E.A. Bucchianeri's Blog: Books, Babble and Blarney

(Author unknown.)





We met and we married a long time ago,
We worked for long hours when wages were low,
No TV, no wireless, no bath, times were hard.
Just a cold water tap and a walk in the yard.
No holidays abroad, no carpets on floors.
We had coal on the fire and we didn't lock doors;
Our children arrived, no Pill in those days;
And we brought them up without any state aid.
They were safe going out and played in the park,
And old folk could go for a walk in the dark.
No Valium, no drugs and no LSD.
We cured most of our ills with a good cup of tea.
No vandals, no muggings, there was nothing to rob;
We felt we were rich with a couple of bob.
People were happier in those far off days,
Kinder and caring in so many ways.
Milkmen and paperboy would whistle and sing.
A night at the pictures was our one mad fling.
We all get our share of troubles and strife.
We just have to face it ~ that's the pattern of life.
Now, I'm alone, I look back through the years.
I don't think of the bad times, the troubles and tears.
I remember the blessings: our home and our love,
And that we shared them together, I thank God above.

It is constantly stressed that writing can be learned, developed, mastered; that if you have a talent, it can be made to shine. However, there are writers who were destined for greatness from the beginning, whose star seemed to blaze the minute they appeared on earth similar to Mozart and his musical genius. In the case of writing, I am thinking of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832), German poet, dramatist, scientist and statesman.




Naturally, we can recognise his great talent with famous works from his adult years such as Faust: Part One, The Sorrows of Young Werther and Egmont A Tragedy in Five Acts to name a few, but like Mozart, he had a unique gift that manifested at an early age. Goethe was passionate about history, languages and art, and I thought I would share a little known scribbling he wrote when about eight years old, the last colloquy from a set of three featuring a conversation with his father about the wax figurines he was shaping, imitating the great artists and their model-making:



“Father: What are you doing there, my son?
Son: Making wax figures.
Father: I thought so. Oh, when will you ever put nuts aside?” ('Nuts': Goethe was playing on a Latin pun with the word 'nuces', which means 'nuts' and 'childish play'.)
Son: Why, I'm not playing with nuts, I'm playing with wax.
Father: Ignoramus, can it be that you don't know the meaning of 'nuts' in this connection?
Son: Now I remember. But see how well I have learned in a short time to model wax.
Father: To spoil wax, you mean.
Son: I beg your pardon. Am I not creating rather clever things?
Father: Yes indeed. Show me some of your malformations.
Son: Among other animals I have made, with special success, a cat with a long moustache, and a city mouse and a field mouse to illustrate one of Horace's satires, (i.e., an ancient Roman satirist), translated by Drollinger into pure German doggerel.
Father: I like this reminiscence better than the beasts themselves. But have you made nothing else which shows your alleged art more advantageously?
Son: Yes, indeed, here is a whale, with mouth wide open as if to swallow us, and two chamois, which Emperor Maximilian was so found of hunting that he is said to have been unable to find his way out of the declivitous rocks till an angel in human form showed him the path.
Father: Why, you apply your scraps of history so aptly that one must pardon your misshapen figures. And is that all?
Son: By no means; for all my models the ones to be especially admired are: the crocodile shedding false tears, the monstrous war elephant of the ancients, the lizard, friend of man, the croaking frog announcing spring, all of which lack nothing but life.
Father: Nonsense! Who would be able to recognise them without the labels?
Son: Alas! Is not every man the best interpreter of his own works?
Father: This statement is quite true, but not apropos.
Son: Pardon my ignorance and deign to look at this sleighing party. There are just a dozen in it, all different, partly creeping and partly flying creatures, of which the swan, the stag, the walrus, and the dragon seem to be the most natural.
Father: You may think so, if you like, but it is perfectly apparent that you make no real distinction between beautiful and ugly.
Son: Dear father, will you be so kind as to teach me the difference?
Father: Certainly, but everything in season. Your power of observation must first be more mature.
Son: Oh fiddlesticks! Why will you postpone it? Tell me about it today rather than tomorrow and I will listen to you while I play.
Father: I have already said it cannot be done now—some other time. Put aside your childish nonsense now and go to your work.
Son: I will. Good bye.”

