Dodging Bullets

The news reported another egg distributor pulling their eggs from the shelves because salmonella was found. The following day, I overheard someone asking what brand it was so they made sure not to buy it. It's funny the things we tell ourselves so our lives aren't interrupted, so we can have whatever we want, whenever we want it.

I am a vegan for a reason. I am a vegan because I lifted the veil of ignorance and found out about the food I was putting into my body. And as much as you think you don't want to know, believe me, you do.

You can't eat all the animals you want, including their by-products without a lot of shit being generated. And there is no regulation on how to dispose of all that shit. If you think that every time you eat a cheeseburger that there isn't poop in it, well, you should probably not bother to find out. Same thing with eggs. And pork. There is poop--real life fecal matter--in all factory farmed animal products.

Every time you put factory farmed animals into your mouth and don't get sick, you've dodged a bullet. Eggs especially. If you think the chickens are healthy and happy, clucking around the farm whistling Dixie, you done lost your mind. If you think chicken farms are sanitary and those overseeing the farms take care with the product they are providing, you're just begging to be slapped into reality. Truth is, most people don't see chickens, pigs, or cows as animals, but as objects. Because objects don't feel pain. Animals do. Objects don't get sad. Animals do. Objects don't get scared. Animals do. And if animals are objects, than their living conditions don't have to be anything special. They can be sick. They can be tortured. They just have to stay alive.

Now, I'm not saying everyone go vegan. That's ridiculous. But know where your food comes from. Support farms that treat their animals like animals. It's imperative to your health, and the health of your children. Because the seventeen different antibiotics you had with last night's pork chops will make sure you and yours are susceptible to whatever super bug comes next. And me? Oh, don't worry about me. I'll visit you in the hospital, but will not hold my tongue when it comes to I told you so.

Gobble, Gobble

We have all kinds of wildlife where we live:  Bears, mountain lions, foxes, deer, elk, rabbits, mice, coyotes...but my absolute favorite are the wild turkeys.

Last Sunday, my wife returned from her run to report she was chased by the turkeys. Two of them flew beside her to flank her on the right. When she turned around, the head turkey had his wings spread wide, chest out proudly, his head bobbing back and forth as he gave pursuit. A small army of turkeys behind him. The turkey meant business. She said it was scary. I doubt it. Chased!? By the turkeys!? I would have given my breakfast had they chased me instead!

So when I read in our weekly work newsletter that November 12th is "Take a Turkey to Work Day", I immediately started thinking of ways to coerce one of the wild turkeys into the car. And then into a harness. Attached to a leash. I thought about using my wife as a bait, but it might be too risky. I would hate for the flock to turn on us as we plucked one out of the pack. I mean, they're already feeling threatened by a woman running on their turf. And who's to say the turkeys would believe my assurances that their turkey friend would be back before dinner?

I haven't figured out how to bring my turkey to work yet, but I still have twenty-four hours. I daydream about me and my turkey posing for pictures (photo op!). Taking my turkey around to all the different departments, making introductions. Explaining my work equipment to my turkey. Working while my turkey takes a nap, in my lap, because our activities have been a lot for a turkey to take in, especially all in one day!

I don't know what work is thinking, but if I do figure out how to bring my turkey to work, there is no way I'm going to put my turkey in one of the freezers. And anyone who would is just sick. I know it's winter, but I don't think the freezer is going to make the turkeys feel more at home.

Finest Hour

I've been wicked sick lately. Sore, itchy throat. Runny nose. Red face. Feverish eyes. Gut-wrenching cough. I think I'm finally on the downhill of the ailment, but this morning, there was an incident that made me feel like I might need additional help.

5:25 AM: I look at the clock and see I have five minutes before the alarm goes off. I decide to get out of bed.

5:26 AM: The minute my feet hit the floor, I realize I really have to pee.

5:28 AM: The babies (the dogs) and I are upstairs, heading down the hallway.

