Today, your son is born. You are elated for the future in store, but then you remember that in your teenage years, you promised a witch your first born son in exchange for a spell. You reluctantly tell your spouse only to find out that she has promised your first born to a different witch.
Bacon with your pancakes? Obviously.
Bacon on your hamburger? Yes (unequivocally).
Bacon bits on your donut? (surprised) Please!
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
It’s 4:35 in the am. I roll over and feel the assorted liquors sloshing in my stomach. Last night was a blast, but was it indeed, worth it? The age-old question on every (bachelor) party-goer’s mind.
The last bar was a mistake. None of us were even conscious. Dancing like boneless, mindless, gelatinous, undead things; with just as much rhythm. We were however, the life of the party – almost forcing people to join our debauchery – how our mothers would be proud.
Even more of a mistake than the bar, was the street fare from food trucks. A kebab should never be green no matter what country it’s from!
Face down in the tan carpet, I pass back out until 7:15am dreaming of falling ill at sea aboard a sinking pirate ship, captained by none other than the perpetually disappointed, Mrs. Shugg, my elementary school reading teacher.
Then something breaks my slumber.
Something unmistakable. Something devine.
You know what it is. I don’t have to tell you that it is made of pork belly. I don’t have to tell you that the ideal strips are that perfect blend of succulent and crispy. Eggs’ forever counterpart, going together like jam’s synonym and spreadable peanuts.
It’s Bacon motha lickas! (Sorry, that’s the unfortunate name I affectionately call my friends)
Somehow that hangover is all gone. I seem to have energy to burn. My legs should ache from carrying the soon-to-be-groom on my shoulders all last night, but they do not.
Why you ask?
Because it’s bacon motha lickas!
The smell, it always starts there: smoked meat that seems somehow candied like your favorite burbon-whiskey. Wafting into the room of 10 men sleeping on the floor, covering their disgraceful scent with something heaven sent (damn, I is so clever).
The sizzle: fats frying in grease might as well be the national anthem (and Ron Swanson our president).
The taste: oh the taste!. They say red meat is going to kill us. I say, I’d rather die with freedom in my mouth than live a life without bacon!
You don’t need an alarm clock after a bachelor’s weekend if someone brings the bacon. That’s the kind of power I can get behind … the power to set time.
Let me first set the scene. At my house, on the first floor, there is a small porch that one can only get to from the inside. Well, one can get to the porch from the outside, but it would require you to scale a small stone wall. On the porch, there is a wooden swing, which takes some effort to climb into. I went with my full-bodied Yamaha acoustic guitar and set up shop on the swing. I played mostly songs I had written and people passed by nodding their heads at me or dancing a little down my road. My neighbor across the street came outside and smoked a cigarette and listened. It was very relaxing. This all took place about 11 pm last night.
Then a man, not much younger than me, walked in front of my house. He was bobbing his head more vivaciously than any of his predecessors. I stopped playing as he was leaving my field of view. He also stopped walking and dancing and said to me, “I like your trumpet playing.”
“It’s a guitar,” I said half laughing, “but thank you.”
“Do you slice the viola?” He asked.
“No, I do not slice the viola,” I said, bewildered.
“Do you ever mixilate the phalanges?” Is what I think I heard next, but to be honest, I’m not entirely sure.
I didn’t say anything at this point, but it is important to point out that this man was very nice and seemed interested in my musical abilities.
“Sometimes when I trumpet slide, I really get to slicing,” he said.
“Oh do you play an instrument? I asked.
He changed the subject and began walking away. “But your good,” he said. “Even with your little guitar trumpet.”
I am not sure what to make of this little encounter late last night, but I am going to take everything he said as a compliment. He seemed genuine in his almost incoherent babbling, very confused, but genuine. I hope I meet him again and we can talk music. Who knows, maybe he was playing an elaborate prank on me and was very committed. Either way I liked the babbling man and I mean that truly.