To Kill a Flock 'n Herd.

(source: www.sunsuiwah.com/about/e-about.html)

"...the baby is eaten before it ever has a chance to spread its tiny wings."

This is a line I happened upon while looking back through "Pigeons: The Fascinating Saga Of The World's Most Revered And Reviled Bird" by Andrew D. Blechman. This was in my opinion a great book, and it being a gift from cousin Morgan made it all the better, for any book given to you by a good person has something special about it. That is, if it's a good book, of course. As luck would have it, such was the case.

Ah yes, the strikingly eerie line (taken obnoxiously out of context) below the picture of an adorably-crispy baby pigeon (a.k.a. 'squab'). Well, five minutes ago that was the exact quote in the book my eyes fell upon at random. But even in context, it's still an image of killing a baby pigeon, a.k.a. squab, before its little wings can even move. It just so happens that this makes the juiciest meat of all, which has been known by people since the beginning; apparently the Big Guy In the Sky specifically asked for some tasty squab sacrifices (information I learned from this good book, not The Good Book). But I digress.

Seeing that quote tonight made me actually think about the act of raising animals for food. It also made me reflect on the fact that I feel worse for (but still eat on occasion) baby animals than I do for fully grown animals, which I eat unabashedly. If anything, the little tykes have it easy. They plop out. They eat. They poop. They die. The whole thing is over before they know what snapped their cute little spines.

The grownup Bessie's and Gordy's, unlike their blessed young, have to mature and grow in a prison. Yet I could not care about anything less in the world when I'm holding tenderly in my hands a junior bacon cheeseburger, which actually kills two animals with one stone. (Side note: Pigs are highly intelligent animals who can perform more advanced tasks than dogs. But dogs are cute and pigs are smelly, filthy swine. At least that's what most people have been lead to think). So from now on, I'm going to make a conscious effort to think of the cow, if only for a second, whenever I'm devouring its juicy flesh. (Clarification: by 'make a conscious effort' I mean 'I will be eating beef tomorrow without thinking about the cow at all'). As funny as I may find it that I enjoy eating slaughtered animals, I really have no ethical argument to defend this.

How could I possibly say that I found it completely moral and ethical to raise animals (who don't think like we do but still think and, more importantly, feel pain and discomfort) in dismal conditions for the sole purpose of slaughtering them, which does not always end so quickly? It might seem contradictory to note that I don't really have much of a problem with hunting, as long as it's to eat. At least they're honest to themselves and have to see, skin, gut, and clean the dead animal they're going to eat. I press a button on the microwave and two minutes later I'm ripping into one scalding hot philly cheese steak hot pocket. They don't have a picture of a cow on meat products, and I'm glad they don't, because I don't like mixing guilt and food.

Yet I have no good reason to not feel guilty. Sure, mankind has been raising animals for slaughter since biblical times. But mankind has also been slaughtering mankind since then, yet that doesn't justify killing and mistreating people. Tradition doesn't automatically bring with it morality. Then there's the protein argument, that it's not as healthy to be a vegetarian. Well, the many vegetarians I've known have been quite healthy; in fact, I don't think I've ever seen a fat vegetarian. With soy, nuts, legumes (man do I love that word), dairy (I know, there are ethical problems with that too) and dietary supplements, it seems the modern vegetarian has a variety of options for protein intake.

One possible reason why more men don't give up meat is that doing so would make them feel un-masculine and wimpy. We want slabs of bloody meat slammed onto our plates, the kind of manly food that requires the use of large, manly steak knifes that came right out of Assassin's Monthly magazine. I must admit feeling a primal rush of manhood every time I grab a chicken wing and savagely rip the buffalo-soaked meat from the bone, tossing the remnants into a pile like trophies of my masculinity.

Maybe there is some primal urge programmed into humans that drives us to eat meat. If so, then this primal urge has some serious consequences. We've all heard of the problems involving cholesterol, fat, heart disease, and colon cancer associated with heavy red meat consumption. But there are other less talked-about problems, including the enormous environmental impact of massive commercial meat ranches that contaminate surrounding air and water with tons of cow and pig shit. Plus, "the United Nation’s Food and Agriculture Organization... estimates that livestock production generates nearly a fifth of the world’s greenhouse gases — more than transportation" (New York Times, 1/27/08). Add to this the fact that the majority of grain and soy produced in the world feeds livestock, not humans, of which 800 million suffer from hunger or malnutrition. That's right, instead of feeding starving people, we'd rather feed pigs, cows and chickens...which then feed fat, lazy Westerners.

