Fact
or Friction*#!... 12/1/2002
Turkeys
Buying Nothing
Hey folks, what's a little mayhem, or rather, civil disobedience between friends? Ah, the sweet childish exhilaration of being a naughty, naughty boy. It was like those hellbent Halloweens on the plains of North Texas shifted to a West Coast urban mileu and given political purpose- uh, somewhat. Yeah, it was all about the message and the battle against corporate hegemony and the advertising-fueled squeezing of every last drop of lifeblood out of the dear planet by we gluttonous North Americans while the other 90-plus percent of the planet's citizens practically starve while being fed constant cathode ray images of the good life of the citizen of the corporate state, and how buying stuff is just a cheap substitute for real life enforced by the cartels of late Capitalism to keep you repressed and psychological teetering on the brink so you just buy more and more. The ol' implicit mantra of our society (now spreading like cancer cells to the whole fucking world)- "Work, Consume, Be Silent, Die," keeps us in its grip and tightens it to near asphyxiation this silly time of year when a once somber religious observance is perverted into Piranhas on a feeding frenzy. Like Max Von Sydow's character in Hanna and Her Sisters stated, "If Jesus came back now and saw all the things being done in his name, he'd never stop throwing up." Spot-on for a Jewish filmmaker. Yadda Yadda Yadda Yoda, Luke, Spock and Mr. Giles. Yeah, it was all about consciousness raising in the land of the tubby, but let's leave all the rhetoric, and charts and stats to the theorists. For we practitioners, it was all about being a kid again- a very big kid with a job and rent and various taxes to file and pay, albeit. For the big kids we were (and just a couple of us were man enough - and strange enough half of those men were women- to admit that that's just what they were) it all came down to having your hearts race like you'd just egged the principal's house as a police car with lights flashing all colors of the spectrum is rounding the corner and you dive for the nearest bushes. Ouch. It sucks when those bushes turn out to be holly bushes or George W. Bushes, but we'll leave that to the theorists and the talking heads and the guys who like to be on TV and in the newspaper or whatever media will listen to their whiney wannabe Noam Chomsky drivel. When you're on the battlefield you don't have time to think about the ideological bent of a bunch of generals in some far off cozy bunker twaddling on about "the Prime Directive." Nope, out here, it's soldier against soldier- you, radical consciousness-raiser, savior of future generations of mankind, redwoods, and all things and thoughts beautiful, majestic, and cool against the cops, protector of every destructive fucked-up institution that would do away with puppy dogs, lollipops, and good raunchy copulation if it could.
But first, why not a little traditional middle-class Thanksgiving Day fun. Why not a little bourgeois guilt-abating charity run. Yes, let's all 12,000-plus of us meet up at the University and run ten kilometers. It'll be a cracker of a time, I say. And indeed it was. Here they were, the poor schmoes with their 2.5 kids in strollers, spandex leggings, $200 shoes, Patagonia pullover running tops, with SUV keys in one gloved hand, and a latte from Starbucks in the other. I think we call them yuppies, or at least used to.
But who am I to feel superior to the denizens of Northern California's middle and upper middle class? No one, of course, as we take inventory of the Basil Joe running gear for the race- New Balance running shoes $85; Comfy socks from REI $15; Camouflage Biking shorts that droop to the knees $45 (on sale); Ajax World Championship T-Shirt bought in Amsterdam pre-Euro 20 Gilders; REI Cross Trainer Warm Fuzzy Pullover $55 (on sale); Adidas Soccerhead Beanie $12; and the clincher- RayBan shades $75. No SUV keys though. Just a Light Rail Pass in my pocket. Can I feel superior now? Priceless, no?
So here I am wearing about $300 worth of stuff after paying $22 to participate in this event (and get a cool black long-sleeve T-shirt)to benefit the Sacramento Food Bank. The official slug line for this annual event is "Run to Feed the Hungry." I think most of us on the course treated the event as a "Run to Make Us Hungry and Not Feel Guilty About Stuffing Ourselves Later." No dearth of baked garlic, free range turkey, and smashed potatoes later on for me, nope.