5:28 AM: I grab a tissue on the way.

5:29 AM: I let the babies outside, realizing I still need to pee. Bad. I think about stepping away, but the basset has to be supervised while outside because she likes to put "unsavory" items into her mouth.

5:30 AM: Holy shit, I really have to pee! I blow my nose.

5:35 AM: The basset has been walking around for a lifetime, finding the perfect piece of real estate to drop off her kids. And finally; she lets them go on a really nice piece of dirt, covered by a gentle layer of snow.

5:36 AM: I cough. Hard. I lose focus.

5:37 AM: It takes me a second or two to figure out that the small stream of warmth I feel running down my leg and into my slipper is, in fact, pee. Not a lot. Just enough to take the edge off.

5:37 AM: Really?!?!

5:37 AM: I eyeball the tissue in my hand.

5:37 AM: I use said tissue to clean up what hasn't quite yet made it into the slipper.

5:38 AM: The basset is finally done. The babies come in.

5:39 AM: I use the facilities. It feels like love. I flush the tissue.

5:40 AM: It's shower time. I set the slippers in front of the heat vent.

5:50 AM: I'm out of the shower. Slipper is dry. All incriminating evidence has been erased.

5:51 AM: I decide this never happened.

The List: Part Two

Here are more examples of certain behaviors that are guaranteed to get you kicked off my list of respectable human beings. Once again, enjoy.

When there are twenty cars in front of me, and you insist on riding my bumper so closely that I can't see your headlights. Okay. I get it. You're in a hurry. But I can't go anywhere. And neither can you. Gosh, if I could, I'd pull over and let you know that you really are important. But I'm in the midst of getting where I need to go. We all are. Sorry. You'll have to wait your turn. Too bad, too. Because I'm sure wherever you're headed is really important--the kind of place those of us in front of you couldn't possibly understand. Off the list, All Powerful Being!

When you insist that gay marriage goes against all laws of nature, but you take fertility drugs to the point you pop out six kids. Yeah, that's natural. Off the list, hypocrite!

When you tell me you know how bad the food you're about to shove in your face is but eat it anyway. Just keep your mouth shut, in both regards. Off the list, Reece's Pieces!

When you pull out in front of me, causing me to slam on my breaks, and you glare at me like I'm the asshole. Next time, why don't you really send the message home and flip me off too. That will really teach me a lesson. Off the list, Asshole!

When I'm trying to merge onto a two lane highway, and you're in the right lane with no one beside you, and you can't get over to let me in. It's just the two of us here. What are you going to do? I have to hit the breaks or gun it so I can get over before my merge lane ends. You know what, jackass? Next time, I'm not giving in. I'm going to keep driving, into the gravel, into the grass, into the big-ass hill, and you can watch as my car explodes. Is that what you want? IS IT!?!? Off the list Grim Reaper!

If you missed the first list and are curious to know if you made it or not, check out the original list posted on 10/12. Until next time, thanks again to everyone who's still on the list. You are the spike to my punch. The garter to my belt. The bitch to my slap. You are all truly wonderful.

Answers to Your Vegan Questions

Most people, when I tell them I'm a vegan, make fun of me. I eat dandelions. I eat tree bark. I eat twigs rubbed in dirt. They cannot, for the life of them, figure out what I could possibly eat by not eating animals or their by-products. In their minds, I've eliminated 99.9% of the food available to eat.

That is so not that case.

So for anyone still confused on what I eat, let me make it very clear: I eat tires. I eat plastic shampoo bottles. I eat batteries. I eat cell phones. I eat carboard. All the recycables you throw into your colored bins end up on a vegan's plate.

You see, we vegans take the planet and the creatures on it very seriously. You can only make so many plastic water bottles into bags, so what's leftover is sent to any registered vegan to be consumed, thereby reducing landfill waste.

