Lillie’s Q is a sore. A nuisance. A poem that rhymes “cigarette” with “regret.” It’s a friend that invites you to a party you don’t know anyone but never shows up, so you spend the whole time in the corner, playing with the settings on your phone, pretending to text. Most of all, it is a restaurant in Chicago – the existence of which disparages the entire history of barbecue.
As we all know, the first mention of ribs in recorded history comes from the book of Genesis, when God removed one of Adam’s ribs to create Eve and stop Adam from posting on incel web forums. Since then, ribs have been used in everything from Marilyn Manson’s felatic self-adventures to “her pleasure” condoms, but they have most prominently marked their territory as a staple of Southern cuisine.
If ribs found their start in Eden, Lillie’s Q has burnt them over the fire and brimstone of Sodom. Continue reading “Lillie’s Q Brings Down Southern Fare Like a Confederate Monument”
That’s what I should have said.
I didn’t, though.
The French have a saying: “Pourquoi avez-vous pris la peine de traduire cela?” I have no idea what that means, but they have another saying, “Esprit de l’escalier.” which translates to “Spirit of the stairway.” It’s the feeling of finding the perfect, witty remark but only after the opportunity has passed.
For a hypothetical example, say It was around noon on a wet and chilly day in 2012. Sometime after Call Me Maybe topped the charts and sometime before the world ended. Early March, perhaps. You were trying to impress a cute girl in your speech class with a string of pithy words, but under the pressure you crack, instead firing off some dumb remark. Later, as you walked down the stairs, it hits you. You come up with the perfect combination of vowels and consonants. Alas, the moment is now gone.
That’s the spirit of the stairway.
Continue reading “My Worst Bomb: A Story of Whiskey and Old Spice”
Did the album need to be religious? No, but don’t piss in my ears and tell me it’s holy water.
After a year of missed release dates, speaking out against premarital sex, and Stanning for Trump, Kanye has finally released…whatever the fuck this is.
Being billed as a gospel album, Jesus Is King clocks in at just over twenty-five minutes, which is also how long I assume Mr. West spent penning the lyrics for these tracks, the highlights of which are prose such as “You closed on Sunday. You my Chic-fil-A/You’re my number one, with a lemonade.” and “What if Eve made apple juice/ You gone do what Adam do?” Continue reading “Jesus Is King or (Kanye Sparknotes the Bible)”
In Sound & Fury, Sturgill Simpson doesn’t make music for you. He makes it despite you.
“Southern samurai glam rock” may sound like an excerpt from a lazy game of Mad Libs, but it’s the best description I could muster for Sound & Fury, the fourth studio album from Grammy winning artist Sturgill Simpson.
Once the heir apparent to the fiefdom Dave Cobb built for outlaw country revival, the main thread holding each of Sturgill’s albums together is how much they distance themselves from the last. None more so than Sound & Fury, which takes any trace of bluegrass twang and buries it under a heap of sleethy synth-rock riffs. Continue reading “Sturgill Simpson’s Sound & Fury Bucks Outlaw Revival”
On Thursday night the NFL will kickoff its 100th season with the greatest rivalry in sports: The Green Bay Packers vs The Chicago Bears. The two storied franchises will take the field anchored by titans of the game Khalil Mack and Aaron Rodgers, respectively.
Last season, the series was split 1-1, with the first game going to the Packers, carried on the busted, morphine riddled knee of Rodgers, who brought the house down with an electrifying 20 point comeback. The latter of the two games went to the Bears in week 15, after Green Bay had more or less committed to a mini-rebuild and McCarthy had all but gotten his final massage in the Lambeau facilities. Continue reading “Tapered Expectations: Packers by 60”
Is the breadth of our reality merely an advanced computer simulation? This question may just sound like the plot to a shitty, over-romanticized Keanu Reeves movie, but the past five minutes I have spent reading the simulation theory page on Wikipedia seem pretty convincing.
The implications of this question should be obvious. If we are living in a simulated reality, it would mean that humanity is more insignificant than we could have possibly imagined. Every person you’ve loved, every moment you’ve cherished would have no more intrinsic value than a piece of lettuce in Burger Time.
However, if our reality is not just a construct built of ones and zeros, it would mean that was a real, living person I just ran over on the corner of Ashland and North Ave. His family would feel actual hurt and loss, and the police lights in my rearview mirror are bringing with them real, tangible consequences. Continue reading “Are We Living in a Simulation or Was That a Real Person I Hit with My Car?”
In Spring of 2017, I ate dinner at Del Frisco’s, a lavish and glitzy steakhouse located on the fifty-second story of The Prudential Center in Boston. Del Frisco’s menu features everything you would imagine from a place frequented by the East Coast aristocracy, while the stone and metal interior is so ornately accented by crystal chandeliers and reclaimed wood you begin to understand why the one-percent is so keen on holding onto this lifestyle. Between the forty-five day dry-aged steak that melted in my mouth, the handcrafted cocktails that flowed with more life and vitality than The Euphradis, and my date’s seven course meal (each paired with its own top-shelf wine), the check came out to roughly what I pay per month in rent. This menu should be printed, un-altered, and distributed as a pamphlet to spark the proletariat uprising.
After I sucked the last morsels of meat off the t-bone, I leaned back in my chair, my belly full of a cow that probably had a higher quality of life than myself, and my eyes drifted out the window, soaking in a Boston Harbor being swaddled in the twilight of a setting Sun. After a moment, my gaze came back across the table, and I stared into the eyes of the woman I loved, hoping time would stand still and we would never leave. Continue reading “Concerning the new Popeyes Chicken Sandwich”