Skip to main content

Bacon!!!



“I would do it myself, but I don’t have any thumbs”
The “Beggin Strips” Spokesdog



"On May 8, San Francisco is hosting its second annual “BaconCamp,” billed as “an ad-hoc gathering born from the desire for people to share and learn in an open environment about bacon.”

I can’t think or write of bacon without using an exclamation point! It’s the end all and be all of meat – the living, holy relic of my church -- the manifest evidence of a benevolent god that’s able to actively intervene in my daily life. If the transubstantiation thing the Catholics do had involved bacon instead of wafers, I might have grown up to be the first American Pope. ("He tastes like bacon!"), and, ("white wine goes better than red when becoming one with a piece of the teriyaki-ed Jesus.") ,and, ("Could I get the breading on my cutlet of the lord unleavened?")

I’m a big pork guy in general: slow roasted pulled; knuckles of the fatty; jars of their delightfully pickled feet – but my first love is bacon. It both defines and completes me in a way that other foods can only wish for.

Bacon! Bacon! Bacon!

Recently, my oldest daughter came up to visit from LA. My ex offered her home for a family breakfast, but refused to make any bacon, “It smells up the house for weeks,” she said.

I replied to her offer:

 “I don’t need bacon with every meal, but do insist that it’s at least available in case I need it.”

We met at Mimi’s for brunch instead. “If you don’t order the goddamn bacon, I’ll kill you,” she snapped at me from across a narrow table. It was delicious, all of it, and helped sooth the emotional hurt of her words.

I can’t even write poetry about bacon. It’s like writing about my children – all odes that end in a smaltshy stew of absolutes without the ambiguity of hidden meaning. Even Sonnets bow before the power of pork, and related pork products.

When I read articles about the seamy underbelly of pork production – The vast wasteland of urine and poo ponds; the nasty worms that are left in their muscles; the tiny cages they live their short lives in – I only see, “underbelly,” and think, that’s where the bacon comes from!

Don’t expect to see me in SF for BaconCamp – my love is a private thing, and never to be sullied by the common of public celebration.















Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Wedding and Funeral

Went to a wedding and a funeral this weekend with Mary. Sacramento, Santa Rosa, then home– a whirlwind trip through weekend bay area traffic. The traffic was horrible – life changing horrible, but not unusual.
As with most things, it’s a balance of an the unnamed terror and an easy chair in a padded room that rocks. 
The wedding was delightful, part of an interconnected strong woman’s club that marries off their daughters to provably weaker men. And so, the cycle continues, but the company was nice and I’m too old to wonder at the process anymore.
The funeral was for another interconnected strong woman, who, by hinkey or dinky, was a scary woman that I used to work with as a nurse. She would have been surprised that I outlived her, much as Charles the cat was. Please pay attention out there – this is how life works.
(To be fair, she didn’t put up with shit and I liked to throw handfuls of it around as if I were Christ standing on the back of a broken piñata heaving candy cigarettes to the…

Only once

For clarity, I think I will write this only once.I do not write confessional poetry, and I do not write things down as a form of therapy. I write because I have something unique to say in a unique sort of way, a way that I think is universal in an analogous manner, not as any sort of literal telling of the truth.  I trowel spackle onto pages with a straight edged blade, I don’t paint aging widows with a brush. (My soul has been psychedelicized, but this shit’s not about me.)It comes in this form – that this relates to that, in this way – A form that I think illustrates things that are too true to be looked at straight on – personal truths that are usually discovered through interactions with other people – truths that are often relational, unreliable and subject to the weavings and debris of human beings. Truths that sneak out and become a miraculous surprise of insight – like a Zen master hitting you on the head with a baseball bat at just the right time.I don’t think I’m the only on…

How do I know when I'm done?

I left a message on Facebook for someone I care about that ended with the words, “one won”. I did it just because I thought was funny. That led to a whimsical discovery that I no longer had to place a period at the end of my sentences – in fact to do so would be rude and identify myself as an old person. 
It seems that, for online use anyway, a period has become a loud shout -- a purposeful exclamation point useful only in drawing unnecessary attention, or as a way of making an angry burp of anti-social angst. Sentences no longer end, they gently back out a side door when no one is looking -- they’ve become bars without a jail, or that angry driver just ahead of you who hesitates before moving through an intersection just to make a point of how stupid you are.
Since a period is no longer an end to a thought, its new function has evidentially become nothing but a stuffy ritual of formality that writers can now use to mark up or down generalized feeling of huffiness, or perhaps a way to s…