Epic is a word that has lost much of its muster. Once used to describe the classic novels, as time has moved from a more analog world full of wonder to a more ironic one full of digital, the idea of epic scope has shrunk. Epics have become adventures, adventures into tales, and tales into fan fiction. It seems that as a culture, we’ve lost that drive. I’ve decided that this summer, my task was to resuscitate it, to bring it back to the forefront.
The idea originally sprung forth from a famous saying that roughly translates to “Living the shit out of that shit“, or carpe diem for all you scholarly Latin dicks( I feel I need to clarify this by saying I have no problem with Hispanics. I find them not only agreeable, but lovely and sassy. I’m merely speaking to those poopheads who study a dead romantic language). I spent much of last summer collapsing my lungs and holing my heart so I could flirt with over-exaggeratingly beautiful nurses. Unfortunately, what I didn’t foresee at the time was that I’d spend most of those sweet summer nights laying in bed, wacked on oxycotin, and watching El Topo (which still doesn‘t make any sense, even under influences). Thus, I birthed the Summer of Kemp. Its thesis lies in a need to live life at its fullest, cramming as much as I would in one summer into two. So, I now hang out on Fridays nights, not just Saturdays.
Thus, if I was to bring it, I’d need something to be brought. All of the great questers had their obsession. Jason and his silly arguing naughts had that Golden Fleece. King Arthur had his holey grail. Joanie had her Chachi. For me, the answer was obvious. It would have to be eye-watering, slightly titillating, and something one’s eyes could not be diverted from. The cheeseburger it was.
My goal is simple. I will find the greatest hamburger Philadelphia has to offer. It must be produced in bar, restaurant, or fine gentleman’s club, It must be delicious, and it must end up in my belly. I know my parameters may be easy, but so am I.
And much like all great epic-seekers, I shall have a merry band accompany me on my many jaunts. Not only will I need their camaraderie, but fodder for those really boring entries where the food was just okay. I will also take side quests, indulging in local eateries that may not serve burgers, but may satiate my yearning tummy with much deliciousness. It’s a dangerous quest, but one I accept with a light belly. Thus spoke Zarathustra.
Signed,
Kemper Herron
Post Script: I feel I need to qualify my remarks from earlier. AGAIN. When I said dead romantic language, I was actually referring to the Romanesque language, not a cynical, despondent view of amor. I love chocolates and roses! Gigglez.
Post Script Script: I realize that some of you reading this may think that I was speaking of the interesting mix of Polish, German and English that a good friend named Roman speaks when I qualified my remarks earlier. Though he’s a lovable European, I was intending to refer to the language spoke in Rome, which was burned by an angry fiddle.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment