If the stats developed by the UN are right, and the BBC hasn't misrepresented them at all, and I can wrap my head around this number, there are 1,000,000,000 (that's one billion folks) frogs culled to get to the world's plates every year:
"Frogs legs are on the menu at school cafeterias in Europe, market stalls and dinner tables across Asia to high end restaurants throughout the world," said Corey Bradshaw from Adelaide University in Australia. "Amphibians are already the most threatened animal group yet assessed because of disease, habitat loss and climate change - man's massive appetite for their legs is not helping."
Now while I don't want to even think about the numbers for chickens, cows, fish, or pigs, I've only got one thing to say. If you can watch Kermit sing "It's Not Easy Being Green" and ever want to eat a frog again, you have no heart... or you may be the Swedish Chef.
There was one word that scared the living hell out of everyone who skinned a knee or elbow as a child: iodine. Iodine hurt like hell. It was a combination of pain as well. Most types of pain can be described as searing for a minute and then it's okay, or a long-term irritation that never makes you tear up, but can cause you major discomfort with the occasional wincing. I always remember iodine as a "take no prisoners" new ring of Dante's Inferno.
Now, admittedly, I can't remember many of the details of iodine pain as a child except for the fact that I would have rather hacked my limb off than have iodine applied. Hell, there were plenty of times I may have accepted amputation and cauterizing as long as it was not followed by venom-like sting of iodine.
I can honestly say that the most intense pain I've ever felt in my life was when, in my early 20s, I had minor surgery on my back and, instead of stitching the wound, they advised letting it heal while keeping it bandaged and packed with gauze. Some of you may be feeling faint at the concept of an open wound, yet, those of you who have even a minor experience in surgery at all may know that this method can prevent future infection... anyway... back to my back, and my pain. Before leaving the hospital, as a means of disinfecting, and what I'm guessing was a standard wound dressing practice, they placed an iodine-coated dry strip in the incision.
I cannot describe the plummeting depths of pain that I went through. The only thing I could've imagined as worse was if Rod Stewart had tried to ressurect his career by remaking three CDs full of R&B hits and those songs being the only ones on your iPod, which was stuck in shuffle mode so the pain (like any good torture) was fresh and unexpected each time, while you were stuck on a desert island with the earbuds sutured into your ears, the headphone jack welded into the Shuffle, and the iPod battery on some freaky new solar battery technology, which, due to the island's location, kept the batteries fully charged.
This pain seemed to go on for hours, although it was more like a minute before I was able to convince the nurse to remove the strip and find some other way that wouldn't have me looking for the nearest upper floor window. While I can't claim to be traumatized by the event, it has become the standard by which all other pain is measured... ergo the complete parallel of the Rod Stewart example.
And I bring you through all of my personal hell to introduce the following...
io9.com (ironically enough) pointed to a story about a Canadian initiative that claimed the deficiency of iodine in food and drink can lead to a 13 point deficiency in IQ. The Micronutrient Initiative has introduced more iodine in the diet of developing countries and gathered evidence to show how IQ has increased. I think that few would be surprised to accept a link between nutrition and intelligence. I daresay that one of the numerous reasons children from lower income socio-economic areas have problems in school is a result of a healthy and consistent diet. I'm not saying iodized salt will solve the world's ills, but it's good to have a long-known piece of the puzzle has another piece of empirical data.
There must, however, be a growing fear in many of these developing countries. Many of people are overworked, underpaid, impoverished and hopeless. Woe to be the government that actually has a growing populace that can start to think of a way out of their positions and consider change. Woe to be the western conglomorate exec. who has a shoe or clothing factory that pays pennies on the dollar for a 12-16 hour day of work when their workforce suddenly feels inspired with thoughts or evolution and revolution. Poverty and malnutrition has always been a more powerful tool than any gun or army in keeping a class subdued. Are governments ready, willing and able to face the full impact and pains of social change that a nutrient as simple as iodine can bring?
And I introduced that just to bring you back to this...
I fully believe that the pain I felt from my iodine hell was in fact the knowledge of the world trying to flood into my limited brain, and that, had I the fortitude to withstand the pain, I would now be the smartest person in the world.
Concerning my childhood reminiscences on the innocence of a breakfast cereal life and some discourse on scope, scale and setting in the Watchmen and film in general.
In keeping with my cereal theme of yesterday, while trying to think up crazy new cereal names (in the vein of John Hodgman's hobo names) I instead ended up on quick formula of how to create a repulsive breakfast food that most people would shirk from.
I've always been a sucker for nostalgia. Never has any period in time so inspired me to reveries of childhood bliss as thinking back on 70s Saturday mornings. I spent my formative years engrossed by the idiot box to become a pre-pubescent afficionado of cartoons. From Bugs Bunny to Hong Kong Phooey to the Superfriends to the Flintstones and the Jetsons to Scooby Doo, the Laff-a-lympics and Yogi Bear and Roger Ramjet for good measure, there was never a cartoon that didn't fit into a Saturday morning. And there was never a morning that wasn't supplemented by cereal. From as early an age as I can remember, cereal WAS breakfast. But that's to be expected when I woke up an hour before everyone else in the house to catch the last five minutes of the pre-dawn Agriculture USA before pouring some milk and watching Bugs Bunny and Friends.