But as long as meat continues to be so juicy, savory and tender, and until it stops providing good proteins and amino acids, we will continue to raise and kill cow, chicken and pig, and I shall eat them until someone convinces me of a better alternative.

Damn it feels good to be a gangsta

Hello everyone. I hope this fine sunny day finds you in good spirits. My ears are still ringing from playing shows two nights in a row. First I must explain Turkuaz.

Imagine for a moment a packed bar (T.T. The Bear's in Cambridge) with a medium sized stage. Imagine on said stage a 12-piece funk band (the rhythm section all wear matching cream colored dinner jackets circa 1972). Two guitarist/singers, a sick bass player, two smokin' female backup singers, a Central American percussionist who toured the world with Erykah Badu and ?uestlove (pronounced Questlove for everyone that's not Morgan and Dan). To top off this funky cocktail, we spike the drink with two saxes (myself on tenor) and a trumpet player. This is by far the funkiest, most rocking band I've ever been a part of. Thursday's concert was incredible.

We started the evening with some S.E.X. That's the 5-piece blues rock band backed by our bassist Taylor. After their amazing set I realized I had two more hours before I was playing, hence the need to pace myself with the free beers from drink tickets. They'll getchya before you know what hit you.

I had two special appearances by Marty Schwartz himself and a certain gorgeous young lady I'm seeing. She probably thought I was crazy when on our third time hanging out I'm introducing my father to her, though both parties played it cool during the almost inevitably awkward introduction.

Then we took to the stage, the horn section decked out in black shoes, black pants, black shirt, gold bow-ties. It was almost midnight and the concert area was pretty packed with people there to see us. As soon as we started playing we all realized it was going to be one of those shows where you can't hear yourself for shit but you just rock and hope for the best and somehow, almost miraculously, if you put in the right kind of energy in a focused, cohesive manner as a band, somehow it all works out. The audience heard everything just fine. When we kicked into 'Slippery People' by the Talking Heads, they went nuts. I rocked the tambourine. Hard. Actually ripped open a blister on my finger while playing it. There are torture devices that are more ergonomically-friendly. This thing is all metal and sharp edges, designed by someone who clearly had a sadistic hatred for musicians.

Our exhilarating 45-minute set ended with an encore performance of 'Land of a Thousand Dances' (of the Wilson Pickett variety) which has one of my favorite sax parts, a solo actually. It's 100% old school sax with some dirty thrown in for spice. Topped the night off at a party til 5am singing old familiar songs with a huge group of abnormally talented musicians. Then there was Friday night.

Friday we had a show at Hampshire College in Amherst. I had heard of the wonders of this place from Taylor, whose friend got us the gig. I must say it far exceeded my expectations. The place looks like a summer camp for adults. It's a hippy haven, what with its food cooperative, bio-deisel fuel farm, and friendly folks that love live music.

The room was the main floor of a three-story condo unit thing. Couldn't have been more than 500 square feet. But with some creative set up thinking, we spread out along the long wall so that no matter where in the crowd you were, you were in front of one of the musicians. Greg and I didn't have microphones but we didn't need them. We were blowing our face off to people dancing right in front of us. There were people spilling out of the place as soon as we started playing. We must've played almost 3 hours in total. At some points the floor was shaking intensely, with five beers perched precariously atop the P.A. speaker which wobbled around from the undulating floor. Greg and I learned that the floor was a much more suitable resting place for our beers, our only payment for the night. Between songs or during other people's solos I'd duck down for a swig, a wall of dancing people surrounding me. Towards the end we were pressed against the real wall, bombarded with cavorting co-eds, beer spraying everywhere. It was one of the most fun three hours I've ever had.

After the show we got a tour of the coolest parts of the campus. First stop was a root cellar where they store the excess homegrown produce after all the shares of food are distributed each month. We took some carrots, washed and rubbed off the dirt, and devoured them. First time I've ever done that. Won't be my last.

Then we chilled with some goats and a donkey named Francesca. She's wise beyond her years. Her eyes are tired but friendly, her demeanor shy but trusting. Next we checked out some lambs, including adorable baby ones sleeping with their mothers, and some hens. A much-needed trek to the Hess station for some late night snacks and a walk back to the house along open moonlit fields.

