Eric Schlosser, �Fast Food Nation�
When I finally convinced myself to go back to school, one of my first classes was �Critical Thinking.� I figured, �well, I think, and I criticize. This should be easy.� And for the most part, it was. One difficult area was getting past the adult/authority complex I had, which was easy once I discovered that instructors in college actually want people to have opinions and a willingness to voice them.
Harder to get over was the fact that this particular instructor was an old grizzled WASP-y version of Jeff Goldblum with white hair and a million wrinkles. He would stand directly in front of you while you spoke, leaning in to make sure he heard you correctly, his entire face pulled taut as he anticipated you saying something of value to the class, lips flared back exposing yellowed teeth as he�d squint and grunt. The entire effect looked like he was going to take a massive dump right in front of you.
It�s hard to think on your feet in situations like that.
Being a class that tried to incorporate elements of philosophy with common sense, he liked the people who had real-life examples to use. He liked others who did well with going past the self into issues and ethics of the world. He liked me, I suspect, because I was a smartass.
(Speaking of which, The Honolulu Weekly just published another bar review from me. I wrote this one a month ago and promptly forgot what I wrote. I think I actually come off as kind of a dick. You can decide by going here.)
Anyhoo, he told us our final project was for us to argue a controversial issue. He was serious about this, probably because he was of that age where they have this euphoric reminiscence of the 60s and he hated the apathetic kids these days, what with their big pants and baseball caps worn to the side. What people like this always forget is that no matter how involved people were, an era that brought us the Grateful Dead is one best never spoken of again.
So people started picking the obvious topics: Both sides of the Abortion Issue. Church and State. The Death Penalty. School Prayer. Since this was a community college, and I suspect he was tired of reading things that obviously weren�t researched, or thought out, or spell checked, he had three stages to the project. First, we had to make a two-page outline of what our topic was, which had to be approved by him. Then we�d write up the first four to six pages as a rough draft, citing at least three sources. The final paper was to be between 12 to 15 pages with no less than six sources, only one of which was allowed to come from the Internet, which wasn�t considered trustworthy in those days. The kicker was that we had to present a viable solution to whatever topic we addressed.
I don�t remember what I wrote on my original proposal, but I know it had something to do with the food production, concentrated on the meat industry. It was approved and in fact, he seemed enthusiastic about my subject. I started my research, going through a lot of the vegetarian bibles like Jeremy Rifkin�s �Beyond Beef,� John Robbins �Diet for a New America,� and to add a bit of history and class, Upton Sinclair�s �The Jungle.�
On the day we turned in our rough draft, he had people talk about the subjects that we picked. It didn�t take long before he called on me. I explained the shortcomings of the meat industry, what with the massive soil erosion, environmental damage, unfair government subsidies and waste of product in a world where millions go hungry.
�See?� said the instructor, addressing the class, �he�s talking about issues that affect us all, and it�s fairly easy to see where he can take a stance. You�re going to suggest the viability of becoming a vegetarian, right?�
�No,� I said simply.
�No? Aren�t you a vegetarian?�
�Oh God, no,� I answered.
He looked confused but took my paper. The next week I collected my paper from a pile on his desk and saw the words �SEE ME� written in huge red script across the title page.
I got in line when class ended joining the ranks of others who were having issues with their English skills and he asked if I�d be willing to wait a bit before he got to me. After the class ended, he took my paper, gripping it tight in both hands.
�Your sources are good,� he said, �as is your argumentative skills. And the writing is top-notch. What I have a problem with is your solution to the issue of factory farming.�
I didn�t say anything.
