On Gas and Riding Public Transit

So after careful contemplation I've decided to go vegan, once again. I was vegan for a good two and a half years before "breaking my vedge". Soon after I had moved to Clement Street in the Inner Richmond in February of 2007, I gave in to the incredible drawing powers of Pizza Orgasmica, a pizzeria/bar with a rather fitting name. It was only a few blocks away and though they offer a vegan pie on their menu, it is no match for the limitless combination of exotic vegetables, cheeses, and if one so dares... meat. If I remember correctly- and I almost always do when it comes to a pizza pie- I went for broke with a zucchinni pie with mozzarella and ricotta cheese with a white wine cheddar sauce on cornmeal crust. My Native American friend, DuWayne, could vouch for this since it was his abundance of take-out magnets (ten get you a free pie) that got us this particular meal for free. It was delicious and I remember listening to Jesus and Mary Chain and Boilermaker records while ferociously consuming this long-desired, previously forbidden fruit. Though I would never put fruit on a pizza. Unless you get technical and count the tomato and a few other fruits that I would probably ignorantly consider a vegetable. You probably know what I mean. Like how many people still call whales "fish", though they're technically not fish. Most of you know by now, scientists would tell you that they're all actually overweight midwesterners (kind of a redundant term for these people since "midwesterners" conjures images of the obese) in an aquatic disguise, looking for free handouts at SeaWorld and Bush Gardens. I kid. Chill out, Midwest. You almost flipped out on me.
I love so many food products that contain dairy and meat, but I unfortunately have put on a lot of weight over the past year. It all brings me down very much, psychologically and even literally (gravity). Besides being a bit more lean, I also used to have a lot more energy. I don't know if it's because I eat a lot of pasta on a vegan diet and therefore ingest heavy doses of carbohydrates or what. Who knows? I don't. That's why I asked who knows. Wait, don't answer. Ha, you can't. Oh yeah... being lean and energetic. That's pretty much it.
I have, of course, a bit of pride about the fact that I'm not killing animals, at least not so many (I still often purchase shoes and hygienic products that aren't completely animal-friendly). My compassion for animals was my excuse for the first time around. This time it's a little more selfish, but at least my furry or feathered friends (and enemies) benefit as well. DuWayne, who I mentioned earlier, is going back to the old vegan ways, too. I believe it's for the same reasons, but regardless, it's much easier to do when you're around someone with a similar diet. We're both especially excited to be cooking more. When I wasn't vegan I had too many options and therefore could eat whatever I want. I would usually settle for something along the lines of take-out, since it was so easy. Don't get me wrong. There are some ridiculously good take-out spots in my neighborhood that are all too tempting sometimes. Cooking is becoming a bigger part of my life again, though, and I'm re-acclimating myself to the cooking environment. Hanging out in the kitchen will be once again the cool thing to do. It's a very social place. You can't very well avoid the kitchen and of course, the alcohol usually resides there. Seeing as how my fellow roommates and I enjoy the occasional social drinking, this makes the kitchen an ideal area to gather, drink, converse, and eventually cook (ie: drunken fry-up). Or one could pass out upright in a hard wooden chair with a wine bottle propped between one's legs, eyes closed and mouth ajar. Whatever you fancy. Whatever tickles your pickle or floats your boat. Those both sound nasty. I'd rather fancy something than have my pickle tickled. Maybe. There's nothing wrong with a pickle-tickling every once in a while, but I can't then help but compare my soldier to a swollen, bumpy green refrigerator tenant. For that matter, I can't help compare my penis to a giant boat to be floated. I insist that the word "giant" be used. I use "giant boat" at bars often, in hopes that some young lady will volunteer (subtly, mind you) to "commandeer" my vessel. My battle cruiser or aircraft carrier. Or in the case of a drawn bath, my U-boat. I apologize. I'm drunk-ranting about my phallic navy. A navy of one. I suppose I could call my boxers "the shipyard". Okay, I'm done. Seriously.