You may be asking, How is that possible? How can you digest tires? Well, it's easy! Once you register at the iamveganbecauseicareaboutpeopleandtheirchildrenwhointurndontcareaboutme.org, you receive, between 6-8 weeks, your Vegan Survival Kit. It includes:

A set of stainless steel teeth
A silver lined stomach
A plastic--made out of soda bottles, of course--intestinal tract
A pine scented air freshener

When you go vegan, it's a lot like converting your car to biodiesel: you get a whole new system. It's a difficult adjustment for the first month, but by the second month, there is nothing your system can't handle. I've even graduated to picking through construction sites! You wouldn't believe how good nails are between a couple of two by fours.

So, for anyone out there who thinks veganism might be something you're interested in, ask yourself a few basic questions:

Do I care about how animals are treated?
Do I care about the topsoil they are ruining and will never come back?
Do I care about setting healthy food habits for my children? (I'm sorry, but Snackables don't count.) :(
Do I care about my children inheriting a healthy planet?

If you answered no to any of these questions, you might not qualify for the program. But don't fret. I can help you. I'm here day or night to answer your vegan questions. And remember, if you ever get a hankerin' to make fun of someone who isn't like you, think about what makes them different and try it again.

It's Not About You

I do not make it a habit to buy books from giant chain stores. Today was the first time this year I found myself standing in one. There is no excuse for my being there. I could have waited. Nicolle Wallace's new novel, Eighteen Acres, isn't going anywhere. But I felt an overwhelming urge to have it in my hot, little hand. And I happened to be in the store's neighborhood.

But the experience wasn't a total bust. I met a local author who was there signing books, and he discussed his path to publication with me. It was the highlight of my day. I even bought his book.

When I was checking out, the man assisting me--after turning the author's book round and round between his hands--finally made the connection. "Oh, you're buying the guy who's here's book."

"Yes."

"So, what's it about?

"An African American and a Caucasian forging a friendship during the Vietnam War and how they come out afterwards."

The guy looked at me and said, "Oh, is he the Caucasian?"

I waited for the hint that he was joking: A raised eyebrow, a sideways smile, a chuckle. Nothing.

I say, "It's a work of fiction? But, yes, he was in Vietnam. You write about what you know."

Our discussion ended there.

Here's a little something everyone should know. Writers don't write about the people in their lives, unless it's a memoir. Fiction means it's not based in truth or fact, that it's made-up. While this may not be true for all writers, it is certainly true for me. My characters tell me who they are, not the other way around. I know that may sound strange, but it's true. They surprise me all the time.

So if/when my novel is published, and you know me and read it, know none of the characters are you. While characteristics may match some of your own, I assure you, it's still not you. And I'm not in it either. So don't waste your time trying to figure out which character you are. You'll only miss out on what the real characters are trying to tell you: this is our story.

Healthy Fear

When you've had absolutely no use for God and then suddenly, after a close friend dies, you find God, maybe in the pantry or in the lettuce crisper, you give yourself away too easily: Your fear is showing.

Every creature on this planet is afraid of dying. We're supposed to be afraid to die. It keeps us from doing stupid shit that kills us, like crossing the street against a green light, jumping off a twenty-story building with the four corners of a sheet tied to each one of our appendages, eating rotten food, sleeping with Pamela Anderson or Tommy Lee. Without a healthy fear of death, our species would become extinct. It's called survival instincts, but we don't tell ourselves that's what we're doing. Because, somehow, instead of surviving, we're doing God's will.

Why does the animal kingdom get to have survival instincts and we get to have fairy tales? Why is it that our species is the only one that has come up with a safety net--going to a beautiful place where everyone you've ever loved is there waiting for you-- for after you die? Why are we the species that gets to comfort ourselves with the God idea while the animals simply die?

My wife was quick to point out that because animals communicate with each other, and because we'll never have a deer mind, or a turkey mind, or a tiger mind, or a bear mind, or a horse mind, or a dog mind, we have no idea what kind of system animals have in place for what happens to them when they die. True. If I knew they had all been touched by the hand of God, and were just biding their time until He called them home, I might not be so skeptical.

