Wing Man

Something I think about but don’t talk about often is my relationship with chicken wings.

Imagine: a foodstuff covered in sauce that’s meant to dipped in other sauce. Buffalo, of course, is classic for a reason, even though BBQ has its merits. Ranch and blue cheese both have their merits too, as do boneless wings from time to time. A wing must never be breaded, unless it’s Korean or Jiao Yan in flavor. A breaded wing that’s part of a larger fried chicken meal is also acceptable, but then you’re not eating wings. Fried chicken and wings are not one in the same.

Wings are ostensibly eaten in groups... as if. There was a period of time in my mid-twenties when I was sad and gay and eating wings alone almost every single night. I would dip wing after wing in sauce after sauce while the world was out celebrating, wondering why I was alone. Eating wings is an all-consuming task, and when you’re completely consumed in something you can’t take a step back and reflect on why things are the way they are. With their addictive pleasure, wings were a comfort that allowed me to keep going without changing anything about myself. Until I realized: was I eating wings, or were wings eating me?

If y’all are new year, you may not know I’m a filmmaker. I made a short called “Wing Man” about my relationship with wings several years ago that I recently revisited and figured I’d share. Hope you enjoy! For the record, I do eat less wings and am much happier these days. But if Oakland gets a B-Dubs… well… dang, they have a new “Golden Fire” sauce. It’s the “perfect blend of Sting and Zing…”