For the love of bacon!

Because bacon loves you more than your own mother.

Bacon Robots: Promises to send a bacon-cooking robot to your house.
www.baconrobots.com

Bakon Vodka: Savory bacon-flavoed vodka.
www.bakonvodka.com

Bacon of the Month Club: There's really no better way to say, "I love you."

www.baconofthemonthclub.com

Bacon Coffee: Oh, baby... make me late for work with your naughty little Maple Bacon Morning Coffee. 

http://www.bocajava.com/showProductDetail.do;jsessionid=7FAA54A3E0079D71C99FEB0A7A2C74CC.wwwbj_tomcat81_11080?productId=5370&catalogId=19&promo=Aug1607email_Coffee

Bacon Salt: Everything should taste like bacon... and now it can!
www.baconsalt.com

Baconaise: Bacon mayo feels so wrong, yet so right...
www.baconnaise.com

Bacon Recipes

Brene Brown studies human connection -- our ability to empathize, belong, love. One of the best talks I've heard in a long time.

Food for The Eagle by Adam Savage

Good evening.

I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to read my speech from my new iPad.

Yep. I'm not only a humanist, I'm also an early adopter.

I want to start by saying that, to me, any discourse from me about how one can live a moral existence without religion or the church would sound improperly defensive. That there's an opposite to be defended is absurd and based on a provably false premise. So let's dispense with that.

(To be clear: I'm referring to the humanist axiom "Good without God," whereby "good" means morality. It's provably false that there exists no morality outside of religion, therefore the statement sounds defensive to me.)

By what route does anyone come to believe what they believe? We all like to imagine that it's based on a set of logical facts, but it's often a much more circuitous route.

For me it was pretty simple. I'm actually the fourth generation in my family to have no practical use for the church, or God, or religion. My children continue this trend.

Here are a few things I've learned.

Prayer doesn't work because someone out there is listening, it works because someone in here is listening. I've paid attention. I've pictured what I want to happen in my life. I've meditated extensively on my family, my future, my past actions and what did and didn't work for me about them. I've looked hard at problems and thought hard about their solutions.

See, I order my life by the same mechanism that I use to build things. I cannot proceed to move tools around in the real world until my brain has a clear picture in it of what I'm building. The same goes for my life. I've tried to pay attention. I've tried to picture the way I want things to be, and I've noticed that when I had a clear picture, things often turned out the way I wanted them to.

I've concluded by this that someone is paying attention—I've concluded that it's me. I've noticed that if I'm paying attention to those around me, to myself, to my surroundings, then that is the very definition of empathy. I've noticed that when I pay attention, I'm less selfish, I'm happier—and that the inverse holds true as well.

I think one of the defining moments of adulthood is the realization that nobody's going to take care of you. That you have to do the heavy lifting while you're here. And when you don't, well, you suffer the consequences. At least I have. (And in the empirical study I'm performing about interacting with the universe, I am unfortunately the only test subject I have complete access to, so my data is, as they say, self-selected.) While nobody's going to take care of us, it's incumbent upon us to take care of those around us. That's community.

The fiction of continuity and stability that your parents have painted for you is totally necessary for a growing child. When you realize that it's not the way the world works, it's a chilling moment. It's supremely lonely.

So I understand the desire for someone to be in charge. (As a side note, I believe that the need for conspiracy theories is similar to the need for God.) We'd all like our good and evil to be like it is in the movies: specific and horrible, easy to defeat. But it's not. It's banal.

There's a quote I love: "Evil is a little man afraid for his job." I always thought some famous author said it, but I asked my 200,000 followers on Twitter today, and it turns out that Roy Scheider said it in Blue Thunder.

No one is in charge. And honestly, that's even cooler.

The idea of an ordered and elegant universe is a lovely one. One worth clinging to. But you don't need religion to appreciate the ordered existence. It's not just an idea, it's reality. We're discovering the hidden orders of the universe every day. The inverse square law of gravitation is amazing. Fractals, the theory of relativity, the genome: these are magnificently beautiful constructs.

The nearly infinite set of dominoes that have fallen into each other in order for us to be here tonight is unfathomable. Truly unfathomable. But it is logical. We don't know all the steps in that logic, but we're learning more about it every day. Learning, expanding our consciousness, singly and universally.

