Is it just me, or is the Christmas spirit dying a little more each year? I don't think it's just because I'm getting older, either. I think there are fewer Christmas specials on TV, fewer decorations in public places, and overall holiday cheer is going the way of Polio.

But the most unsettling part is the lack of Christmas charities. What happened to all the Toys for Tots bins that used to be in front of stores? Is there a shortage of marines or something? And I've only seen one Salvation Army bell ringer so far this year. They used to be outside of every Target and supermarket. What's going on?

It's like Santa Claus got pissed off at the churches for reminding people of the true meaning of Christmas, which threatens his job security, so he and his elf goons went around muscling up anybody who tried collecting things for the poor and needy. Well your guido scare tactics aren't gonna work, fat man! I'm gonna buy less and less stuff than ever before, just to spite you. I'm not even going to use wrapping paper. Getting nervous?

I know one person isn't going to make much of a dent in your profits, but once everybody checks out Buy Nothing Christmas, I bet your fur-trimmed wallet's gonna start feeling a little lighter. Oooh, is it getting hot in here, fatso?

You're the worst monster in Big Business. You're an enemy to all things good and holy and kind. You make the Grinch look like Martin Luther King, you greedy a-hole. Bite me, Santa. Get bent. I hope your sleigh crashes into an iceberg.

- Caleb

I figured California would be the first to do it, but the tiny, isolationist nation of Bhutan has just enacted the world's first total ban on tobacco. If you're one of the estimated 7,000 smokers in the country, never fear; you're still free to smoke – so long as you do it within the confines of your home, and the fumes don't mix with the outside air. And you'll have to have your cigs imported from neighboring India, too, because it's illegal to buy or sell tobacco products within the country's borders. Not only that, but you can look forward to paying a 100% sales tax on the imported smokes in addition to the purchase and shipping costs.

I know Bhutan has never been much of a trend-setter, but I really hope this idea catches on. The world needs it. If this was a high school newspaper, I would have said, "The rest of the world would do well to catch this law second-hand," but I'm not gonna lower myself to that level.

Amazed that smoking is still allowed in 193 countries,

- Caleb

As I was coming into my neighborhood on my way home from school today, I noticed that the white minivan driving in front of me was none other than my Mr. Toad-esque neighbor, now world famous for her poor driving skills. This excited me, for I knew another crappy park job was imminent. I followed closely – but not too closely; I didn't want to arouse suspicion – and carefully observed every nuance of her maneuvering. Sending my expectations straight to hell, she actually piloted her vehicle pretty soberly. This bothered me. As we approached her house, though, a glimmer of hope shone bright in my eye. Yes, this is the neighbor we've come to know so well. With a thump! thump! she cut the corner too close, and in her trademark move, drove right over the sloping edge of the sidewalk. "I knew you wouldn't disappoint!" I sang with glee as I zipped past the house. And that was the highlight of my day, even more so than acing my biology final.

David Battle met Devon in eighth grade, and married her five years later.

Two months after the wedding, he was shipped off to war in Iraq.

Three months later, David's left hand was maimed when he came under attack in Fallujah.

He was transported to a hospital, where he began treatment.

The doctors told him they'd have to cut his wedding ring off in order to save his finger.

He said his wife is the love of his life, and he couldn't bear to see her ring destroyed.

They told him it was either the ring or the finger.

So he told them to cut his finger off, and leave the ring intact.

So they did. And David was happy.

But then the doctors lost his ring.

The End.

it seems this kind of story is becoming a theme here on ochius...

Sad Serb axes penis, then regrets decision
‘All’s well that ends well,’ says doctor after reattachment - MSNBC Reports

I especially like the fact that the doctor referred to it as "his tool."

- Caleb

[EDIT: MSNBC.com no longer has this story archived on their server. Here is the text:]

BELGRADE, Serbia-Montenegro - A Serbian man was so depressed by his family’s dire financial situation that he cut off his penis with an ax, only to regret it afterwards and ask for help, Serbian media said Friday.