(From “The Life Of Goethe: Albert Bielschowsky)


Amazing when you think an eight year old wrote this piece on aesthetics ~ Playdoh time rendered into a miniature work of art!


E.A. Bucchianeri

Short Story by Al Cunningham



An Emperor in the Far East was growing old and knew it was time to choose his successor. Instead of choosing one of his assistants or his children, he decided on something different.

He called the young people of the empire together one day. He said, “It is time for me to step down and choose the next Emperor. I have decided to choose one of you!”

The children were shocked, but the Emperor continued, “I am going to give each one of you a seed today. One very special seed. I want you to plant the seed, water it and come back here after one year from today, with what you have grown from this one seed. I will then judge the plants that you bring, and the one I choose will be the next Emperor.”

One boy, named Ling, was there that day and he, like the others, received a seed. He went home and excitedly told his mother the story. She helped him get a pot and planting soil, and he planted the seed and watered it carefully.

Everyday he would water it and watch to see if it had grown. After about three weeks, some of the other youths began to talk about their seeds and the plants that were beginning to grow. Ling kept checking his seed, but nothing ever grew. Three weeks … four weeks … five weeks went by. Still nothing. By now, others were talking about their plants, but Ling didn't have a plant, and he felt like a failure. Six months went by, still nothing in Ling's pot. He just knew he had killed his seed.
Everyone else had trees and tall plants, but he had nothing. Ling didn't say anything to his friends, however, he just kept waiting for his seed to grow.

A year finally went by and all the youths of the Empire brought their plants to the Emperor for inspection. Ling told his mother that he wasn't going to take an empty pot. To be honest, Ling felt sick to his stomach, but he knew his mother was right when she told him to take it to the Emperor. Reluctantly, Ling took his pot to the palace.

When Ling arrived, he was amazed at the variety of plants grown by the other youths. They were beautiful, in all shapes and sizes. Ling put his empty pot on the floor and many of the other kids laughed at him. A few felt sorry for him and just said, “Hey, nice try!” When the Emperor arrived, he surveyed the room and greeted the young people. Ling just tried to hide at the back. “What great plants, trees and flowers you have grown,” said the Emperor, “today, one of you will be appointed the next Emperor.”

All of a sudden, the Emperor spotted Ling at the back of the room with his empty pot. He ordered his guards to bring him to the front. Ling was terrified. “The Emperor knows I'm a failure! Maybe he will have me killed!” When Ling got to the front, the Emperor asked his name. “My name is Ling,” he replied. All the kids were laughing and making fun of him. The Emperor asked everyone to quiet down. He looked at Ling, and then announced to the crowd: “Behold your new Emperor! His name is Ling!”

Ling couldn't believe it. Ling couldn't even grow his seed. How could he be the new Emperor?

Then the Emperor said: “One year ago today, I gave everyone here a seed. I told you to take the seed, plant it, water it and bring it back to me today. But I gave you all boiled seeds, which would not grow. All of you, except Ling, have brought me trees and plants and flowers. When you found that the seed would not grow, you substituted another seed for the one I gave you. Ling was the only one with the courage and the honesty to bring me a pot with my seed in it. Therefore, he is the one who will be the new Emperor. If you plant goodness, you will reap friends. If you plant perseverance, you will reap victory. If you plant hard work, you will reap success. If you plant forgiveness, you will reap reconciliation. If you plant openness, you will reap intimacy. If you plant patience, you will reap improvements. But, if you plant dishonesty, you will reap distrust. If you plant selfishness, you will reap loneliness. If you plant laziness, you will reap stagnation. If you plant greed, you will reap loss. If you plant gossip, you will reap enemies. If you plant worries, you will reap wrinkles. So, be careful what you plant now. It will determine what you will reap tomorrow. The seeds you now scatter will make life worse or better. Yes, someday, you will enjoy the fruits, or you will pay for the choices you plant today.”

A big thank you to Randall Radic for the following review published on Blogcritics.org.
What a wonderful Christmas gift!

(Review published December 19, 2011.)

