Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Muriel Spark died. This is probably not a huge deal to you. But it is to me. A huge deal.
Why? you ask. Have you read Driver's Seat? (Female? Single? Lonely? Stressed at work? Hmmmm, now why does that sound familiar....) Loitering with Intent (hysterical and more relevant and poignant today in the "age of blogging" than it was when published in '81. It should be required reading for all self important bloggers thinking they'll get a book deal out of it) The Comforters? The Girls of Slender Means? Memento Mori? (I've yet to be able to read this without having to put it down for a good cry and a good laugh.) Prime of Miss Jean Brody?
No? You didn't realize she wrote all of those books? Stop reading this idiotic blog and go read one or all of those books for a start down a trail of literary and philosopical enlightenment. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll learn and you'll engage your brain.
We've lost a literary treasure and genius. Sure, her legacy will live on in her books. But. Whatever. She's gone and it's sad. Go read one of her books.
11:50 AM
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
I’ve had bad days. I’ve had good days. I’ve had in-between days. Life, you know? Ups, downs, middles.
But yesterday will go down as one of the weirdest days in my life thus far.
My boss loudly and publicly took credit for some of my ideas and then after basking in the “glory” and enjoy the pats on the back for “her” clever ideas, she very quietly, clandestinely, emailed me telling me to get to work on the projects. Instead of adding the work to my to-do list or replying to her email, I got up, walked to her office, kept the door open, made sure her boss was in the office next door and and said, “You took credit for these ideas, so you must think they’re good. Thanks, by the way, remember me and my bank account at review time. But since you were so eager to present them as your ideas, and as you know I’m really busy with a lot of other projects, how about if you do the work on these projects? How about flexing some of those skills you learned in your extensive collegiate career and previous jobs?
This was a major jab at the fact that I know she lied on her resumé and did not attend the college from which she claims to have earned an MBA, nor did she work in the positions she claims to have worked at the agency where she worked prior to getting this job. Yes. I know, people “fudge” on this stuff all the time. But. That doesn’t make it right, and it certainly doesn't excuse the fact that she’s completely incompetent and incapable of doing the job she was hired to do. She knows I know she lied about her credentials - because I innocently (yes, back then it was innocent chit chat) asked her about the people she would have worked with at her alleged previous job, and she didn’t know any of them. Since I do know some of them I bothered to ask them about her, and well, yeah. A huge, huge cat was let out of a bag. Ditto when I asked her about some of the classes she would have taken in pursuit of her alleged MBA. Her lack of knowledge and skill was already obvious, but when I asked her pointed questions about her classes she shirked it off with “that was so long ago, the program is all different now.” Maybe so, but I’m guessing even 20 years ago a major and highly acclaimed university was teaching marketing students basics about demographics. So. She knows I know. I don’t make a big deal about it, I don’t ridicule and mock her in the oh so many ways I could - she gives me so many opportunities on a daily basis - I just quietly do my job, avoid her as much as possible and live on the hope that at some point she’ll fall into the grave she’s dug for herself. Give her enough rope and all that.
Right. So. For some reason yesterday she pushed me over the edge. I am very busy. Extremely busy. And yes. I do have some serious personal stuff going on in my life. So, you know, I assume it’s me being sensitive and stressed beyond reason. Because I generally assume it’s me. No one else has a problem with her, so it must be me. Then again...she did publicly and loudly take credit and accept plaudits for my ideas. Again. For the bazillionth time. Was it the last straw? No. Not really. There wasn’t an award or national acclaim or money involved this time so, you know, kind of a minor incident compared to what she’s stolen from me in the past. I was calm. I was “rational.” I was nonconfrontational.
(Well. I mean. I suppose by definition of the fact that I confronted her with the truth about the ideas and subsequent work I was confrontational, but I wasn’t threatening. Passive aggressive, I think would be the appropriate term. Maybe a bit smug. The “we both know I know and if you’re smart you’ll roll with my suggestion so this doesn’t escalate into something really ugly” strongly implied. And no one, not one person in my department or even in my company, would refute the fact that I am extremely busy for the next month so she can’t make any protests against me about that.)
But she was nonetheless less than eager to take on the work. “Ha ha, that’s your job Trillian. You’re the expert on this. I can’t do that. I wouldn’t even know where to start!” Yes. She openly admitted that. Loudly.
“Maybe you’ll have to hire out the work because I can’t possibly manage this and keep on deadline with my other projects. Whatever the case, you took credit for the ideas, so you can go ahead and follow up with their completion,” I said and walked away.
Next thing I knew my boss’ boss was calling me into her office for a “chat.”
About my attitude. I’m insubordinate. There’s no I in team.