So the run starts at 9:05am. I get to the starting line before 8am so I've got more than ample time to stretch and get in some warm-up runs around the campus and check out the hilarity around me. Lots of people had brought along their dogs, even though I think the entry rules said explicitly "No Pets Along the Course." The race officials managed to not see the thousand or so pups along the course, or chose to look the other way.
As I'm jogging around the tennis courts on the southwest corner of the Cal State campus, a group of about 4 people stop, and one of them unleashes his golden retriever to allow him to relieve himself on a soccer field. So the dog does his duty. But instead of returning to his master and the leash, he takes off running as fast as he can in the opposite direction. The four people chase after the dog, "Alphonse, Alphonse!", but he keeps widening the distance until he disappears over the levy of the American River, his people a good 50 yards behind. Alphonse is now a free dog.
A group of guys in their early twenties witness this along with me, and can't restrain their laughter. They roll on the ground as if this is the funniest thing they've ever seen. It may be. I just shake my head and think, "Take it to the man, Alphonse." I continue my lap around the campus.
So again, nature calls, so I get queued-up again at the porta-potties near the start line. The Porta-cans are bunched together in groups of six. A line forms for each group of six. As one can empties, the next person in line steps in. I get in line about 40 people back. The 5 women in front of me all know each other and are talking at a volume that seems to indicate that all of East Sac should know what they are saying. So East Sac and I get 10 minutes of the latest on their kids' ballet exploits and how one's ten-year-old son is already working on getting a scholarship to Cal Tech. I could've puked right there, but I kept thinking about the Star-Belly'd Sneetches for some reason. This was a nice antidote to the queasiness.
Of course, when the fab five got to the front of the line, they weren't paying attention to the Porta-cans before them. So when the first's turn came, the Porta-can door just slowly creaked in the wind. I tried a polite "Excuse me," approach but that didn't work, so it came down to "Hey, it's your turn," with extra gruff on top. That got the first one moving briskly toward the open door. None of them dared look at me, yet they rattled on and on about little Johnnie's grades, his teachers, and tennis lessons and science tutors from Stanford. So when another can came open, they still yabbled-on, no lesson from the billy goat gruff behind them learned.
This time I had help, "Hey, let's go!" came a chorus of voices from behind us. One wonderfully East Coast voice piped-up, "Hey Sweethearts, you can play Stepford Wives later!" I was the only one who broke up laughing on this comment. It was nice to have some "in your face" reality break the faux-innocuous West Coast surface. I turned to the East Coast guy and gave him a smile. He just rolled his eyes. Startled by the growing frustration with their inattention, they ceased talking altogether and took care of business.
As the last of the 5 ladies left the Porta-can, Mr. East Coast piped-up again. "Hey Stepford Wife! You don't need to wear all that perfume before a 10K race!." Again, I was the only one to laugh out loud at this.
I got my turn at the Porta-can. After walking out the door a few steps, I ran head-on into this Hispanic guy wearing an "Aztlan Horrita!" shirt. I glared at the guy who was probably some Hispanic Cultures studies kid with no sense of reality beyond his little university world. "Aztlan, huh," I snorted. "Good luck, kid. Come and get it." He muttered something in Spanish and got away as quickly as he could. I'd let Panchito Villa have a piece of my Anglo mind and it felt pretty damn good. I hope he sees my big ugly white face every time he puts that shirt on again. My great grandfather defended Texas from the Mexicans, and I'll do the same for California if I have to. On second thought, maybe the country would be better off without Los Angeles and San Diego.
TV cameras are everywhere. The local UPN affiliate, yeah Buffy!, broadcasts this event every year as if it were a visit from the Pope or something. So you get a speech from Father Whatshisface who is the originator and organizer of this race, then the National Anthem sung by some CHP officer. The Anglos in the crowd, and this was a really white crowd, were totally blase about the National Anthem. I just took off my beenie and tried to look mean. Most of the white folks just kept on talking as if a chamber quartet were playing dinner music. But the Hispanics and Asians-- hats off, singing at the top of the lungs, tears flowing, flags waving, twenty-one gun salutes, you name it, they were into it. Maybe it was race or class insecurity that inspired the display. I don't know. I'm pretty far from being a pro flag waver myself, in fact I think this country's whole take on 9/11 and Iraq is pretty skewed, but I must admit that I was impressed by the display of patriotism by these few- wrongheaded or not. Maybe they were trying to make up for all the silly Sr. Aztlans in the world, and doing a fab job at that.
