Wednesday, July 1, 2015

Mustard's Last Stand

...

Dear readers, listeners and readers who read aloud. I write to you today with shaky palms and a nervous stomach. I don’t think it’s contagious but just to be safe, please simply enjoy this final Meat Log Blog and do not attempt to find me. Actually, do try to find me. Just know that it is an impossible task for I have changed my identity and moved to a far away land that is definitely not my parent’s basement. Lastly, if what I’ve just shared with you has flung you headfirst into a fit of grief-fueled rage, try to just go with the flow. Grief-fueled rage is in these days.

... 

When you wake up in the hospital they give you apple juice, which is nice. A tall nurse gave me my Welcome-to-the-Hospital Juice with a bendy straw in it; yet another nice touch. But when I went to take my maiden sip I was denied at the rim. I couldn’t swallow and worse yet, my sweet new gown now had an unsightly stain on it. The nurse nodded knowingly, she told me that the doctor would be in soon and that she was glad to see me awake. And then she left; without even the slightest show of concern for the fashion faux pas that she had caused me! Can you believe the nerve of some people!? My parents, who were both standing across the room from me, approached the bed. Their faces looked much older than I remembered. As I began to taunt my silly old parents, I was taken aback. My hilarious words were barely audible, as if each one were being excavated from deep inside of me by a team of community college archaeologists. And then I threw up.

Amarillo, Texas harbors its fair share of culture – a booming meth industry, a tight knit community of cannibalistic Republicans, and Crazy Larry’s 96 Ounce Steak Challenge. The signs on the way out of Amarillo read Please, For the Love of God and Business, Come Back Sometime, Anytime. On the way in, starting at about 50 miles out in any direction, you’ll see billboards inviting brave men and women to try Crazy Larry’s challenge.

Harold Thompson is a tall man, roughly 6’4”, with a face like a deflated basketball. His presence fills a room with unease and even in my weakened state I flirted with attacking this white coated demon spawn. In his toady voice he croaked out the news of the day. I had choked – bad.  A late game slip up. An airway blockage with less than a pound to go had landed me on the fourteenth floor of the Northwest Texas Hospital with a severely damaged esophagus and $128 in debt to Crazy Larry (before tip).

Crazy Larry is not as crazy as his name suggests. He’s actually quite nice. Weeks later, when I finally made it down to his fine dining establishment to pay my bill and clean my coughed up blood off his tables, floor and waitstaff, he was generous enough to give me a complementary Crazy Larry Visor. That visor got me through some tough times like that one time when it was sunny and all my hats were at the dry cleaners. Thank you Crazy Larry.

...

There was a learning curve. Chewing, swallowing and not choking all took time to get used to again. Eventually though, I was able to do all three in quick succession. I just put one bite in front of the other and before I knew it, I was eating. Then I accidentally swallowed a couple marbles. That set me back a few weeks but before I knew it I was back to where I was at a few weeks before. I was eating almost nothing but food and drinking like a champ, but there was still something wrong – chiefly uncontrollable vomiting at the sight, smell or even mention of meat, as well as chronic bed-wetting.

Doctors assured me that the bed-wetting was unrelated to my accident, and my mom assures me that I’ve been doing it for years. I question her memory though, she is getting quite old after all, but I suppose she might be right. Although it doesn’t explain all those times someone pooped in my bed.


Therapy is tough. It’s not all fun and games like you would think and in fact, there is almost no fun or games; except of course the game that I made up. It’s called Splash Pants and Dr. Kaiser is the best at it. He’s always yelling stuff like “Jesus Christ Garrett, you’re an adult” and “for fuck’s sake Garrett” and we all get to laugh because we know he’s just joking around to try and distract us from looking at his pee pants.

After a couple weeks and the conclusion of the Splash Pants Tourney, Dr. Kaiser determined that I was ready for electroshock therapy. We had tried hypnosis, reverse psychology, role playing and trust falls; and despite giving me dozens of erections, nothing had helped cure my meat vomits. With great sadness in his voice, Dr. Kaiser told me that if the electroshock therapy didn’t work I would be transferred. He said he was shocked by my lack of progress and that he had never seen anything like it. I wanted to point out his clever word play but gave him a silent nod of approval instead. I was nervous as the orderlies attached electrodes to different points on my body. I knew how serious this was, if I wasn’t focused I may have swallowed the water and then Dr. Kaiser wouldn’t get to enjoy one last game of Splash Pants.

...

The Meat Rehabilitation Center at the Mayo Clinic has no windows and even less appreciation for style. The place is like a prison - a fashion prison - filled with fashion prison guards and a fashion warden who I know stole my visor. And I know what you’re probably thinking and I’ve already tried. I called Crazy Larry but he keeps saying that he “can’t help me kill a doctor”; although I suspect that he could but is choosing not to.

It doesn’t matter how much food you have in your stomach, you can still vomit on a nurse. And you can feel bad and cry about it but that’s not going to get the taste of vomit out of a nurse’s mouth. Really the only thing you can do is just try to be the best you can be, even if it means the occasional nurse quits to, ‘Go find Jesus’. Different strokes for different folks.

