the nasty meal.

Despite all of their enticing offers (like an autographed photo of their nefarious leader), we gently but firmly said “No thanks!” Literally. We were only grateful once we were freed from their clutches, and back in Jack’s battered old Bug. When we returned to his home, I promptly puked up my dinner; it was a symbolic rejection of their rigid religion.

So when I read the story about the Moonies mass marriages, I silent said a prayer of thanks. I narrowly averted being one of those 45,000 clueless couples.

Coffee cafe, kooky kids kvetch

I need to vent, again. I love living in Portland, OR, and have very few gripes about the city. Except, for one major issue: kooky kids in coffee cafes. My regular readers already know, my general feeling towards children: “they should be seen and not heard.” At least until they turn ten. In Portland, however, folks feel differently. In almost every cafe, there’s a corner for kids to play in, complete with toys; hence the noise.

I’m not a W.C. Fields, but is it really necessary to take your kids everywhere that you go? Apparently, the resounding answer is “yes!” Whatever happened to the “good ol’ days,” when kids stayed home until they learned not to wail and whine? I support sociological shifts, but I find the constant presence of little ones a big nuisance.

I’m a writer, and do most of my writing in cafes. I can’t count how many times I’ve been disrupted (usually in the midst of a brilliant idea), by crying, kvetching kids. I could almost cope with that by wearing earplugs. But what am I supposed to do, when Johnny drops his cream cheese bagel on my laptop; with the cover still up? I don’t care how many apologies his mom offers, she probably won’t buy me a new Mac. And the thing that really pisses me off, is that if I show the slightest bit of irritation, I’m a “child hater!” God/dess forbid that their adorable demons, shouldn’t be allowed to publicly express their emotions.

News flash!: If you allow your children to run rampant, they’re going to become obnoxious adults. Guaranteed. Parents, do you ever wonder why there are so many “grown-ups” who never “grew up?” Let me clue you in: they were likely allowed to do whatever the fuck they wanted to do; with no concern for the comfort of other people. Let alone the quiet that’s vital to do one’s work. I know that some of you are saying things like, “Why don’t you do your writing at home, and leave my poor kids alone?” No offense, but sooner rather than later, they’ll be forced to learn that they don’t run either the room or the world.

I’ve also noticed that most of these ill-mannered kids have parents that are equally as offensive. What a surprise! I wonder how their children ever learned, that it’s considered acceptable to hog psychological and physical space? If they see and hear mom conducting a loud, one-way conversation on her cell phone, bragging about her new Manolos and impinging on other people’s privacy - then they’ll use that as a rotten role model to emulate. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist  to comprehend the connection between rude parents, and their bratty broods.

I think that this kind of socially unacceptable behavior, is deeply rooted in the “I’m entitled” philosophy that’s prevalent in our narcissistic culture. I hate to break it to you yuppies and burst your beemer bubbles and baubles, but just because you earn a six figure salary, doesn’t entitle you to take over a public place. Ever. There’s no correlation between what you own and what you deserve;  whether you work for a Fortune 500 company, or a Fortune Cookie factory. I know that it’s shocking to hear, but other “low life” people who work two or three jobs just to survive, have exactly the same human rights that you do.

I would also like to suggest to cafe owners, that it’s not the cruddy kids who are paying for your rent, but ordinary folks like me. Is it really asking for too much, to have you remove the kiddie corner and make more room for paying patrons? I was once a kid, and understand the need for them to frolic and have fun. But it shouldn’t be at my expense. Otherwise, I’ll take my business elsewhere and you’ll end up paying the expensive price.

Why don’t some of you create a “kiddie cafe,” where kids can run and romp? I can envision the horror on your faces at this idiotic idea. But that way, your customers can “have their cake” (and coffee), and quiet, too. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be surrounded by screaming, for eight hours a day? I can predict by the end of the first week, you’d have a greater appreciation for “the sound of silence.”

Don’t “give me a sign”

I realize that everyone has to earn a living. But there has to be a better way, than standing in the sunshine wearing a mattress costume. Yesterday, while driving down the street, I saw at least three foolish folks dressed as human advertisements. Although I’ve had some horrible jobs, I’ve never worn a chicken suit, to beckon people for a Colonel Saunder’s meal. Yet.

Would I ever do a job that required me to hold a sign, saying: “Our hot dogs are well hung!”? It’s one of those $10,000 questions, like asking a dyke: “What’s your price for sucking dick?” I’d almost consider doing that (for a fucking fortune), if it meant that I’d be exempted from ever humiliating myself in public. Albeit, no one would recognize me behind the Santa schmatte, but I’d know the truth.

I’m not knocking “creative careers,” but spare me from anything that makes me inhale smog for eight hours, for a job that pays $8.00 an hour. I’m a freelance writer, and once, when I was desperate for work, considered setting up shop in front of an advertising agency. I had the whole thing planned out. I’d bring a table and chair, along with my iBook. My sign would say: “Will write for work.” I’d be busily typing out incredible ad copy, and handing my business cards to prospective employers. I was primed and prepared to do this strange stunt, but my pride prevented me from going through with it.

I suppose that if I was down to my last, ratty cashmere sweater, I might resort to a sign bearing gig. Or not. In any event, I wouldn’t have a hard time finding one. I did a Google search on: “sign holding jobs,” and it netted me over 38, 500, 000 hits. Oy. I’d have a difficult decision choosing between a plethora of paltry post positions. It’d be a hard choice: dancing in front of a coffee cafe, with a styrofoam latte balanced on my head, or wearing a wild wig, to cajole kids into getting their curls clipped.

Fortunately, I still have some stalwart clients who keep me in cashmere (even though most of it’s from Goodwill); but you never know what the future portends. I don’t want to tempt fate, but perhaps I should start stockpiling some signs. If my income goes down, my signs might have to go up. But I refuse to relinquish my writing. If I’m doomed to carry a sign, at least I’ll make certain, that mine will be an award winning one.