"According to Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary, a gadfly is “an insect that goads or stings cattle, as a horsefly. A person who annoys or irritates others.” Supposedly, the Greek philosopher Socrates was a gadfly because he irritated others by causing them to analyze their thought processes. Inevitably, analysis revealed errors of not only reasoning but conclusions – mental boo boos. Rather than rejoicing over their newfound enlightenment, people became upset. People don’t like being told they are wrong or stupid or illogical. So they began avoiding Socrates like the plague, along with talking about him behind his back, saying nasty things about him. But Socrates didn’t care. He considered it his duty to be an irritant, a gadfly. So he kept doing it. In the end, he annoyed so many people so much that they decided to do something about it. It wasn’t pleasant.

Jesus was a gadfly too.

So is the protagonist of Brushstrokes of a Gadfly, a wonderful, walloping novel by E.A. Bucchianeri. Katherine Walsingham is the star of Brushstrokes. She is beautiful, talented, intelligent, sensual, and comes from an affluent, well-bred family in New York City. Kat’s only flaw is that she enjoys stirring the pot. She doesn’t believe in going along to get along. Thus, she utilizes her art to cause viewers to re-evaluate their conclusions about religion, cultural traditions, nuclear power, women’s rights, government corruption, and the true definition of freedom. Naturally, Kat receives lots of attention, while at the same time annoying lots of people, people who prefer the status quo to remain stationary.

The pedantry of Katherine is obvious, as she tries to set the world to rights. What’s funny is that while Kat is busy being a gadfly, the pedantry of Life wiggles in and disrupts Kat’s vision for her future. Determined to eschew romantic entanglements because of their destabilizing effects, Kat unexpectedly finds herself falling in love with one of New York’s most eligible bachelors. Because of a peculiar combination of circumstances – Kat’s reluctance, her paramour’s family, and gossip – the romance appears headed for disappointment.

Whether or not Life and Love find a way won’t be discussed. You’ll have to read the book to find out.

Essentially, Brushstrokes is a high literary romance novel. Imagine Roberto Bolano meets Nicholas Sparks: erudite and gracious with a saccharine undertone of romance and the unpredictability of life. In other words, it’s exaggerated, quaint, absurd, funny, touching, and very much like reality.

E.A. Bucchianeri guides the reader through all the twists and turns of the story with remarkable aplomb, utilizing what the reviewer calls “an informed literary style.” Translation: easy to read, yet without all the dreary flatness that inhabits most ‘high literary’ novels. The story sparkles with various subplots and unique characters – stories within the story – that provide diversion and respite from the primary thread of romantic tension. The reviewer’s favorite is Kat’s grandfather, who, having avoided the psychological pitfalls of great wealth, speaks from his heart, which he wears on his sleeve.

Brushstrokes of a Gadfly is a big book, weighing in at a couple of pounds and 1040 pages. Just looking at it makes a potential reader pause and consider. However, any doubts may be set aside. After the first two pages, you’ll be pleased with your purchase. It’s long, but it has everything you’re looking for: humor, love, human interrelations, good writing, a plot that moves along, and emotional catharsis."

Brushstrokes of a Gadfly


Visit my Official Website?

Once upon a time not so long ago, there was a very wealthy man who, with his devoted young son, shared a passion for art collecting. Together they travelled around the world, adding only the finest art treasures to their collection. Priceless works by Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet and many others adorned the walls of the rambling family estate. The widowed elder man looked on with satisfaction as his only child became an experienced art collector and shared the same tastes as he. The son’s trained eye and sharp business mind caused his father to beam with pride as they dealt with art collectors around the world.

As winter approached, war engulfed the nation, and the young man left to serve his country. After only a few short weeks, his father received a telegram. His beloved son was missing in action. The art collector anxiously awaited more news, fearing he would never see his son again. Within days, his fears were confirmed. The young man had died while rushing a fellow soldier to a medic. Distraught and lonely, the old man faced the upcoming Christmas holidays with anguish and sadness. The joy of the season – a season that he and his son had so looked forward to – would visit his house no longer.

On Christmas morning, a knock on the door awakened the depressed old man. As he walked to the door, the masterpieces of art on the walls only reminded him that his son was not coming home. As he opened the door, he was greeted by a soldier with a large package in his hand. He introduced himself to the man by saying, “I was a friend of your son. I was the one he was rescuing when he died. May I come in for a few moments? I have something to show you.”