As far as I can see, the three main intolerant religions in the world aren't helping in that mission.

For all their talk of charity and knowledge, that they close their eyes to so much—to science, to birth control education, to abuses of power by some of their leaders, to evolution as provable and therefore factual (the list is staggering)—illustrates a wide scope of bigotry.

Now, just to be clear. If you want to believe, or find solace in believing, that someone or something set these particular dominoes in motion—a cosmic finger tipping the balance and then leaving everything else to chance—I can't say anything to that. I don't know.

Though a primary mover is the most complex and thus (given Occam's razor) the least likely of all possible solutions to the particular problem of how we got here, I can't prove it true or false, and there's nothing to really discuss about it.

If Daniel Dennett is right— that there's a human genetic need for religion— then I'd like to imagine that my atheism is proof of evolutionary biology in action.

There may be no purpose, but its always good to have a mission. And I know of one fine allegory for an excellent mission should you choose to charge yourself with one: Carlos Castaneda's series of books about his training with a Yaqui indian mystic named Don Juan. There's a lot of controversy about these books being represented as nonfiction. But if you dispense with that representation, and instead take their stories as allegories, they're quite lovely.

At the end of The Eagle's Gift, Don Juan reveals to his student that there's no point to existence. That we're given our brief 70-100 years of consciousness by something the mystics call "The Eagle," named for it's cold, killer demeanor. And when we die, the eagle gobbles our consciousness right back up again.

He explains that the mystics, to give thanks to the eagle for the brief bout of consciousness they're granted, attempt to widen their consciousness as much as possible. This provides a particularly delicious meal for the eagle when it gobbles one up at the end of one's life.

And that, to me, is a fine mission.

Thank you.

— Delivered to the Harvard Humanist Society, April 2010

http://www.boingboing.net/features/savage.html

Oh no... not this again!

I stood there. Naked.

In an instant I was surrounded by a firing squad of thoughts, questions, doubts

in their sharp shooter poses. Guns cocked.

The familiar organic coating slithered over me

filling every curve

and hardened into a protective shell – so constricting so I couldn’t breathe.

Eject. I’ve already starred in this movie.

I imagine...

I did a lot of stream of consciousness writing in 2006 when I was trying to figure out what I wanted my new life to be like. I'm still trying to figure it out but I read this and realized that my ideal life is pretty much the same.

I imagine…

Loading up my car for a trip to camp… to sleep under the stars in the desert with no tent. To sleep by a campfire on the beach in Baja and wake up smelling smokey, to drive up the coast with all of the windows down.

I may be with someone – my kids, a friend,  a lover… it’s peaceful and I smile and we laugh… a lot. I imagine being free and happy with simple things – a simple kind of life. Independent and powerful and smart enough to make decisions and face challenges. To may by brain work through problems.

To have a job that I love but doesn’t suck the life from me. Where I can leave and not feel like I have to work weekends.

To me, happiness is peace. Friends drinking wine. Dancing until midnight. Laughing at stupid stuff. Waking up to fresh coffee.

I imagine hanging with my kids. Teaching them how to be smart people. Showing them new things – helping them experience fun activities that teach them about nature. Showing them that giving an old lady and her dog a ride to the bus stop is a lesson in random acts of kindness. That life really doesn’t revolve around Tamaguchi and Pokemon. That rain is beautiful. That they have everything. That they are strong and smart. How to solve problems. That its okay to cry. That its not okay to be meant to people. That there are thousands of things they can do to be happy. That crawling into bed with me on a Sunday morning is really okay. That I’ll always be there for them no matter what. That strong, smart and beautiful is a very powerful combination. That there is beauty in everyday things. That there is a lesson to be learned in every interaction. That there you should never ever give in – ever. That you should tell people what is beautiful about them at any time – not just special occasions. That you should never save your good clothes for special occasions. 

Dr. Mary Jane is in the House.

Last weekend I took the kids to the Adams Avenue Roots Festival to see some music. I met one of my friends at The Blind Lady Ale House – a kid-friendly pub. Seriously… it was like the Lord smiled down upon North Park. After a frosty, noon Hefeweisen accompanied by a juicy orange slice we cruised around, ate churros and roasted corn, listened to music and gawked at crappy silver jewelry.