Then you get some numbheaded newscaster exhorting the crowd to scream "Good Day Sacramento," (the name and slugline of the local UPN morning show)in unison. Five tries- all lame. Good. Who wants to be a puppet for hairspray abuser?
So finally, we get the damn race off to a start. Of course, they don't use guns in CA, they use siren blasts, a further testament to the passive-aggressive nature of the state's denizens. "Don't shoot back at the bad people and defend yourself. Call the Police!"
I don't think I mentioned that there was a distance option in this race. You could go 5K or 10K. I, of course, would do the 10K. After all, I do five miles pretty much every other day. I could certainly stretch it a bit to the 6.2 mark for this event. Indeed I did. My time- 62 min 48 sec. Not bad for an old man, especially one who was crowded in for the first mile or so and had to walk. Once things cleared-up in the second mile, I could up the pace to my normal.
Near the 2 mile mark, I noticed a guy wearing a shirt with a lightning rod on the back. But this was no ordinary lightning rod. This was the Thundercloud Sub logo. I got closer. Yes, it was for a T-cloud sponsored race in Austin. I talked to the guy, told him I'd lived in Austin for 16 years. He told me that he and his girlfriend were thinking about moving to Sacramento. I advised against it before he turned right into the 5K lane and bid me adieu. I continued left in the 10K lane up H Street through the Fabulous 40's (streets 40-49 in East Sac, the most coveted Real Estate in this here burg). If you've seen American Beauty, the bookend shots of the film, the flyover neighborhood shots, are the Fabulous 40's. You can see Mercy General Hospital in the shot. There is an interesting story about how this all came to be done in Sacramento.
So I continue to huff and puff past McKinley Park and into Midtown. Kids and parents come out onto the lawns of the neighborhoods to greet us. "Happy Thankgivng!" they say. One little tike shouted, "Run! Run! Run for your Turkey!" The kid could not have been over three. About 50 of us nearly fell over from laughter.
The turnaround for the return through East Sac and back to the CSUS campus comes at 23rd street. I'm surprised to find that there's an Albertson's at 23rd and F. I didn't know that until now.
We make it back through East Sac and to mile six. Only .2 miles to go. I see a finish line banner ahead, but we seem to be moving away from it. The stream of runners ahead then makes a sharp left to move even further away. I begin to think that this could be the longest .2 miles in history. I get to the left turn and lo and behold, there's another finish line banner just beyond it. The banner I saw in the distance was for the 5K runners. I had no idea that there were two finish lines.
So now I'm back on campus. I'm a bit confused, and have no idea where I am. I wonder around and pick up a bottle of water and a couple of Luna Bars. Typical race goodies. I still don't know where I am. I then realize that the area is fenced-in and surrounded by houses. I'm not on campus. I wonder around some more then follow a stream of people to the J Street bridge. I've been thinking that I'm on the West side all along when I've really been on the East side, in Fair Oaks. I get to the bridge and realize where I am. I walk along the Bike Trail on the South side of the American River and the Northern edge of the CSUS campus. I get to the Guy West bridge and hang a right onto the campus, and I'm oriented again as I stroll past the bicycle compound where I normally lock-up the bike when I visit campus. I make it back to Elvas, then head south to the University-65th Street Light Rail Station. I begin thinking that maybe I should buy a Compass to wear around my neck. It's good to know which way one is going.
So I'm back home. The Cowboys and Redskins start playing after the Lions and Patriots end their fiasco. I slice 5 potatoes, and a few carrots into a big baking dish, and crank up the oven to 350F. Before I put them in, I clove an entire garlic and throw that in, too. It's gonna be yummy.
I crash for two hours, waking to an apartment inundated with the smell of baked garlic. It totally rocks. One of the most pleasant olfactory sensations to which a guy could wake.
I pull the potato/carrot/garlic combo out of the oven to see how tender they are. Fork falls right through. Perfect.