The 30-year-old from the industrial town of Kragujevac in central Serbia was distraught by what he described as “the poverty and misery” around him, daily Kurir reported.

“My wife is sick, and I can’t even buy medicine. My father, mother and I live from my father’s paltry salary,” the man was quoted as saying.

“I saw no other way out, grabbed a rusty two-and-a-half-kilo ax, took my penis out, put it on a log and bam!”

The sight of blood brought him to his senses, he said.

“Only then did I come to and screamed as loudly as I could, realizing I didn’t have it any more,” he was quoted as saying.

Neighbors heard his screaming and rushed him to hospital, where doctors sewed his penis back on.

“The most important thing is that his tool is back in place. All’s well that ends well,” said doctor Srecko Djordjevic, who performed the operation.

Copyright 2004 Reuters Limited. All rights reserved. Republication or redistribution of Reuters content is expressly prohibited without the prior written consent of Reuters. [woops!]

My neighbor was seen pulling into her driveway tonight for the first time in 69 days. Needless to say, she did a pretty crappy job.

The incident began with a haphazard, too-fast-for-conditions swerve onto the drive, followed by a reversal and then a re-adjustment.

Just like last time, she grazed the edge of the sidewalk on her way in. It was not seen whether she drove over the grass, however she did back up in a straight line, lending support to my hypothesis that my neighbor is incapable of turning the wheel while reversing.

Keeping an ever watchful eye across the street,
- Caleb

Okay everyone, you need to read this article. It's interesting on several levels: The first thought that comes to my head is how can anyone possibly make this mistake? It's really ridiculous. Second, I say it serves him right for using such moronic problem-solving strategies. If only this happened to everyone who sees life the way this guy does, the world would be a much better place. The third, and possibly most intriguing thought, is this guy doesn't seem all that bothered by what happened. If this happened to me, I'd be beside myself! And fourthly, what's up with the dog? It's like he's been waiting and waiting for this to happen, and now it's payday! Ain't no treat like a severed penis, eh?

Anyway, here's the article. Enjoy!

Romanian cuts off penis; dog eats it – MSNBC Reports
[EDIT: It's come to my attention that this story is no longer archived on MSNBC's website. Luckily, I managed to find the text:]

BUCHAREST (Reuters) - A elderly Romanian man mistook his penis for a chicken's neck, cut it off and his dog rushed up and ate it, the state Rompres news agency said Monday.

It said 67 year-old Constantin Mocanu, from a village near the southeastern town of Galati, rushed out into his yard in his underwear to kill a noisy chicken keeping him awake at night.

"I confused it with the chicken's neck," Mocanu, who was admitted to the emergency hospital in Galati, was quoted as saying. "I cut it ... and the dog rushed and ate it."

Doctors said the man, who was brought in by an ambulance bleeding heavily, was now out of danger.

Mel Gibson is being stalked by some dude who keeps demanding that they pray together. Zack Sinclair showed up at Gibson's home two days in a row last month, and when he was told to put eggs in his shoes and never come back, he decided to switch tactics and start stalking him at church instead. This didn't fly with Mel, who said that Sinclair "interrupted my worship... and demanded that I pray with him." So seeing how that didn't work, he went back to his original plan and started stalking him at home again. This time, though, the police were called and Sinclair was hauled off to the joint, where he'll stay til his hearing on Wednesday.

And the moral of this story is: I need to be more sly in spying on my neighbor.

<-- Actor Mel Gibson responds to repeated tresspassing by an obsessed fan. "He come around here one more time, and I be popping caps in his punk ass!" the actor may have exclaimed to his wife following the most recent episode. It is unclear whether he was entertaining his family by speaking in a fake English accent at the time of the intrusions. Also unknown is whether or not he owns a t-shirt with the slogan "Party Naked" printed on the front.

For all of you who have expressed concern about my dad this past week, I apologize for being so late in updating you on his situation. As usual, I've been busy with school and stuff, and when some free time actually came my way, I had much more productive things to do than spend it writing HTML.

