Zippers:
Before I begin, I have to first say that when I was seven another boy hit me with his jacket, and the zipper scratched my eye. If I didn't say this first then rest of the review would be colored with that negative experience. Now that it is known it has no power over me. According to my optometrist even the scar has faded, though he could easily be lying to me. But zippers, zippers! They are metal, and I believe the Platonic (which is to say ideal) Zipper is always brassy and yellow in color. They are found on pants, packs, pouches, and any number of other things whose purpose is to conceal and protect something that we wish to still access easily and often. Occasionally they twist and break, and in these instances they are not a zipper, they are only two jagged pieces of metal and a broken tool. And then they are frustrating. But only occasionally. Sometimes, as in the case of backpacks, there are two zippers on one pair of ziplines. In such case they can be augmented with tiny padlocks which bind the two zippers together, for protection from thieves. In this vein, sometimes pockets might have zippers to keep their contents from jostling out. I had such zippers on a pair of pants, once. I found them maddening. But as far as pants zippers are concerned, it's the ones at the crotch that are the most fascinating. Usually they're mere utility, a barrier to be crossed before pissing or defecating or an entirely solitary and boring removal of the pants in question. But sometimes they aren't. Sometimes a zipper is pulled by someone else, and for an entirely different purpose. I find something darkly psycho-sexual that before two people have sex there is this small ceremony of unbinding, unmaking. I prefer zippers to Velcro or buttons because of their determination to stay fastened. I say to a zipper, Stay zipped, and it is done. A button is only as good as the ever-weakening thread that holds it, and Velcro is loud and hard to get perfect. Zippers are quick and, adorably, onomatopoeia.
Zippers: 20/20. Occasionally they break, but, as I've said, they aren't zippers anymore and unworthy of discussion.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Saturday, March 29, 2008
TRACKING...TRACKING...
VHS
Like chicken pox and car phones, The VHS tape has now skipped out of the present and become an idle curiosity, an anachronism. Those hard black plastic boxes, their guts black ribbons of color and sound, litter my closet like kicked-over tombstones. They had a good run. I have a friend who still swears by VHS, his reasoning that no matter how poor the quality of the tape, it will always run (unlike DVD). The caveat contained in that edict betrays the sad truth of VHS: They wear down. Oh, yes. The plastic cracks (or melts, at any temperature above 95F), the black on white logo slapped on the side tears and fades. The box, and we remember those, don't we? Flimsy cardboard that would rip and tear and fold, becoming a thing quite seperate from the tape itself. I have a dozen whose original contents I haven't seen in ten years. And the film itself...Let me say first that I'm not a technophile. The quality of a new, clean VHS tape is quite enough. But it doesn't stay that way. Not one thing in the world is static, and none more so than a VHS tape. To watch it is entropy in action. The sound mutes. The colors fade. The tracking loses its fidelity heartbreakingly fast. The whole enterprise is a stumbling, clumsy mess. I remember VHS. I loved it, or rather, I loved Jurassic Park. I loved Ninja Turtles. I loved the Matrix. I loved a thousand thousand others, when VHS was the only place to find them. But as soon as DVD , flawed though it may be, came onto the scene, I left VHS. VHS was the poor horseman's daughter, but DVD was my arranged bride. And though I may remember VHS fondly, I wouldn't have it any other way.
VHS: 10/20. I'll see you at the crossroads.
Like chicken pox and car phones, The VHS tape has now skipped out of the present and become an idle curiosity, an anachronism. Those hard black plastic boxes, their guts black ribbons of color and sound, litter my closet like kicked-over tombstones. They had a good run. I have a friend who still swears by VHS, his reasoning that no matter how poor the quality of the tape, it will always run (unlike DVD). The caveat contained in that edict betrays the sad truth of VHS: They wear down. Oh, yes. The plastic cracks (or melts, at any temperature above 95F), the black on white logo slapped on the side tears and fades. The box, and we remember those, don't we? Flimsy cardboard that would rip and tear and fold, becoming a thing quite seperate from the tape itself. I have a dozen whose original contents I haven't seen in ten years. And the film itself...Let me say first that I'm not a technophile. The quality of a new, clean VHS tape is quite enough. But it doesn't stay that way. Not one thing in the world is static, and none more so than a VHS tape. To watch it is entropy in action. The sound mutes. The colors fade. The tracking loses its fidelity heartbreakingly fast. The whole enterprise is a stumbling, clumsy mess. I remember VHS. I loved it, or rather, I loved Jurassic Park. I loved Ninja Turtles. I loved the Matrix. I loved a thousand thousand others, when VHS was the only place to find them. But as soon as DVD , flawed though it may be, came onto the scene, I left VHS. VHS was the poor horseman's daughter, but DVD was my arranged bride. And though I may remember VHS fondly, I wouldn't have it any other way.
