Meat
Pontificating on deli slices, disco, and my body's shifting landscape
For the past few weeks, I have worked at a cannabis-themed sandwich joint and bar. A majority of my labor is spent doing prep work wherein I handle a variety of machines. Of all the gadgets I use, the slicer is my favorite.
Though I largely quit eating meat in 2019, I take great pride in slicing our meats. In particular, I enjoy the top round roast beef (which comes from the inner leg of the cow). It is also the most difficult meat to work with, as it is prone to shredding, making it nearly impossible to fold and properly use on the line.
This meat is equal parts fickle and peculiar. For example, it can produce what is known as an iridescent meat rainbow depending on how it is cut.
Slicing meat “against the grain” means cutting through, rather than parallel to, the bundles of fibers composing the meat’s musculature. This makes for a more tender bite, and it also leaves a grid of evenly-spaced meat fibers. In the right light, this surface lends itself to something called “diffraction.”
Diffraction occurs when light hits a repeating pattern of nooks and crannies. As the white light bounces off the grooves in the meat, it separates into a spectrum of distinct colors. Some of these colors are amplified, creating a mother-of-pearl appearance when viewed together. This is the same effect we see on the backs of CDs and DVDs.
Diffraction compounded with the marbling in roast beef creates a series of riverbeds that traverse a spectral world of flesh in each slice. “Beautiful,” I’ll mumble to myself as co-workers tackle their worker bee tasks nearby.
Slicing feels like a sacred ritual, as it tethers me to the fact that death is an incontrovertible feature of the life cycle, one that is at once expected, universal, random, jarring, inequitable, and unavoidable. It is also something I am grappling with more than I ever have. At worst, death’s aftermath ruptures connections among those that continue to evade its grasp. At best, it nourishes the living somewhere down the road. I’m torn on where the sliced deli meats reside on this scale. Did these animals consent to be slaughtered for consumption? Certainly not. Is the meat industry a destructive force that could and should be replaced with alternatives? Sure. And yet, these animals currently provide many of us with the fuel we need to keep going. This is a cruel contradiction. So, I handle their flesh with care, honoring death in the small ways I know how.
• • •
Julien and I have recurring discussions on how to best contend with our chests. We compare binder brands and share tips and tricks for arranging our tits in a way that minimizes pain and maximizes flatness. We marvel at the prospect of one day chopping these meat bags off. We scoff at the fact that re-attaching your own nipples costs extra. Julien shows me pictures of others getting tattoos in place of their nipples. When creative constraints are enforced, the remaining possibilities are surprisingly endless.
• • •
Marked on my calendar is when it will have been six months since my inoculation went into full effect. Unless Big Pharma releases more research on how long the current vaccines are effective, I plan to retreat back into my home at that date. Until then, I am taking the calculated risk of returning to the world. The riskiest and most anticipated activity I’ve done recently is attend a queer dance party at an outdoor bar. To be specific, it was disco night at Cheer Up Charlie’s.
Picture this: My friends and I, dressed to the nines, enter Cheer Ups and are immediately graced with beautiful people left and right. God, it’s been so long. The eye candy is endless. A coyish anticipation permeates the atmosphere. I don’t recognize anybody. Drinks are twice the price. The patio is filled with apprehensive patrons quietly watching DJ Lefty from their tables. Then, Stefonosae steps on stage.
Stefonosae intuits exactly what makes the human body groove with reckless abandon, seizing the static energy of the space and rendering it kinetic with ease. He injects my body with the syncopated bass lines that comprise disco music. I am electrified, so much so that I feel like I am rolling. Around me, people finally emerge from their seats and dance. One younger gay boy sneers at the change in genre, stating, “I can’t shake my ass to this!” and leaves the dance floor. Disco has a way of weeding out those that simply do not have the range.
We dance for hours. I look around to find people are smiling like goofy cartoon characters. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much earnest smiling before on a dance floor. A faggy cowboy nearby blissfully flails their body to the music and I tell them I love them. They beam and tell me they love me too. At one point, I scream out, “This is just what the doctor ordered!” to nobody in particular. A queer dancing on stage stops in their tracks, stares at me, then screams back, “Yes! This IS what the doctor ordered!”
My flesh feels best when in motion, in good company, and drenched in sweat. As I brace for whatever hell is on the horizon for this country, for this planet, I’ll at least have memories like this euphoric night to carry me through.
• • •
Here are photos from the past few weeks.
Until next time.
CBR
• • •
Recommendations:
Stefonosae’s beats
The Nib Magazine’s Drug Issue
Tracking the legal hand-wringing and alleged health concerns surrounding Delta-8
Jewish Current’s Guide to the Current Crisis in Israel/Palestine