Tuesday, October 13, 2009

I would like it medium-rare please.

Alright. All of my homework, for the time being, is finished, and since I'm not feeling so hot, I decided to have an evening of rest-n-relaxation. I don't know what the hell is going on with me, but it seems like irritable bowel syndrome. I guess if I were to abbreviate that I could spare myself some embarrassment, with only the IBS clan getting the wink. Nah, of course I'm not embarrassed. Hell, I'm declaring it here on this public forum. Things are not working right downstairs and out the back door, if ya know what'm sayin'......AND,I think you do.

So, I have a little time to blog now, and I wanted to blog about something other than school. I'm sure that this will become harder to do as the term progresses, so I wanted to take advantage of a little time. But where do I start?

Good ol' Pa. How 'bout with him? I have been telling Rich Bachelor that I was gonna write about my father one of these days, and I guess this is a good opportunity to do so. I probably wouldn't have thought about it for this post because an attempt to describe my father can be complicated, but tonight I gave a call to the parents, and upon hearing that I was sick, my dad relayed a message to me via my mother: stop eating all of that rare meat! I couldn't resist.

This is as good of an introduction to my father as any. Adamant, stern, determined to make causal links where there are none, etc... I could go on with that list, but I got plenty of blog-space, and in the coming times he's sure to get more than a once-over.

Growing up as kids, we weren't so much not allowed to eat pink meat as we were just not exposed to it. My father is definitely not unusual in his meat-cookery; plenty of people out in the sticks, in this case a small Southern Oregon town, cook a steak till it's textured like a leather shoe. I believe I was 18 years old before I had a steak that was cooked medium, and I'm sure most of my friends were too. In my father's case though, maltreatment of a steak is a consequence of an ever-expansive paranoia, rather than out of hillbilly neglect. Each time I see him he's found another thing that causes cancer, and suggests that I join him in his boycott. Has he told me that eating rare steaks causes cancer? Not exactly, but he's told me my toothpaste, my earrings, and my soap are poisoning me. Sushi is gonna give you a parasite, and dairy products are "about the worst thing you can put in your body." On that last part, I thought that he was being rather progressive, standing up for vegans and shit. But no, he hates 'hippies.' And one time, over a Thanksgiving dinner when I was 16 and vegetarian, he let me know that vegetarianism was the worst diet for my poor cardiovascular system. Mind you, there was some explanation behind all of these things, but they struck me as the kind of logical inferences that come from knowing half the story. I think it follows that when he's boycotted anything, it's purely ideologically driven and a bit exaggerated: he can't merely dislike the taste of a grape -- grapes are either poisoning you or trying to overthrow the government. Yes, this includes the whole spectrum: from undercooked meats to hygiene products to Hollywood actors. Though my father hasn't yet told me if watching Sean Penn will give you cancer, he sure does hate him.

And oh, by the way,...."you'll see the end times in your lifetime." He chose to use this phrase to interrupt the pleasant-until-then conversation on Christmas day, years ago. I guess the occasion had stirred him so, and he felt a monologue was in need. This is not surprising. He is notorious for killing a conversation while alienating those involved in said conversation. According to my mother, the last time this happened was when they had dinner guests over. Dinner guests are republican, but not willing to go as far as my father, apparently, or maybe not wanting to talk politics at the dinner table. I wasn't told what my father actually said, all I was told was that their guests really wanted to change the subject, felt uncomfortable, and left early.

Yeah, as you can tell, I think that my father can be pretty silly at times. This post really just grazes; there is a lot more to ground to cover, and at some point later I will (damn, this sounds like some sort of agricultural pun). My father's interest in essential oils could be another topic to explore. Or I could talk about his newly acquired machine that delivers low-level, yet cancer-curing electric shocks to one's system...


  1. "Good night, Wesley! Probably kill you in the morning!"

    And that electrical-shock device/thing that cures you of cancer is right outta the 1920's fad health craze playbook.

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