VHS: 10/20. I'll see you at the crossroads.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
The top is made out of canvas. The bottom is made out of springs.
Trampolines:
I mean the big ones, those ten-by-twelve sheets of unraveling, ripped black canvas stretched taut across a bed of rusted aluminum springs that creaked and groaned, the edges covered by blue tarpaulin, the interior littered with pine straw and the odd bird shit. If you were visiting a friend and they had a trampoline, then like it or not, time was spent on the trampoline. Owners of trampolines had a certain unmistakable attitude when on or around the trampoline itself, that air of a doctor in the E.R, a judge in his courtroom, a dragon in his cave: Authority. There were house rules (these varied: no more than one/two on the trampoline at a time, no back flips, no wrestling) that were laid out with just a hint of "if you were a little smarter, I wouldn't have to tell you this, but then if you were a little smarter you'd have your OWN trampoline." It was also the host's call as to whether a game was to be played, and if so, what game? Popcorn? Bouncing Contest? Wrestling? Mortal Kombat Fight? Cuss Words? At the core of every game was that metronomical bouncing and a disregard for safety. At the apex of a bounce a child is often a dozen feet in the air, and children are notoriously clumsy. The rim of a trampoline is steel, and, failing to hit that, there's always the ground. Another possibility is that a spring, rusty from exposure to the rain, will break and tear through the canvas and a bare foot or hand. But oh, that feeling of effortless almost-flight, the wonderful, simple joy of free-fall, it's worth it, dear God, it's worth every danger.
Trampolines: 17/20. Like all intensely pleasurable experiences, it carries with it no small risk. Unlike many intensely pleasurable experiences, it's worth it.
I mean the big ones, those ten-by-twelve sheets of unraveling, ripped black canvas stretched taut across a bed of rusted aluminum springs that creaked and groaned, the edges covered by blue tarpaulin, the interior littered with pine straw and the odd bird shit. If you were visiting a friend and they had a trampoline, then like it or not, time was spent on the trampoline. Owners of trampolines had a certain unmistakable attitude when on or around the trampoline itself, that air of a doctor in the E.R, a judge in his courtroom, a dragon in his cave: Authority. There were house rules (these varied: no more than one/two on the trampoline at a time, no back flips, no wrestling) that were laid out with just a hint of "if you were a little smarter, I wouldn't have to tell you this, but then if you were a little smarter you'd have your OWN trampoline." It was also the host's call as to whether a game was to be played, and if so, what game? Popcorn? Bouncing Contest? Wrestling? Mortal Kombat Fight? Cuss Words? At the core of every game was that metronomical bouncing and a disregard for safety. At the apex of a bounce a child is often a dozen feet in the air, and children are notoriously clumsy. The rim of a trampoline is steel, and, failing to hit that, there's always the ground. Another possibility is that a spring, rusty from exposure to the rain, will break and tear through the canvas and a bare foot or hand. But oh, that feeling of effortless almost-flight, the wonderful, simple joy of free-fall, it's worth it, dear God, it's worth every danger.
Trampolines: 17/20. Like all intensely pleasurable experiences, it carries with it no small risk. Unlike many intensely pleasurable experiences, it's worth it.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
I've got neither an immortal hand nor eye
New update schedule after that long sabbatical. One new review every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday.
Tigers:
A tiger is, for me, the proof that machines can never match nature. I don't believe that any amount of ultra-sophisticated AI or technically perfect robotics can recreate that cautious, intelligent death that glows, dead and yet alive, cold and yet flaming, in a tiger's eye. That green and black nexus, concentric circles that paralyze you, even through vertical iron bars a primal fear runs like hot glass through your nerves as a hundred thousand years of evolution scream your death knell and you stand, ramrod straight, and know your murder. You hear those claws, long, cruel, purposeful (they're retractable, after all--no need to alert you) ripping strips of skin off whatever limbs you throw up in a last, pathetic defense as thirteen feet of orange menace tear into you. A dozen razor teeth surrounding four large ones, each longer than your pointer finger, all propelled by jaw muscles stronger than your entire upper body. But a tiger is more than all this. A tiger is beautiful. A tiger has a purposeful, almost serendipitous grace. There is no other animal in which beauty and death are so perfectly in balance. To look at a tiger is to know that there is a God, but you aren't his favorite creation.
