I Gotz Lotz 2 Say

What a whirlwind trip around the globe. I was biking the ragged paths of Bangladesh, hitchhiking through the dense interior of Tibet, had a drink in Christchurch, paddled my way through the maze of Micronesia, drank Kava with Fijian tribal leaders, married two or three of them, then bribed my way back to the States.

In my backpack and neoprene lifting belt were the most exotic spices and herbs from the most hostile and inaccessible parts of the world. Places sane people do not travel, except my extended layover in Halifax due to an uncooperative Zamboni.

Then, I woke up.

Right now, shaken and relentlessly paranoid about Our Collapsing Civilization, I travel vicariously through food. I cruise through Veracruz on a seafood Diablo burrito. I grab a rickshaw and creak my way down Yakitori Yokocho, beer and unmarked cigarettes in my fist every time I close my eyes and dive into a steamy bowl of ramen. I find sad refuge in a pile of smoky BBQ, knowing I'm only hiding from reality. A night of pork and dry rub only keeps the demons away so long. The next morning I wake up with gristle on my lips, crippled with guilt, bloated from a variety of sauces that are now indistinguishable from one another.

Last night, I felt in control. I was king of the world. I could name each sauce and it's region. I could tell you whether it was vinegary North Carolina simmer, hearty Texas beef slather, surprisingly complex Tennessee smoke or demure Kansas City glaze that respectfully defers to the dry rub.

This morning, all I could remember was ketchup.