�I think you need to change your solution to one that suggests the benefits of a vegetarian lifestyle.�
�But I�m not a vegetarian,� I said. �How can you expect me to argue for a lifestyle choice that I don�t support?�
�Listen, this is a course on critical thinking. You can not possibly convince people the viable alternative is to replace cattle farming with human meat production plants.�
�Well, that�s the purpose of this course, isn�t it?� I reasoned. �To get people thinking about unconventional solutions?�
�It�s not feasible.�
�I plan to show that it is.�
�It�s not ethical.�
�I hope to prove that it can be.�
�This paper counts toward a third of your grade; it might lower what at this point is a very high mark.�
�I�ve failed classes before.�
He stared at me for a minute. Two minutes. Then he tossed my paper across the desk. �I only hope you know what you�re doing,� he said as I collected my things. As I reached the door he spoke up again.
�Actually, I take that back. I hope you don�t know what you�re doing.�
I was a vegetarian for about two years, right up to just before I went back to school, because my girlfriend decided to switch over after seeing some chickens at a flea market crammed together in an enclosed space that was almost smaller than the apartment I lived in with the lesbians when I first got here. My other roommate, who was also my evil twin as well as a militant vegetarian, seized the opportunity to show her all the pictures of inhumane treatment. Since I did all of the cooking, I decided it would be easier for me to live in her moral void, rather than try and cook for two. They�ve both since become carnivores, by the way.
I admit it � I like meat. I like it a lot. Two of my favorite meat-related moments came from restaurants. The first came from a waitress who, after we ordered hamburgers said, �You know why I don�t eat meat? �Cause cows look at you like this...� She then put on big sad face with big eyes. I now use that as an excuse on why I eat cows.
The second came from an Outback Steakhouse, where to be quirky and Australian, they�ve decided that �medium� means �medium rare,� �medium rare� means �rare,� and so on. Mr. Sleepy, Monkeyboy and myself were ordering from a particularly hot waitress when she explained their version of medium rare, saying �it�s warm and pink all the way through� in a voice so husky it could pull a dogsled.
We all ordered our steaks medium rare that night.
And so reading this book nearly a decade later after all the research I did for this class doesn�t provide many new revelations to me, though it is very well written and researched. Also, after reading about the child who got sick from eating some undercooked meat and the doctors had to drill holes in his skull because the toxins were making his brain expand, I�m not ordering anything medium rare, no matter how warm and pink it is.
But meat actually became the savior to my sexiness. I�d been a skinny kid for most of my life, and I remember the girl who was at my house who said in front of my mother, probably making her jot down another possible conclusion on what exactly was wrong with me, that I had the physique of a heroin addict. That all changed when I decided to become a vegetarian for the sake of my girlfriend. Admittedly, her idea of a vegetarian was to order a lot of pizza, and she had a friend who was the manager of the local Round Table, meaning we got all our pizza for free. The result was that I lost my heroin addict physique, and started to look like a donut addict.
I didn�t even recognize it, making me into one of those obnoxious people in the commercials wailing about how I hadn�t realized how heavy I had become until I got the photos back from some insipid vacation, though my photos were from a Halloween party. I went back to a more all-inclusive diet and lost the excessive weight, but still never regained that heroin addict look.
And then finally, due to a financial crunch, I found that I had no money for three weeks, and the only food I had was a surplus of meat from Costco. I called it the Involuntary Atkins Plan. And it worked! I went from somewhere around 185 � 190 lbs to a hundred and sixty-five, which was less than I weighed when I was dubbed with the heroin chic moniker. I was a sexy, svelte, smoldering showcase.
My finances evened out, and I was once again allowed to go back to things like La Victoria burritos and the best pizza place around, with no affect on my weight. And then I moved to Hawaii. Or what I should say is, then I moved to Hawaii and was flat broke, only this time I didn�t have a surplus of meat and survived off potatoes and Top Ramen.
I knew I was heavier, and I finally broke down a scale to confront myself with that fact, particularly since I was gearing up to meet Kelly�s parents. They already knew I was old. They already knew I wasn�t successful. They also knew I had purple hair. I didn�t want to throw �fat� into the equation. I stocked up on meat from Costco.
It didn�t work. But this is too long already. Soon, children � soon I will get to the subject of white weddings and white people.
As for my paper � and the class � I got an A.