So anyway... Dad spent last Friday night at the hospital, as I said, and came home Saturday. The tests indicate that he didn't have a heart attack, which is a good thing because that means there's not necessarily going to be tissue damage. They still don't know what the heck was wrong with him, though. Tests are still being run on his blood, and we should have the results in the next few days. In the meantime, the doctors say it could have been anything from a lung infection to really nasty indigestion.

As far as my neighbor goes, I haven't seen her coming or going in a few days. All she does now is walk around the garage, and around the front yard... but she doesn't actually drive anywhere! I think she might be on to me...

I went to bed at around midnight last night, and I slept til 10:30 this morning. That was pretty sweet. I would've slept in even longer, but I was awakened by a call from my mom, telling me that my dad was in the ER. It seems he had a heart attack, but they won't know for sure until tomorrow. They need to run a blood test to check for biomarkers, which are enzymes and stuff that show up in the blood following cardiac arrest. If they find these biomarkers, then that means he had a heart attack. If they don't, then I have no idea what else could have caused a sudden feeling like "someone punched a hole through my chest" that then radiated to his jaw. So I'm hoping for the heart attack option.

In other news, I'm becoming obsessed with my neighbor. I watched her pull into her driveway tonight, like that black guy watched Nicolas Cage in Gone In 60 Seconds. "Time to see if she drives over the grass!" I said as I stood in the dark street, probably looking like a real pervert.

What happened next remains a mystery to me. My neighbor pulled into the driveway, parked in the garage, and went inside her house... but I couldn't see whether she drove on the lawn or not. But even if she didn't, she sure came close. You know that portion of the driveway where it becomes the sidewalk? I think she drove over that part. So I can definitely see why I shouldn't park there.

But I still need to see her leaving the house in order to verify my original hypotheses that (1) she only backs up in a straight line, and (2) she somehow manages to drive on the lawn when backing out. Once I am able to verify these hypotheses, I will be able to further develop my theory that my neighbor is a crappy driver.

In the meantime, I think I'll park as far away from her house as possible.

Leering voyeuristically in the window with binoculars,

-Caleb

[EDIT: For those of you too young to remember those horrible "D-O-W DOW!" commercials, your loss. But I guess you had to be in San Diego in the 90s, too.]

There was a trailer parked in front of my house today when I got home from school, so I parked across the street in front of my neighbors' house. Later in the day, I happened to be out front, and my neighbor approached me and requested that I move my car. "I can't get out of my driveway," she told me. "You've gotta move it like, two feet. Or I'll take your front bumper off." Hmm, I thought as I examined my parking job. My front bumper was just in line with the edge of her lawn. Does this mean she drives over her grass every morning when backing out of the driveway? Probably. But even if I happened, for some reason, to be parked half way into her driveway, she should easily be able to avoid hitting me. It's just a matter of looking behind you and turning the wheel. But she seemed pretty confident that she would be trapped – a prisoner in her own home – if I didn't repark my car. So based on her insistence, I've concluded that she drives on her lawn when backing out, and she only knows how to reverse in straight lines.

And the moral of the story is: my neighbor is a crappy driver. If you see a white minivan on the road, keep your distance.

Above: The only photograph that shall ever be used on this site to depict my sister-in-law, Lauren Ruggiero. And as for the smack down you promised, bring it on, my little friend, bring it on...

