Enough tension-building hysteria. Yes! The polar ice-caps are melting! Yes! Migration habits are disturbed! Yes! The ozone layer has more holes in it than I-94 after the spring thaw! (Rim shot, please.)
Environmentally, politically, socially, morally—we’re screwed. As humans, I believe this state of events is our natural habitat. That doesn’t make it right; it just is what it is. And I pledge to do my part. I hereby swear not to jump into my luxury mink-seated SUV, late to pick the kids up from school, and go barreling into traffic among those tiny, pious, Toyota Tsk’s, with half an eye on the road, as I yammer on to my stockbroker, making secret insider trades while cell-phone cancer eats through the last brain-stem inhibitor I have left that keeps me from shouting at the TV, Fat Elvis-style, whenever regularly scheduled programming is on.
I have gladly quit smoking, my lawn is free of pesticides, and my ten-dollar-a-week Aqua Net habit is a thing of the past. But it’s not enough. Nor will it ever be. I subscribe to the notion that human lives could never ever be cruelty free. Even the best of us, or even the best parts of us, are woefully fallible. We are doomed to repeat the same selfish, sinful mistakes of our ancestors, only as each generation goes on, more stylishly, and more efficiently then ever before.
Well, a clean heart, mind, and conscience might well begin with a clean colon, so I looked up a friend who espouses the virtues of clean living. For the sake of this story, I’ll call her Megan the Vegan Pagan. Her body is a temple and it only accepts certain offerings. She dragged me to the co-op, and lectured me on the error of my ways, which she diagnosed as partly dietary, but mostly a species of moral failure. In her worldview, eating clean is only somewhat about health. It’s more about feeling ethical. I decided to accept her counsel. After all, I’ve got my wellness to think about.
As we first strolled into the meat aisle, Megan dismissively pointed out the free-range chicken, ostrich steaks, and fresh fish, stating that she “never eats food with a face.” “Even Gummi Bears?” I kidded. But this was no laughing matter. Did you know that Gummi Bears are made with gelatin? Which is derived from bone marrow? Me neither. Since Gummi bears are not on the generally accepted food pyramid, I decided this was not such a great loss.
We went on to produce, where I couldn’t help but notice that, while the fruits and veggies resembled the fruits and veggies I usually buy, they were, on average, smaller, dirtier, and more expensive than what I’m used to. How European! Megan explained that these fruits were organically grown, without scientific hocus-pocus and therefore they looked like what real produce should look like, not like those hormone-injected Pamela Anderson cantaloupes like they have in the supermarket. (By this reasoning, if Moby ate hamburgers addled with Bovine Growth Hormone, he’d look like Vin Diesel.)
In personal care products, I picked up a baking soda tooth powder, which tasted like penance for all my sins, but got my teeth so clean they squeaked when I smiled. Plus a natural deodorant crystal the size and texture of those ice formations that you get under your wheel well this time of year. It said on the back of the box that the rock had a street value of $5.99 and that it was a year’s supply, but I wasn’t sure if I should crush it and snort it, or cook it on a spoon and mainline it into the affected stinky areas.
Later, over dinner and—what else?—organic red wine, Megan admitted to me that progress is the goal, not perfection, when it comes to living the virtuous life. She said new information comes out every day, and it would be impossible to stay on top of what was ethically acceptable to shop for and where to shop for it. I let this sink in. “You mean, I could be offending Mothership Earth right now and not even know it?” She nodded sadly, and then excused herself to have a smoke out on my back porch. I grabbed her pack of butts and shook them in the air, pointing out to her that this was a perfect example of human incongruity. She snatched the pale blue pack back and snapped: “They’re American Spirits. They don’t have any additives.”
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