A clear conscience is a sign of a bad memory.


What is Food Coma?

There was a point in my life when, during an ill-advised bender spanning several weeks, I became painfully aware that this method of existence simply could not last forever without something going horribly wrong. I knew that to maximize all of the years I had foolishly burned away in a wildly entertaining fashion, it might be prudent to begin chronicling this excess as to leave some kind of fucked-up legacy when I meet my inevitable and untimely demise, because, after all, a legacy is a nice supplement to a stack of unpaid bills.

Food Coma is a compilation of many of these experiences, either taken from what memory I have left of them or creating them specifically for this site. Whether it be a review of the Barbie Cookbook or a story about nine days spent in France drinking wine and attending metal shows, each post reflects a different part of the puzzle of a life spent testing the various boundaries of the human mind and body. Nothing is sacred, nothing really matters, and it’s open season on everyone and everything. I am not testing the limits of the human body in, say, a Lance Armstrong way and it is certainly not “open season” as if I were Ted Nugent. There is a central theme, that being food, booze, drugs, and a method of often celebrating each day as if it were your last, not to mention the consequences of this behavior when, again and again, it does not turn out to be your last day at all.

Fuck. Yeah.