Out with Chickenbetes

Dr. C has confirmed that I have a severe recurring case of chickenbetes. Peter Stewart first diagnosed this condition in the early eighties; nothing, absolutely nothing except the immediate consumption of chicken will relieve the sufferer's symptoms. Hence my relapse at the RoliRoti truck at the farmer's market Friday. My case appears to be triggered by a mounting series of external events:

• 1. Unsatisfactory fried chicken special at Mel's Diner


• 2. The imminent opening of the new Berkeley's Popeyes on San Pablo. (The only time it's worth going to a fried chicken joint is when the grease is fresh. I'm lucky to have found at least 2 non-vegetarian friends in Berkeley. Sadly, K who would chomp down at Popeyes with me has left for Chicago yesterday. I'm afraid to ask A who gifted us our chickens.)


• 3. C's no slaughter policy. C looked me straight in the eye last week. He said "Let's get this straight. Nobody eats our ladies." I guess that nobody is not me.

If one doesn't go shopping regularly, one does not have the visual muscle to handle the sheer number of physical objects. C and I idled a perfectly good Sunday on shopping. In the blur of a hundred thousand objects, only a coffee splashed wedding dress for sale at Urban Ore hooked. It was a deep stain on the heart and splash stains all across the skirt. I think the clerks probably put it up for entertainment value only.

In an odd interim on San Pablo, we visited a wedge of a store where an old Chinese man sold only cracked giant pots mended with epoxy. He followed us around everywhere- although the pots were already cracked, and no way we could heave one out of the store without commotion.