Homemade Taco Bell!

My wife and I make quasi-Tex-Mex food every once and a while; though I’d greatly prefer to go to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, my wife prefers for me to make it. These types of restaurants are on every street corner in Texas, and I’ve never eaten at a bad one. Some might have stronger margaritas, some might have fancier décor, and some might have better murals of mariachis. Really, the main difference between one Tex-Mex place and another is the quality of their chips and salsa. The food overall could be slightly better at one restaurant than another, but if they don’t have the right kind of salsa then sucks to them!

Back to my point, for some stupid reason, when I cook at home, my goal is to make my tacos and burritos taste as much like Taco Bell as possible. When I buy the ingredients at the store, I buy the Taco Bell taco sauce and Taco Bell seasoning packages. When I mix the ingredients, I’m extraordinarily careful as to how much I add to the mix. I taste the refried beans constantly to make sure they are the right consistency and flavor. “Hmmm… Taco Bell’s are creamier. It needs a dash more sauce.” It never occurred to me until today that this is probably the most pathetic/asinine/misguided/uncreative/lazy culinary effort in the world. I’m trying to make homemade food taste like freakin’ Taco Bell. Do I have a problem? I know my palette lacks refinery but is it really this bad? Why don’t I just eat things I find on the ground like my dogs? They’ll eat floor cheese to a dead cockroach. Am I the human equivalent to this?

 Maybe I need loftier home, Tex-Mex cooking goals, so I’m looking at you Taco Cabana. When are you going to put out some products I can buy at the grocery store? I’d like to imitate your slightly higher class Tex-Mex fast food taste. I think it will help my self-esteem.

Well, It's Kind of Like Herpes - Part II

Welcome back to the exciting conclusion of Well, It’s Kind of Like Herpes. If you’re reading this and have no idea what I’m talking about, read this first.

My friend was in a state of misery. He finally found the magical (or is competent the right word?) doctor who could diagnose the problem. The doctor gave him a quick once over and solved the curious case of the incredible Mr. Itchy. My friend had scabies. Scabies is probably best compared to body lice. Basically, little parasites had been burrowing into his skin for 3 or 4 months. They were making his skin their home and apparently, living quite nicely. Maybe having tiny dinner parties and taking their kids to soccer practice.

To be honest, I don’t know much about scabies other than the symptoms; therefore, I will go to the easiest (though possibly inaccurate) source. According to Wikipedia, scabies is a condition that is best associated with poor hygiene and overpopulated areas. I’m going to give my friend credit and assume he took regular showers in college though I never actually saw him in the shower; he might have just turned on the shower for effect. As far as overpopulated situations go, the University of Texas was 55,000 people strong when we went there. If you’re not from Texas, you might not know this but Austin is basically the largest hippie commune in the south. I took a class called Anarchy and Socialism in Brazil in college, and I was the only person who wore shoes to class and wasn’t accompanied by a stink cloud (a la Pig Pen from Peanuts). I imagine every one of them had every itchy bug in the medical textbook playing hacky sack on their grass. UT’s parking situation is a nightmare, so most people ride buses to and from campus. We lived off campus, so we all rode the bus at least twice a day – and so did the hippies. We all hypothesized that he got scabies from utilizing public transportation. Some hippie’s dirty bugs took a ride on the bus and hitch-hiked a ride on my buddy.

On the bright side, this doctor gave him a prescription for some scabies killing lotion. He literally went home, put the lotion all over his body, and within 24 hours, he was cured. Literally, 4 months of this problem and, POOF, it’s gone. This was just in time because some of us in the apartment felt like his scabies were gunning for us next. I guess it is human nature to see someone constantly scratching and just imagine these little bugs burrowing, crapping, and procreating in their skin. I could just feel them in my arm hair, my chest hair, my… well, you get the picture. Consequently, everyone took a little scabies lotion bath. The problem was finally solved. Scabies finally left our lives after creating so much misery and devastation. My friend could finally sit on the couch with the rest of us.

Well, It’s Kind of Like Herpes

In my second year at the University of Texas, one of my roommates (he’s also one of my best friends, so I’ll try to be delicate) somehow contracted some sort of skin ailment. It started with a few itchy bumps and then it quickly spread across his body. As group of college-aged guys, we, of course, thought this was a God sent joke for our own amusement. Sometimes, I would just sit and face him as he watched TV, just to giggle every time he scratched himself. In hindsight, I feel for the guy; I can’t imagine itching day and night.