My first class on Tuesdays and Thursdays is at 1:00, so I get to school at about 11:00 or so and take care of my homework in the library before class. I was reading my ethics text this afternoon when my attention was grabbed by two university employees passing through the corridor behind me, carrying on a very loud conversation about iSight. Not only were their voices beyond library levels, they were beyond outdoors and in the midst of heavy construction levels. And it didn't help that the corridor they were in happened to be quite echoey. But, being the nice guy that I am, I was willing to tolerate it for the few moments it takes to pass through. But then something terrible happened: they stopped walking. That's right, they parked it a mere ten yards behind me and continued their unnecessarily loud discussion, right in the midst of a dozen irritated students who wanted nothing more than to study in peace and quiet. I looked around the room. Some students were looking around nervously, unsure of what to do. One guy had a textbook held up against his ear to block the noise. Sigh. I knew I now had two choices: I could be like everybody else and just bend over and take it, or I could confront the loud talkers and ask them to shut up so I could study. I decided that I hate confrontations like this, so I continued reading my ethics book and just tried to ignore the talking. But then a third guy came and joined the conversation! That did it. I got up from my chair, walked calmly over to the noise-polluting triad, and said politely, "Gentlemen, could you please keep it down a little? This is a library, and you're very distracting." I was amazed at their reaction. I had barely gotten the first sentence out when they fell silent, a little bit shocked and a little bit confused. They just looked at me for a moment like deer in the headlights, and I really wasn't expecting that reaction any more than they expected to be chastised by a student, so I just stared right back at them. I was determined to come out on top though, so I turned around and walked away immediately. Score one for the common people.

But that wasn't the end.

A few minutes had passed, and I was back into my ethics homework, when I saw the skinny guy with the mustache, who was the leader of the loud talkers, approaching my table. I figured he was either going to apologize for his disruption, or be a jerk and cause trouble for me because of my confrontation. Turns out he did neither. "I just spoke with the librarians," he told me, "and they told me that this isn't a quiet area. There are designated quiet areas upstairs if you're interested." Wow. I wasn't expecting that. "Well," I said without missing a beat, "then I apologize for the misunderstanding." And with that, he walked off, and I returned to my reading, and that was the end of that episode.

Misunderstandings are always good entertainment; seven seasons of Three's Company is proof of that. But it wasn't the misunderstanding in itself that makes this incident stand out to me. It's the reason for the misunderstanding: as far as I've ever known, libraries are places in which you don't speak at all, and if you really need to, you do it as quietly as possible. So of course I assumed that the gentlemen carrying on a conversation in the middle of the library were inconsiderate jerks. The very concept of designated quiet areas in a library is so foreign to me. Has it really been so long since I've been in a library that the rules have changed, and talking is now permitted? Is it now common sense that if you want quiet in a library, you must seek out one of these designated quiet zones? If that's the case, then to the talkers I must have seemed an ignorant, unenlightened boob who never got the memo that it's okay to talk in the library now. If that's the case, then fair enough, since I thought the converse of them. Live and learn. And as long as these guys don't make a habit of conversing right next to me every day, I'm sure I'll manage to live in peace with this "talking is allowed" arrangement.

Sitting quietly even though I'm not in the library,

-Caleb

First of all, I apologize for the two-week lack of anything happening on this website. As I alluded to in the previous entry, school's in full swing now, and consequently I've had little time for anything nonacademic, updating ochius right at the top of the list. But hey, I finally found a free minute or two, so happy day, I get to update you on the past 16 days of pants-crapping fun and excitement that has been my life.

"Nobody gives a damn about your knee anymore!" This is the most common statement I've heard all week. On the one hand, I'm a bit disappointed with myself for my pitiful irregularity in updating the most amazing Caleb-related site on the web; but on the other hand, I'm happy to hear such complaints because that means that I continue to carry a loyal readership, despite the fact that there's been nothing but stale, out-dated material posted for ages now.

And for those of you who are still left wondering, my knee is better now. I still don't know what caused the problem, or what the problem even was, for that matter. It still isn't up to 100% – I can walk, run, and skip as limberly as a fourth grader on summer holiday; but when it comes to supporting the weight of my body – such as jumping, squatting, and displaying my awe-inspiring karate skills – it's still somewhat weak, and consequently very painful if I'm not paying attention to what I'm doing.

Speaking of doing, I must admit I wasn't completely truthful with you earlier. I said that massive amounts of schoolwork were to blame for my not having any time to post updates. While it's true that school's been consuming more of my time now than in any other period of my academic career, there is another place my time's been going... Elaine arrived safely back in America on the 25th of August, which made me very, very happy. So I've been spending as much time as I possibly can with her, catching up on all the stuff there is to catch up on after a three-week absence.