I leave the dish out atop the oven to let it cool while the turkey broils. The turkey is one of those de-boned extravaganzas. A 3.5 pound affair wrapped in a netting to keep the inside white and dark meat moist while it cooks for 2 hours. It's a big oval. Looks the shape of a ham.
Like most of the meat from it's source, the Sacramento Natural Foods Coop, it's free range grown, and very, very yummy. Since discovering this particular turkey raiser, Diestel Farms out of Sonora, I haven't been able to go back to the regular ol' Butterball (sorry guys-- will you hit me with one of those lame Agricultural Product Disparagement suits now? If you can't compete, baby, you can't compete). In fact, I started buying Diestel Farms sliced turkey meat for lunch sandwiches back in the summer. It's kinda steep, $3.75 for a 12 oz. package, but man, you get what you pay for. This is what turkey is meant to taste like. I bought a Butterball at a Safeway a couple of months ago. I couldn't taste it. May as well have been cardboard. Ergo, it's free range Uber Alles!
So I slather my turkey that was probably pretty happy when he was alive, living near Yosemite, and all, with olive oil and dash it with some tarragon and powdered garlic. Yes, more garlic! Then it's into the oven at 350F for a couple of hours.
I kick back to watch the Cowboys beat Washington for the 10th straight time, Emmitt Smith looking absolutely ageless, and the phone rings. White monkey in heat howls. It's Ricky Retardo.
"Feliz Dia de los Guajalotes mutherfuckah!" he chimes.
Shit, another holiday gone to waste. Or just another day, period, gone to waste.
"Yeah, whatever you say," I groan.
"Dude, I heard about your little suckfacepalooza the other night with Aimee. You kids are gettin' along real good," he intones like some shifty little cartoon dog.
"Great, she likes to kiss and tell, huh," I growl.
"Yeah, or fuck and run."
"Uh-huh. Don't think it's gone that far," I say.
"Maybe it will my friend. Maybe it will," the sneaky little devil says, his shiftiness taking on greater levels of freakishness. I can see him standing at some phone booth keeping all eyes and ears out for the man as if he's some kind of quadruple counter agent for the Mossad, MI5, CIA, and the PLO.
"So where is the girl who doesn't return my calls?" I ask.
"She's in Eureka with Rabbi dad," he says.
"Her dad's not a rabbi," I say.
"Maybe he's not. Maybe he's not."
At this point, I'm ready to reach through the phone and strangle the guy.
"So you ready to plaster downtown with 'Buy Nothing Day' stickers?" he asks.
I fight the urge to slam the phone on the guy.
"I'm too old for that shit," I tell him.
"Old! Old! You're never too old for Civil Disobedience. Don't give me that too old shit. You were mac'in' on a 24 year old woman just a few nights ago. You are young at libido, my friend," he argued.
I had no idea how old Aimee was.
"Yeah, but not young enough to stand jailtime," I retort.
"Yeah, but rumor has it that Rabbi's Daughter will be back for this special occasion," he suggests.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm a pushover for the ladies. Well. This one at least."
I agree to join the mayhem later after dark, but promise Sr. Retardo that I'll kick his ass if I land in jail.
"Babballlooooo!" he screams. Luckily it's done away from the receiver.
I agree on one condition though, I have to bring along some of my own stickers for the event.
He gives consent to the condition.
I crankup the computer and dig through several cabinets before I find my sticky paper. I print out 50 stickers that say "DRIVING" and 10 that say "18 Minute."
I eat my turkey in silence, wandering what jail will be like.
"Lighten up," Ricky says smacking me on the back as we mount our bicycles and head downtown. "I've got friends who'll bail us out."
"Who?" I say.
"Friends," he says. "A few. With money."
I'm not encouraged.
"Listen," he confides as we ride away down 24th Street,"Keep it low and move fast and we won't have the bail problem."
We get to 21st and T and meet Fred. There's a small shadowy figure with him. It's Aimee.
I get an uncontrollable smile and a burst of raucous energy. I'll torch police cars for this woman.
She returns the smile so much bigger, better, and goofier. "Uggh" she greets me. Her delight is so great that you can feel her eyes beam from their hiding place below her beenie.