The elder statesmen of self-deprecation


“If you find yourself at any point putting more thought into how the audience is gonna take it than what your relationship is with what you wrote, that’s making you less of an artist and more of a marketing analyst.”

– Slug from Atmosphere 

Link to full interview HERE needs a bacon critic … this is me throwing my hat into the ring.

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.

Atlantic article – Reading a Poem: 20 Strategies

“Someday, when all your material possessions will seem to have shed their utility and just become obstacles to the toilet, poems will still hold their value. They are rooms that take up such little room. A memorized poem, or a line or two, becomes part internal jewelry and part life-saving skill, like knowing how to put a mugger in an arm-lock or the best way to cut open a mango without slicing your hand.”

Link to full article here