Other noteworthy events...

While I was at a Padres game, some of my high school students wrote "VOTE 4 BUSH" in huge letters on the back of my car, and I didn't get a chance to clean it off for a while, so for a week everyone on the road thought I was a Bush supporter. I thought about writing "Don't" before it, but there wasn't enough room. At one point, I was at a red light when a woman in a blue car pulled up in the lane beside me, and yelled, "Yeah! George Bush! Woo!" and gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up. I didn't quite know how to respond; I thought about telling her the truth and saying that I'd rather have a platypus in the White House than another four years with Dubya, but I knew I would only confuse her and probably offend her as well, so I just went along with it. "Yeah," I said, "George Bush all right!" Then the light turned green, and I promptly drove home and washed my car.

I went on College Briefing last weekend, which is basically summer camp for big kids. It was fantastic. A few days away from school and work and suburbia was just what the doctor ordered. It was really nice to be able to go to church as well. When your place of employment is your church, you never actually go to church; you go to work. So College Briefing is pretty much the one weekend a year I get to attend worship services and not be working, which makes it one of my favorite times of the year. My God really kicked my butt about a few issues over the weekend too. It was great. Lots of growth. All in all, it was a fantastic ending to the summer. Now the challenge is going to be maintaining my decisions over the course of the year.

And speaking of decisions, you definitely need to decide to check this out!

And on that note, I'm gonna go take a shower or something.

Typing nude,

-Caleb

My knee is hurting more and more. The other night it was so bad that I considered going to the Emergency Room, but I decided to tough it out and take it to Urgent Care in the morning. The ER is where you go if you're on the verge of death, missing members, or bleeding profusely, particularly from someplace that oughtn't bleed like the eyes or genitals. I think it's probably a medical faux pas to go into the Emergency Room with a problem that you can just bite the bullet and deal with until Urgent Care opens up. "Well la-dee-da," the doctors would say amongst themselves, out of view of the patients. "Looks like someone hurt his knee and came into the Emergency Room. Boo hoo." Then when he came in to see me, the doctor would call me either a sissy or a faggot.

But not the doctor at Urgent Care. No sir, because that's the appropriate place to go with problems like a badly hurting knee.

Doc was young. About my age, I think. I felt like I was being treated by the guy from SCRUBS. He did a good job though, and moved my leg around and x-rayed it and gave me one of those nifty knee sleeves to wear, which gets very sweaty and consequently very itchy. He couldn't find any physical abnormalities in my knee, and figures I somehow sprained the living crap out of it. He told me to take some analgesics if the pain gets bad, and do my best not to smack it around and injure it further. I've got the second bit covered, but I'm not really into the first bit; I hate taking drugs of any kind, for any reason. Unless the pain is absolutely blinding, I'd much rather bite my lip and take it like a man than resort to chemically altering the balance of my neurotransmitters and all that stuff up there inside my brain. Testosteronal machismo, or my pseudo-straightedge mentality rearing it's sober, decaffeinated face? Perhaps a little of both.

I would have received little sympathy in the ER, among the two GSW's and the guy with the harpoon in his throat.

My hand is feeling better, but I still haven't been to a doctor. I guess that's a good thing, because now my knee hurts too, and I can get them both looked at in the same visit. It sucks, because it's inhibiting my everyday activities like squatting and climbing staircases. You'd be surprised how many times you squat in a day. It's really amazing. I don't really know how it happened either, although I suspect it may have something to do with the hundred jumping jacks I did the other night. But who throws out their knee doing jumping jacks? That sounds pretty bogus to me. But I can't think of anything else that may have aggravated it, so that remains the number one suspect for now.

In other news, school starts on Monday. Not too excited about that. It could be a lot worse, though. At least I don't have colon cancer or anything gross like that.

But then maybe I shouldn't say anything until after my doctor's appointment.


