Tales of a Wild Life:
Picking up Babes While on a Raw-foods Diet

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Time for a light tale. I eat a raw foods diet, and specifically, the kind which includes animal products (raw eggs, fish and meat) as well.  This tale vaguely resembles those tales in Aajonus Vonderplanitz's book We Want to Live (about a raw foods diet which includes animal foods) wherein he meets women in health food stores who seem to really, really, really like him, but my version of the story has a macabre twist.  The tale which follows is totally true (with the exception of maybe the very last paragraph in the conclusion), but the story, which happened in October 2000, is rather funny, at least to my deranged mind. That same mind thought the story was so funny that it bore telling!  The story below was penned later on the same day in which the encounter happened.  

Part I

For those of you who, like me, are single (at the time of this writing), you might wish (if you are delusional) to view the story below as a primer from a seasoned man of the world (well, at least the town; well, would you believe the village?) on how to pick up women (or, depending upon your preferences, persons of any of the 8 genders) in health food stores using raw foodism as handy conversational bait.

First, let me preface, that since I have a rather low macho/testosterone quotient and am somewhat androgynous in personality, I usually do not try meeting women in bars.  My progressive friends (male and female) and I agree that the best places for a single person of either gender to pick up members of the opposite gender (or same, depending upon your preference) are enlightened, politically correct places such as health food stores (or rallies to save endangered earthworms).  The fact that this has never worked for any of us does not deter us from believing that this must nonetheless be true, since it sounds so reasonable and so politically correct.  It also sounds so noble!   Indeed, I have even seen this tactic recommended in the pages of Utne Reader (and even in “Idiot’s Guide to Dating”), so it must be a good, workable strategy (this is kind of like the belief: “If the Bible says it, it must be true!”).  My Rolfing/Craniosacral bodyworker also recommends this method.  It's how she met her husband (the one she later divorced because he kept having affairs with women he met in health food stores.)

Incidentally, I do go to bars in the evening sometimes, just because I like to be around people and talk to them, but I have never yet met a woman in a bar who has become a lover.  Indeed, when I infrequently go to local bars in the town where I live, I often am approached at my table by women who had been sitting at the bar (or were outside on the sidewalk looking in the window), and, when asked, I will buy them a drink or a burger and talk for awhile.  The last such woman I met this way (6 months ago) is fairly typical of those whom I have met in this manner: she had been sitting up at the bar for a half-hour and finally approached me at my table where I was sitting alone nursing a glass of white wine. She told me accusingly that my heart had been staring at her soul.  I invited her to sit (she was already sitting at my table by then, anyway, and staring at me in a pouty way), bought her a drink and french fries (gross!) at her request, and she told me her life story.  She was sweet, but with a tough veneer.  Her life story happened to include the fact that she had killed two previous boyfriends (tired of them), burned one of their houses to the ground (while killing him and destroying evidence), and her current husband was now in prison for life as a serial killer.  She told me that she was an unrecovered alcoholic, and also a compulsive gambler and owed over $250,000 in gambling debts, some to mobsters.  Her current boyfriend of the moment was in jail for 3 days, and she was lonely (this tale is entirely true!)  She was also really cute. She was sweet to talk with, but I think you are seeing why I don’t try to pick up women in bars, and why I did not try to drag her home.

On to my tale of the health food store this morning.  Any resemblance to stories of health food store encounters with women as told in Aajonus’s book (We Want to Live) are wholly unintentional, but surely add to the strangeness of this tale.

I woke up feeling like hell today, with major cleansing symptoms from drinking a lot of raw egg/liver custards lately (I knew in advance that they can make you feel rather ill from massive organ cleansing and tissue repair, but I have been gamely doing that for the past week.)  In other words, I was not feeling particularly attractive or studly (not that I ever have felt that way at any other time!)  After running some errands this morning primarily drying my laundry and shooting the breeze with the drug dealers, hookers, handgun vendors and undercover cops who also hang out in the local downtown laundromat, I headed to our local health food co-op (The Common Market), still feeling like I was nursing a hangover, with sinus pain, headache, arthritic pains all over my body, and a general crabby mood, really wanting nothing more than to crawl home and go to sleep for a while to allow my body to heal.

Part II

After putting some produce in my cart, I ended up at the dairy/egg cooler, and, squatting while propping the cooler door open with my back, I started transferring 8 dozen egg cartons into my cart.  I was aware of a woman (let’s call her woman #1) a bit further down the aisle giving me occasional glances and smiles which my lonely syphilitic brain desperately imagined were approving glances.  Suddenly, I sensed someone behind me, and a woman behind me (let’s call her woman #2) pulled the cooler door further open to hold it for me, smiled down at me, and, apparently talking to me, cooed brightly : “Wow, that's a lot of eggs!  What do you do with them all?”