Yes.
Really.
The “there’s no I in team” platitude was used on me.
Me. The one who works long days and weekends for the greater good of the projects and clients. Me the one who brings in good treats for everyone. Me the one who always, always volunteers to take on extra work when someone has a family or social obligation and can’t work late. Me the one who makes sure other peoples’ efforts and ideas are credited and publicly noted for their brilliance. Me who bothers to ask the quiet ones in the office about their weekends or their children or their pets or hobbies or whatever I’ve bothered to get to know about them. Me the one who knows my boss lied on her resumé and about her credentials and yet says nothing and tries to pretend to respect her. Me the one who regularly goes above and beyond my job description for clients. Me the one who deals with “difficult” clients so other people in the department can be spared the stress. Me the one who (in real life) keeps her complaints to herself, doesn’t gossip and tries to find the positive aspects of even the worst projects. Me who keeps my personal life and problems to myself and tries not to let it interfere with work. There’s no I in team.
Swut.
What do you say when presented with a Successories platitude from your senior manager? I mean, what can you say? And still keep your job, that is.
“Okay, sorry. I’ll work on my attitude. I’m under a lot of pressure with these projects right now. I try to keep it in check, but I must be having a bad day. Sorry.”
An hour later I got an email from my boss. She signed my entire unit up for a three day seminar in marketing.
I’m not kidding.
Okay. First of all, four of us in my unit have degrees and several years experience in marketing. Two others (my boss included) have alleged degrees in marketing. Second of all, we’re super busy, like insane busy. Three days out of the office is, well, not appropriate for any one of us let alone the entire staff. Thirdly, the seminar is a beginning marketing seminar - I’m all for new ideas, but this is basic, fundamental, marketing 101 stuff. Marketing for people who are not in the marketing business. I mean, we’re the ones who could be leading the seminar, not taking it. Fourthy, it’s expensive. Really expensive. Instead of spending the money on a useless seminar, why not give us tuition reimbursement for a credible class in something actually useful?
If I were a conspiracy theorist I would say, “My boss is running scared and realizes she’s finally going to have to put up or shut up in terms of her alleged credentials.” But I’m not a conspiracy theorist. And that would also imply my boss is smart and ambitious enough to actually do something about her lack of experience.
Right. So. Boss. Senior manager. Really bizarre behavior, even for them.
So I took a much needed lunch break. My cruiser bike, my get around town bike, had an issue. A broken pedal. Which I suspected was more than a broken pedal. So at lunch I took it into my friendly neighborhood bike shop to see if they could help me either fix or replace the pedal.
Okay. My cruiser bike is not slick or expensive or whatever. I know this. But with the theft rate of bikes in Chicago (I’ve had two stolen) it doesn’t exactly pay to have a good bike sitting unattended all day while you’re at work. Even with mega locks. And I ride a couple of miles to work on city streets, not the actual Tour de France.
So there’s my justification and defense of my cheap cruiser bike. I am well aware that it’s a cheap cruiser bike. I’m well aware there are better bikes. And I even know why they’re better. I actually do know a thing or two about bikes. And I knew the pedal threads were suspect and that I would probably need to replace the whole crankshaft. Yes. I even know what a crankshaft is and why it would need replacing.
So I walked into the bike shop with the pedal and my bike and said, “Hi, I have a little problem here, har har.”
The über cool girl with a lot of tattoos and multicolored hair and really neato sneakers at the service desk (it’s a small shop but efficient - they have a service area) said, “Uh oh. That doesn’t look good. I bet your threads are stripped.”
“Yeah, I suspect that, too. What do you think? Can this bike be saved?” I asked.
“ha ha. Any bike can be saved but always at a price. Depends on what it’s worth to you. Hey Mick, can you take a quick look at this?” she called to the repair area.
Mick, an older guy who looks like the sort of guy who’s worked a lot of odd jobs in his life but has a keen ability with mechanical things, but not exactly a guy who looks like he spends a lot of time actually riding a bike, came out with a heavy sigh and said, without looking at the crankshaft or the pedal, “Have to replace the whole thing. It’ll take a couple of weeks for the parts. It’ll be about 50 bucks. The bike’s not worth that.”
Okay, dude. Let’s talk attitude for a minute here, shall we? Me: Paying customer. You: Middle aged bike shop repair dude.
I just spent an hour with my senior manager talking at me about my attitude and you have the nerve to blow attitude and offend a customer? A customer, a girl, with a problem with her bike? Okay, sure, I’m not exactly the damsel in distress type, but still. A girl with a problem with her bike willing to pay money to have it fixed. I realize working on my cheap cruiser is not exactly the pinnacle of thrills in the fast paced world of bike repair shops, but, c’mon.