As it currently stands, I am terrified to die. I love my life and hate to think of it ending. I'll continue to white knuckle it down the mountain pass when the road is covered in ice. I'll continue to care about what food I put in my body. I'll refrain from stepping foot into a rough neighborhood. And when my day to die comes, I'll continue to dismiss a guy wearing a robe, with real estate in the sky, who is also his own son, as a fairy tale. But I'll admit, it is a good one.

Twitter: A Love Story

I joined Twitter this week. I didn't do it because I think everyone wants to hear what I have to say. I did it because I can follow literary agents, publishers, and anyone else of interest in the industry. And whether I like it or not, it is a great marketing tool.

I still have little idea on how it works, but I'd like to invite you all to follow along. You can find me, I think, at http://twitter.com/kelceymckinley

If you think my words are worth the eye damage the glow of the computer screen creates, share my blog with others. Tell everyone I'm a twitterer, or a tweeter, or whatever it is called. (I feel like John McCain. Next thing you know, I'm going to buy one of those Google machines.) Share it with everyone you know. I can't build a base without you. If I'm going to make it, I'm going to make it with all of you by my side. Don't think you don't play a part in my success, because you do.

<Turning the lights down low, cueing music, clearing throat, speaking with a deep voice>: Let's make this love of stories story together.

To anyone who is reading this, know you are the Barbara Hershey to my Bette Midler. And I don't mean that in a gay way. Or in a let's buy a house together way. Or in a way that suggests you're going to get an incurable disease, and I'm going to have to sing a song about it. I mean it in the only way possible: "You are the wind beneath my wings."

I promise to never use that line again. I still feel a little cliche' and average having used it once.

Hump-day Haiku: Post Election

Curly-headed man
is Kentucky's Senate choice.
Run, black people, run.

Christine O'Donnell
failed to make the Senate cut.
She should be a witch.

I can't really tell;
she looks a little German.
We'll miss you, Sharron.

Election Eve

Sharron Angle wants to shoot some folks up if she doesn't win in Nevada. She scares white people by telling them brown skinned people are going to take over their colleges. Then she announced, without humility, to a group of Hispanic students that she thinks some of them look Asian. Really? You're just going to say that out loud? You don't have to say everything you're thinking. Nut-bag crazy! and people still want to vote for her.

Christine O'Donnell doesn't know there is separation of church and state in the Constitution. Oh. Em. Gee. And she thinks being gay can be cured. Is she smarter than a fifth grader? Nut-bag crazy! and people will still vote for her.

Ken Buck thinks he's qualified to be in the Sentate because he doesn't wear high heels. Are you for reals, Ken? What back-woods barn did you crawl out of? Nut-bag crazy! and he's leading Michael Bennet by one point.

And that's just scimming the top. There are others, but I don't have that kind of time.

I can't help to think that these candidates are viable because they think and talk just like the people who want to vote for them do.

When did it come to pass that we want people like us running our country? I don't want a sarcastic, smart-ass lesbian who dropped out of college deciding our foreign policy. I don't want Barbeque Bob in charge of Wall Street reform. I don't care how good his steaks are! And I definately don't want a racist, gun crazed, nut-bag, or someone who doesn't even know what's in the constitution, anywhere near my "freedoms" (I'm still not allowed to marry the person I love, like I'm some fifteen-year-old who doesn't yet have a driver's license. I don't call that freedom.)

The crazier people get, the more I think they're scared. And I get it. I am terrified that this country is going to be taken back fifty years, to a time when a woman's body was the property of the government. A time when a child's education was interrupted for prayer. A time when I had a curfew.

So get out there tomorrow and have your say. Because I will beat down your door if I have to go to bed at 7:30 again and lay next to my "roommate"!