And while there were different cereals that represent different times in my life, the constant droning of the cereal company jingles and mascots turned me into a veritable jukebox of commercial hits. The Post family had its big three of course: Alpha Bits, Honey Comb and Sugar Crisp. The wizard, the Honeycomb Kid and Sugar Bear peering out from those primary-colored triumvirate of blue, red and yellow boxes almost daring you not to pour a second bowl. Sure they were sugar-laden, but hell, the Honeycomb Kid had just run Big Zeke out of town "when he kinda missed his horse on the way down and he never did make his get away 'cause the Honeycomb Kid saved the day." That was from memory folks and while I'm not proud about it, I am not unrepentant in my nostalgic haze. I remember years of Fruity and Cocoa Pebbles commercials that teased this young Canadian boy, but alas they were not be found (at that time) north of the border. Post did run into a logic wall in the mind of this 8 year old with Grape Nuts... I still haven't figured that one out.
And while Post relied on its big three, Kellogg's stepped it up a notch. They were the kings of the cereal mascot game. Forget about Marvel and DC comic superheroes, I had Tusk the Elephant, Toucan Sam, Tony the Tiger, Snap, Crackle and Pop, and Dig'em the Frog. Sure, trying to secure one of these cereals was a bit of a harder task as the sugar level shot up... well, not so much for Rice Krispies, but that could be resolved by a generous spoonful of the white stuff that often left the remnant milk at the bottom of the bowl resemble more of a tooth-cringing sludge than anything else - but damn tasty! I remember the Kellogg's line-up most of all from their Snack Pack selections that would often accompany the family on camping trips. The challenge of perforating the mini box along the line and then peeling back the wax paper so that one could pour milk right into the box and eat out of the cardboard coffin was so satisfying. There was always a race between me and my sister to see who could leave other with the 40% Bran at the end of the weekend. Bran's not kid friendly at the best of times much less on a camping trip with a creepy outhouse 100 yards away.
But the sugar content of Kellogg's and their merry mascots were doomed when placed up against the monsters of General Mills. And I do mean monsters quite literally. The monster cereals were the Holy Grail of sugar delivery breakfast foods. Not only were there crispy colored bits made up of mostly sugar, but they were laced with tiny marshmallows that Mills called "marbits" that were made of 100% food-colored, densely-packed sugary goodness. These so-called "marbits" would only even soften up after being saturated in milk for three and a half weeks under a heat lamp - unfortunately, I didn't have time for that so I crunched away. The monster posse was led by one Count Chocula with his Luca Brasi-like strong arm Frankenberry backing him up while the deadly trio of Boo Berry, Fruit Brute and Yummy Mummy mopped up. I had to put together a pretty cogent argument as a 7 year old to convince mom to buy one of the monster cereals. She would try to pitch me on one of the boring Mills cereals like Wheaties or Cheerios. Usually, after a tough negotiation, we ended up at Cocoa Puffs or Trix's silly Rabbit. On a better day I may get Lucky Charms with its own "marbits" of pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars and green clovers. Yes, I was a bit disappointed when they added Blue Diamond to the mix, but I was willing to forgive. And while I was past the point of caring when Purple Horseshoe was introduced, I'd felt they'd already jumped the shark.
The Quaker family was infrequent at the table due to the tasty, yet deadly, temptations of the Cap'n Crunch line which tempted young children with its sweet and, admittedly, crunchy goodness. Many was the time that a youngster would mercilessly lacerate the top of his mouth when reaching in for a handful of Cap'n, Choco, Cinnamon, Peanut Butter, Punch or Vanilly Crunch cereals. You can't accuse Quaker of not riding a good thing to death. Hell, I didn't mention Crunchberries in that list.
As I was sidling out the era of way-to-early Saturday mornings the Chex brand of cereals took the whole game too far. Sure, we'd been lulled to sleep by the Chex brands for years. What sugar-loving kid ever wanted Corn, Wheat, or Rice Chex. In 1977, things took a turn with the end of innocence for cereal lovers everywhere. Oh, we didn't realize it at the time, but Chex dropped a nuke on children with Cookie Crisp. Every kid wanted Cookie Crisp. Shit, they were mini chocolate chip cookies for christ's sake! But there was the rub. While you could, with best efforts and earnestness, try to convince your mother that any cereal, no matter how sugar-laden, was just cereal and still a viable breakfast option, Cookie Crisp blew that template off the map. There was no way she was going to buy me cookies for breakfast. Hell, decades later I would never buy myself Cookie Crisp for breakfast, but at the time, it was kiddie crack. They even pitched it with freaky Santa Claus-looking wizard named Cookie Jarvis... Cookie Jarvis... what kind of mascot name is Jarvis? It sounds like the creepy guy down the street that everyone thinks molests kids. But he was the pusher.