Bike shop guys, record store clerks, waiters, art gallery receptionists...where the swut do these people, service people get off with their attitude? You work in a swutting service industry for minimum (or subminimum) wage. I realize income does not equate knowledge or skill. I too, am grossly underpaid, but, how about a little perspective on the situation and a little humility? Why would anyone pay money, sometimes a lot of money, to give patronage to a store/restaurant where they are treated badly by the employees?
Yet, we do it. We want to buy records, or bikes, or go out to eat or to galleries. So we endure often really, really bad attitude and denigration by employees at these places. Employees with a snobbery level unsurpassed for people who earn so little money. (Again, I realize money isn’t and shouldn’t be an indicator of grace or intelligence or manners, I’m just saying, for people who earn so little money in the service, SERVICE industry, they sure do have big ideas about their importance.)
The über cool girl also obviously felt repair guy was rude and said, “Mick, she’s in a bind, can you just throw it on the rack and help her limp home with it?”
“Naw. Not worth it. I’m busy anyway, and it’ll just fall out in a mile,” Mick said and went back into the repair room.
“Sorry,” the girl said.
“S’okay. I figured as much. Bike’s not really worth the repair anyway. Just thought I’d ask.” (why was I apologizing and downgrading my own bike? I have no idea - I had no reason to apologize for myself or my bike. And yet Mick invoked this humility in me. I wasted his precious time.)
Über cool girl then pulled out a catalog and flipped through some pages. “Hang on a minute, I think we can order a new crankshaft and hook you up with a cheap set of pedals, I mean, it won’t take that long except for the wait for the part to be ordered.” She ran the numbers. The estimate was $40 and two week’s wait for the part. “It’ll cost you less than having to buy another bike. Roll your bike back here if you want and we’ll have another guy work on it.”
Which was cool, you know, cool. Fine. Redemption for the friendly neighborhood bike shop.
But Mick, who is the kind of guy who always has to be right or noisy or obnoxious, said to the über cool girl, pointedly, on purpose loud enough for me to hear, “Don’t store that piece of junk where customers can see it.”
Thanks for the insult, Mick. Nice doing business with you.
Got back to work. Weirdness continued.
Smelly Coffee Woman. Ye gads. Smelly Coffee Woman. Well. She’s got problems. Issues. Medication. Smelly flavored coffee. She came into my office, I guess just to say hi. I can’t really call what came next a conversation. It was more random words thrown into the air. “Ooooh, I like bananas.” (there was no conversation about bananas, there were no bananas in my office, no photos of bananas, no monkeys, nothing to elicit a remark about bananas.)
“Really. Huh. High in potassium,” I said.
“Oooooh, this book looks interesting! Look at all those pretty colors! What’s Quark?!” she said as she gazed at my book shelf and reached for a copy of a Quark user’s guide.
“Um, layout program,” I responded, shortly, hoping she’d get the hint I was busy and that she’d take her smelly flavored coffee and leave my office.
“Oooooh, I’m so glad they fixed that clock across the street,” she said, floating, yes, floating to my window.
“Um. Yeah. That’s cool,” again, short, concise, get the swut out of my office tone implied.
“My skirt is ready for Spring! Flowers! I love flowers!” she said.
Okay. I was seriously getting concerned for her health. She can be sort of flaky but even for her this random dispensing of weirdness was weird.
“Yeah, it’s finally Spring. I tulips are poking up, daffodils are out, you’re wearing your flowery skirt, yep, Spring is in the air!” I said trying to keep the attitude light.
“I’m having pizza for dinner,” she responded.
Yes. It was like talking to a four year old. Random thoughts flying all over the place - short statements about, well, not much of anything.
“Huh. Pizza. Yum yum. I think I saw some coupons for Gino’s in the breakroom,” I offered, hoping maybe she’d chase up the coupons and leave my office.
“I was five minutes late this morning,” she responded.
“Well, you know, I don’t think that’s a big deal. I bet no one even noticed,” I assured her.
“OOOOooooooh! Pez! Pink Panther Pez! I could never get the candy loaded in Pez!” she said, eyeing and then grabbing a Pink Panther Pez which has been on my desk for at least two years, a Pez she has undoubtedly seen on every trip into my office with her smelly coffee, and yet acted as if a) she’d never seen it and b) that she was examining a Pez dispenser for the first time in her life, like a baby discovering its hand.
Then, in a baby voice, held the Pink Panther Pez to my ear and said, “I wuv Twiwwian, she’s my bestest friend in the worwd.”