As they talked, the solider explained how the man’s son had told everyone about him, not to mention his love of fine art. “I’m an artist, well, an amateur of art,” said the soldier, “and I wanted to give you this.” As the old man unwrapped the package, the paper gave way to reveal a portrait of the man’s son. Though the world would never consider it the work of a genius, the painting featured the young man’s face in striking detail.

Overcome with emotion, the man thanked the soldier, promising to hang the picture above the fireplace.

A few hours later, after the soldier had departed, the old man set about his task. True to his word, the painting went above the fireplace, pushing aside thousands of dollars of paintings. And then the man sat in his chair and spent Christmas gazing at the gift he had been given.

During the days and weeks that followed, the man realized that even though his son was no longer with him, the boy’s life would live on because of those he had touched. He would soon learn from dozens of letters sent to him from other soldiers that his son had rescued them too before a bullet stilled his caring heart. As the stories of his son’s gallantry continued to reach him, fatherly pride and satisfaction began to ease the grief. The painting of his son soon became his most prized possession, far eclipsing any interest in the pieces for which museums around the world clamoured.

He told his neighbours it was the greatest gift he had ever received.

The following spring, the old man became ill and passed away. The art world was in anticipation. With the collector’s passing, and his only son dead, it was announced that all those paintings would be sold at an auction. According to the will of the old man, all of the art works would be auctioned on Christmas day, the day he had received his greatest gift. The day soon arrived and art collectors from around the world gathered to bid on some of the world’s most spectacular paintings. Dreams would be fulfilled this day; greatness would be achieved as many would claim “I have the greatest collection.”

The auction began with a painting that was not on any museum’s list. It was the painting of the man’s son.

The auctioneer asked for an opening bid. The room was silent. “Who will open the bidding with $100?” he asked.

Minutes passed. No one spoke. From the back of the room came, “Who cares about that painting? It’s just a picture of his son. Let’s forget it and go on to the good stuff.” More voices echoed in agreement. “No, we have to begin with this one first, the man's last request was explicit,” replied the auctioneer. “Now, who will take the son?”

Finally, a close friend of the old man spoke.
“Will you take ten dollars for the painting? That’s all I have. I knew the boy, so I’d like to have it.” “I have ten dollars. Will anyone go higher?” called the auctioneer. After another period of impatient silence, the auctioneer said, “Going once, going twice. Gone.” The gavel fell. Cheers filled the room and someone exclaimed, “Now we can get on with it and we can bid on these treasures!”

The auctioneer looked at the audience and announced the auction was over.
Stunned disbelief quickly struck the would-be art buyers. Someone spoke up and asked, “What do you mean it’s over? We didn’t come here for a picture of some old guy’s son! What about all of these paintings? There are millions of dollars of art here! It was announced the whole collection was up for auction! I demand that you explain the meaning of this!”

The auctioneer replied, “It’s very simple. According to the will of the father, whoever could appreciate his greatest treasure, although it seemed small and insignificant to the eyes of the world, would be considered worthy to receive the rest. Therefore, whoever takes the son...gets it all.”

This story puts things into perspective, doesn’t it? Just as those art collectors discovered on that Christmas day, the message is still the same – the love of a Father – a Father whose greatest joy came from His Son who went away and gave His life rescuing others. And because of that Father’s love...whoever receieves the Son receives all. You don't have to be rich, just give Him your 'all' with an open heart.

Dear friends, this story illustrated the love of our Father in Heaven, our God, for us. He sacrificed His beloved Son and whosoever would believe in Him will not perish but have everlasting life. The is the greatest gift of love to each one of us, and the beautiful part is, we don't have to wait until Christmas to receive Him.

As I was conducting research for my latest project, I discovered the name of an astounding approved Roman Catholic mystic and victim soul from Brittany, France that few people in the English-speaking world know about: Marie-Julie Jahenny (1850-1941). She suffered the stigmata and made surprising prophecies, many which have come to pass and others that are yet to be realized, frightening predictions that the world has ignored, and I might dare add, to its peril. Intrigued by her revelations, and also frustrated that the majority of her messages have not been translated into English, I set aside my current writing projects to gather together as many of her prophecies as I could from credible sources and translated them from the French. I have compiled them into an e-book which is now uploaded onto Scribd.com to be downloaded for FREE. If you believe in the supernatural, you will want to read this. (Note: best format: read it online, or download as a PDF document.)