Tigers: 20/20. Fearful Symmetry.
Tigers:
A tiger is, for me, the proof that machines can never match nature. I don't believe that any amount of ultra-sophisticated AI or technically perfect robotics can recreate that cautious, intelligent death that glows, dead and yet alive, cold and yet flaming, in a tiger's eye. That green and black nexus, concentric circles that paralyze you, even through vertical iron bars a primal fear runs like hot glass through your nerves as a hundred thousand years of evolution scream your death knell and you stand, ramrod straight, and know your murder. You hear those claws, long, cruel, purposeful (they're retractable, after all--no need to alert you) ripping strips of skin off whatever limbs you throw up in a last, pathetic defense as thirteen feet of orange menace tear into you. A dozen razor teeth surrounding four large ones, each longer than your pointer finger, all propelled by jaw muscles stronger than your entire upper body. But a tiger is more than all this. A tiger is beautiful. A tiger has a purposeful, almost serendipitous grace. There is no other animal in which beauty and death are so perfectly in balance. To look at a tiger is to know that there is a God, but you aren't his favorite creation.
Tigers: 20/20. Fearful Symmetry.
Friday, February 8, 2008
do you get my point
The Pencil:
The pencil should not be used by adults. It's a tool perfectly designed for one purpose: to teach children to write. Easy to grip, cheap, unlikely to leave any sort of permanent stain. Beyond this it's a messy stump that broadcasts painful inefficiency and a faithless view of one's own prowess. The graphite tip, ever-dull, snubs across the page with all the grace of a wet sack of garbage. The eraser, that dirty rubber lie, screams that you are not a man of conviction or any great skill--you will make mistakes, and why not? You present your throat to the clawed grip of failure before you even begin. And sharpening! The very act of trying to wrangle some smooth, clear line out of this fumble-club requires the (almost merciful) destruction of the same! What a horrible design flaw! Always assuming, of course, that you sharpen it correctly the first time. More than once my grip has slipped as I turned the lever, resulting in a gash halfway down the pencil, rendering it even more useless. In the event that you are able to sharpen the tip without whittling the whole apparatus to nothing, the octagonal shape of the wooden shaft will dig into your fingers, squeezing flesh between wood and bone in a torture that's almost primeval in nature. Of course, there's always the possiblilty of the pencil snapping in half without warning. Outside of elementary schools and standardized testing rooms (and not even then, really--wouldn't it be lovely to have your scores printed out as soon as you finish? Ah, one day) the pencil has no practical purpose.
The Pencil: 4/20. If you insist on handwriting, show some class--use an inkpen.
Eyelids:
I have nothing but praise for eyelids. I use mine frequently; I might go so far as to say constantly. They keep dust and debris from the sensitive jellied surface of my eyeballs, a service for which I am extremely grateful. On the occasion that some mote does slip beyond this defense, a quick series of blinks (eyelids again!) will nearly always remove the offending particle. When the ambient light is too intense, I merely close my eyes partway--a process colloquially known as "squinting". "Squinting" also brings my eyesight into sharper focus in cases where a slight improvement is needed. Closing one's eyes for a prolonged period is nearly always a requisite for sleep (think of it as pulling the shades before leaving the house). Eyelids have stylistic application as well: a well-timed, jaunty wink has been known to communicate quite a lot, especially in situations where discretion is necessary. Closing one's eyes slowly can also show one's concentration, or exasperation. I've also heard that sometimes women apply make-up to the upper eyelid. This, I'll admit, is a mystery to me. Still, this is yet another example of the perfect, multifaceted blend of function and fashion that is the human eyelid.
Eyelids: 20/20. My first perfect score, and maybe a joke about vision. It's all in how you look at it, ha ha!
The pencil should not be used by adults. It's a tool perfectly designed for one purpose: to teach children to write. Easy to grip, cheap, unlikely to leave any sort of permanent stain. Beyond this it's a messy stump that broadcasts painful inefficiency and a faithless view of one's own prowess. The graphite tip, ever-dull, snubs across the page with all the grace of a wet sack of garbage. The eraser, that dirty rubber lie, screams that you are not a man of conviction or any great skill--you will make mistakes, and why not? You present your throat to the clawed grip of failure before you even begin. And sharpening! The very act of trying to wrangle some smooth, clear line out of this fumble-club requires the (almost merciful) destruction of the same! What a horrible design flaw! Always assuming, of course, that you sharpen it correctly the first time. More than once my grip has slipped as I turned the lever, resulting in a gash halfway down the pencil, rendering it even more useless. In the event that you are able to sharpen the tip without whittling the whole apparatus to nothing, the octagonal shape of the wooden shaft will dig into your fingers, squeezing flesh between wood and bone in a torture that's almost primeval in nature. Of course, there's always the possiblilty of the pencil snapping in half without warning. Outside of elementary schools and standardized testing rooms (and not even then, really--wouldn't it be lovely to have your scores printed out as soon as you finish? Ah, one day) the pencil has no practical purpose.