My folks were both back at work. They had taken up fun bonus night jobs: my dad at a 7/11 and my mom at a club for gentlemen! They said it was so that they could pay for my therapy but really it was me that was paying. While they were off enjoying the company of noble men and unlimited free Slurpees, I was stuck in a living hell – making nurses consider God. Every day they would wake me up at the crack of noon to torture me until nap time. For minutes at a time they’d force me into the pulled pork immersion tank or the flank steak sleep deprivation chamber. And the worst of all were the sloppy Joe enemas; why they wouldn’t let me do them more than twice a day, I’ll never know.

I’m an enigma, or at least that’s what they started calling me. I assume it’s medical slang for a really cool cool-guy who is generous enough to make sure everyone gets to hear his cool jokes because that’s what I am and that’s what I do. And I may make it look easy but I really care about being the cool, funny guy that people count on me to be. Like sometimes I’d have to track people down so that I could tell them my cool jokes. And although they may have initially looked sad, cowering in the corner, I always made sure they were smiling before I’d walked away. It’s just what I do, I brighten days. I’m like a factory that produces good times for everyone. But unfortunately, at my good times factory, the worker’s union went on strike, demanding a wage increase and overtime pay right before they were supposed to make my personal batch of good times. Stupid union! Why couldn’t they have just toughed it out for one more 18 hour day of making good times? I mean, if they’d just kept doing their job everything would have been all fine. Instead, it was all not fine. I was vomiting all the time, sometimes mid joke, and all of the therapee-pee wasn’t doing shit!

I was released from the Mayo Clinic Meat Rehabilitation Center on May 16th. Their lawyer’s will tell you that I was “discharged due to flagrant misuse of Mayo Clinic property” but I’m here to set the record straight. I was kicked out because I took an X-ray of my genitals. Do I regret it? Yes, the stupid machine wouldn’t print copies, but I’ll get over it. I’m a survivor.

... 

My homecoming was underwhelming. My silly parents forgot to invite all my best buds to the party, they didn’t book the marching band I requested and somehow they also forgot to pick me up. So silly! So I spent most of two weeks at SeaTac. I survived thanks to the generosity of others who are stupid enough to use trash cans. Those idiots throw away all sorts of stuff and sure, sometimes that stuff was meat stuff. And yeah, sometimes I threw up, but other times I didn’t and that’s something not nearly enough travelers appreciate.

If there is one thing I’m good at, it’s racquetball. But if there are two things I’m good at, it’s theater and racquetball. So in true Shakespearean style, I sobbed near a trash can in baggage claim for 12 straight days. The audience danced for me like they were puppets and I was a guy who is really good at using puppets. Groups of fans would gather, cheering me on with their pictures and pointing and laughter. Security guards traveled from far and wide to come ask me “if I could come with them?” As if any great actor ever goes anywhere for free! And lastly there were the janitors, they will always hold a special place in my heart for I know they loved my performance most of all. Day after day they returned, anxious to see how the show was going and how much vomit they had to clean up. 


I cannot say where I went next, although I will assure you, once again, that I definitely did not go to my parent’s basement. Seriously, stay away from there. My parents are old and frail and I am NOT living with them. I can however tell you how this story ends. My Herculean quest for recovery ended with self-realization and personal acceptance. I can no longer do the hundreds of pull ups that you all remember me doing, but that’s OK. I’ve still got a rockin’ bod and you still have all those incredible memories. Also, I can no longer eat meat – stupid medicine once again was stupid and did nothing. The meat vomits persist but I cannot. No longer do I enjoy yummy cow meat or juicy pig meat or tender dog meat. And although society may label me a 'Vegetarian', I know that my tramp stamp will always say otherwise. What I’m trying to say is, don’t worry about me, I’m fine. I’m still alive, I’m still Gary Mustard and I’m still the bad ass super cool dude that you all look up to. So tonight, don’t lose sleep over me; I’ll be resting easy as the warm rush of self-assurance runs down my leg.

...

Saturday, July 19, 2014

Cooked Up And Going Stew Crazy

Like the Olympics, the World Cup graces TV's around the globe but once every four years. The World Cup though is a different animal. Unlike the Olympics, the World Cup is just one beloved sport (sorry Ann Coulter) instead of a cornucopia of exercise-based activities. The result is World Cup Fever – a state of frenzy fueled by overflowing springs of nationalistic pride and heart straining 90-minute bouts. The symptoms of my World Cup Fever were, I assume, not unlike the experiences of many other patriotic Americans. I hunkered down in my backyard, a TV always within earshot, and barbequed. But alas no amount of ribs, hamburgers, and hot links could will the good ol’ boys past the waffle demons.
My support was standard practice, commonplace across this great nation, and a stark contrast to my Brazilian bred roommate’s encouragement practices.