WE ARE WARNED: The Prophecies of Marie-Julie Jahenny

While searching the Internet one day, I came across a funny little widget that caught my attention:
“Check which famous writer you write like with this statistical analysis tool, which analyzes your word choice and writing style and compares them with those of the famous writers.”

Perhaps this is not such a good idea as writers are supposed to find their own voice, but out of curiosity, naturally, I had to see which illustrious master of the pen it would assign me.

I tried various pieces, first chapters of all my books, paragraphs from my blog posts and received the following results:

H.P. Lovecraft came up the most.
David Foster Wallace, was second.
Then James Joyce, Margaret Atwood, and Douglas Adams

Of course, I am not that gullible, trusting in an Internet widget! I wanted to see what would happen if I deliberately made up a few lines that sounded like those by a well known author. Dr. Seuss was in the widget's list of authors, so I plonked in the following made-up lines:

I will not eat them on a mat,
I will not eat them with a hat,
I will not eat them with a cat,
I will not eat them with a rat.

The result? Margaret Atwood!

Aha! As expected, widgets cannot think or really analyze anything, but to give it a fair chance, I inserted real lines from “Green Eggs and Ham”:

“Do you like green
eggs and ham?” “I do not like them,
Sam-I-am.
I do not like green
eggs and ham!”
"Would you like them
here or there?"
"I would not like them
here or there.
I would not like them
anywhere."
“I do so like green
eggs and ham!
Thank you!
Thank you,
Sam-I-am!”



What did I get? Ernest Hemingway.

I decided to do one last experiment, and just let a whole line of a's run across in to paragraph, like this:

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

And, a whole paragraph of e's:

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

And lo and behold~I write like J.D. Salinger.

The moral of the story: don't trust an internet widget to understand your unique style of writing.
And, the inventors of the widget want me to sign up for their newsletter to teach me how to write better?

Here's the link if you wish to try your own experiments: I Write Like ....

*****

Visit my page?
E.A. Bucchianeri

I promised to resume the thread of my last post on the subject, if the old clichés about writing and the observations made by famous authors are true. Now it's time to keep that promise, so without further ado, I shall continue with Dorris Lessing's observation, which I had left dangling in mid air:

* None of her books turned out the way she expected them to.

This was amazing to hear from a Nobel Laureate of Literature, that her books did not develop the way she intended! I had often assumed that a professional writer or author were in full command of their subject, especially fiction. If stories and situations are a product of your imagination and creativity, surely you can bend the narrative and plot to your every whim?

I soon learned that this was artistic ego … now, I grovel before the wisdom of authors before me. My novel, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly did not follow the road map that I had laid out. I laugh when I remember what I wanted to write, and compare it with the book that now sits majestically on the coffee table. I confess I had the great ambition to write an action-packed mystico-thriller.

Instead, my action-pack thriller became an expressive, romantic and entertaining Kunstlerroman novel, a distance cousin or descendent of Goethe's Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship. Not that I could equal Goethe, but how on earth did that happen? The characters in the book can be blamed, once they were created, their lives and personalities dictated the story 95% of the time. The way I first envisioned the plot did not work with the characters that emerged, I couldn't kill them off or change them, they were too strong to alter, so I had to relinquish my original concept.

For instance, there is one character I had planned to make completely diabolical, a character who would literally make your flesh creep. However, I was halfway through the manuscript when it felt like the character in question was literally on his knees begging me not torture him, he did not want to be evil incarnate and would rather be killed off than be made commit the atrocities I had planned. I couldn't throttle him, so there was nothing for it, I had to give in, which completely changed the ending for the book! I won't tell you who, how or why, it would ruin the ending for you if you ever decide to read it, but to come to the point, I quickly discovered that The Book is more important than your plans for it. You have to go with what works for The Book ~ if your ideas appear hollow or forced when they are put on paper, chop them, erase them, pulverise them and start again. Don't whine when things are not going your way, because they are going the right way for The Book, which is more important. The show must go on, and so must The Book.

You may ask if the plot can suddenly veer in the opposite direction, are any of your original ideas left intact? Yes, surprisingly, but not in the way I first envisioned. There are very fine traces of my original concept, but it would take a keen eye to spot them. Many of the subjects I wanted to explore also survived the chopping block, without all the murder mysteries and car chases.