Since I felt like a dying puppy dog (e.g., really crappy), I ignored her; I was afraid I might tell her the truth.  Gamely, she tried again seconds later with a bigger, even brighter smile on her face; she was beaming: "That is a lot of eggs!  What do you do with them? And you look so healthy!  You glow! Do you eat them all yourself?"  I noticed that woman #1 had also sidled closer, and was now definitely shooting me encouraging glances, much like, "go ahead, tell us, we both wish to hear!"  She, too, was now smiling and making lots of eye contact.  My inner child was now ecstatic:  Not only was a woman talking to me, but two women were actually smiling at me! This was a first in history!  (Inner children don't have really good memories!)  My mind, housed as it is in a brain in the last throes of tertiary syphilitic paresis, was convinced as well that they were also eagerly looking me up and down, carefully and hungrily admiring my marathon runner's physique and balding head.

Well, I have a large streak of mischief in me, and so I decided, in my cleansing-induced haze, to answer truthfully. I said "I do use them myself.  I eat one or two dozen a day."  My initial questioner emitted sounds of approval and wonder, emitted a grander and broader smile, and again repeated the fateful question "You look really healthy!  What do you do with them? How do you eat them?"  Both women were now watching me intently, with big smiles on their faces.  I woulda thought from their smiles that they’d gone to heaven in a big Cadillac with Elvis as their driver.  I was puzzled: this type of encounter never happens to me on days when I am feeling good and healthy, and only on days when I feel like death-warmed-over and I can barely think straight.  My inner child was now beyond ecstatic: women were actually talking to me (us), and they were actually listening to me (us)!  Wow, heaven!  My inner child was preparing to write home to wherever (badly damaged and bratty) inner children write to.

Again, I humbly told the truth.  I said "I make a raw egg custard.  I put six raw eggs in a blender, shells and all. . ."  By now my interrogator’s face had dropped; she muttered something about germs.  She was struggling to maintain her smile.  The other woman looked worried, like maybe she had found a snake under a rock, or like her poodle had just killed all the neighbors, the ones with the noisy kids whom she'd wanted dead anyway.

I gamely continued: ". . . with a quarter-pound of raw organic liver, some raw organic butter, 2 raw bananas, raw honey and raw olive oil, and sometimes one beet, and I blend it and then drink it.  I make these several times a day."

Somehow, I guess due to my youthful vitality, incredible impish charisma and my sheer animal magnetism, both women had now lost their smiles entirely, and instead their faces were awash in scowls of undisguised revulsion and aversion.  Indeed, woman #1 was now backing away, with fear rapidly replacing the worry and disgust in her eyes; she was muttering something about ". . . the surgeon general. . . . germs. . .  horrible!".  Woman #2 meanwhile, was frozen, still holding the cooler door open, and she was no longer looking at me, but rather off into space, her gaze hardened into trancelike revulsion.  Her body was shaking slightly and she was gagging audibly, as was woman #1, who was still retreating.  As I arose and blundered down the aisle with my cart, my inner child cringing in shock, woman #1 grimaced and shot me a disapproving look like I musta been a (dirty, disgusting) lunatic, and made another attempt at a gagging sound. (My inner child reminded me that we had never really liked her anyway; that she had looked a little psycho from the start.)  As a parting shot, she pursed her lips and bared her teeth in an angry scowl of rejection.  She shook her head sadly and disapprovingly.  I assume she musta looked under a rock searching for a prince and instead found some maggots eating a dead skunk.

Minutes later, I was checking out at one of the two registers in front of the store. I noticed, in my dazed state, that the line behind me was the shorter one, and hence, woman #2 had approached with her cart and joined the line.  Suddenly she looked up and saw me.  She lost her smile, put on her game face, and immediately went into evasive action: she deftly grabbed her cart, and gamely moved it and herself to the line for the other register, although it was a much longer line.


At this juncture, my inner child was triumphant. He crowed to me: "You see!  I told you no one likes us!  We’re a creep!  We’re losers!  I knew it! They hate us!"  (Inner children often get tenses and person a bit jumbled as English is not their forte; I ignore it.)  I hushed my inner child gently and reassured it that we are really quite attractive, sensuous, and have lots of animal magnetism, and that those two women had likely bolted only because of sudden gastro-intestinal distress (it’s quite rampant in America, according to the antacid commercials on TV).

My inner child kept whining, and I finally had to remind him of how our last psychoanalyst (the one who insisted on seeing me for four sessions a week for 7 years at $150 per session so we could dialogue with same bratty inner child) had died mysteriously of 75 bullet wounds during one of our therapy sessions, and was later found by his maid (the one he had been sleeping with) with all his internal organs missing (thank God they didn’t look in my fridge!).  Then, with more bluntness, I told my inner child to shut up unless he wanted to end up in my blender like Doctor Prosperity-Abundance.  I  paid the cashier and left the store.  When I got home I made my inner child go for a 3 mile run on the darkest trail in the woods (I live in the mountains) and once he was out of sight, I summoned 3 hounds of hell from Hades and asked them to chase him and scare him a bit.  When my inner child returned, he was very grateful to be back, and kept his mouth shut all the rest of the day and evening.  

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