Having “enjoyed” dinners comprised solely of soggy side dishes for my past three SXSWs, let’s just say I was psyched as hell to get my digits on some buck buck and gobble gobble BBQ this year.

Now, normally when I eat chicken, it’s all polite-like a Chicken Pillard or something in sandwich form. Not this time.

After not sleeping at all on Thursday night and producing a 1,200 person event on Friday, a friend who was raised in Austin took me to some gas station/BBQ spot for a sort of Shabbat dinner, Texas style.

The dude behind the counter plopped some sad bird on wax paper, handed me a plastic fork and a pile of white bread said “go…”. My Friday night dinner would be some bird carcass covered in sauce slopped between two pieces of wonder bread. Not polite. But very delicious.

After ripping through various chikken parts, chewing chikken fat and essentially acting the part of a caveman fool, I looked down at my hands. They were covered in sauce and small specs of what most people call meat. I looked down at my saucy red hands, took a deep breath and accepted what I had done. Then I ordered some more.

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