167 6th Street, Brooklyn
APRIL 5-9, 2012




The Bacondance festival is an annual (this one being the second) festival of bacon and music held in the former coffin-making district of Gowanus. Three days of bacon. Three. Days. Of. Bacon. It is the kind of thing that I would imagine myself thinking was a great idea in college and now, sadly, know better.

At the Bacondance you can try over a hundred kinds of bacon, listen to songs about bacon (rhymes with: achin', fakin', you're not mistaken, love makin', Liam Neeson in Taken), have bacon infused cocktails with a swizzle bacon stick, wear bacon t-shirts, and meet a human child named Bacon who is probably destined for greatness (more certainly infamy). You can meet lots of people who have also watched that video about the guy who makes really good bacon and can discuss key details you might have missed.

Kevin Bacon, who has been invited numerous times, has politely declined.

You can watch as hipsters of varying ages and motivations dance with bacon-colored streamers and then fall to the ground, wriggling like a giant sizzling platter of bacon (this is the opening ceremony). You can buy bacon stuffed animals—animals is definitely the word here. You can wear a necklace made of pancetta beads, akin to a candy necklace but with a higher nitrate content. You can watch a ballet about bacon. You can eat little bacon finger puppets made with bacon and enoki mushrooms.

You can do all of these things, but I found I could not enjoy them, because after two days at the Bacondance, I have lost track of how I feel about bacon.

Bacon is a punchline, a seal of approval, a novelty, an accent, a main dish, a dessert. It's in cocktails and cognac, whiskeys and chocolate. Bacon is how I feel about the internet, about suspenders on anyone younger than fifty, about sex on TV, about waxed moustaches and heels with jeans.

Bacon has gone from being a salty friend on a plate to being a saltier successful stranger. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm glad for bacon. It's just I used to know bacon.


NOTE: Mr. Pontious apologizes for the paucity of reviews this week;
he is recovering from excessive nitrate consumption.

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