But the day wasn’t complete until I had one of my little minions carry out a task in the name of social research. There in the middle of the street fair was a medical marijuana booth and I wondered an organization like that might handle precocious questions from kids and pre-teens who might be roaming about.

Being of curious mind, I had to find out for myself. So I shamelessly sacrificed one of my own in the name of science. I basically paid Wyatt a pack of gum to go up to the kind folks behind the table and say, “Hello. I’d like to inquire about medical marijuana.” They unceremoniously told him he had to come back when he was older. Wyatt politely thanked them, meandered his way back and promptly he hit me up for a buck to buy a pack of Hubba Bubba strawberry-flavored gum.

Packed Like a Van of Sardines

I was headed to Austin on a business trip on dark March morning. I parked at my usual garage where a white utility van shuttles sleepy business travelers to their terminal. I gave the driver my pack to stow in the back, then climbed in across the bench with my carryon and comfortably settled in with four other passengers. I considered for a moment how this situation would be different if I were in Asia but instead of going through the mental exercise, I sprawled out my legs, cracked my complementary copy of USA Today and let the thought escape. The shuttle made another stop to pick up a fifth – and that’s when one of the gentlemen behind me quipped, “Jeez! How many people care they gonna cram in here?!”

The number that immediately came to mind was two. That's when I whipped out my short, plastic stools with cartoon characters on them and mentally placed them around the van: between the driver and shotgun passenger, in the aisle… oh and there was easily enough room for another bench. I proceeded to waive passenger after passenger on, filling every crevice of this monstrous van putting couched passengers on mini stools, sitting on top of other peoples’ bags and up against each other. Benches that were designed to comfortably hold three people were now crammed with five – not counting backpack babies and small animals. By the time I was done I had managed to fit 21 adults, 2 infants and a piglet into my ridiculous-sized American EconoVan. I anticipated the angst and outrage that my fellow passenger would have expressed as I demanded his money. I smirked as I stuffed my pockets with imaginary dollars and waited for an undetermined and uncommunicated number of minutes before I felt like hopping in the driver's seat and whisking my pesky passengers away to their terminal.

Backpacking... sexified!

Who says backpacking can't be sexy?

I went on a backpack to the Anza Borrego Desert back in January it was beautiful. Ted was an older gentleman who was tasked with job of leading our group through the West Butte area. He seemed like an ordinary older Sierra Club chap but what caught my eye was his very subtle sense of hiking fashion that only the keenest of eyes and most childish of minds would laser in on: Ted's red fishnet belly shirt.

It was fodder in the purest sense. Sadly, my smart-ass comments went suppressed and therefore unappreciated. The only thing I could do was snicker to myself, cracking witty, sophomoric jokes under my breath. There was no one with whom I could share my 12-year old sense of humor or at minimum exchange saucer-eyes coupled with my sphincteresque I'm-trying-not-to-laugh mouth.

So I'm attaching a picture so you can fully appreciate the story and in hopes that it inspires some childish thoughts of your own.

TV Dinner by Lisa Gonzalez (circa 1988)

This is a story I wrote a really long time ago when I was bored in a small office.

He sat back in the tattered armchair. Thinking. His old fork poked listlessly at the turkey in gravy TV dinner that sat balanced on his bulbous beer-belly. Smoke hovered stagnantly over his balding head. The television buzzed with static and conversation — Ozzie and Harriet were just wondering where Ricky was.

He kept blaming it on her...how SHE had made him this way. He knew deep down that he had let her get to him. What comes next? Twilight Zone or the Honeymooners? He hoped that it was Twilight Zone. He liked the way that Rod Serling could smoke a cigarette and look cool. He took a long drag of the Lucky Strike and grimaced as the smoke burned his eyes. He could never look cool smoking. Maybe it was because he was just never very cool. Cool people never ate TV Dinners.

The phone rang. He could have answered it in one ring, but he didn’t want it to look like he was waiting for her to call and let it ring another two and a half times. He picked up the phone and tried sound like he was in the middle of something very important. It was hard to do in the middle of a TV dinner and the Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet. He belched and could taste a cross between Lucky lager and half frozen corn backed up in his throat and swallowed it anyway. Just like everything else. He picked up the phone, but no one would answer. There was definitely someone there because he could hear John Cougar dinging about a chili-dog. He remembered how she hated John Cougar and was sure it wasn’t her on the other end of the phone. She wasn’t the type to play those games, but he secretly wished that she was.

