yeah.. just because I found it.
By New Times
By Robrt L. Pela
By Lauren Saria and Heather Hoch
By Deborah Sussman
By Robrt L. Pela and Amy Silverman
By Kathleen Vanesian
By Eric Schaefer
By Heather Hoch
"I'm crazy for tryin'. I'm crazy for cryin'. I'm crazy for loving you." La la la. I'm not a country music kind of guy, but living in the Southwest, it's a necessary evil. Now, not all country music is bad — for example, those lyrics were sung by the enchanting artist Patsy Cline. As far as I'm concerned, if you meet someone who doesn't like Patsy, then you don't want to sleep with them anyway.
I'm breaking out the Patsy Cline because that's how I've been feeling lately: crazy! I can't seem to find a sane single available soul in this town. Everyone is too damn healthy and too damn concerned about what the hell they put into their mouths. Can't we all just eat a little bit of bacon? Can't we all just get along?
As best as I can tell, all the jackwads and jilted women I've met since living in Phoenix suffer from some sort of seasonal affective disorder. I'm talking the opposite of the Midwestern S.A.D. I grew up with, the one in which everyone gets depressed when it's constantly cold and never sunny. Anyone can be depressed in the Midwest — hell, it's normal. Why do you think half the Midwest has transplanted themselves and their water-slurping lawns to the Valley of the Sun?
What I'm talking about is that we don't have seasons. We've got Not-So-Hot and Swamp-Ass-Hot (when you're so hot from driving around that you have that pesky little sweat stripe down the crack of your shorts for everyone to see). The lack of seasons in Arizona is why we are psychological pieces of shit.
We in Phoenix have no one to blame shit on but ourselves. "I don't want to get up today — it must be because it's 30 below and snowing clumps." Every day here is just damn nice.
So nice, in fact, that we can't blame our crap moods on anything but ourselves or our partners! Or, in my case, the drunk girl I cooked dinner for last night, and the failed attempt at intimacy.
Relationships in Phoenix (I find) are both personally and emotionally dogshit. I'll go ahead and throw in "physically," too. I blame a lot of things, but I blame the sun most of all. I also blame our year-round summer for the lack of comfort food to soothe our ailing souls and psyche.
Living in the Southwest adds this extra bit of stress to our lives. It's always nice out, so we must constantly be wearing little or no clothing. Therefore, we have to watch what we eat so we don't bulge out of our shorts. Consequently, life here in the desert is filled with trendy sushi restaurants and neurotic crazy people.
In every other part of our country, psychological ills are addressed by eating bowls of hot potato bacon soup, big fat grilled cheese sandwiches, fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies, or a big ol' bong hit and mayonnaise-potato chip sandwich. Not a seaweed salad and a spicy tuna roll.
If I have to take another bimbo to another shitty Ra Ra Ra sushi place, I'll drown myself. I love it when I get to a sushi place and the gal doesn't even like fish! WTF? "I want the pot stickers and seaweed salad and anything cooked."
The same goes for guys here. I know plenty of men who just go to sushi places because women like them, or women like the fact that sushi is "healthy." There's really nothing like spending $100 on some sushi, then grabbing a burger on the way home because you are still hungry.
I'm just suggesting that if you meet someone crazy-gorgeous who seems to be worth your time, then you should invite them over for some comfort food. Please boycott all the "normal places" in town, and go for that fattening comfort food Mom made you back home. That's right, the fatter the food, the better the date. Also, the fatter the date, the more sane the date! No one wants to date someone who works out five days a week. I've tried it, and it's a nightmare. Once the control freak stops training, she/he will balloon up and go crazy — trust me, I've been there. I almost dropped a deuce in one ex-girlfriend's cat box just to prove a point to her and her cat about who's the sane one in the relationship (unfortunately, true story: caught with pants down).
If you're really troubled in your relationship and your partner is driving you a little bit nutty, then try some bacon. Everyone loves bacon! Bacon is in right now, and let me be the first to say it: Bacon is the new chicken.
Every hot woman I've ever dated loves the taste of bacon. Hell, the smell of bacon is better than coffee and puts you in a great mood. I swear, you can put bacon on anything and it tastes great. Add it to pizza, throw it in pasta, whip up that mean, fat BLT. Your date will love you for it. You can also wrap bacon around jalapeños or water chestnuts. You can even wrap bacon around sea scallops.
yeah.. just because I found it.
There's a photograph on the inside front page of the Tempe-based College Times campus paper (April 9th), with the caption: "Sara Kunitake bites into a bacon French toast cupcake during Bacon Camp, an open source meeting for bacon lovers in San Francisco, California, last month".
Sounds like a plum assignment: "This is C.M. Redding reporting, live, from Bacon Camp."
Eat that pair of Bacon Eggs and "I left my heart in San Francisco" might just come true -- or at least the sections left in the surgical jar after the triple bypass.
Mr. Redding wrote:
"Important tidbit: Never cook bacon naked."
I'm surprised this hasn't been scripted into a Simpson's episode. Homer gets up in the middle of the night with a craving for bacon; faulty robe belt tying leads to catastrophy after a tragic grease splattering accident. Too ashamed to tell anyone about the injured organ, he makes excuses when Marge gets frisky upon his return. Since Homer has never before rejected her overtures (ANY overtures) she fears he may be cheating on her. A comedy of errors ensues.
Mr. Redding wrote:
"I almost dropped a deuce in one ex-girlfriend's cat box just to prove a point to her and her cat about who's the sane one in the relationship (unfortunately, true story: caught with pants down)."
The only thing that would make this anecdote more amusing would be if, while Mr. Redding was standing in motionless mortification before the open-mouthed astonishment of his ex-girlfriend, her cat had decided to dig its claws into the swing-toy balls dangling awkwardly above the cat litter. That followed by a cat-attack triggered episode of irritable bowel syndrome in the form of projectile squirts. Mr. Redding fleeing the apartment, only to be served several days later with a lawsuit describing the episode in highly formal but detailed legal language, asking restitution for carpet cleaning services and a hazmat response team.