A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Bacon sandwich

There was this bug-eyed ghost of a woman on America’s Next Top Model one time, at least ten years ago, who mentioned somewhere in the course of the show that among her favorite, favorite things were her grandmother’s bacon sandwiches. Which struck me as odd, for a model. She was very lanky. Very pale. Here’s the picture she provided.

Love that photo. That was on TV! She looks intoxicated, doesn’t she? Intoxified by bacon.

Anyway. This is a solid sandwich. Some white toast, or even just plain white bread, four or five strips of freshly-fried-up, crunchy, crumbly bacon? Little pools of grease still bubbling in the contours? Come the fuck on. That’s a post-run protein slammer of a sandwich, that is. Bacon sandwich and a big glass of chocolate milk. Fuck your heart.

Incidentally, this sandwich, according to the list, originates from the United Kingdom, which, okay, I can buy that. I have a good feeling that colonial America had a pretty deece familiarity with the so-called bacon sarnie well prior to 1776. How else would this nation have become a thing? What other fuel could sustain this fire?

One could argue that we left the simple bacon sanger behind as part of our mission to incorporate bacon into everything else, which is cool, and fine. But there’s always something to be said for simplicity.

Not that the bacon sandwich needs to be simple. In the UK, they’re often served with a topping of ketchup or brown sauce, which is a real thing! Bottled and everything, and it’s not gravy. What an amazing name for a thing. I’d slap that on a bacon sandie, tell you what. Fry up some onions for that bad boy. Feel like a real supermodel at lunch today.

Now more than ever.

I’m a beauty queen.

Photo credit: Popsugar.com

goal was not reached

this site is awesome. it’s a website that shows archived kickstarter projects that received no. freaking. money and it’s an awesome boneyard full of other losers’ failure that is pleasant to behold and hem and chortle at. the site is called kickended.

i am sure that taking great satisfaction in the raw failures of others is a universal human delight and not just some perversion of my own psyche—yes—yes i am quite comfortable that this is just a goofy thing we all enjoy and not feeling like this is utterly revealing of anything misanthropic or revolting about me as a person in the world even a little bit at all

Same Name Squad

Quick, go to sarahszabo.com.

OK. It’s not a mirror, and it’s not me—but isn’t that fascinating? Hell, my name’s Sarah Szabo. Hell, I’m a freelance writer, and a journalist too. Hell. Is that me?

Well. Nuh-uh. That’s another Sarah Szabo. Let’s look at some more of them.

This Sarah Szabo, for instance—she’s got some crazy cool art posted up in the realm of particle physics for your perusal here, among other dope things. I quite like that. These are the kinds of paintings you put in your opium den, at odd angles.

The aforementioned Sarah Szabo is a writer—writes articles, writes essays, free lancing, as you do. (I do.) Oh, 2010? Hell—we’re contemporary. Hell, my byline is Sarah Szabo, too.

The other night I was turnt up. More than a little hammered, by the time the sun had set on your world I had just reached the Zen Nexus, and I gave my body over to the fluvial forces that surrounded me there in greeting, its currents flowing dreamlike across me in the waters of the Chill.

The Chill was set to maximum. Lil Wayne’s “No Type” interp rang out from somewhere, sounding sourceless in the warm dark. Stripped-down beat somehow morose with him at the helm, descending notes and his voice echoing down with great humanity throughout the tangled network of unexplored tunnels I now existed in. He may have actually been there. “I ain’t got no type… but when I met codeine, there was love at first Sprite…”

Anyway. So it was right there, in the Chill Zone, that it all hit me. It had been brewing for a while, but in the chill zone—the Zen Nexus—time speeds up.

The idea is called Same Name Squad.

Only in the age of social media could such an ambitious project be so trivial to actually conduct. For now, in these times, we may seek with ease, our name twins. We may witness their works and days, the qualities of their character. And we can reach out to them with the stroke of a button, bearing an offer of collusion. We can, with powers combined, become one. This, for the world, is a dazzling new era.

With our names and portfolios combined, the Sarah Szabo Same Name Squad will be an artistic golem of a titan’s stature, wise beyond her years from the benefit of tens, dozens, hundreds of minds on-deck in tandem—all these lives,  the things they saw.

As for the Sarah Szabos, at least the ones before us here—myself excluded—they all seem so artistic. Hell, I kinda think they’d be down for this. But if one expands the search around the world, with great focus, and a wide net—the possibilities are myriad. We would have specialists in every field, and therefore, as one united, be a specialist in every field. Even the negative fields—the vice ones. I live near a Sarah Szabo who’s had some warrants out for check fraud, and who’s to say we don’t need her in the crew? Who’s to say we don’t need a wild card? I’m sure one of these Sarah Szabos out here is a lawyer, she probably just doesn’t have a website, because she’s busy. This one got a mean textin’ game, it seems, so we’re gonna need her. Social networking. This one paints mad dark shit, which would help with our aesthetics—we’re a brand to be feared—and I think some of these bitches even model. Some of ’em might even fight.

We can be the total package, y’all. One name—one identity. Same Name Squad.

The end goal? The unity? A single byline—a perfect person. A golem of the heart and soul. “Who are we? We are Sarah Szabo,” and all that.

Individually, our lives would be the same, of course. This isn’t weird. Hell, we don’t even have to meet, though we should. On a personal level, it’s whatever. But professionally? Professionally we are one. Professionally, we got squad power. One name, and we run the game.


So. Anyway, think about it. Think about your squad. Who ya got? Who ya gonna call? I need to send some emails out.

youtube rabbit hole: fools getting stranded by cruise ships