If Fish Were Cute, I Would Be a Vegetarian. Part I.

If Fish Were Cute, I Would Be a Vegetarian. Part I.

I have observed that in over the past five years there has been an explosion of people declaring themselves to have a diet contrary to our “normal” omnivore ways. Dear Reader, I do not wish to offend you if you are one of the many who goes into a “carnivorous frenzy” when he hears “Korean BBQ.” I merely state “normal” because we have both bicuspids and molars. If we only had molars, I guess we would be vegetarians. And if we only had bicuspids, I guess we would be vampires.

But why, why the phenomenon to declare that you are: the relatively-common “vegetarian,” or the militant “vegan”? Why isn’t it like sexuality or even one’s preference for shoes. I keep it to myself, and if you really want to know, just look in my closet. I am reminded about an event in college where my roommate and I brought ham salad to a party. In retrospect it was a bad idea. I still flog myself knowing that I contributed to the increased sodium and nitrates of some of Nashville’s young-and-finest. But I also rationalized it with the fact that my roommate bought the thing, I was merely an accomplice. Anyway, we carried it to the party and my roommate who will be known as “Stan” (I am withholding his actual name in fear of libel), placed the salad in the fridge. After doing so, we marched our awkward selves back into the group hoping to be assimilated by the college equivalent of Species 8472. While Stan was awkwardly flirting with this ogress, who was too good for him, I was fumbling through the host’s bookshelf. Tuesdays with Morrie (blech!), Suzie Orman (please shoot me), something by Mary Higgens Clark (egads!!), and an equally my mind-numbing diddy by Nicholas Sparks (but if any of you talk shit about the Notebook, I will fucking shank you). As the mental pinball was bouncing through my head – as I judged the host on her lack of literary good taste, I heard a minor commotion in the kitchen. A few of the guests went over to the kitchen to see what was happening. I was merely thumbing through Who Moved My Cheese, when a girl, with somewhat pleasant features, of average height, excellent shoes, stumbled out of the kitchen yelling “Who the fuck put ham in the fridge – I am vegan!” I volunteered “Stan did because it was on sale at Kroger.”

Stan does not talk to me anymore. We were never the best of friends, but we were chums. We were roommates. I knew more about his feeding, bathing and migratory habits than his mother. But somehow, like plate tectonics, we drifted apart. I like to think he lost his life in a fraternity; comprised of 4 members. That I lost mine at Yves Saint Laurant. But as I write, the more I am willing to pin the blame on that harpy at the party. I guess Stan viewed me as Judas for selling him out, and I do not view him as one who would read the Apocrypha. But you have to understand, Dear Reader, this banshee in fabulous Manolos was out for blood. She apparently cannot eat anything that shares the same fridge with any sort of meat product.

Well she is the only vegan I ever met. Like politics, religion, and sexual positions, I guess there are many extremes. Maybe not all vegans are crazy like that. But I only met one, so my sample size is too small for me to judge. But you know what I find aggravating? Well that come back for Part II.

For Tomorrow: If Fish Were Cute, I Would Be a Vegetarian. Part II