I'm starting to feel like a real musician again. Damn does it feel good.

I'm Back

Hello everyone, or should I say, all five of you. I apologize for being M.I.A. for so long. With the insurance job and the digital media collective (www.galaxysmith.com) that I'm starting up with a friend, and hanging out, and going out, and sleeping, and eating, I just didn't have time to post.

Ok, that's obviously a bunch of bull. I just didn't get around to posting for a while. But now I'm back, and like a deadbeat, abusive husband, I'm apologizing and promising it never will happen again, when we both know it very well may. But I'm really going to try to post at least once a week. I enjoy it, you (hopefully) enjoy it, so why not?

The topic I'd like to talk about is the New Years Eve kiss. Everyone wants one, many go without it. I was fortunate enough this New Years Eve to get one, and it was very nice indeed. However, it did get me thinking about the absurdity of it.

If you're in a relationship, screw you. I'm only going to discuss the New Years kiss as it pertains to the rest of us miserable single people. You get to the party around 10:30, and you immediately scope the scene for the perfect someone to lock lips with at midnight. Maybe you start hitting it off early on with a potential candidate, or maybe it takes a little while to click with someone. Usually, however, you start talking with someone, anyone, at around 11:40, leaving the two of you just enough talking time to not feel dirty when at the stroke of midnight you both instinctively start making out. After approximately ten seconds of spit-swapping, you release lips, smile at each other, and go get another drink. At this point your commitment to each other has expired, and can only be renewed if both parties show further interest. If one or both parties wants out, the relationship is rightfully terminated, allowing both parties to continue drinking.

When did this New Years Eve kiss become such a big thing? Is there any other night in the year when it's acceptable, nay, expected, for you to make out with someone you just met, simply because of what time the clock says? "Hey you over there, yeah you with the short skirt. It's Columbus Day and it just turned midnight. We better make out." For some reason that doesn't sound right. Why can't we have a Midnight Makeout every Friday night? Fox Channel could have a PSA "It's 11:40 on a Friday night. Do you know who you're going to make out with?"

Don't get me wrong, it was very nice to have someone to kiss on New Years Eve. And I did talk with her for more than 20 minutes before midnight. We must've talked maybe 30 minutes or so.

What a Riot

I do not understand the logic behind celebratory riots. Many riots you hear about are celebrations of a joyous occasion, like your stupid local sports team winning a championship. The thought process (though I doubt there's much thinking involved) seems to go something like this: "After a long, arduous season filled with ups and downs culminating in a nail-biting final game in which our team manages to pull through against all odds and win, bringing hope and boundless joy to our city, I think I'll express my utter glee by destroying shit. Nothing says 'this is the happiest moment of my life' like a nice bottle to a cop's head, or maybe a structure fire if I'm really feeling bubbly. I love my city! Now let's burn this city down!'"

I can understand rioting if you're pissed off. Hell, I got caught in the middle of a riot in Barcelona that started in protest of a law that banned drinking in the streets (by 'caught in the middle' I mean I eagerly planted myself smack dab in the middle of the last stronghold of rioters. I immediately regretted that decision). You cops won't let us drink a bottle of vodka in the street among friends? How about I fill said bottle with gasoline, stuff an oily rag in the top, light the rag, and throw the fiery concoction at you? I knew I was in the wrong party when they started serving Molotov cocktails. Not to be outdone, the uniformed hosts then started playing a perennial party favorite: firing crowd control bean bags from shotguns indiscriminately at the crowd.

As stupid as that riot was (almost all riots are stupid), at least it was out of anger. If I won the lottery, I'm almost certain my reaction wouldn't be to punch the nearest person in the mouth. That makes about as much sense as rioting in celebration.

I want to be a wine connoisseur, I really do. When I choose a bottle, I want to be able to recite the family history of the charming old Italian family that's run that specific vineyard for centuries. I want to cork the bottle with a grace that comes from years of opening bottles and enjoying them in good company. When I expertly pour the first glass, I want to place the lip of the glass just beneath my sensitive nostrils and, before daring to whet my lips, take a deep whiff of the aromatic nectar that brings me back to the autumn afternoon in Tuscany when I first tasted that grape. When I press my lips to the glass, eyes closed, and let the mahogany-colored liquid glide onto my tongue, I want to be inundated with the rich flavors and intricate subtleties of the grape; with each subsequent sip, I want to be able to better identify the type of wood the wine was cased in and say things like, "ah yes, the palette is graced with hints of tobacco and pepper, the bouquet haunted by the lingering memory of autumn peaches."