Am I disappointed with the end result? No, I must say I'm not! Instead of the dark, brooding, evil personalities and plots, it changed direction and the story is far more entertaining with humorous characters and events while still retaining the reflective sections, and a little human tragedy for good measure.

The moral of the story: accept the possibility your plans may change despite all your best efforts to keep your ideas on track, don't get frustrated, embrace the changes, and you may be very happy with the finished product. Remember, The Book is the master of its own destiny.

Brushstrokes of a Gadfly



Visit E.A. Bucchianeri's Website ~Free Chapter Previews and more!

I just received this in the e-mail, and while I'm not superstitious, I was fascinated with the properties of this numerical phenomenon.

Everyone in the house is experimenting with their birthdays, what fun! Thought I'd pass it along to you. Best of luck!

Money bags

This year, July has 5 Fridays, 5 Saturdays and 5 Sundays. This happens
once every 823 years. This is called money bags. So, forward this to
your friends and money will arrive within 4 days. Based on Chinese
Feng Shui. The one who does not forward.....will be without money.


Rather interesting - read on!!!


This year we're going to experience four unusual dates.

1/1/11, 1/11/11, 11/1/11, 11/11/11 and that's not all...

Take the last two digits of the year in which you were born - now add
the age you will be this year.

The results will be 111 for everyone in whole world. This is the year of
the Money!!!

The proverb goes that if you send this to eight good friends money will
appear in the next four days as it is explained in Chinese FENG SHUI.

It is a mystery, but it’s worth a try. Good luck!

Recently, Chinese scientists have developed genetically modified cows that produce human breast milk for babies, but now, recycling has descended to a whole new level...a Japanese scientist has figured out how to modify our human waste into edible, delectable steak burgers.

Yes, you read that correctly—poop into meat products, and to think, we used to look down on Spam, America's most misunderstood meat.

Well now my Cyber friends, where does this leave us? What has happened to food regulations?

It is obvious we will have to pay very close attention to everything we buy in cans that suggest meat products in the ingredients, not to mention anything that's dehydrated, ground up, and especially, anything shipped from Japan!

Be extra careful those who plan to visit the Land of the Rising Sun, how would you like to sit down to medium rare Sh—t steak and Shitake mushrooms? Can you picture the sewage plants opening up “meat” stalls?

I thought I had heard and seen everything, but now I realize, I may still have a long road to travel. Who knows what they will come up with tomorrow, everyday is becoming a trip down Bizarre Boulevard.

On a “You Need to Know” basis, here is the Yahoo News article. I discovered it through a friend on Facebook, I nearly dropped off my chair:

“This feels like a Vonnegut plotline: population boom equals food shortage. Solution? Synthesize food from human waste matter. Absurd yes, but Japanese scientists have actually discovered a way to create edible steaks from human feces.
Mitsuyuki Ikeda, a researcher from the Okayama Laboratory, has developed steaks based on proteins from human excrement. Tokyo Sewage approached the scientist because of an overabundance of sewage mud. They asked him to explore the possible uses of the sewage and Ikeda found that the mud contained a great deal of protein because of all the bacteria.
The researchers then extracted those proteins, combined them with a reaction enhancer and put it in an exploder which created the artificial steak. The “meat” is 63% proteins, 25% carbohydrates, 3% lipids and 9% minerals. The researchers color the poop meat red with food coloring and enhance the flavor with soy protein. Initial tests have people saying it even tastes like beef.
Inhabitat notes that “the meatpacking industry causes 18 percent of our greenhouse gas emissions, mostly due to the release of methane from animals.” Livestock also consume huge amounts of resources and space in efforts to feed ourselves as well as the controversy over cruelty to animals. Ikeda’s recycled poop burger would reduce waste and emissions, not to mention obliterating Dante’s circle for gluttons.
The scientists hope to price it the same as actual meat, but at the moment the excrement steaks are ten to twenty times the price they should be thanks to the cost of research. Professor Ikeda understands the psychological barriers that need to be surmounted knowing that your food is made from human feces. They hope that once the research is complete, people will be able to overlook that ugly detail in favor of perks like environmental responsibility, cost and the fact that the meat will have fewer calories.
Waste not; want not.”

Yahoo News, "Japan scientist synthesizes meat from human feces"/a>