His name is Richard Barnard and he is an amateur witch doctor/recreational shaman. All six feet of him radiates Brazilian pride and ardent support of the national team. On a day-to-day basis his dress and personality could be described as casual and approachable but on the night of June 11th, on the eve of the World Cup, he was anything but. His clothes, which looked to be hand made, almost entirely of leather, were tattered. His skin was painted with powered dyes while beads and feathers hung from his dreaded hair. I stumbled upon this vivid sight as I exited my bedroom in search of a drink. Richard was standing in the middle of our kitchen; although at this point, kitchen was a farfetched descriptor for the room.  The ceiling wept with animal skins, beads, feathers and a host of other objects that I had never seen before. The walls had taken on a heavy color that made the white of old seem pitiful and the counters had all but disappeared beneath a thick layer of dust. The centerpiece of this jumbled scene was a big crock-pot cauldron sitting proudly on the floor.

The components for a devious concoction circled the cauldron. The assortment was obscure, surely scavenged from the depths of the Seattlezon Jungle. I recognize pork shoulder, salted pork belly, smoked sausage, short ribs, black beans and chopped red onion but rounding out the group was a host of ingredients I couldn’t recognize.

I hid behind the large couch in our living room while Richard composed himself. Concentration and tension reached their zenith and the ceremony began. Richard, and the ritual, started slowly. An unheard beat propelled a frenetic dance as he circle the cauldron. Once the dance had reached its top speed Richard began to pepper in chants. Wild commands and fierce curses pierced the murky air.

BRASIL GANHA! BRASIL GANHA!
SUFOCAR MESSI, SUFOCAR
ESTAR COM DEUS SALVADOR NEYMAR

Piece by piece Richard added ingredients to the bubbling cauldron. Steam and powerful aromas surged through the room. After an unknowable amount of time the concoction was complete; the dance on the other hand was far from finished. As the crock-pot cauldron bubbled Richard rhythmically pounded the ground.  The house shook, the walls drooped and the temperature rose swiftly. Hours passed in this manner – me hidden behind the couch and Richard entranced in ritual. Finally Richard’s pace increased to frightening new highs. Steam screamed from the crock-pot cauldron and over the roar of thunder cracks, the spirits of Pele, Garrincha, Ronaldo and Kaká howled out through the night air. With a final step that felt more like an exclamation point, the ceremony came to a tremendous stop. Richard collapsed in a heap; his energy dampened and the room heavy with silence. The heavens no longer bellowed, the walls no longer wept. All that remained in the mangled room was the cauldron’s muted gurgles and me. As I emerged from behind the couch, the crock-pot cauldron’s gravitational pull slowly drew me in. The smells intensified and intoxicated as I approached. By the time I was within an arms length of the cauldron I was fully under the spell of the strange meaty potion. My strong nationalistic tendencies were momentarily broken – all that mattered was the contents of the cauldron. I am of course ashamed to have betrayed both country and creed but I must admit, it was delicious disloyalty.
When Richard awoke he had only broken memories of his actions the night before.  He was visibly fatigued but glowed with pride in knowing that he had successfully done his part. Each day of the tournament, Richard ate a measured portion of his cauldron creation. He explained to me that Feijoada, or as I had come to know it, Brazilian Meat Stew, was a sacred dish in Brazil, a dish with the power to influence gods and fill you up right. Day after day Richard ate Feijoada until the fateful day. On July 3rd Brazil narrowly escaped Columbian defeat. And on July 3rd Richard scraped the last of the Feijoada from the crock-pot cauldron. And on July 3rd Neymar fractured a vertebrate in his back. Guilt, sadness, remorse and anger formed dark clouds behind Richard’s eyes. He knew it was over. The Feijoada was finished and so too was Brazil. The rest, as they say, is history; a slice of history far too painful to be rehashed here.


The losses are hard to swallow; fortunately, Feijoada is not. So Brazil, as your doctor, I’m prescribe large servings of meaty Feijoada three times a day to fill in the cracks of your broken hearts.





BONUS CONTENT: Richard was not alone in his efforts. If only Brazil had more witch doctors…



Tuesday, June 24, 2014

The Seattle Sandwitch Hunt

On a weightless Friday afternoon Michelle, a girl whom does not call Seattle home, and I, Seattle’s own Dr. Gary Mustard, joined the masses waiting in front of Paseos. As we approached I first smelled it. An odd bitter smell permeated the air and the people in line glowed with a strange tension. The line was long and moved slowly, and as we inched forward more people funneled in behind us. Finally, with a snap, it all came together. That smell, the sheen, the grinding of the teeth, the drool, the moans and the whimpers; it was all connected. Ravaging hunger was rampant amongst the gathering crowd. Our conversation dissipated quickly; Michelle had the fear and my nerves were beginning to waver. Nervously I checked the time on my phone, 12:47 glared back at me. Time passed as we inched forward like wet paint on a hot wall but finally we made it.

The cash register smiled back at us, ready to receive our offering. Hastily I ordered. One Paseo Press and one Caribbean Roast my good sir. With money exchanged and tickets in hand we stepped to the side, joining the eager pool of ticket holding fanatics. Michelle took this time to use the bathroom while I squirmed in anticipation like a little kid with a full bladder. One by one the man behind the counter bellowed out numbers, connecting beautiful sandwiches with their rightful owners, and with each number we took a step closer to the golden moment when we would have sandwich in hand and finally the moment arrived.

