Wednesday, October 22, 2014


Bacon. I'm thinking of the filthy swine product right now, remembering the last slices I enjoyed: August 2011 at Cockadoo's in Memphis, Tenn. Perfect bacon — thick, not too chewy, not too crunchy — and really, if you're going to go whole hog with a bacon-free future, best to let it end on that high note.

(And please, don't muck up the conversation with talk of turkey bacon, that bastard stepchild of the breakfast meat family. There is something unholy and obscene about turkey masquerading as bacon, and in a just world the worst sinners would be forced to eat faux bacon while listening to James Blunt.)

Bacon has served as metaphor for my life of late. I gave it up thinking it would make me a healthier man. Turns out all it did was make me miss tasty, lusty life. While others chomped and romped I let myself starve.

My bacon-free days will soon come to an end, or so I suspect, given several recent happenings. I have grown hungry; I can hear my body roar and it demands fine dining, mhm.

I don't expect everything to be the same as before. To borrow a phrase from the poet/philosopher Cobain: the sun is gone. That won't change when I break my fast. You can't retrieve warmth once it's sucked into a black hole. All you can do it find a place where there is light and fun. A place where I can be dumb. Or maybe just happy.

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