Praise the Lard and Piss the Ammunition

I was invited to a rehearsed table read of LARD – The Musical, “an upcoming musical play about size acceptance, love, friendship, all wrapped up in music… and bacon.” (Not to mention a very promising spoof of Grease.) I HopStopped the best Sunday afternoon route to The Knitting Factory by bus. I love me some bus, and choose it over the subway whenever possible, especially on weekends when the trains are hinky and street traffic is light. But this day we got tangled up in a clusterfuck snarl of pedestrians, stopped cars, and detours.

The March to End the War.

I campaigned in three states, last Presidential election. I’ve designed T-shirt graphics for Dems. I distributed posters, buttons, and windshield cards in the days leading up the war. I’ve held hands, lit candles, and gathered at the park. I’ve spread the word on the air, on the page, and at the top of my lungs, and I was at the massive anti-war protest held here on First Avenue and in countries throughout the globe 4 years ago. I was fiery of spirit and trashed of throat then, yet today, I haven’t opened the e-mail alerts from Move-On or United for Peace and Justice in more than a year. After countless deaths thanks to a war based upon an international lie, I wasn’t even aware there was a protest march a few dozen blocks from my home.

My anger hasn’t subsided. I haven’t become disenchanted with the fight, nor do I doubt its value. But I have become weary. And I don’t think I’m alone. Lately, when I try to talk with friends about how policies are being mishandled, or my skepticism of the Khalid Shaikh Mohammed confessions, the reckless and arrogant disregard for the Geneva Convention, the Presidential pillaging of our country’s reputation, justice interrupted by politics, they don’t want to hear about it. People who believe as I do are choosing not to discuss, or even ponder it any more. Protest fatigue. The situation is too ridiculously wrong to even comprehend. We’ve allowed ourselves to become distracted by inconsequentials. We’ve stopped paying attention. I know I have.

You may ask what this has to do with pleasure. Why am I talking about it on what’s essentially a food blog, tucked into the lighthearted touts of sugar-laden, mass-produced munchie quenchers? I don’t know, except to say that this stuff should be peppered amongst the street level fare and integrated into the absent-minded, gum-chewing aspects of life. Our eyes shouldn’t roll when someone brings it up. Discussing the war doesn’t mean you can’t also laugh or wank or watch Family Guy. And it doesn’t mean I won’t be back here tomorrow, tee-heeing over Christopher Walken and Little Richard being separated at birth, or patting my tummy over an inappropriately lustful Cinnabon testimonial. I will be. But maybe I’ll be a little less apathetic than I was yesterday.

Then again.

I figured the LARDette who’d invited me to the reading would understand my absence, considering. I got off the bus. Did I join in the protest? I didn’t.

I did go home, though, and start reading my e-mail.

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