He hung up and wondered which nightclub she might be at tonight. He wondered if she asked other men for a cigarette the same way she had asked him the first time they met. He never smoked before he met her, but she was the reason he started. She was the reason for a lot of things. She, with her long painted fingernails and sticky red lipstick. She never really cared about him. He wondered why. Maybe it was because he never really cared about himself. She could see through him like Saran-Wrap on a bowl of leftovers. And now, that’s all he was. Left over. He knew deep down that she would never call. She didn’t like leftovers. She didn’t like TV dinners either.

Death demands.

There are days when I feel invincible. But I know that someday I will meet my demise and God forbid that it will come before my 90^th year. But if in fact I do kick the bucket I have a list of demands. If they are not met, I swear I will haunt your ass until you make it right.

1. You are forbidden to display an “In Loving Memory of Lisa Gonzalez 1964 – xxxx” vinyl sticker on the back of a car window. My mom has been apprised of this. Debbie is responsible for enforcement.
2. I don’t really need a tombstone, but some kind of graffitiesque memorial marker would be kind of cool – like maybe if someone scratched “Lisa Gonzalez kicks ass!” in some new concrete in the Gaslamp or "LG is MILFY" tagged the underside of a bridge in the Barrio that’d totally rock. Yes, Buchanan... tatoos are totally appropriate - as long as they are prison-style. 
3. You have to sing Freebird and light real Bic lighters. I hate that song – but I would totally laugh at the triteness. "Lord knoooowws I can't chaaaannnggee...."
4. Take all the good organs and give them to someone worthy. And I know exactly who should get my liver. I won't mention any names but I think you know who you are...
5. Cremate the leftovers. Put my ashes in a box and call it a day. No fancy urn. Because you’re gonna have to dump ‘em out eventually. (see #6)
6. You can’t scatter my ashes right away. You have to take them out for a drink on my birthday. This responsibility goes to Sheila because I know she’ll totally do it.
7. Hmmm.... what to do... what to do... I can't decide what should be done with my cremains. Here are a few ideas...

• Make a gem. There are companies that will turn my ashes into an overpriced diamond after which you can have it mounted in a ring or pendant setting. What a morbid, yet elegant and timeless reminder of everything I ever wasn't!
• Make an ocean reef. Mixed with concrete I can truly sleep with the fishes. If you want, you can add your hand print or graffiti message before the reef is lowered into the ocean. (See Demand #2)
• Make fireworks. Enjoy your own personal sky show starring yours truly! Family and friends can look on in excitement and wonder as my ashes are shot into the air via fireworks and thereby scattered into the ocean. I think going out in an explosive wad of glory is the most appropriate choice by far. BANG! BANG! BABY!

Crap… I can’t believe we forgot to ask

here are things in America that we take for granted. Like toilet paper, for instance. In America, it’s pretty much assumed that when you walk into a bathroom there’ll be toilet paper. So I knew from other travelers that China didn’t typically provide this American convenience so I came prepared with TP in hand. Check. (smug smile.)

But you have to also be prepared with a repertoire of questions in order to negotiate the right place to sleep. Questions like: Do you have a toilet? Is there hot water? Is there water? Then there are other times when a tout will approach you and entice you – the weary traveler - with a statement like: “My guesthouse is at the highest peak for the best view and its just 60 Yuan.” Who DOESN'T want a nice view?!

This was the case when we arrived in Longshen to see the Dragon’s Back rice terraces. We got off the bus after a marathon bus ride and of course we’re in China so the first thing we’re trying to figure out is if we’re even in the right place. That’s when an English-speaking local woman approached us to help us figure out our bearings. With no plan for a place to sleep and dusk approaching rapidly, she baited us with an easy solution, a friendly smile, familiar language and an offer of the best, “most highest” guesthouse view of the Dragon’s Back Rice Terraces.

I don’t know about you but the first thought that comes to my mind is “Of COURSE I want the best view for eight bucks.” (smug smile.) But what we forgot to ask is, “What exactly does it take to get to this guesthouse with the best view?”

We loaded up into yet another bus and an hour later, minority village women were clamoring to carry our bags to our destination. “We got it. It’s no problem.” But we had one big bag and figured that three bucks worth of help might be worth it.

