Good morning, mountain dwellers. Today’s roads bring few hazards, other than a lil’ ol’ fog. The fog isn’t bad, mostly light, with MAYBE a few cells of moderate thrown in to keep you on your toes, but even those areas that MIGHT be moderate are still sort of light. They may not actually qualify for that “next level promotion.” In fact: to hell with it. I’m calling ALL of it light. It’s weak anyhow.
The fog seems “heaviest” (in its light way) near the area of the Tony Crestline Heights area, at about 5,000 feet in elevation. As one descends, the fog gradually thins, until it entirely vanishes around the more Skynyrd area of Crestline Lowlands area at 3,000 feet or so.
And just for those who really need that solid verification, confirmation, and validation, the ice, the snow, the wind, the rocks, and the hurricanes have all taken a pass on the option of terrorizing our ‘hood today.
Today is National Burrito day. And, man… let me tell you, that reminds me of yet ANOTHER Taco Bell story. I once went through the drive-thru (Don’t ever forget what Joe Pesci’s Leo Getz (from “Lethal Weapon”?) says that they do to you at the drive-thru… because they DO… rhymes with, “schmuck hue?”) at the Taco Bell on 40th Street. I made the grave mistake of ordering a burrito. B-u-r-r-i-t-o. Burrito. I don’t remember, but I might have even rolled my R’s, just to be very clear. Doesn’t really matter.
The voice on the other side of the crappy speaker asked, “What is THAT?” I repeated my desired menu item’s name… I even added, “Bean and cheese… BURRITO.”
Still, confusion from speakerworld. More questions… this person working at Taco Freakin’ Bell had never heard of this freakish alien menu item I was garbling to her.
I was getting a little annoyed. We were in a standoff. I decided to describe this exotic item. I explained the tortilla, the beans—errr, frijoles, the cheese—I mean queso… and how they are assembled. As a culinary technician myself, my skill set even includes that of burrito assembly procedures. Yeah… I’m like a Latin food genius.
“The voice asked, “Do you mean a burro?”
No… I don’t want a freakin’ “burro,” whatever THAT is. Yes, I know a burro is like a mule, and was SURE that I did not want one of THOSE, but even if “burro” was a word used for some food item, I was sure that INSTEAD… I. WANTED. A. BURRITO. Just like it says right there on the menu in front of me… Uhhh Buhhhhbuuuuhreeeetto.
Nope. The speaker freak was having nothing of it. She curtly explained to me that there is no such thing as this crazy, wack-a-doodle “burrito” thing I was trying to order, and that if I did not want to say, “burro,” then I had a problem.
Even as I laid a quarter inch of tire tread in a 50-foot strip through the drive-thru driveway, and shouted words (that are exactly the same as what Leo Getz warns that they do to you in the drive-thru), I still had no idea what a damn burro was. It’s not on the menu… but the word “burrito” is plastered all over it.
It turns out, some folks call burritos, “burros.” I don’t know why. It may be a time-saving measure, since adding that whole extra syllable into the middle of the word EVERY TIME IT IS UTTERED would probably add up to, maybe, 45 or 50 seconds of a person’s lifetime, and THAT time could be much better spent, in exponentially greater periods of time, arguing with gringos in the drive-thru. But what I even MORE don’t get is how a Taco Freakin’ Bell—the true source of authentic Mexican food—employee could not give me a damn burrito, because, according to her, there was no such thing.
But, really, it was no big deal… this was about 20 years ago, and I’ll be over it in just a few more years… no biggie at all. It’s not like I dwell on these things, you know.
Okay… National Burrito day is today, and, not uncoincidentally, tomorrow is National Don’t Even Think About Getting in a Car with My Buddy Jon day. That guy will roll up the windows, lock ‘em so they can’t be rolled down again, and will then execute a “post-burrito” chemical warfare attack. Oh, he’ll sit there all casual, as if he HASN’T done this, so it just sneaks up on you, and WHAM!!! Eyes water, the retch struggles to escape, and you wonder if you should just go towards the light. Eventually, Jon will bust out laughing (with that one Nicolas Cage-crazy look in his eyes), but by then, your own brain is addled with thoughts—nay, wishes—of death.
Now, this isn’t to say that I’ve never done the same to Jon, either… turnabout is fair play. But the really rough times have come when he’s trying to casually assault ME… at the same time that, by random chance, I happen to be working my own magic. The windows are closed, the eyes watering, consciousness is fading… with each of us silently pondering how amazing it is that the other one has not reacted yet. Talk about a standoff, without even knowing it’s a standoff. I’m convinced that we’ve both looked death straight in the eye during these times.
I hope that I’ve classed-up the joint a little today. It’s always my humble pleasure to bring some dignified and magnificently elegant swank to this website, which, frankly, isn’t ALWAYS as stately and distinguished as I would prefer it to be. I’m utterly obliged that you have given me the charitable opportunity to restore the dignity to this site.
Celebrate, maybe even go to Del Taco. If you wisely opt to walk into the place, well, enjoy your meal. On the other hand, if you decide to do the drive-thru, be careful what you order: you already know about my experience at rival bean peddler Taco Bell. I’m not sure what’ll happen if you try to order a burrito in Del Taco’s drive-thru, but always remember the words of Leo Getz. Few truer words have ever been uttered.