Catching these little creatures and putting them in a mason jar was a past time for me and my little brother growing up on a horse farm in Tennessee. We were up to no good as usual. We would run through the blueberry patches behind our house with empty jars trying to fill them with as many warm glowing prisoners as possible. The lightning bugs were the lucky ones let me tell you. Animal activists everywhere would've totally flipped if they knew we were held up in our parents’ basement pushing hamsters off self made ramps in small plastic cars. Don't worry, we made them wear those tiny football collectible helmets. Let’s just say I have a lot of animal karma to repay ok? I used to enjoy stepping on an ant and having that control. Now I practically fall over trying to avoid it. Who am I to decide if this little dude deserves a free pass? I mean he’s really busy right now, urgently going somewhere way more important than me. Unlike me, he’s not unsure about what he’s doing here in the big city. In fact, this little urban ant is just burning with purpose. I no longer kill......just because. I won’t lie to you. If I see a cock roach crawling around in my kitchen I will exhaust myself trying to end its disgusting little life. I don’t give a shit about its purpose! How does one ever in a million years make penance for shooting a country mouse up in a rocket only so it can parachute down instead of the little green plastic soldier? Fievel never had a chance people. But let me assure you that he was securely rigged into a mouse safety suit. You see we were very responsible actually. I mean we thought his chances were good considering the expertise we had in constructing sky diving rodent gear from scratch. Then, there was the shameful exchange of a real live poodle named Skippy for my neighbor’s Super Mario Bros. 2 Nintendo game. My brother rightfully accused me of having no conscious or caring soul. And at the time he was right. It would be years before our rein of red neck terror would end. What can I say? I wanted to be the floating princess and Skippy never skipped anyway.
Looking back I know that I owe my puppy eternal loyalty and respect, all the things she brings to my life. She is my highest priority and I couldn’t adore her more. But it’s a fine line between being a pack leader and a man servant. Most little dogs can get away with murder because they are camouflaged in cuteness. My buddy Dave’s pit bulls are so much better behaved than the raging, screaming little Chihuahua that comes tearing out of my building every day charging angrily for my Achilles tendon. That little fucker could end a dance career! Warning: do not be deceived by this seemingly sweet looking little stick of dynamite. There were insect genocides throughout my early childhood, not to mention all the unlucky tad polls that ended up frozen individually in ice cubes and served to the ladies that attended my mother’s bible study prayer meeting........Ooops! There’s no excuse for red neck hamster hijincks or cow tipping (which we never did). And there’s never a good time to TP someone’s front yard either. I think a lot of bored country kids in the south are probably running from the insect ethical police as well. I have flashbacks of me holding a glowing fly-swatter covered in the guts of countless squished lightning bugs. I was acting the part of the country king, marching proudly into my kitchen (to my mother’s horror) waving a golden radiant septer of death. Let’s be honest, my bother was the king. I was the ferry sprite princess frolicking around doing sickled tour jetes and scenes from Giselle and Manon. Let's just say that there were self-made Pointe shoes involved ok? This bloody wand represented why it really sucks to be poor and bored in the country after being born in New Orleans. I was a city kid moved to the middle of nowhere to a town called Sevierville! I kid you not. You’re telling me it was a huge shocker that I ended up being the homo that I am today? Nobody saw the signs...really? I was the only kid that begged for ballet class and got a package of six figure skating lessons for my thirteenth birthday. Come on people, there was no mystery here at all. I was the kid that was getting his head slammed into lockers by hillbillies named Misty. Looking back I should’ve gone against everything I knew at the time and punched that cunt in the face! I’m sure she’s still a toothless wonder, pregnant with her father's third baby, and still living in the same double wide she came from. But I’m not bitter or anything.
As an adult I didn’t eat meat for several years as I worked through the guilt. And I wasn’t a smart vegetarian either. I barely ate anything with a shadow. I found myself weak and tired all the time, starving myself for a greater cause while reading animal activist books and seweing my mouth shut (probably protesting my past as the abuser more than any mission I might be on). I began focusing on the doom and gloom of the food industry and it made me loose my appetite in every way....every day. I only focused on where and how the meat actually came to be in the little freeze dried packages and didn’t supplement my diet with healthy things. I tossed and turned while having nightmares of the sweet little veal calves dangling just off the ground, suspended in harnesses and unable to ever walk the earth like god intended them to, even just for a little while. Couldn't they be let out for even a couple of sensible turns around the barn yard like incarcerated prisoners making the most out of the one hour a day they have to experience the sun on their face or anything social? I guess we could consider these little guys "Range Free" couldn't we? I was burning at the stake for all those alien almost-chickens that get crammed into metal crates with their beaks cut off, never seeing the light of day either and en route straight to the chop shop that makes our chicken Mcnuggets. An the hard core books on my shelves definitely fueled my no-harm hunger crusade.
Flash forward several emaciated years and I find myself catching the whiff of a hot dog cart outside of Radio City. I don’t know what came over me or why I instantly began salivating at the idea of tasting the scariest meat on earth....the dirty water dog! I stopped in my tracks and couldn’t believe it as I found myself turning around and getting in a line for a fucking hot dog. Any will power flew out the window when the guy asked me if I wanted ketchup and mustard, two things I’d missed terribly and had no use for over the past two years. God how I love condiments! I love the miscellaneous drawer in every New York kitchen that is overflowing with little left over take out packages of soy sauce, mustard, and salt and pepper. I closed my eyes and slowly started eating my first hot dog in forever. Nothing, I repeat, Nothing has ever, ever, ever tasted better than my first bite of the city’s finest mystery meat! It was blissful for all of three minutes. After about ten feet of walking my stomach seized up in a horrible knot so painful that I crumbled over in the worst stomach cramp I’ve ever experienced in my life! Of course I didn’t start with a little chicken broth. Nooooo, not David Tankersley, it's all or nothing, That, in fact, would’ve been wise. I can only equate the experience to feel a lot like what I imagine it feels like to being shot in the stomach at point blank range. Today I’ll eat the ass end out of a fillet mignon wrapped in bacon....don't threaten me!
In New York I’ve noticed how expensive it is to eat healthy. My conductor friend Joan is rocking her new body this summer because she has been eating only raw food exclusively for the last year and boy is this bitch glowing. If I cared (and could afford it) I would eat raw and work with a personal trainer every day if I could. But for now it’s going to continue to be an epic challenge to consider healthy living up in Harlem where every day I slip on a chicken bone or dime bag. Finding healthy food in the Bermuda triangle of imigration lawyers, fried chicken joints, and bail bondsmen is virtually an impossible mission. I can’t even identify some of the crazy looking things that are sitting in the greasy windows of those mobile Spanish van/kitchens that flip open and become an instant empanada stand. What should be a Dagistinos is instead a family-run Carniceria that looks like a city health inspector’s worst nightmare. There’s no avoiding the curse of the Harlem diet, cross my heart and hope to live.
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