Now we're just haggling over the preservatives

Pajama Diaries on the nonsense of "healthy snacks" in an unhealthy world, or, as I like to think of it, the persistence of comforting delusions.

Dear-lord-forty-years-ago, I belonged to a food co-op in Denver that, when we joined, was one of those co-ops where you ordered your three pounds of raw cheddar, your two pounds of short-grain brown rice and your pound of wheatberries on Tuesday and then went and picked them up in a lounge at Denver University on Friday. But then the group moved into an old store front and became one of those co-ops where, if you worked, you got the discount.

We still had meetings, though, including one in which someone objected to signs that read "chicken breasts" on the basis that they were sexist. I'm not making this up, but the protest never got very far, although we were all polite enough not to dissolve in hoots of laughter. A few snickers is all.

And, speaking of Snickers, a more serious and prolonged debate came up over the topic of Tiger's Milk bars, which, a significant number of people argued, was junk food. Which, of course, they are, and which nobody really denied.

The question, rather, was whether we should be selling junk food, and this resulted in a discussion of things like fruit leather, a staple in hip homes with young children and particularly in hip homes where kids packed their own lunches to avoid the crap served in school cafeterias.

And granola, which, at the time, had not yet become a medium for people who wanted to eat bowls of honey, coconut and chocolate chips along with a few nuts, oats and raisins to assuage their guilt, but which admittedly came in both plain (meusli) and sweetened (Neil Diamond) varieties.

And then we got into the entire idiotic discussion of the benefits of honey and brown sugar and raw sugar and turbinado sugar versus the health hazards of the dreaded white sugar.

(As opposed to the current idiotic discussion of the nutritional advantages of sea salt over ... um ... land salt, which is now complicated by the theory that salt from the Himalayas was once sea salt and, besides, it's sort of from where the Dalai Lama comes from and is therefore ... oh, god, I just can't ...)

Howsoever, there was also the discussion over whether we wanted the co-op to be able to afford to continue as a store front or would we prefer to go back to picking up our food once a week on campus? Because, while selling junk food was not spelled out as a critical element in the business plan, it had quickly emerged as one in reality. 

And it would only be a very little bit of junk food, just a few items near the cash register, a waffer-theen meent.

Which of course became an entire aisle with a speed and a sense of irresistability that bridged the gap between the movies "The Blob" (1958) and "Gremlins" (1984).

Or, to quote Firesign Theater:

"This ... this is a bag of shit!"
"Yes, but it's really good shit!"

And speaking of how very, very old I am ...

Maeve is getting a tattoo. I'm used to the idea, but I still don't understand the impulse.

A few years before the Tiger's Milk and fruit leather debate, I thought about a tattoo. The majority of people I knew who had them were either bikers, ex-cons or sailors, but they were beginning to emerge from their traditional areas into the general public.

My problem was that I expected to go through some changes, and putting on a bookmark to permanently anchor me in a certain time and place was the last thing I wanted.

I still feel that a tattoo should include a story. It should evoke, "When I was in the Navy ..." or "I spent two years in a village in Africa ..." or "I did eight years at Joliet ..."

Most people I knew who had done time were not all that eager to talk about it, but at least it's a story that will still be interesting in five years.

A friend recently calculated that he had competed in enough bike races to have circumnavigated the globe and so got a bike tattooed on his calf. That's a story that will hold up as long as the tat, moreso if he adds a second, and he's fit enough to get the chance.

But what's the story behind a little rose on your butt cheek? And when would you get to tell it? And why then?

I am hip to the fact that this is my deal, that I really just don't get it.

That is, I know turbinado sugar is just freaking sugar and that people who think it's healthier are deluding themselves. 

The tattoo thing? Not condemning it. I just honest-to-god don't get it. 

I grow old, I grow old,
I shall carry fruit leather rolled.
Shall I cut my hair behind?
Do I dare to get a tat?
I shall go log onto Facebook
And post pictures of my cat. 

Comments

[Mary in Ohio]

Or, to quote Utah Phillips:

" My God, that's moose-turd pie!"
"Good, though!"

[Mike Peterson]

That story represents a moment when I realized that sometimes you just need to sit back, let the humor happen and not ruin it by pointing out things like the fact that moose don't make big splats like cows and bison but rather piles of berries, like deer and llamas.

Whoops.

[hildigunnur]

I don't get it either but apparently it's just a deep-seated need, one of my friends has a tat and is planning on another. She just needs to do them. Nothing rational about it at all.

[Mary in Ohio]

Mike - the way Phillips told the story, I had the impression the camp cook gathered up the "filling." We must have heard different versions of the joke!

[Mike Peterson]

The original version refers to "it" and has a couple of references that suggest a pie like a cow pie or buffalo chip. He may have made changes to make it work in light of moose droppings details, because the story works just as well that way.

Meanwhile, here's a deep bit of philosophical cowboy poetry that also works with any type of scat, road apples, biscuits, apples or pies:
http://www.cowboypoetry.com/mcrae.htm#Rein