Vitals are still strong after consuming a full cup of raw cow’s milk, which is surprising because I had imagined a wholly different scenario, one that basically concluded with me dead, facedown in an unfinished bowl of soggy raisin bran. It was a stark vision. I pictured a world gone hazy just four or five spoonfuls into the taste test, tryptophan coursing fiercely through my arteries, tonight’s post a scant two lines deep, and my fist clenched–as tightly as anyone with a fatal prion overload could manage, anyway–in one final act of defiance.
Obviously some dramatic license was employed here. But understand that when Earth Chick held forth on the consequences of pasteurization and its genocidal effects on nutrients, I initially interpreted the viewpoint as an all-natural middle finger directed toward the Industrial Revolution. I appreciate the creature comforts offered by modernity. Central air. Stay-fresh packaging. Genetically modified foodstuffs. Sure, I have my limits–the Grapple and the majestic Beefalo give pause, for instance–but if a giant pear happens to have three stems, one being its birthright and the other two for channeling chocolate and raspberry flavors, well hey. KFC, similarly, may have recently discovered how to breed chickens that possess fully breaded tenders for legs, and that’s just more glory to the Colonel, you know?
I’m kidding, of course. KFC made that breakthrough years ago. And although I’ve probably consumed enough preservatives to grant an unnaturally long life, but definitely not enough MSG, as is the wont of my ancestors, to make these very hands savory, I’ve found myself buying more organic products lately. Raw milk simply seemed like the next step. It’s illegal to peddle in this state, however, but fortunately South Carolina shares no such qualms, and today I received a whole gallon, generously gifted from a caravan that apparently traffics the illicitly delicious stuff regularly. I did my research before I drank. Went to the farm’s website. Scanned the FAQ. Browsed the relevant Wikipedia entries for all the risks. Ascertained whether mad cow disease could possibly find conduit through the substance.
As the moment of truth approached, though, all these scholarly pursuits were diminished, replaced instead by behavior as animal as the milk itself. I peered suspiciously at the plastic container. Circled around it. Gingerly popped open the cap and took a few wary sniffs. In the back of my mind, I realized this felt exactly the same as learning the fineries of handguns–this anxiety of having mortality at my fingertips. I took the plunge. And wouldn’t you know it, nothing happened. It tasted richer than the processed kind. Sat well enough after consumption. Whether I’ll commit henceforth to purchasing directly from the udder, I’ll decide after I finish the gallon, but the fear of debilitating disease has certainly subsided. You could call it a moot point. Pun detector, activate.
Very rarely will I have the wherewithal to stand in line and spend more than 15 minutes waiting for something, be it gas or Nintendo Wiis or delicious sandwiches, because the commodity is usually easily attainable, provided you time your visit to beat the bell curve. When I pulled into an early voting precinct for a second try on Friday at 2:45 PM, fully believing I had selected a time that would right-angle the population at large, I was promptly put in my place.
Civic responsibility apparently can be just as appealing as a burrito, and the 45-minute wait, which easily ballooned into an hour or two as the line steadily grew, suggested the demand to vote was certainly there. In the final accounting, 45 minutes every four years seemed more than reasonable, a price easily paid to partake in something larger than myself. Here, at this point in time, it felt as if my vote, however small it may have seemed, was dropped into history itself.
What came after the wait was pleasantly familiar. The hurried, nomadic, yet strangely orderly setup of the voting booths and registration tables. Handing my license to a woman old enough to have seen Washington himself cross the Delaware. The same slick computer system they used for the primaries. What was surprising was the metric shitload of officials and questions after page one, where a more reasonable citizen would’ve abstained from voting because of lack of information. I took it upon myself to be an arbiter of balance, denying a vote to those who ran unopposed, approving the continued existence of potholes, giving big-ups to other Bens, and choosing any name with stripperly undertones. I’m pretty sure I voted for a Destiny or Candi or someone who sounded familiar with both the polls and, if I may, the poles.
There was one judge whom I voted against, however, knowing full well why. This fellow had taken it upon himself to make camp in front of the parking garage, accosting passers-by with a constant grin and ready handshakes. I assume his appearance was founded on two suppositions: first, would-be voters would care to see a minor line item come to life before their very eyes and, secondly, actually want to touch him. Fortunately I had left the office with backup, and at the precise moment we passed by the danger zone, just as the tall animatronic began extending a paw, I smoothly swiveled to safety and sacrificed King Calm’s right hand to Judge Friendly. It was like a backwards Secret Service.
Flu shot junkies normally find fixes at sanctioned outlets like the doctor’s office, the local pharmacy, or the area Target, but here in Charlotte there exists an alternative supplier. I’ve been looking to inoculate myself against three or four of the 3,578,963,511 possible strains of influenza, so when I happened upon a full-sized pseudo-camouflaged camper parked in a nearby shopping center in broad daylight, it was as if my prayers had been answered. “FLU VACCINATIONS TODAY,” said the poster tacked on its side. Finally! A medical provider who could possibly accept fresh possum in addition to more traditional forms of currency.
Whenever the weekend nears, I instinctively begin to think about church and dread the attendance thereof. If your spiritual capital has all but evaporated, the Bible Belt would appear to be the ideal venue for renewal, though every Sunday continues to be a carnival of rationalizations to disengage. Even when I do make the trip, a tremendous gulf widens during the service as I wonder what, precisely, I’m missing. Maybe it’s because of the couple tearing up in front of me over a baptism, or perhaps it’s the singers on stage who seem perpetually enraptured, but I’m often left wondering whether actual blood flows through my veins, rather than an inert substance lifted from a college chemistry lab somewhere. Sure, some of the motions could be faked. To me, however, even the motivation to appear as such is admirable.
It’s not a great feeling, obviously. Empty. That’s one good adjective. Pressed. There’s another one. But community and service are the two commodities usually stressed the most, and of course I’d prefer to avoid both. There simply isn’t a desire to hand out programs, or volunteer at the soup kitchen, or pretend Mrs. Chesterton’s potluck meatloaf is delicious. It’s an impasse, perhaps a terrible one. 48 hours until Sunday, same two questions as always. How do I change? Is there a place for me?