My heart and stomach both nearly burst with excitement as I clutched the sandwich filled bag in my hand. Out of the throngs of people I found Michelle emerging from bathroom, I took her by hand, which I hope was well washed, and led her towards the exit. I could feel the burn of jealous eyes as we made our departure. We were a yard or two from the door when the fateful words entered the air. From behind the counter the cashier bellowed all out of bread – and before the words could settle, the first iPhone flew through the tense air, slamming against the wall. Somewhere a bell rang. It was on and everybody was ready to rumble.  Fists flew and punches landed. Purses, canes, chairs and tables quickly became weapons. A man at the front of the store hurled handfuls of silverware with reckless abandon. Paseo’s had become the jungle and basic instincts ruled supreme.

In a flash, I had reached my decision. I never was one for fighting. I turned and ran, dragging a severely shocked Michelle behind me. Like a pissed off pinball I bashed through brawling masses. We made it to fresh air and freedom but we hadn’t made it to safety. Our departure, and our sandwiches, had been noticed. A group of three, a middle-aged couple and a small Asian girl, had caught our scent. They madly dashed after us as we zipped through the streets of Fremont. We were not more than three blocks from the restaurant yet my lungs were beginning to burn. As I peeked backwards I was happily reassured to find out that I was not the only one. The middle-aged couple lay in a defeated heap in the middle of the road. The Asian teenager on the other hand showed no signs of fatigue.


My lungs were screaming and the will to run was dissipating. Fight quickly became inevitable. As we rushed down the street, I took one final peek back. She was really gaining on us, now just a couple strides behind. We turned the corner and I turned to face our pursuer. As she came skidding around the corner I swung my arm, connecting squarely with her torso. Her feet carried on, still hungry for the chase, and as if controlled by an unseen magician her nearly horizontal body levitated momentarily. Then, angered by her temporary defiance, gravity enacted swift revenge. Her body plummeted, crashing hard against the rough pavement. In an instant she was out cold and in a flash we were off. Running on reserve adrenaline we made it a few more blocks before collapsing on a soft patch of grass. With nervous glances, we checked our surroundings. We were alone, we were alive and we were thanking our lucky stars. Once our breathing stabilized we pulled out our sandwiches and pealed back the wrapper. Our tired faces found big smiles as the sandwiches grinned up at us. Slowly, and with great care and enjoyment, we devoured the sandwiches that nearly cost us our lives.  And, although I can’t speak for Michelle, I feel I can safely say that the first savory bite fully made up for each and every terror we had endured.
 

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

The Dog Ate My Meat Log Blog

-I broke all the bones in both my hands in a freak cook off accident, rendering my typing a jumble of clunks and clanks.
-I was summed for jury duty.
-The police arrested me and placed me in custody, eventually releasing me, citing a 'slight misunderstanding'.
-Lady problems.

The list goes on and with enough literary tact perhaps I could have sold you any one of the bunch. But in the case of explaining my absence from the Meat Log Blog, truth and painful honesty must reign supreme.


I figured I had nothing to fear on Saturday, February 15th. Julius Caesar had no reason to be wary of the Ides of February so, naively, I figured the same. I lay in bed, enveloped by Kafka On The Shore, as afternoon rain steadily fell. The need for caffeine struck and with great effort I pealed myself from my nook and made my way to the kitchen. As coffee brewed, I watched as each raindrop selflessly sacrificed itself in the name of earthly hydration. The world is calm when it rains. The coffee maker had finished its duty and began calling for my attention with its customary gurgle. As I turned from the window a shadowy figure in my peripheral sparked alarm. A man, dressed in all black, stood behind me in the kitchen. He smiled slightly as our eyes met; he seemed to relish the fear that had jolted up my spine and into my face. In an instant my world twisted to match the color of his clothes.

Darkness finally faded and as my eyes fluttered open a harsh light, accompanied by the sweet smells of barbecue, quickly replaced it. I was naked and alone, lying in the middle of a grass covered room. The base of the room was roughly 8x8 with walls stretching upward to a height of at least 20 feet. Every inch of the walls and floor were covered with lush green grass and from the ceiling hung a series of grow lights.
"Welcome," a voice from nowhere echoed out.
I called out, demanding answers. Demanding an explanation. Demanding my release. I received no response, only a showering from a sprinkler system mounted on the ceiling. As the watering concluded a door, cut out of the grass-covered wall, opened. Two men entered, they both wore black from head to toe, just as the man in my kitchen had. But, unlike the man in my kitchen, both men also wore masks, one of a pig and the other, a cow. The pair also carried two other distinct differences. The pig-masked man, who entered first, carried a dark green drink in a clear plastic glass. He slowly stepped into the center of the room. The cowman entered second carrying a large assault rifle. He quickly closed the door behind himself.
"What do you want with me?" I pleaded from my retreated position, huddled in the far corner of the room.
"Do not worry, drink up. It won't kill you," the voice from nowhere stated. A slight smile hung in his voice.
"Fuck you," I loudly protested. "I'm not drinking any of whatever that shit is. Let me out of here!"
"As you wish," the voice responded. And with that the cowman knocked twice on the door behind him, which opened immediately. The two men promptly exited into the darkness beyond the doorway, shutting the door quietly behind them. I jumped to my feet, rushed to the door and began slamming my fists against it, screaming for my release. I eventually tied of this futile pursuit and set about searching the room. The door had no handle and the cracks that denoted its outline were almost nonexistent. The rest of the room offered even less hope. I was trapped in a grass prison.

