You can't kill the Rooster. You might can fuck him up a little sometimes, but you can't kill him. — David Sedaris

If cooking is an art, I think we're in our Dada phase.

For the first twenty years of my life I rocked myself to sleep. It was a harmless enough hobby, but eventually I had to give it up. Throughout the next twenty-two years I lay still and discovered that after a few minutes I could drop off with no problem. Follow seven beers with a couple of scotches and a thimble of good marijuana, and it's funny how sleep just sort of comes on its own. Often I never even make it to bed. I'd squat down to pet the cat and wake up on the floor eight hours later, having lost a perfectly good excuse to change my clothes. I'm now told that this is not called "going to sleep" but rather "passing out," a phrase that carries a distinct hint of judgment.

Friends always say, "How can you eat those? I read in the paper that they're made from hog's lips."

"And...?"

"And hearts and eyelids."