Foodie

Let’s be honest here, people: Isn’t this whole Internet Food thing just about fucked out by now, hmm?

Oh, we’re as guilty as anyone, this obsession with chow.

The vivid descriptions of fatty snacks in the middle of the night, the tales of bizarre meats served en-stick, doled out by shady characters in the back alleys of cities we pass through:
What blog entry would be complete without ’em?

When did it become okay, I would ask ya, to make everyone at the table freeze, fork in hand, as their plate of rapidly cooling food has its goddamned picture taken?
God forbid one fingerling potato disappears from the canvas before we capture the dish at 5 megapixels, jot down notes on the composition of protein to carb, and then snap the photo again—just to be sure!

We stalk the latest food truck to come rolling on the scene, searching Twitter for its next appearance as if scanning the clouds above for the proof of a God.

And that’s why you find yourself standing in an industrial parking lot, 11pm on a Tuesday night in Vernon.
A line 20 deep, just to be the next one baptized by the latest kooky concoction!

And then what? Do we just go home, hands over contented bellies, and revel within inner dialogue of the meal we’ve just enjoyed?

Hell no. We take to Yelp, bragging that we’ve gone and done it—we’ve experienced the fusion pickled herring and head cheese tamale before our slacker pals had a chance.
(It was a bit too cloying and obvious for Jen, but I thought the combination really worked!)

And we make chefs- god help us! -celebrities.
What have we done?

Facebook posts reflect these obsessions now, and if we had to endure photos of the weekend in Taos and posted videos of juggling cats, well, wasn’t that at least more of an insight to our friends’ mindsets than their hankering for Icelandic yak meat or last night’s shocking appearance of a pebble in the ceviche?

…it’s the irony, is that it? Is that what you kids crave so much these days?

Oh, the delicious irony of having tough punkers and mundane office workers, suddenly become digitally published gourmands.
Ho, the funny, funny disjointed image: those tattooed forearms kneading a ball of dough!

Hey–here’s irony for ya: why don’t you knuckleheads pay your child support or put some decent exhaust systems on your rat bikes, huh? Really mindfuck the stereotype!

I know.
We can all relate to food, this much is true.

But ingestion and digestion– do these remain truly the only things we share communicably within the human experience?–really?

Heh–I can think of another function we all share, but yer not going to see us start recording and expounding on every bowel movement we experience on the road…oh, wait- already did!

Oh you laugh, but can’t ya just see it?
The next craze, reviewing the toilet facilities of the very restaurants that we’ve already put through the wringer:

The Men’s room in the back of Lazy Ox Canteen is dreadful, serviceable at best. Lack of paper in stall # 2, burnt lightbulb over the far left sink. Will not be going back!

Oh I don’t know. It’s harmless, I guess.
If our National Discourse has been reduced to debates on the merits of Five Guys over In n Out, so be it.

Just don’t go dragging us down with your silly chatter about food.
We have better things to think about, people!

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But really, Five Guys?
Gimmee a fuckin break!