The strong scent of barbecue was unrelenting as I slumped down with my back against the wall and stared at the door. I stayed in this position for quite a while as time crawled past. Suddenly the grow lights above me shut off. Darkness instantly took over, taking with it what little calm I had been able to collect. Hysteria gripped me and I thrashed and screamed with unrestrained fever. Eventually, as with many things during my time in the grass room, I lost the energy to continue and broke down into a pile of heavy sobbing. Some time later, the lights once again turned on and with them, so did the sprinklers. As before, once the sprinklers had finished, the two animal men entered, carrying with them the same glass of green juice and the same assault rifle. They silently assumed the same positions and then the voice began to speak.
"You are in need of purification and we are more than ready for the task. Your worship of meat is an abomination, an evil that must be eradicated. Reparation is in order and repentance is inevitable. You will pay for your transgressions. We will make sure of that."
"How the hell does me eating meat affect you psychopaths?"
"Simply. You espouse, glorify and disseminate falsified information through the writings of your Meat Log Blog. Your filth poisons the minds of millions. You are a problem that needs to be rectified."
"You people are fucking insane."
"Far from it. Please, have a drink."
The smile had once again returned to his voice.
Anger boiled inside of me as I responded, "I thought I told you. You and your drink can go fuck yourself."
"As you wish."
And with that, the two masked men left as before. Replaced, once again, by the strong smell of barbecue.

This patterned continued. The end of darkness is pronounced by the sprinkler, which is followed by the two masked men, always holding the same two objects. Their departure marks a period of light, which eventually switches to darkness. Wash, rinse, repeat. All the while, the stench of barbecue pervaded the air except when the cow and pig are in the room. I repeatedly told the two men to fuck off to which the voice would always respond, "As you wish".
At the end of what must have been days, with my energy thoroughly depleted, I conceded and took a sip of the green drink.
"Good. That wasn't so bad, now was it?" the voice from nowhere cheerfully interjected.
It was vile. A vicious concoction of Mother Earth's rejects, but it was sustenance. It was my only option for staying alive. And if I managed to choke it down slowly, it meant a healthy recess from the haunting smell of barbecue.

As I regained strength, I began to plot. An 8x8 cell does not leave much room for anything besides scheming and like the egg snuggled warmly under a chicken's bum, my plan eventually hatched. My plan would get me into the utter darkness beyond the grass door. From there I would have to act quickly and decisively. But first, my plan needed to be tested. Each time the darkness made way for light and the sprinkler began I would stand slightly to the right of the middle of the room facing the grass door. When the sprinkler had run its course the pig and cow always entered. Each assuming their normal role, the pig stepping within a foot of me while the cow stood guard. With my right hand I would take the drink, raise it to my lips and slowly choke it down. This pattern continued for many cycles until the waters were perfect for testing. The sprinklers had ceased and the animal-masked pair had assumed their positions. This time though when I grabbed the viridescent drink I did not bring it to my lips, instead I cocked back and threw it with all my might. The glass and its contents flew within inches of hitting the pig before slamming into their resting place against the far wall. The pig didn’t move a muscle and besides the cow’s slightly tightened grip on the rifle, the pair remained unmoved and stoic as ever.
“Our guest is a bit testy today,” the voice from nowhere said in jest. I glared upward in defiant response. “Oh well, no worries. You may do as you wish.”
And with that the pig turned, walked over to the juice-splattered wall, collected the glass and left quickly along with his partner. Perfect.

My routine returned to as it had been before the outburst. I stood in the same spot for each feeding. Dark and light traded off at measured intervals and the smell of barbecue pervaded. Wash, rinse, repeat. Everything was the same but for the hope that had taken root deep inside me. Many cycles passed as hope, daring and confidence quietly grew. Finally, the time for action was ripe and as I sat in darkness I pulled grass. By the time the lights and sprinklers turned my left hand was a tight fist, neatly reinforced by a well-packed ball of grass. I stood and assumed my usual position. The sprinklers ended and the pair entered, filling their assigned roles as they always did. Everything was ready; the cow’s rifle would soon be mine.

I took the green drink from the pig with my right hand. My muscles, now acting on adrenaline and autopilot, calmly brought the drink towards my mouth. Once my right hand, and its accompanying beverage, reached shoulder height my synapse snapped into action. I cocked back and threw the drink with all the fury I could muster. As the drink flew through open air my left hand jumped into action. Knowing just where it belonged, my fortified fist found its way straight into the pig’s gut. The drink careened towards the cow’s head, and like my fist, it met its mark. The animal-masked pair fell to their knees; the cow’s rifle fell to the ground, unprotected and ready for a new owner. I lunged past the crumpled pig. One small step towards freedom; that’s all I got before being confronted with one giant roadblock. My one step landed me in the perfect viewing position for admiring the rifle’s dark unblinking eye.
“You should not have done that,” the smile that was usually hung on voice from nowhere’s words was notably absent.  
The smile had fled to underneath the cow mask and it shone clearly through the plastic exterior as the cow introduced the butt of his rifle to the side of my face.