Okay. Not that I don’t goof around and do stupid stuff, because I do. But. This was beyond weird and not exactly in keeping with her usual personality, and certainly not in the context of our normal dialogs.
“har har, um, look, Smelly Coffee Woman, I am smack in the middle of a couple of big projects, so, um, maybe we could talk later?”
“Right, okay chief,” and off she went, singing.
Okaayyyyyy.
So, should I do something about what is obviously bizarre behavior, possibly and quite probably a medication reaction? If so, what? Call her supervisor or someone in HR and say, “Smelly Coffee Woman’s floating around my office and talking baby talk?” I mean, if there’s a problem (and obviously there is) I want to help her, but, on the other hand...describing her behavior to someone else, and explaining why it might be indicative of a problem, a mental or medication problem, is not exactly easy. And telling her she’s acting weird didn’t seem appropriate, and besides, whatever’s giving her that high on life buzz is obviously making her feel really good. For all I know she’s drunk or stoned, in which case I don’t want to get her in trouble. And I don’t want to kill her buzz. If she’s found a way to cope with our office, I mean, good for her. Maybe she had the “no I in team” lecture, too, and adjusted her attitude accordingly.
I seriously pondered what, if anything, I should do about “her” for the rest of the afternoon. I checked in on her before I left the office and she was cutting out flowers from colored copier paper. She seemed, you know, happy. I told her to be careful going home and to enjoy her pizza. She just stood there in the copy room singing and said, “Okeeeeee dokeeeeee Twiwwian!”
Yeah. Gimme some of that. I want to be comfortably numb, too.
Right. So. I left work at a regular person time because my bike was now in the shop and I was meeting a guy for drinks at this place by my compartment. I wanted to get home, change and get there in time so I took the bus.
I rarely take the bus. Because whenever I take the bus something happens. You meet the most interesting people on the bus.
It was starting to rain, it was rush hour, so the bus was packed. I shuffled to the back and stood, holding the overhead hand rail. There was a woman to my right and a guy to my left. I had the Pod engaged. I was in that bus rider zoned out zone. Aware but tuned out.
And then I felt someone touching my wrist. Okay. Not touching, more like caressing. Lingering. Not like, “oops, the bus is really crowded and my hand brushed against yours,” but like, well, lingering, purposely caressing my wrist.
I yanked my hand away and pulled out the Pod ear bud in one swift motion. And looked at who was caressing me. It was the guy next to me. A regular looking guy. I didn’t say anything, but gave him a “what the swut?” look.
The bus jerked to a stop and I reached for the railing again.
The guy said, “I’m sorry. I was just standing here staring at your wrist and it just looked so beautiful I had to touch it. I’m sorry. I don’t usually touch people on the bus. It’s just, your wrist, I dunno, it, well, look at it,” he said, motioning to my wrist. The woman sitting in the seat below us and the woman standing to my right both craned around to get a look at this guy and then at my wrist. They gave him “you weird freak” looks and clutched their purses tightly. I looked a the woman next to me. Someone behind us exited the bus. We both made a dash for the empty spot.
Okay. It’s not every day I get compliments about body parts, or compliments in general.
So. You know. I guess I should be “happy” there’s a guy on the planet who finds my wrist attractive, caress inducing attractive, no less.
But.
Um.
Okay look, as much as I really want a man in my life, and as much as it would be nice to have a man in my life who finds at least one thing about me attractive, a guy who just goes ahead and reaches out and caresses complete strangers on buses is probably not the guy for me. Call me a snob, call me paranoid, but let’s just say I did (freakishly) hook up with this guy. Every time he got on a bus I’d be wondering if he was caressing other women's’ wrists. I don’t need that complication in my life. And besides, who said anything about him being interested in anything more than caressing my wrist on a crowded bus?
Right.
So.
I got home, changed and went on a date.
With a guy who seemed you know, okay. Ish. Sort of. You know. For me.
We had a drink and conversation was going okay. Not sparks and chemistry and all that stuff, but no awkward pauses and hey, he showed up and stuck around. Those constitute big improvements in my love life. Combined with the earlier stranger on the bus caressing my wrist I think we can say ol’ Trill is back in the game.
But then conversation turned to restaurants in the area. I mentioned a particular restaurant I like. He then told me, in way too vivid detail, what biological function happened after the last time he ate there. Including gestures indicating size. “...I mean, it was like THIS long and like this big around, like giving birth!”
Yes.
He was discussing what you’re thinking he was discussing. On a first date.