<- Happenin' dance moves, or blinding pain? You be the judge.

Elaine is in Bolivia for three weeks visiting some family, and my sister-in-law Lauren is in Mexico doing some missions work for the week, so my brother Matt and I are bachelors for a while. The other night we went up to Matt's apartment with the boys for a bachelor's movie night, featuring Old School. It was the kickoff to Project:Regarding Henry, our latest fest whose purpose is to bring us up to speed on movies which all but one member of the group has seen, much like Henry's loved ones had to catch him up on the aspects of his life that he lost when he was shot in the head, or whatever happened to him, I haven't seen the movie yet. It's on our roster.

We wanted to kick off P:RH with a little bit of class; images of roasting s'mores in the fireplace and drinking fine wine ran through our heads. So Brent and Charles made a trip to liberate some mallows and grahams from the church fridge, and Matt and I knew exactly what to do for the other half of the equation: The Girl.

The Girl is a four-foot tall bottle of chianti that's shaped like a woman. She's been sitting in my house for years, awaiting an occasion worthy of her opening. And we all knew that this was definitely the occasion.

As Robert Burns once said, the best laid plans of mice and men go oft astray, and this is especially true for any plans that are birthed in notions of five rapscallions roasting s'mores and drinking fine wine together in front of a fireplace. I'm not exactly sure how it happened, but the boys ended up roasting their marshmallows over The George Forman Lean Mean Fat Reducing Grilling Machine, while I rummaged through Matt's fridge, complaining that he didn't have any bananas.

And as for The Girl, well a funny thing happened with her.

Matt broke the seal that guarded The Girl's opening, and with the help of Durfey, poured her contents into five fancy wine glasses. "This is it, gentlemen," we said amongst ourselves. "To Project:Regarding Henry!"

And one bye one, sounds of disgust were heard throughout that living room.

"She's bad!" Matt exclaimed. "After all this time, she turns out to be bad!"

"She's gone to vinegar!" Durfey was heard to lament. "This sucks!"

Yes, the wine was bad. Bad! The Girl had so much promise; none of us could believe it!

Charles and I still had full glasses in our hands. Neither of us had tasted the befouled spirit yet, but we knew what we had to do. This wasn't just a glass of bad wine. This was brotherhood. Camaraderie. Charles and I looked at each other. "Bottoms up," I said as we clinked our glasses. We took a sip in unison. Our eyebrows raised. Then our eyes squinted. We looked at each other again.

"This isn't half bad," Charles said.

"Best glass of wine I've ever had!" I announced.

Yes it's true, Charles and I really liked the supposedly bad wine. It didn't taste like vinegar at all, at least to me. It had a nice aged flavor, robust and full of body.

Like I have any idea what I'm talking about.

But seriously, I thought it was great. The only problem is, I really hate alcohol. I rarely drink, and when I do, I water the heck out of it. It's not just because the idea of injecting my brain with chemicals that will do nothing but slow it down is stupid to me; I really can't stand the taste of alcohol. Why ruin a perfectly good drink by putting booze in it, I always say. Same goes for Charles, I'm pretty sure.

Maybe that's why we both liked it - The Girl's wine didn't taste like wine ought to taste, and we both hate the taste of wine, so this drink's taste was good to us.

And now here lies the irony – and the tragedy – of the situation: the only two people who enjoyed the wine don't drink, and those who enjoy a drink did not like the wine.

Now that's freaking poetic in some way, I'm sure.

Top: With both the girls off in foreign lands for the week, bachelorhood reigned supreme.
Bottom: It was a night of unbridled debauchery by all accounts, minus any unwholesome behavior associated with the word.