Next thing you know, we’re following a tiny village man who is carrying our 70lb. pack up a hill to where we thought the guesthouse was. We stopped about seven minutes later and thought, “Oh. That wasn’t so bad.” And we started to unload the packs from our backs. “No…” he pointed up further. He was in a rush because it was getting dark. We carry on, hiking stone steps, straight up, one-by-one. And we keep going. More steps. Darker. Higher. Steeper steps. This goes on for nearly an hour. An HOUR. Straight up. To the highest peak. With loads of gear on our backs. And one tiny village man kicking our asses all the way up the mountain. It was cold in Longshen and by the time we got to Jian’s place, but I was sweating, tired and ready for a beer and the reward of the “most highest” view we’d worked so hard for. But now it was dark… so no view.

We woke up the next morning to rainy, brown rice terraces. Not exactly the fresh green landscape we saw in the brochures back in Yangshou. Beautiful, nonetheless. Later that day we trekked our way back down slippery stone steps with the help of our minority village man. The trek was less exhausting, but we were still grateful that we had round-trip help with our giant bag.

So next time you’re negotiating a place with the best view, don’t forget to ask what it will take to get there. Because the answer in this particular case was: One tiny minority village man, about thirty Yuan, fifty minutes, good night vision and a hope to god you didn’t smoke too much the night before.

Ahhh.... Vietnam.

Where western toilets are common and toilet paper is plentiful.

Thanksgiving Hoa Down

During the Vietnam War, China Beach was a popular R&R spot for American GIs. Hoa was about eleven years old at the time and his mother would invite weary soldiers into their home and made them home-cooked meals. This was his exposure to the American language and culture and it added a rather unique character to his English.

It was Thanksgiving Day and we arrived at Hoa’s place to find him sitting with two other backpackers at a long wooden table with a growing collection of empty beer bottles. We set our packs down and asked about a room. “Don’t woooorry. We’ll work it out…” Hoa said. He looked at each of us with raised eyebrows, “Beer? Beer?” 

The guy couldn’t have been friendlier. He pulled two beers for us, asked 

our names and welcomed us to his place. Hoa assured us we could attend to the details of our arrival later, but now we should just relax. So leaving our bags sitting on the curb we sat down and he resumed his earlier conversation.

Hoa is a rather small man, even by Vietnamese standards. He speaks in a quiet voice but with an air of importance that had us all leaning in to hear what he was saying. There was also a slight slur to his speech and I was trying to figure out if this was his accent, an impediment or the result of entertaining the others well before we arrived.

It was really more of a one-way conversation because every time one of us began a story, he’d hold up his hand and say “Wait a minute… wait a minute… When I love, I love from the heart. And we should all love each other. I love you guys.” He would then lift his glass and toast around the table.

We learned a few things about Hoa right away. 1) He’s been running this place with his wife for about fourteen years and 2) He drinks like a Marine but has the build of an eleven-year old and 3) Hoa can’t really hold his liquor very well.

As the afternoon progressed, other travelers wandered in and joined our gathering. Hoa continued to try to tell everyone the same story he had been trying to work through since we arrived hours earlier, but never seemed to be able to make it past the first two sentences before being distracted and feeling the need for a toast. By now Hoa’s speech was barely understandable and the toasts were becoming more exuberant.

By about six o’clock, Hoa’s particular phrase of endearment became “Fuck you man! No-no-no wait… fuck YOU, man!” This was inevitably followed by grin that turned into a belly laugh, a round of toasting, hugs around the table and for the lucky, a kiss.

This ritual went on for the next few hours. And then the head slapping started.

Like I said, Hoa’s not a big guy, so when he slaps your head it’s not so much that it hurts, but it’s more of a signal that it’s Hoa’s bedtime. And so his shy nephew – who had been silently monitoring the situation as he set the table for dinner - demurely grabbed a guy named Ben by the arm, took him behind a wall for a second and whispered something. Ben came back with a cheery smile and in his Liverpool accent beckoned Hoa for something really important. “Hoa! Over here. There’s something I need to show you!” Well, what Hoa needed to be shown was a bed.

Hoa was led to his room multiple times only to reemerge like a restless two-year old wanting to make sure he didn’t miss anything. After about twenty minutes of back-and-forth, Hoa passed out for real.