There are, of course, repercussions to a rather sudden change of diet. I have a terrible, repellent case of gas to deal with for the next few weeks or so, while my digestive system reels from the blow. It will be for the best, as my bowel movements (or BMs) were pretty unpredictable and unpleasant when I ate dairy products. A more or less copacetic BM will let you know ahead of time when it will visit, much like a friend or relative who lives a great distance from you. This ideal BM will also be an easy clean-up. Toilet paper usage, like a game of golf, is more satisfactory, more rewarding, the less strokes you use. Anyways, I came face-to-face with this gas problem on the MUNI the other day. I was settled beside an attractive young specimen of the opposite sex and there were no good-looking young men riding the same bus. This, naturally, makes a man feel good. That man being me this time. No competition, you know. I lack in several categories and don't need others highlighting these shortcomings in contrast. I was trying to look at her without looking at her, the old trick of staring out the window opposite your person at a 45-degree angle, and using your peripheral vision to glimpse the temporary object of your affection. Without my glasses, I already have the vision of a... well... someone who just has surprisingly poor vision. The corner-of-the-eye stare still works for me on occasion, though. I was trying to think of some reason to ask her about her shoes or her jacket. They were nice but didn't call for the attention I wanted to give her. I was thinking hard, though, rummaging through the bookshelves in my mind, tossing the volumes behind me onto the floor with not much more than cursory glances, trying to find a line. Any stupid line. I was desperate because I only get the courage to talk to strange women on very rare occasions. Either after too many drinks or when there's a full moon or something. I imagine if I found myself on an airplane with no pilot, spiraling toward the earth and certain fiery doom, I still would find myself short of words. Well, I must have racked my body, as well as my brain, too hard. I began to feel my digestive system a-stewing. I tried to constrict my lower intestine with great concentration. It kept on moving and bubbling, like a great train of gas chugging towards the light at the end of the tunnel. I dropped any previous thoughts on the young lady's attire and focused entirely on not humiliating myself. I was hellbent on not "expelling" on the bus. This force was so strong that I was very frightened that it would not only blow air, but quite possibly cause an unintentional BM (perhaps not the scientific term), something that I know not only senior citizens are prone to, but also is a symptom of a certain psychological disorder that I read about in high school. The name of the said affliction escapes me at the moment. If my heavy breathing and maybe even a crazed look on my face from the intense challenge I was undergoing were not enough to draw her attention, then my next action was. I just about thought that I would get away with it. About half of it ejected and was thrown clear without so much as a "peep". But my acknowledgement of the near-success must have relaxed me too much and the second half caused such a rumble as to vibrate the seats, which as you may or may not know, are all attached together on any given MUNI line.
"Oh Christ!" I thought, "That just fucked me." Hell, I had fucked the rest of the crowd. They were in for it, whether they liked it or not. I have no idea why I should word it like that, since I can't imagine someone liking it. I probably cursed myself a thousand times in that millisecond before her reaction.
Sure enough, she jerked her gaze in my direction. She had felt the veritable earthquake. It had probably shaken the foundations of the Bay Bridge, compromised the integrity of the Golden Gate itself, and rocked the Coit Tower into a pose mimicking the infamous structure in Pisa.
"Oh my God. Christ in a wind tunnel," I almost muttered under my breath, which would have compounded the shame I felt. From years of tongue slippage, though, I caught myself and shut up. This was bad enough as it was. It's enough to fall victim to flatulence in public, but to do so in front a gorgeous woman! Nor would I have wanted to invite the comparison between a wind tunnel and myself.
She looked around as if trying to pinpoint the source. Maybe she was trying to give me the opportunity to deny it. She was trying to grant me the right to an attorney or something. I tried to play it straight by gazing forward nonchalantly. I'm pretty sure I played it too cool, though, because she stood up and moved to the door about two or three stops before she exited the vehicle. She knew for sure that the goofy-looking white guy with the bedhead (not the cool, stylishly disheveled kind) and problem skin had just ripped a gargantuan... *ahem*... FART beside her on a crowded public transit vehicle. Awww... just plain inappropriate. I was more heartbroken than I should have been, for instead of the normal run-of-the-mill rejection or more often run-of-the-mill cowardice, it was complete and utter humiliation. I would have been beet red if I could summon any color to my face at all. I felt sick and probably turned more pale than one of those fish you see on "Mysteries of the Deep" when they dive in pressure-controlled submarines to the lower parts of the Mariana Trench. Minus the "bait" appendage protruding from the forehead that prompts unoriginal nicknames like "dickhead". Well, maybe it's original. I'm probably the only person I know immature enough to try to put down a fish like that outside of a pack of gradeschoolers.
For shame.


It should probably be noted that this was written a couple of months ago, drunkenly, and I have since ceased to be vegan. This round was short-lived and I had ought to be ashamed of myself.