I awoke face down in the same god forsaken grass prison as before. The cell was perfectly dark but the ominous stink of barbecue made mistaking where I was impossible. Pain streaked down the right side of my face and as I tried to bring my hand up to check the damage I quickly realized that both my wrists and ankles had been bound together.  I thrashed about, exerting my muscles until they screamed, but to no avail. I was trapped in a whole new way but I was still free to weep.

The lights and the sprinklers came on and the sudden change from darkness was just as jarring as it always had been. When the sprinkler had run its course the pig and cow entered, joined this time by a man in a chicken mask. The usual pair assumed their usual position while the chicken made a beeline for me. With practiced motions he brought his knee down on my back, using his other leg to pin my legs. With his hands he grabbed hold of my head, turned it in the direction of the pig and forced my jaw open. I fought, spit and cursed as the pig poured every last drop of the green drink into my open mouth.
As the feeding concluded the voice from nowhere began to speak, “You brought this upon yourself but if you so desire to thrash about and reject your feedings you may of course do as you wish.” The voice from nowhere had his signature smile back.

For a while I did do exactly that. I put up a righteous fight during feedings, yearning for the chance to get my hands on the chicken so that I could tear him limb from limb. But, as always, my effort proved fruitless. I conceded and during feedings I would simply turn my head towards the grass door, open my mouth slightly and calmly drink down the green concoction. The chicken was no longer necessary; regardless he faithfully continued to perform his duty.

Time passed at a painful pace but as I lay facedown in my grass cell I found solace. Underneath me were hundreds of lives starving for the grow lamp’s nourishing touch and like a vindictive god I took great pleasure in depriving them. I could feel the life leaving each blade. And as each blade slowly transitioned from green and lush to brown and dry I absorbed the energy given off. While I worked on methodically murdering the grass below me I stared at the grass on the wall nearest me. Being bound in an 8x8 cell does not leave much room for anything besides staring. I would start by focusing on a single strand, letting my vision beyond that point relax. My vision contracted and expanded, blurred and focused, and in this action I found worlds. My eyes were creating stories and if I stayed calm and unblinking they would play out before me. The wall danced while I silently demanded encore after encore. With the lights on my imagination acted out the play it had written but when the lights went off, my imagination went wild. In the dark my whole world was a blade of grass. I was on the inside and all around me raged a world completely beyond my control. Vision was no longer tied to seeing and like a man drowning in the open ocean I would often yell out for the helpful hand that would keep me from going under, only to receive no response. The walls were knocked down but I was too terrified to venture out. I was a single blade of grass on a great plain begin whipped about by an unrelenting storm. The dawning of a new cycle brought relief with it, but the inevitable return of darkness haunted the well-lit room.

My life and, from what I could tell, time continued at the same jagged pace. My body was perfectly still yet my mind franticly spun as light and horrific darkness played tug-of-war. Wash, rinse, repeat.

The sprinklers were just finishing when the voice from nowhere finally broke his long spell of silence.
“Our time together has been lovely, unfortunately it must come to an end.”
I was stunned. I sat silently as tears flowed down my cheeks and the voice continued.
“We will be sending you back but before you may go, we have one final task you must complete.”
The grass door suddenly swung open as if to place an emphatic period at the end of the voice’s words. As usual the chicken, pig and cow entered, but this time the first two carried with them foreign objects. The cow brandished the same cold rifle but the pig’s green drink had been replaced with a plate with a sandwich on top. The chicken carried with him a small end table, which he set in the middle of the room before continuing on towards me. He pulled from his pocket a small X-Acto knife. As he slowly pushed the blade upward I could feel my heart rate rising along with it. But, to my surprise, the chicken stopped inches of my body and swiftly cut loose the ties that bound my extremities. My wrists and ankles sang out in celebration of their new freedom but as I moved my arms and legs my joints screamed out a violent protest. The pig placed the plate on the table and then the trio left as quickly as they had entered. The smell of barbecue was at a crippling new level.
“Before you may leave,” the voice from nowhere started in again. “You must finish every last bite of the sandwich that sits before you. As always you are in control, you may eat as fast or as slow as you wish.”

With great effort I pealed myself from my resting place. My muscles were atrophied and the smells were sickening but upon looking back at the dead patch behind me I couldn’t help but smile. The table that sat before me was roughly two feet tall, white and devoid of details. The plate on top of it shared many of the same traits. The sandwich, upon closer examination, was pulled pork and without a doubt it was the source of the smell that had tormented me for so long. With shaking hands I took the inaugural bite. Instantly I threw up. As the bite left my body it brought with it a healthy pile of green vomit. As I stared at down at the puke covered grass I was shocked by how similar the liquid that had just left my body was to the liquid that I had been forced to drink. As if for good measure, I dry heaved a few times before turning back to the task at hand. Each of the next few bites yielded the same results but eventually I was able to keep a bite down. The process was long and arduous but the lights stayed on throughout and eventually I choked down the final bite. As I swallowed the sound of the sprinklers began, but this time no water made it down to my body.

