the day the earth stood still:MGD renounces meat

There is a quiet little porch attached to a quiet little house, on a quiet little street corner in Ferndale, Michigan. And on this quiet little porch sits a black charcoal grill, lovingly manufactured by the fine Weber folks in Palatine and Huntley, Illinois. Much like the porch, the house, and the street corner, this little black beauty is also quiet. Its dark porcelain bowl radiates no warmth. Its ash can is empty, with only traces of expired charcoal from days gone by. The small circular top vents have ceased to emanate their beguiling aroma – an aroma that called to the belly, that beckoned the nostrils, and that harkened back to a time when primitive peoples broiled their meat long and loudly through fire-lit nights. No longer, though. Not on this porch. Not on this street corner.

But it was not always this way. Time was, this porcelain chamber burned hot to the touch. Time was, this culinary furnace belched forth heat and steam so succulent, it could only be the result of briquette-inspired fire playfully and eagerly massaging a choice cut of beef. A stampede of cattle-inspired products paraded their way across its iron grilling surface on a nightly basis: ribeye, brautwurst, T-bone, ground round, sirloin, and chuck. Porterhouse, sausage, ribs, filet, and of course the New York strip. And MGD presided over this procession as its master of ceremonies.

Like the surgeon who carefully wields a scalpel, MGD was equally adept with grill tongs, meat forks, and basting brushes. Like the mother who gently and lovingly cares for and watches over her children, MGD stood at a constant attention, a watchful eye trained on his sizzling packets of animal flesh. And like the mighty Vulcan, MGD lorded over his fire pit as master and commander of all he surveyed.

But, I digress. That was then.

The utensils of his craft have now been relegated to some interior room of that quiet little house. Meat no longer makes the journey from cold carcass to hot delicious dinner on that porch. And much like Prometheus who snatched fire from the gods, so too has fate snatched the burning coals from this quiet Ferndale street corner.

Now then…think back if you would. Think back to a few weeks ago. Think back to what you were doing when you had that feeling of uneasiness. That feeling where it seemed that for a moment, just that one brief moment, that the world had come to a halt. Not a screeching halt; not a blatantly obvious, life-changing, mind-jarring halt. Rather, just that feeling that everything had slowed to an imperceptible pace. That feeling of living someone else’s life, when you’re quietly aware of how freaking strange anyone’s life can be. And then just as quickly as it came, that feeling is gone. I shared that moment with all of you. When you were watching the faucet pour water, or talking to your sister, or walking up your basement steps, I was watching waves of High Life slowly roll back and forth between my lips and the bottom of a glass bottle. In that moment we shared, I ceased to be able to swallow. A rolling wave of High Life stopped midway in its trans-container journey. Right around where the girl’s boot-clad leg hangs down over the edge of the moon. It was in that instant that MGD turned our worlds into chaotic mind-fuckery for the briefest of moments.

“I’m not really eating meat anymore” he says.

“I haven’t eaten any meat in a couple months actually” he says.

You notice a single solitary drop of water among the deluge. Your conversation becomes so quiet, it’s deafening. You almost lose your balance on the basement stairs because of that feeling. The sloshing inertia of my High Life quietly acquiesces to Newton’s First Law.