I don't know if it was because my mother read the ingredients of Cookie Crisp and figured out that same crap that was in there was also in every other cereal I'd ever wanted and, by logical inference, if I wanted Cookie Crisp (which was bad), all other like cereals must be bad. From that year forward came the age of Shreddies, Muffets and Harvest Crunch. Don't get me wrong. I grew to have a great respect for the cereal of my burgeoning youth. I started to actually look forward to the 237 seconds it took for every Shreddie in a bowl to turn to mush. I found solace in the artificial sweetener that I carefully dispensed from the paper packet in circular precision over my bird's nest Muffet. I even learned, after several weeks, that a correct portion of Harvest Crunch is not the normal bowlful of other cereals - and that my jaw would hurt for the rest of the day if I over-indulged. I did not know, at the time, that my childhood was running away from me like so much mottled milky sugar remnants, upturned in the kitchen sink of life, waiting for the hot water to baptize the bowl anew.
And from that point on, cereal was dead to me.
Fuck you Jarvis.
You think Michael Phelps is some kinda hero for swimming fast? Forget it. Brad Sciullo is my hero. Like people who say "I climbed the mountain because it was there." Sciullo ate a 20 pound "Beer Barrel Belly Buster" burger, not because he had to, but because it was on the menu: "To me, it's the accomplishment. This is a passion of mine; this is my sport. Just like they would try and compete to win a marathon of some sort, I am trying to compete and defeat this burger as an accomplishment - it's another thing under my belt." Maybe a new elastic belt, but a belt all the same.
The next time you think about having dessert and the thought process goes something like "I just couldn't eat another bite", think of Brad Sciullo. Did he say "I just coudn't eat another bite"? No! He gave near an entire cow a reason for dying. Kudos Brad! Kudos!
Concerning questions of pertinent, esoteric and wasteful direction.
There's something to be said for the frivolous, the ridiculous, the plain unnecessary. A slapstick pie in the face, while absurd and useless, is often funny if timed properly and, while many may question the humor, most will not recoil in abject horror that a pie or two is being wasted while people go hungry.
I can also appreciate that at buffet restaurants around the world, on a daily basis, tons of food is left on plates and subsequently discarded while the occasional patron will lament, "what a waste!"
I am also one who will often buy DVDs that you'll find shrink-wrapped a year later on my shelf. I will take semi-annual treks to Las Vegas where the useless has become commonplace. I will waste time with the best of them. Waste is not an unknown or unwelcome concept to me on many levels. Why then am I left awestruck in amazement at the recent practices of a fast food establishment?
No more than two days after getting an email from a friend about his recent trip to Taco Bell that netted him about a dozen packets of hot sauce for his three Tacos, I made an infrequent trip to the Bell and placed a dinner order consisting of a 7-layer Burrito, a Meximelt, and a Double Decker Taco. What resulted can be seen in a quick summary of the numbers:
3 items purchased (all of which could have sauce used on them)
23 packages of "Border Sauce" dispensed (12 Hot, 11 Mild)
I'll admit I did indulge in one packet of sauce for the Taco, but, beyond that, the rest of the "Border Sauce" remained. The practice does beg some intriguing questions including:
1) Is a single package supposed to represent a "recommended" serving for a single item? (If so, there's some real arithmetic upgrading that needs to be done by PepsiCo for their employees.)
2) If this is not a serving, why not change the package to accommodate what the suggested serving should be?
3) While they often ask if you'd like hot or mild sauce, why don't they ever ask how much if the threshold can be between 1 and at least 23?
The conspicuous number of packets also allowed me to realize that Taco Bell now incorporates witticisms onto the packets like:
"Bike tires scare me."
"I'm in good hands now."
"So many tacos so little time"
"Pick me. Pick me."
"You had me at Taco"
"Live life... Take two."
While that last example had me starting to understand the culture of waste that has not only permeated Taco Bell, but almost every other food establishment, there was a final packet that really summed up the event: "Live life one sauce packet at a time."
Now while I doubt the Taco Bell parent corporation of PepsiCo has taken to hiring existentialist philosophers for Border Sauce packet blurbs, this last jolt of wisdom did leave me with an optimistic tinge and perhaps the one redeeming quality for this condiment onslaught. I figure that my life is now good as long as I have sauce packets left to enjoy. Considering I may frequent Taco Bell twice a year and this trip I only used one out of 23, I figure I've got a guaranteed 12 years of life without fear of accidental death. If I ever am planning on doing something risky, I can just head back to the Bell and reacquire a bounty of new packets to carry me through the remainder of a long life sponsored by the Pepsi Corporation and a subsidiary that once wanted me to take my own life by forcing a precocious chihuahua on my psyche.
While I honestly hate the indifference and complacency that led to an employee dumping such a condiment cluster bomb into the trillionth plastic bag that will be hitting a landfill somewhere near you, I've gotta love the fact that, for one brief shining moment, I believed fast food guaranteed my future.