The Pencil: 4/20. If you insist on handwriting, show some class--use an inkpen.
Eyelids:
I have nothing but praise for eyelids. I use mine frequently; I might go so far as to say constantly. They keep dust and debris from the sensitive jellied surface of my eyeballs, a service for which I am extremely grateful. On the occasion that some mote does slip beyond this defense, a quick series of blinks (eyelids again!) will nearly always remove the offending particle. When the ambient light is too intense, I merely close my eyes partway--a process colloquially known as "squinting". "Squinting" also brings my eyesight into sharper focus in cases where a slight improvement is needed. Closing one's eyes for a prolonged period is nearly always a requisite for sleep (think of it as pulling the shades before leaving the house). Eyelids have stylistic application as well: a well-timed, jaunty wink has been known to communicate quite a lot, especially in situations where discretion is necessary. Closing one's eyes slowly can also show one's concentration, or exasperation. I've also heard that sometimes women apply make-up to the upper eyelid. This, I'll admit, is a mystery to me. Still, this is yet another example of the perfect, multifaceted blend of function and fashion that is the human eyelid.
Eyelids: 20/20. My first perfect score, and maybe a joke about vision. It's all in how you look at it, ha ha!
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
pole positon
South Pole:
The greater of the two, no question. The North Pole has Santa and Polar Bears, but Santa's just a story parents tell their children and it won't be long before polar bears are the same. Oh my god, I just got it. Polar bears. Because they live at the North Pole. Jesus. Nineteen years, and I just got that. But on to the South! Environmentally speaking, the South Pole is the location of the most important research being done to reverse global warming. In that clean, dry, cold place, men of science sharpen their tools and breathe the purest air there is, they read secrets in the sky, they cry out: "Not for the greed of our fathers shall the world of our grandchildren burn!" They gather stones and crack them, and written in the stones they see our salvation. In that pollution-free place the secrets of chlorofluorocarbons and ozone are laid bare, in that place mankind can atone. The South Pole also has penguins, those fat little gentlemen. The average temperature is ice. There's actually land under all that ice, which is why we don't have to worry about it melting, the frigid cushion on which our world rests as it endlessly (hopefully) whirls through existence. Speaking of, the South Pole is one of the few places where the curvature of the earth can be viewed unobstructed. Which, I imagine, is a little terrifying.
The South Pole: 15/20. It's an amazing place, but there's no getting around the fact that it's so cold that you just die.
Drive-In Movie Theaters
Let's address the obvious first: Drive-Ins are a thing of the past. Where they still linger, they do so as kitsch, not as a primary form of movie-delivery. They are a token of a world where Americans as a people were in love with our cars. We loved them. Long, sleek, steel and chrome ships, they sailed seas of asphalt and rivers of concrete. Shiny, gorgeous, powerful. Comfortable. The back seat of a Chevrolet Nova was as long as a park bench. Kings of the road. And so we pulled them into a drive-in, and, with the car still running (oil spewed from the slightest divot in the ground like blood from a Japanese papercut) leaned our seats back and watched a Movie. Not a film, no. A Movie. Elvis on the beach, fighting, love, singing and dancing. Kung-Fu, horribly dubbed, with weird Chinese humor and unbelievable Chinese fight choreography. Plucky animals. Despicable Russians. A woman's bare thigh. The truth is, I don't know much about Drive-Ins, except what I've gleaned from The Outsiders and other movies set around that time. Apparently the privacy afforded insured that your kids wouldn't ruin other people's movie experience. Also you could fuck, if you were so inclined. The whole concept of private viewing of a movie is extremely attractive to me, which is I suppose why I have a DVD player. It would be unfair to review Drive-Ins by today's standards, for against a backdrop of home video, tiny cars, and the rising price of gas, they're like that ugly, less evolved horse that looks like a rhinoceros. Instead I place them where they belong--the crown jewel of post-war excess and sexualized wholesomeness.
Drive-Ins: 17/20. They must have been magnificent.