Hoa’s wife and nephew served a tableful of Westerners a feast of rice noodles, fried fish and spring rolls with spicy sauce. We clinked our beer bottles together and wished each other a Happy Thanksgiving.

Hoa has the ability to quickly make you feel a part of his family and welcomes everyone warmly. So if you should find yourself in Da Nang area of Vietnam make your way out to China Beach past the construction of the luxury hotels and down the small dirt road just opposite of Marble Mountain. At the end of the road you’ll find a humble guest house and Hoa sitting at the long wooden table with a cold beer waiting for you.

And as Hoa says himself, “If I’m not here, I’m somewhere else.”

Hoa’s Place
215 Huyen Tran Cong Chua Street
Ngu Hanh Son, Danang
hoasplace@gmail.com
tel: 0511 3969216

Hot Air Serendipity

We were in Yangshou (which ended up to be pretty touristy) for a few days and did saw the karst landscape - which is limestone jutting out everywhere. We had a few things on our list of things to do while we were there - One of which was to overlook Yangzhou from a high peak. 

We rented bikes from our hotel and figured we’d try to stumble upon a couple of sites. I say stumble because in China the maps aren’t reliable at all. You could pick up three different maps and they all will have a completely different orientation. You’d have better luck putting on a blindfold and riding aimlessly in any direction. I’m sure that they do this in order to keep you so confused that you have no other choice but to hire a guide.

But being cheap and adventurous, we nabbed a free map (and free advice) from a bike shop and headed out in what we figured was the direction in which we wanted to go. It didn’t really matter because the intention was to get away from West Street, so we followed a street sign that pointed in the general direction of somewhere called Li Pu.

That path took us along a river, by a big banyan tree and through a few villages. Believe me… it was ideal. Warm weather, clear green river, Chinese women singing crackled songs through old megaphones on floating bamboo rafts, sunset was just a couple of hours away… You really couldn’t ask for a more picturesque day. But we had no idea what was just around the bend. Chinese guys setting up a hot air balloon. Sweartagawd.

After minimal (okay, actually there was zero) negotiation, we found ourselves rising far higher than any limestone peak – so far above the karst landscape – that we were able to see Yangshou in a way could have never anticipated. Bursts of fire filled our balloon with air. We rose to a place where the breeze was quiet and calming. The last rays of sun shot through the peaks. Women rode their children home on bikes. And smoldering fires spilled light across rice fields.

This is why I love to travel - there is nothing better than serendipity. 

Hong Kong...

If you’re headed to Asia, Hong Kong is a good entre for the inexperienced Westerner. Just enough English to help you get around. Just enough Chinese to keep you confused.

I arrived in the Hong Kong airport at around 7:30 in the morning. Mercifully, many people spoke English and there was plenty of signage. But trying to do something as simple as find the lounge where I was supposed to meet Pete was another story. Luckily Hong Kong is a very wired city so I was able to shoot a quick email to him, get his location and find him.

We chucked our stuff in the hotel room, grabbed some lunch and ascended to Victoria Peak via the tram for sunset. We watched the sun go down and the lights of the Hong Kong skyline go from speckles of glitter to a full-blown spectacle. But city lights… any city can do that. What other city in the world can make their skyline dance nightly like huge electrical dance club of neon?

The next day we explored the area. Hong Kong was pretty orderly. Getting around Hong Kong is actually pretty easy because of its public transportation system. My favorite stop was the Man Mo temple which is one of the oldest temples in Hong Kong and incense coils burn in honor of two deities.

I expected the buzz of Times Square and it wasn’t until we got to Mong Kok hoards of people crowd the streets. It’s kind of like a huge electronics mall, Chinese neon, misspelled signs, street food vendors selling a bunch of stuff I put in my mouth that I didn’t bother to ask what it was. The smells ranged from ginseng to jasmine to fish and I breathed deeply at everything to make sure I took it all in. later that night we caught up over drinks in the SoHo bars.

An evening bus took us just 20 minutes out of the city where we found a string of little beach towns of Stanley, Aberdeen and Repulse Bay which hardly sounds like its name with coarse sand beaches, palm trees and restaurants along the boardwalk.

Today, the plan is we head to mainland China where the real adventure begins. We’ll spend a week or so in and around Guìlín where is sounds like there are some cool caves and breathtaking scenery.