Quixotica

If you love pork and live on the West Coast, get ready: the world of gourmet bacon is about to get a bit more wild and a lot more wooly. Companies like the Washington-based Wooly Pigs are importing and breeding a sort of hairy Hungarian pig known as a mangalica, famous for being the most delicious and decadently marbled pork product on the planet.

Mangalitsas (a British spelling) are a flavorful fat-filled beast first bred in 19th-century Hungary from the hardy hogs of the Balkan mountains. These stocky sausage fests became popular among the farms and rural settlements of Eastern Europe due to their robust nature and low maintenance costs compared to other breeds. Wikipedia contributors claim the popularity of the wooly pig declined in the 20th century in part due to the advent of preservatives like refrigeration and vacuum seals, and while no reason is given I would suggest that this is due in part to the higher fat content of lard-breeds like the Mangalista when compared to lean-breeds like the Berkshires (another strain of high-quality bacon beasts), which these days run much smaller and leaner than their fuzzy Eastern European cousins. Meats rich in monounsaturated fats are less likely to go rancid without refrigeration, and thus the high fat content which makes mangalitsa lard such a prize find for modern foodies was a serious survival concern for Hungarian farmers seeking cured meats that could safely keep their families fed throughout the long Balkan winters.



Like many red-blooded patriots I've always held bacon in high regard, indeed I've been known on more than one occasion to proclaim pork the prince of cured meat products; that said, I'm anxious at the thought of my porcine prince slipping inadvertently into the gilded cage of "the next big thing" in gourmet food products. First coffee, then cupcakes took their brief turns on the porcelain stage of the fawning foodistas, only to be relegated to the gourmet ghettos of yuppie markets like Whole Foods and Andronico's once their splendor spoiled.

So rejoice, pork lovers, and pursue your fuzzy pig fat fix in foodie outposts across the country. But in your pursuit of what Wooly Pigs PR calls "America's 'it' pig," I implore you not to forget the rustic pleasure of waking up to the scent of Hilshire Farms mystery meat smoking on the griddle. Mangalitsa may be perfect for (literally) whipping up a batch of lard cookies or complementing a veggie hors d'œuvre, but there's no better complement for a skillet of cheesy eggs than half a rack of Hilshire's finest.

I spent the better part of last week bumming around on a friend's couch playing their games, eating their food and just generally being a nuisance. Just Cause 2 held a sacrosanct spot in the 360 as the latest Next Big Thing, but when company coalesced and controllers were issued we regularly returned to co-op classics like the Nazi Zombies mode in Call of Duty: World At War. Yet those brief sojourns into the illusory island paradise of Panau played an integral role in gathering a crowd for multiplayer jam sessions by attracting casual observers with a smorgasbord of startling visual sequences. The game is perverse, a straightforward solo experience that's only endearing when played with others. I've met many people (most of them artists) who demonstrate an unconscious desire to create, reaching for pen and paper or a well-worn guitar at the first sign of an ebbing conversation, filling the valleys between peaks of interest with impromptu chords and margin doodles. Just Cause 2 allows for similar entertainment, rescuing faltering small talk and filling uncomfortable silences with the savage beauty of a Steven Seagal movie.



"Holy shit, did you just lasso a helicopter?" Amazement shadowed by disbelief, and a caustic conversation about college graduates tapers off. All eyes are on the screen. "Do it again! Dude, can you jack that chopper in mid-air?!" Craziness confirmed, the challenges start coming. Prior conversations scrabble to regain traction, but every discussion inevitably derails after a spectacular stunt. "What, you didn't know how to ride the exploding gas tanks into the stratosphere? It's a scene straight out of Dr. Strangelove!"



I played a shit-ton of Just Cause 2 this week, but I couldn't tell you a damn thing about the plot, setting or characters involved. It took me three days (and sustained assault by a cadre of Japanese commando holdouts) just to realize the game was set in a fictional smattering of Southeast Asian islands, instead of the real-world South American archipelago I'd envisioned. What I CAN tell you is that if you strap protagonist Rico Suave (names changed to protect my ignorance) to a canister of highly flammable propellant, blast the release valve to smithereens and ride that ramshackle rocket straight into the stratosphere while screaming "MANATEEEE!" at the top of your lungs, you are guaranteed to get a roomful of grins and at least a few guffaws. Games like Just Cause 2 are performance art, like a round of friendly extempo competition in which each player passes the controller with the sometimes-secret, sometimes-shameless hope that the next guy (or girl) will find an even more ridiculous manner of making stuff explode. Add alcohol, rinse and repeat. The memory of friends bonding over beer and a borrowed guitar is the stuff of legend, and I think we're fast approaching the day when the cultural zeitgeist will ensconce a gamepad in the halcyon halls reserved for the beloved building blocks of social capital.