The greater of the two, no question. The North Pole has Santa and Polar Bears, but Santa's just a story parents tell their children and it won't be long before polar bears are the same. Oh my god, I just got it. Polar bears. Because they live at the North Pole. Jesus. Nineteen years, and I just got that. But on to the South! Environmentally speaking, the South Pole is the location of the most important research being done to reverse global warming. In that clean, dry, cold place, men of science sharpen their tools and breathe the purest air there is, they read secrets in the sky, they cry out: "Not for the greed of our fathers shall the world of our grandchildren burn!" They gather stones and crack them, and written in the stones they see our salvation. In that pollution-free place the secrets of chlorofluorocarbons and ozone are laid bare, in that place mankind can atone. The South Pole also has penguins, those fat little gentlemen. The average temperature is ice. There's actually land under all that ice, which is why we don't have to worry about it melting, the frigid cushion on which our world rests as it endlessly (hopefully) whirls through existence. Speaking of, the South Pole is one of the few places where the curvature of the earth can be viewed unobstructed. Which, I imagine, is a little terrifying.
The South Pole: 15/20. It's an amazing place, but there's no getting around the fact that it's so cold that you just die.
Drive-In Movie Theaters
Let's address the obvious first: Drive-Ins are a thing of the past. Where they still linger, they do so as kitsch, not as a primary form of movie-delivery. They are a token of a world where Americans as a people were in love with our cars. We loved them. Long, sleek, steel and chrome ships, they sailed seas of asphalt and rivers of concrete. Shiny, gorgeous, powerful. Comfortable. The back seat of a Chevrolet Nova was as long as a park bench. Kings of the road. And so we pulled them into a drive-in, and, with the car still running (oil spewed from the slightest divot in the ground like blood from a Japanese papercut) leaned our seats back and watched a Movie. Not a film, no. A Movie. Elvis on the beach, fighting, love, singing and dancing. Kung-Fu, horribly dubbed, with weird Chinese humor and unbelievable Chinese fight choreography. Plucky animals. Despicable Russians. A woman's bare thigh. The truth is, I don't know much about Drive-Ins, except what I've gleaned from The Outsiders and other movies set around that time. Apparently the privacy afforded insured that your kids wouldn't ruin other people's movie experience. Also you could fuck, if you were so inclined. The whole concept of private viewing of a movie is extremely attractive to me, which is I suppose why I have a DVD player. It would be unfair to review Drive-Ins by today's standards, for against a backdrop of home video, tiny cars, and the rising price of gas, they're like that ugly, less evolved horse that looks like a rhinoceros. Instead I place them where they belong--the crown jewel of post-war excess and sexualized wholesomeness.
Drive-Ins: 17/20. They must have been magnificent.
Monday, February 4, 2008
apparently not a one-off
Math Class:
My stance on this is a tricky one, but I think I can spell it out. Math Class up until about sixth grade is useful. Math class after that is not. Oh sure, it's useful for some people. Like engineers, or...no, I think that about covers it. At first Math Class is great--you learn to add, to subtract, you learn the multiplication tables, you learn long division. These are real processes, used many times each day. Then around seventh grade everything goes to hell in a handbasket. You move beyond time-saving stuff with practical application into the realm of the ethereal, where numbers are letters and word problems abound. Oh, word problems, those short flights into lunatic fiction, where the process for buying apples is always far, far too complex, and a nation watches as marbles are pulled from bags, their colors a matter of great importance. FOIL, the area of spheres, the precise degrees of fictional triangle corners--these are not things that save time, money, or lives. Each of these is a lie. The further you progress in your math book, the more you are asked to accept the fantasies of madmen. These teachings waste time and brain space. No terrorist is ever going to hold your children at gunpoint, demanding that you find the prime factorization of your own birth year. You do not need to know math to know how much wallpaper to buy. If you don't buy enough, you can return to the store and buy more. If you buy too much, you can throw it away. This is not a crime. Wallpaper is tacky, and the trash is where it belongs anyway.
Math Class: 7/20. Useful for a while. Then, terrible.