Wait a second, I hate those people! Why the fuck would I want to drink something that tastes like tobacco and pepper? "Hey, have you tried the new Dr. TobaccoPepper Lite? Same great tobacco and pepper taste with half the calories!" And how can wine taste like tobacco? You're full of shit. There is probably a handful of people in the world whose senses of taste and smell are so freakishly refined that they can actually dissect a wine and determine its individual flavors. But I thought wine is just made from grapes. How the hell did peaches get in there? In my mind, bouquets are over-priced bundles of flowers and tissue paper that are useless after a few days when the flowers die.

So I guess I'm a bit conflicted over my wine desires. On the one hand, I'd like to look sophisticated and mature in front on a nice date or in the company of adults. On the other hand, I don't want to have to punch myself in the face for being a pretentious prick. So until I sort out these conflicting emotions, when I'm on a date it'll be the usual, which is the second-cheapest bottle on the menu. That shows the girl you're a shrewd shopper, but you still have some class. And in the company of adults, I'll stick to saying I love the wine they serve me even when I hate it, and trying to stop myself from knocking back three glasses when I do like it. It's worked for me so far.

Lack of Lactose

It's all about the milk, I tell ya'. And by 'it' I mean athleticism and muscles. You see, it's a known fact that Jews don't exactly excel in athletics on a large scale. When you see a big, beefy linebacker coming off a high school football field, chances are he isn't a Schwartz. And chances are he drinks milk with dinner.

Growing up, I would never have milk with dinner. I would drink it after as a healthy frosty dessert beverage, and indeed I really did and do love the stuff. I just never drank that much of it. I've asked my Jewish friends about their milk-drinking habits growing up, and they too did not report drinking milk with dinner.

However, when I would eat dinner at a non-Jewish friend's house, there would be a tall glass of milk in front of my plate. In college, my gentile friends would wash down their tray of refried garbage at the dining hall with a glass of 2%. I wouldn't think anything of this if it weren't for the blaring difference in physical size and athleticism between us Jews and them non-Jews. I would have sprained my ankle just stepping foot onto a high school football field. My Jewish friends in high school were on the same level of fragility. I'd watch in amazement as my Christian counterparts lifted heavy weights, got big and strong, and competed in intense physical competitions. I, on the other hand, pulled a muscle bowling for the bowling team. That was my only varsity letter. Bowling was also the only high school sport in which you could smoke cigarettes and eat cheese fries during an athletic competition.

But back to milk. I really think Jewish parents are turning their children into fragile weaklings by depriving them of their needed calcium and other nutrients. Could it be that they want to keep their precious little babies off the dangerous football field and in their rooms doing homework? Perhaps. But I think we deserve an equal chance at excelling in athletics, a field we've been falling short in ever since basketball players stopped shooting foul shots underhand. (Dad, I know shooting foul shots underhand is actually an accurate method once you learn how to do it, and that these overpaid players who can't make foul shots could improve their free throw percentage drastically by learning to do it underhand. But it's just lame. Really lame. And it makes us look bad.)

Allow Me to Explain Myself...

I apologize for the rash of poetry posts. And no, I did not write all of those last night. I lack the drugs, depression, and/or insane talent to spew out 6 poems in a few minutes. All except for the one with the gnarly gramps were written by me a couple of years ago in Sophomore Poetry Workshop, a class at Syracuse that was certainly sophomoric. Any child who talks constantly when the teacher is talking is absolutely absurd, especially when the child is a 20-year-old college student. I was in more functional classrooms back in elementary school.

But even bigger than the class was the system it was in. What kind of well-regarded, heinously expensive liberal arts school offers but one single poetry workshop, AND ONLY FOR SOPHOMORES?! What!? Obviously my schedule both semesters sophomore year didn't allow me to take the goddamn class. Then the next year as a junior, it would only be natural that I had to get a petition filled out which bestowed upon me, a weird junior outsider who had no natural-born right to enroll in the only poetry workshop available, the honor of being ALLOWED to take the shitty class. You could cut the tension with a knife the day I came clean to the sophomores about my true grade level.

To be fair, the class wasn't all terrible, considering it got me to actually start writing poetry again. I posted some of those very poems last night because the mood just struck me to dig up some writing from the past. I hope you enjoyed.