I awoke in my bedroom. I was wearing the same clothes as I had on the day of the kidnapping: same ratty Mariners t-shirt, same shorts, same underwear and socks. To my left lay my cell phone, wallet and my copy of Kafka On The Shore. Underneath me the bed was neatly made. Had it all been some twisted dream? I rolled over, picked up my phone and checked the time. It read 10:42, on Tuesday, April 1. A small chuckle leapt from my belly and escaped between my lips before I could manage to close them. What a bunch of sick fucks. This really was a joke for someone, an elaborate prank to make me the April fool.

I drew the blinds and reached behind my bed to open the window. The air was crisp and distinctly alive, and the sunlight that found its way to my exposed skin was vigorously soaked up. The raw sunlight seeped into my bone marrow and rushed throughout my body as if it were an honorary red blood cell riding my heart’s waves. For quite some time I stayed still, letting my body adjust to the new world around me. It was just after noon when I got up. As I stood next to my bed I stared at the door across the room from me. I was free to pass through the door and I had done so countless times before but now, in the comfort of my own room, my feet felt as if they were incased in cement. Fear weighed heavily on my mind. From what I could see the world that I had been stolen from a month and a half ago still carried on, but all I could imagine behind the door was unending darkness. With heavy steps I made my way across the room. The air in the room seemed to grow thinner as my hand slowly reached towards the doorknob. My heart raced but as my hand grasped the cheap brass handle the dull, ordinary feel comforted my nerves. Quietly I turned the doorknob; the carpeted floors and plain white wall that peeked through the opening were a tranquil sight, like an empty beach at sunrise. With soundless steps I worked my way out into the living room. The house was calm. The TV was off, the living room was cluttered as always, and in the kitchen my roommate, Seth, stood, a cup of coffee in his hand, as he stared out the window, lost in thought. He looked like an inept sketch artists’ crude rendering of the moment of my kidnapping, and I was the man in all black. A thunderous wave of nausea rushed over me, nearly knocking me backward. Once I had regained my bearings I muttered a quite greeting. Seth’s head whipped in my direction. I tried my best to smile reassuringly but my awkward grin did little to put him at ease. His jaw dropped, followed shortly there after by the mug full of coffee.
The next couple days were a daze. Friends, Romans, clergymen, family members and a whole host of physicians all passed through my life while I unsuccessfully tried to adjust to my new freedom. Everything was moving too fast for me to keep up with but during this time, there were two constants. For the first handful of days my mother never left my side. She slept in a sleeping bag next to my bed, always there to comfort me when the second constant reared its ugly head. Fear and unease were a perpetual burden. During the daytime I managed something close to normalcy, although the stream of visitors was disorienting and disconcerting in its own way. It took me time to readjust to a world with people beyond myself, but the world that I found when I shut my eyes was one that I could neither control or come to terms with. My imagination was a rabid dog, trapped in glass jungle gym, violently redecorating my dreams as nightmares crafted in its own twisted image. Even when I wasn’t asleep, which was a rare state; the nighttime brought with it heightened anxiety. The world would collapse inward and become coffin shaped. Every night I took an unwelcomed trip back to the grass cell. Terror would grip me tight and my mother would try unsuccessfully to pry me free.

Food was yet another issue during this time of newfound freedom and in some ways, it could be considered a third constant. Textures, flavors and smells overwhelmed me. My palate had become so frighteningly accustomed to the stench of barbecue and the even consistency of the green drink that anything else was off-putting. I had trouble choking anything down but eventually, through experimentation and intuition, we, my mother and I, found that baby food was best. The even texture and bland flavors of pureed sweet potatoes, peaches and peas made up the majority of my diet for many days. That is, until I met Dr. Asher.

My mom brought Dr. Theo Asher to my room on either the third or fourth day after my release. He sat on the edge of my bed and we spoke. Over the course of a couple hours I relayed to him the entirety of the story that you are reading here. I spared no details and his attention never wavered. Theo, as I came to know him, was quite for most of the time, only speaking up to ask the occasional clarifying question. I was drained by the time I concluded telling my story, much as I am now. Theo could see this and as he stood up to leave he offered the same reassurance that countless people before him had passed my way - You will get through this. Only this time, I believed what I was being told.

I began meeting with Dr. Asher every other day. Each time we would bring the demons that had been haunting me to the surface. Each meeting was grueling but at the end of each meeting Theo would leave me with a task and with each meeting I got stronger. In hindsight, the tasks were small but at the time the molehills were mountains. Normalcy is at the top of a big hill and I have no choice but to diligently crawl upward. I have made progress. I can get down solid foods now, people no longer overwhelm me as they did at first and even the darkness has become less dark. These steps forward have not been without slides backwards and even now, as I conclude this task, the task of publicly documenting this horrific story, the thought of going to sleep after I am finished shoves a ball of fear back into my stomach.