Mexican Food:
Let me stop you right there. I don't mean the Mexican food you probably think I mean. I don't mean a sloppy spoonful of meat/beans in a wet tortilla made of corn husk, bought from a stand and wrapped in foil. I mean Americanized Mexican Food, available anywhere in America. I had some yesterday, and it was delicious. First the waiter brought chips and salsa in a basket and bowl, respectively. The chips served to whet my appetite, and the salsa prepped my taste buds for the rich medley of salt, fats, carbs and oils that would make up the sumptuous banquet. The drinks were brought promptly. A margarita or "Mexican" beer such as Corona or Tecate is usually preferred, though a domestic draft or regular soft drink is also acceptable. Orders are placed, and the food is brought quickly. There's a real element of being hustled in and out at most Mexican restaurants I've been to. Not sure why. Maybe they don't want you to eat too many chips. Or maybe Mexicans, as a people, hate me. Regardless, the food is usually still sizzling when it arrives, and the smell and look of it are appetizing in the extreme. Sauces and cheese mix, palette-like, and the whole of the dish is usually spotted with rouge lettuce and tomatoes. Then, that first bite. I wish I could say that every bite is as good as the first, but we deal in the truth here. Mexican food gets progressively worse as you eat it. The flavorful ecstasy soon becomes a chore, the food filling your throat as your stomach overflows, your mouth an oily cavern. But you must power through. Leaving food on your plate at a Mexican restaurant is unforgivably rude. This, combined with the typical vast volume of food and the aforementioned hustling usually results in a sickening "race for the finish," ruining the meal and the evening in general. Money is left on the table, more at the register, as you totter off to your car. Later, you will fart and have diarrhea. But you will be back. Unknown to many, Mexican food contains a powerful amnesiac that causes eaters to forget all but the first delicious bites.
Mexican Food: 12/20. Those first bites are almost worth it.
My stance on this is a tricky one, but I think I can spell it out. Math Class up until about sixth grade is useful. Math class after that is not. Oh sure, it's useful for some people. Like engineers, or...no, I think that about covers it. At first Math Class is great--you learn to add, to subtract, you learn the multiplication tables, you learn long division. These are real processes, used many times each day. Then around seventh grade everything goes to hell in a handbasket. You move beyond time-saving stuff with practical application into the realm of the ethereal, where numbers are letters and word problems abound. Oh, word problems, those short flights into lunatic fiction, where the process for buying apples is always far, far too complex, and a nation watches as marbles are pulled from bags, their colors a matter of great importance. FOIL, the area of spheres, the precise degrees of fictional triangle corners--these are not things that save time, money, or lives. Each of these is a lie. The further you progress in your math book, the more you are asked to accept the fantasies of madmen. These teachings waste time and brain space. No terrorist is ever going to hold your children at gunpoint, demanding that you find the prime factorization of your own birth year. You do not need to know math to know how much wallpaper to buy. If you don't buy enough, you can return to the store and buy more. If you buy too much, you can throw it away. This is not a crime. Wallpaper is tacky, and the trash is where it belongs anyway.
Math Class: 7/20. Useful for a while. Then, terrible.
Mexican Food:
Let me stop you right there. I don't mean the Mexican food you probably think I mean. I don't mean a sloppy spoonful of meat/beans in a wet tortilla made of corn husk, bought from a stand and wrapped in foil. I mean Americanized Mexican Food, available anywhere in America. I had some yesterday, and it was delicious. First the waiter brought chips and salsa in a basket and bowl, respectively. The chips served to whet my appetite, and the salsa prepped my taste buds for the rich medley of salt, fats, carbs and oils that would make up the sumptuous banquet. The drinks were brought promptly. A margarita or "Mexican" beer such as Corona or Tecate is usually preferred, though a domestic draft or regular soft drink is also acceptable. Orders are placed, and the food is brought quickly. There's a real element of being hustled in and out at most Mexican restaurants I've been to. Not sure why. Maybe they don't want you to eat too many chips. Or maybe Mexicans, as a people, hate me. Regardless, the food is usually still sizzling when it arrives, and the smell and look of it are appetizing in the extreme. Sauces and cheese mix, palette-like, and the whole of the dish is usually spotted with rouge lettuce and tomatoes. Then, that first bite. I wish I could say that every bite is as good as the first, but we deal in the truth here. Mexican food gets progressively worse as you eat it. The flavorful ecstasy soon becomes a chore, the food filling your throat as your stomach overflows, your mouth an oily cavern. But you must power through. Leaving food on your plate at a Mexican restaurant is unforgivably rude. This, combined with the typical vast volume of food and the aforementioned hustling usually results in a sickening "race for the finish," ruining the meal and the evening in general. Money is left on the table, more at the register, as you totter off to your car. Later, you will fart and have diarrhea. But you will be back. Unknown to many, Mexican food contains a powerful amnesiac that causes eaters to forget all but the first delicious bites.
Mexican Food: 12/20. Those first bites are almost worth it.
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