Okay. I’m no prude. Really. I’m not uptight. I’ve taken care of young children. And an infirm mother. And a cat. These things are facts of life. You know, “everyone poops.” Which is why unless you’ve got a health problem and are talking to a doctor, there is no need to discuss it. At least not on a first date. When you’re contemplating going to dinner. Kinda lost my appetite. I’m guessing this guy was “just not that into me” because I’m thinking no man over the age of 12 who wants to have sex with a woman will break into a conversation about poop. His poop. Yeah. Real class act.
I thought, you know, maybe he’s just really comfortable with me. Maybe he thought it was funny. Maybe he thought I might be able to offer insight into his experience. Maybe he thought I’d share one of my experiences. Who knows? Are you a guy? Have you ever discussed your bowel movements with a woman on a first date?
I’ve met a lot of men. Dated a lot of men. I’m no Spring chicken. I’ve been around a few blocks. And yet, this guy managed to give me something no man has ever given me on a first date: Intimate details about his intestines and bowels.
I was speechless. Really. I just sat there trying to not look shocked (I’m no prude, it wasn’t the graphic subject matter, per se, but the fact that he was talking about it on a date that “shocked” me and I didn’t want him to be confused at the source of my surprise.) I sat there wondering what to say. I didn’t want to encourage more of this conversation, but then, how do you segue into another topic when a person is recounting a bathroom tale with such enthusiasm? “Huh. Wow. Huh.” was pretty much what ended up coming out of my mouth. Which he must have taken as encouragement because then, then he went on to tell me about other dumps he’s had after eating at various other restaurants.
Yes.
This is apparently his version of Zagat’s. This is apparently how he rates restaurants.
Call me picky. Go ahead. Really. Call me too picky. But I don’t want to date G.G. Allin and there is no way I can reasonably consider this man as a viable dating option. Right? The guy is fascinated with his poop. Or, well, at least he was during our date. That’s not good, right?
The guy gave me one of those sort of weak hug/not hug things at the end of the date. (arms around me but not quite touching me, which was totally fine with me. There was nothing to indicate he was, um, “unclean” but, well, you know. The visual of his gestures indicating size and, um, diameter, was firmly planted in my retina and, well, yeah. I’m a visual person and thinking about those hands making those gestures and then touching me, well, okay, maybe I am an uptight prude, but, well, ewwwww)
Fortunately I was in my ‘hood so I walked home. Got there and guess who had already left a message? Poopyhead. Shitz Ewww. Him.
Yes. He’s interested in me. By golly, we’ve got a hot one, here! Why am I not surprised by this? It was the weirdest day in a long time that’s why. It stands to reason I’d meet a guy who discusses his personal, well, that on a first date and that he’d be into me.
The icing on the cake of this great day? Furry Creature “missed” his box and there on the floor was a reminder of that great guy I’d just met.
Which pretty much sealed the deal as a weird day.
Here’s my question, though: So there’s this guy who likes me. But he appears to be fascinated with, well, poop. Other than that he seems, you know, okay. Ish. Sort of. For me. Did I mention he likes me? Right. So. Should I see him again? Give him another chance? I’ve never been in this situation. I see it as an indication of his lack of maturity, but maybe it was nerves or an offbeat sense of humor or, well, I don’t know, should I cut him slack?
If you want to make a good impression on a woman, you know, if you really like her and want to see her again and maybe even have sex with her, do not discuss bodily functions on your first date. Oh sure, she might seem cool and laid back and you might feel really comfortable around her and you might think, "hey, she might as well get to know the real me right up front" but if the real you is fascinated with feces, you might want to reconsider sharing that with her. She might not be uptight but it will make her think about what you might say in front of her friends or parents who might be uptight or at least old school in the taboo topic area. And, well, it's not exactly a turn-on for women. She's going to assume the belch and fart jokes are going to come next. And. Well. Even if this is your true nature, and even if she's cool with it, let her make the first move in this area. If she makes a joke or remark about, well, that then you've got your all clear for discussing that topic. Congratulations, you've met your match. If she doesn't bring it up or even remotely allude to it, and you really like this girl, control yourself man, control yourself. Save it for the night out with the guys. This is one area where an air of mystery is a very, very good thing.
Monday, April 10, 2006 Doin' It for the ASPCA PeTA's got Pamela Anderson, the ASPCA's got me. Today is the ASPCA's 140th birthday. Buildings across the country will be lit orange in honor of the birthday and to bring awareness to animal rights and welfare. Get out your orange glow sticks left over from that rave a few years ago, don that Tony the Tiger costume (hey, any excuse to wear the tiger suit, right?), or just eat an orange.
And/or, visit www.aspca.org to learn more about animal rights and welfare and what you can do to help. And no, you don't have to spend money, stage a militant protest or become a vegetarian.
10:31 AM