So I'm pretty sure my hand's been broken for about a year or so. It began hurting a long time back, and it wasn't long before I became accustomed to the pain and stopped noticing it. Fast forward to a few months ago. I strike my hand and careen into a whirlwind of pain. You better believe I remembered the past discomfort after that. I looked at my hand and noticed that I've got a hard bulge about an inch and a half north of the wrist. The same bulge had been there before, but either descended back into the hand or stopped getting noticed by me once I started getting used to the pain. Fast forward another few months. We're now at the end of July. I've forgotten about my hand once again , but quickly remember it when I throw it against someone's face, and am in more pain than the freshman who just got his wagon fixed. The bulge is now bigger than ever, and boy does it suck. I've decided this time I should take it to a doctor, before I forget about it again.


Left: My freakish left hand, with what I think might be a bit of bone poking up out of the top.
Right: A normal hand, for comparison. Note the lack of disgusting protrusions.

The tough thing about being in a leadership role is that you're held to a higher standard than everyone else. Once you tell people that certain behaviors or actions aren't acceptable, you have to make sure that you're following through with that in your own life. Even harder than that, once you realize that certain things that you've been condoning or even participating in are unacceptable, you then have the burdensome responsibility of telling people that you can't allow them to continue doing what you had just been encouraging them to do yesterday.

Leadership isn't a total downer, though. Its upsides most certainly outweigh its few downsides. For one, leaders are required to live with integrity. You're forced to give careful thought to every move you make, because your life is held as an example of how others ought to live. I'm a youth leader with my church's high school ministry, and the two years that I've been ministering there have caused more positive personal changes than any other time of my life, because how I live my life is a major factor in the spiritual and moral development of my students.

If anyone needs a boost in the integrity department (and I think everyone does), it'd be a good idea to find some kind of leadership role to take. But make sure you take on a leadership role that is appropriate for your own social and spiritual maturity level! I've seen so-called "leaders" whose integrity and maturity are so lacking that they actually do more harm to their students than good. If you can't handle what life throws at you, if you're going to whine and complain and moan about every setback that comes your way, if you don't actually have a grasp on the stuff you're supposed to be teaching, then you have absolutely no business being in any kind of leadership role until you can at least start getting your act together. Like Jesus once said, if the example you're setting causes anyone to fall, it'd be better for you to be thrown into the sea with a boulder tied around your neck than to continue leading.

Being a vegan isn't always easy when you live in a conservative town like San Diego. Ignorance comes in all shapes and forms, from the daily bombardment of jokes and wisecracks (promptly followed by "no offense," as if that changes anything); to the flabbergasted "You mean you don't even eat eggs???" asked with the same amazement and chagrin that would follow if I'd just revealed that I'm into bestiality; to the ever-popular, "Why the hell would you want to be a vegan?"; and everything in between.

Maybe I should revise my statement. Being a vegan isn't any harder in San Diego than it would be in Berkeley. There's no force compelling me to eat a cheeseburger or buy a new pair of leather tennis shoes. I mean, suppose you don't like alcohol. Not drinking isn't going to be a chore for you, even if you're a freshman at San Diego State University. Seeing as I'm thoroughly disgusted by animal products, not giving them my patronage is as natural to me as not driving a rusty screwdriver through my temple. Yes, saying it isn't easy isn't really accurate. I guess it'd be better to say it's frustrating. Frustrating because I'm surrounded day in and day out by self-absorbed ignorami who, for some reason or another, feel that because my lifestyle is different from theirs, I should therefore become the object of their scorn and contempt.

I was born lucky. I happen to be a white European male in slightly-upper-middle class southern California. I've never been the object of any form of racism or any major sexism, and my God is affiliated with the religion that happens to be the most popular one in America. I spent two decades enjoying the easy life that my DNA and geography happened to afford me, and it wasn't until I made the decision to stop eating animals that I was really on the outs with anybody. One deviation from mainstream culture and suddenly you've gone from an "us" to a "them." If you ever want to see which of your friends are real friends and which are just ignorant sods, all you have to do is go vegan. Trust me, it's much easier than going homosexual, and you'll get the same effect.


Answering criticism that their Chicken McNuggets are made from disgusting mechanically separated and recongealed chicken flesh, McDonalds announces their new "McIdentifiable" chicken product.