Notes From A Walkman Junkie: Bad Ideas And A Burrito And Poor Decisions
We have all made mistakes, poor choices, unfavorable decisions; I once tried to break up with someone, but instead, rented a two-bedroom house with him, purchased an unreasonably large television set, and lived there for exactly fourteen hours. Now, I like to think that I am not completely alone in my piss-poor choices and in fact, that my almost instinctual ability to do the wrong fucking thing was learned or even inherited, if you will.
For many years I have heard the infamous tale of the little roadside taco stand and my father’s admirable, but inevitably doomed attempt to woo my mother there with a burrito.
As my father explains it, he and my mother decided to dine at a small taco stand one evening. It was early on in their courtship, so my father was still thickly putting on the charm (grand exaggerations of skills that are never even remotely accurate or important or useful) and he decided that his charm would best be displayed through his ability to eat really, really, very hot things.
My dad approached the taco stand and he ordered a taco for my mother and one large burrito for himself. He then took a bite of the sizable burrito and confidently expressed to the vendors, “This is not hot enough for me.” My father then claimed that he “had been to Mexico once” so he “knew all about it.” And as my dad put it, “they fixed him up good” and he “choked down the whole damn thing through ill conceived tears and laughter” and then he began to sweat profusely and turned somewhat purple and his lips swelled to four times their normal size and my mom was not super impressed, but thought it was goddamn funny and then they got married and then they got a divorce.
While we are on the subject, some other events that my father most likely regrets (not in the food regret category, but rather the squirrels, guns, dogs and knuckles one) include the following: Once my little brother was bitten by a possibly rabid and definitely angry squirrel so my father blew it’s little head apart with a shotgun while my mother was on the phone with the doctor, who was carefully explaining to her the extreme importance of keeping the brain of the animal in question fully intact in order to properly test for rabies. Years later, my father punched a dog in the head so hard that he broke his own hand. OK, I know what you are probably thinking, and before you start judging my father’s seemingly harsh action towards the dog, he was only trying to break up a nasty dog fight and besides, think of all the dogs that he is not punching. He is probably not punching a dog right now.
I am attaching a little Nilo Toledo to rock you out. Think about your dad.