Hunger is the Best Farce

I was up early this morning, right around the cock crowed nine, intending a full day of activities beneficial to the human race. (By which I mean I was thinking of going to the liquor store.) Coffee gripped tightly, I plugged my consciousness direct into the throbbing communal cortex of humanity, which I call TiVo. Part-way through a Jon Stewart rerun, a car commercial thrust me into a pit of philosophical inquiry. It was an ad for Kia, a make so inconsequential I’m sorry for even bringing it up, and it began with a view of the Sistine Chapel ceiling.

“We’re not the first to strive for perfection,” proclaimed the copy, disregarding the obvious point: that if a car could be perfect it would be a Triumph, a Cadillac or Nightrider. Besides their overblown advertising, there’s nothing about a Kia that isn’t mediocre. But does that mean they shouldn’t be praised for striving? Perhaps someday their ardent research will result in a car to which America will say, “My! What a perfectly mediocre automobile!” That would be a day to ring in with champagne, or perhaps a perfectly acceptable California sparkling wine.

It led me to consider that in my own sandwich-guzzling way, I am myself striving for perfection. Not every one can be a masterpiece, since I don’t always have time or lettuce, but when my fridge is stocked I always try to outdo my last effort. The difference between the Sistine Chapel and a roast beef sandwich is that Michelangelo was working with a bit of imagination. In sandwichery—as in most areas of my life—I am not an artist but, at best, an assembler who works with a set list of ingredients:

• Bread
• A toaster
• Pickles
• Tomato, if I’ve got it
• Lettuce
• Roasted beef
• Mayo
• Mustard
• Cheese of all kinds
• Salt
• Pepper
• Gumption (and/or moxie)

When I fixed lunch today I didn’t want to make an inspired sandwich, but I did want it perfect. And today, with the exception of a bit of tomato that slipped out the side, it really was. Partly that’s because I was so hungry my back hurt, and even a Kia will seem perfect to someone being chased by wolves. For a half an hour after I ate, I could do nothing but recline on the sofa and marvel at how much better I felt. It was better than oxycontin.

Michelangelo was an artist; I am at best an artisan. But artisans carved the facade of Notre Dame cathedral, and if I had to choose between a cake Notre Dame and a cake Sistine Chapel, my hesitation would be brief. I am a man who likes frosting, and all the church’s crockets  and jagged edges would mean more corner pieces. When deciding which food to shovel into one’s face, artistry should always always come second to taste.