But, I am going to get better. I am going to get over what happened to me. I have promised that to myself but still my fingers shake with doubt. The grass room will always be a haunting part of my identity but I can’t, and I won’t, let those twisted fucks that held me captive, keep me captive. Gary Mustard will rise again. Gary Mustard will write again. There are more Meat Log Blogs to come.

Sunday, February 2, 2014

A Knight In Savory Armor

My badass brother mentioned "El Camion" and "I'm paying" in the same sentence, to which my heart responded with a merry little jig. So after work, I excitedly hoped on the bus, pointed the driver towards 15th Avenue and told him to hurry. As if unconcerned with the needs of my stomach, the bus driver took his sweet time. Finally though I arrived to find my whole family waiting. We exchanged loving greetings as we began our slow ascent towards counter. We placed our order and then settled into a booth, doing our best to feign patience.

Finally my torta arrived. With zeal I blindly dove in, blissfully downing adobada sedatives with each bite.
After neatly packing dinner into our small intestines, my parents drove me to my house. The porkquilizer was already beginning to take hold. My journey to the door included multiple momentary naps and with great effort I worked the key into the lock. I mumbled hello as I stumbled past my roommates on the way to my room. The clock read 9:13 and my mattress had a strong gravitational pull. As head hit pillow sleep grabbed me tight in its pudgy fist, cocked back and threw me deep into a Mexican food dreamland.

I landed in a chipotle sunset. Roads paved with rice led through black bean buildings with tortilla roofs. In the distance stood a great carne asada castle. The outer wall was adorned with intricate avocado siding and massive tomato turrets protruded from the top. And from inside came the piercing cry of a fair maiden.

Saving was in order and I was the only noble knight in sight.

I set off for the castle, suddenly clad in chile chain main. As I approached the outer wall the mole moat came into view. Spanning a good ten yards and with molten flavor bubbling to the surface, passage seemed improbable. But, in a fit of ingenuity, I fashioned my taco shell shield into a makeshift raft, using my cilantro sword as a paddle. Once inside I found the castle in disarray. The inner walls were charred to a crisp yet they still stood, either by dumb luck or as a sign of dissent towards gravity. I cautiously carried on. As I approached the keep, with its winding stairs leading upward, I saw a dart of green out of the corner of my eye. My grip on the sword tightened as I carried on. I had not taken more than four steps when fire burst down at me. I ducked behind my shield, narrowly avoiding becoming the newest piece of the cooked castle. I retreated back into the courtyard. From out behind a pillar flew a great winged jalapeño. The beast swooped down, spewing beams of fire as it made its attack. I dove to the side, just not quite far enough to save the hair on the back of my legs. I stood and focused myself as my opponent began another fiery descent. But this time I was ready, as I dove to the side I thrust my sword upward, striking flesh. Seeds leaked from the belly of the beast as I stepped over my enemy's body and headed up the stairs. At the top a thick quesadilla door stood in my way. With what strength I had left I bashed my shoulder against it. Uno. Dos. Eureka! I burst in and there on the bed lay the most beautiful women I had ever laid eyes on...

And that was that. We lived happily ever after…




...until I woke up. Sweaty. Disoriented. And 14 hours older.



Sunday, January 5, 2014

Mighty Smokies

The bible was written roughly two millennia ago. It's undoubtedly a fine piece of story telling from a collection of pre-Pulitzer heavyweights but, like everything that's two thousand years old, besides water, it could use a bit of modernizing.

Thus, without further adieu, I present to you the 2014 story of David and Goliath.

In the right corner, in the off-pink shorts, weighing in at an impressive 2.8 pounds... Mmmyyyy Stomachhhh! With a record of 1,053,699 to 7 the experts at ESPN hardly gave food a chance, regardless, in walked David. With a look of smug confidence and pulling behind him a large machine complete will bells & whistles, levers & pulleys, and shoots & ladders, David looked comical at best. Weighing fractions of an ounce, David clearly stood no chance. The side bets were silent. This was a lopsided matchup, or a one-sided mismatch, depending on your vantage point. David, the Lil' Smokie in the tan shorts, struggled to lug his monstrous machine and feeble body into the ring. Pity radiated from nearby onlookers. Gostomath smirked assuredly from the far corner and oddsmakers took note. Long-shot McGoodluck, as the crowd had affectionately dubbed him, stepped coolly into the chamber of his machine. Bells tinged and whistles blew; out stepped David. He was followed by an exact duplicate of himself; and then another, and then another, and then few dozen more. The ring began fill, and then to swell. Within a matter of moments capacity had reached its maximum and the match was approaching an even kilter.

The bell rung.
The crowd roared and the favorite burst out with blind fury. Smokie after Smokie met its downfall, but still David did not fall. The battle waged on and as time ticked, the front-runner began to stumble. Inevitable victory slipped into a realm of uncertainty. Late bettors rejoiced. Time dragged on and the underdog began to look more and more like the overlord. The champ was going to fall; it was only a matter of how long he would wobble. The ding that pronounced the end of each round was merely another nail in the coffin. Goliath was making the painful descent toward horizontal. Round 12 rolled around. David's army had suffered 37 casualties but still stood strong and with one final blow, the champ made his final teeter and fell down.
The final nail.