When we were in college, no one in our apartment (and there were four of us) had any idea how to go to the doctor alone. I mean, directions, finding the right office, using insurance, paying a deductable, we weren’t college educated yet! Just like the rest of us, he was a mommas’ boy, too, and this mommas’-boy-itis prevented him from going to the doctor on his own. He had to wait until he went back to Houston for the weekend, so he could go to the doctor with his mom.

The first diagnosis was that he must be allergic to the fabric on our furniture. The furniture especially made sense because it was also the furniture that came with the apartment. When I reflect on the things WE did to those couches, it’s a wonder how many other people did the same, if not worse. His solution to this was to always sit in a dark green, plastic lawn chair. While we all sat around eating our cheap Totinos pizzas watching Dawson’s Creek on our comfy sofa, he sat in his cold, plastic posture-pedic chair constantly scratching – always scratching.

After a few weeks of trying out the chair, he realized it must not be the fabric that was causing his sleepless nights. The next time he went back to Houston, he and his mother went to another doctor. The second doctor diagnosed the problem as an allergic reaction to our cat, Solo. Everyone always assumes that his name derives from Han Solo of Star Wars fame. This is untrue. We actually named him after a drug dealer in our apartment building that lived just below us but above the grimiest strippers in Austin. The guy was a 5’4”, black dude and our pet was a black kitten, so we didn’t have a choice. Sometimes fate reveals knowledge so clearly that we cannot ignore it. Regardless, he should have considered it an homage (if he knew, which we took painstaking efforts to make sure he didn’t).

The cat issue was a problem because everyone loved the cat and didn’t want to have to get rid of it. Luckily, Christmas break came around and we all went back to our respective parents’ homes in Houston. My brother and I took Solo to our house. My friend had a whole month to be away from the cat. His skin didn’t get any better. At this point, the problem had been going on for 3 months. The bumps had now completely covered his body besides, luckily for him, his face. It had gotten so bad that even between his fingers had been hit by the problem. He rubbed his fingers raw by interlocking his fingers, straightening them, and moving them like little itching saws. The problem had reached an irritating crescendo that needed to be solved immediately, for his sanity was at stake.

Part II – Next time!

What's the deal with cashiers?

I bought some compressor shorts today, and no, this post isn’t about how free and easy chafe-less running feels. I paid for my shorts with cash and was served with the usual paper and metal money sandwich, with a useless side of receipt. Is this taught to cashiers – part of their training is to hand out the receipt, followed by cash, and topped with change? Why do all three of these things need to be given to me at once in one open hand? Maybe if I carried around a burlap sack, I could just shove all of this crap in it. Whatever someone puts in my hand, I could just crumble up and jam it in. Unfortunately, I only have Crown Royal sacks, and those are for keeping pennies – house pennies, not out-and-about pennies! I mean, come on, imagine me walking around with a Crown Royal sack tied to my belt in public? I’d look like a damn fool. 

Think about the logic of this situation: the paper cash, change, and receipt come from the cashier already sorted. Why the hell would the cashier create this mess? It’s like a jigsaw puzzle: here’s what it should look like. Here’s a mess of pieces. Put it back together. Cashier, give me the paper money to put in my wallet, and then the change to put in my pocket. I want the receipt, too, so I can throw it in the trash on the way out. Also, half of the time this process turns into an explosion of paper and pennies. If the cashier and I aren’t in complete unison, the transaction ends with me splitting my pants because I have to bend over to look for that quarter that when AWOL. You know like I do, when I eventually find that allusive piece of change, I’m on all fours, looking under some lady’s cart, and it ends up being a damn penny. 

I know this is different for women, but it’s similar. They don’t just shove it all in their purse, and if they do, they sort it out later. We need to all band together and specifically ask for the pieces of the transaction to be handed out separately. I, for one, will put my hand out, and when the cashier places whatever is first in my hand, I’ll quickly jerk my hand back and put it in its proper place. I’ll continue this until the transfer is complete. If this catches on, the cashiers will have something to talk about at their next cashier’s meeting. We have to act as a society, people. Do you want to be a spineless consumer? Let the Best Buys, HEBs, and KFCs of the world know: we will not be slightly inconvenienced!

About Last Night, Part II

The last post ended with my friend, Dickmar, asking my other buddy, Ballsey, and I if we ever got into conversations with our respective significant others about whether or not certain male celebrities were good looking. It’s interesting because this has been a conversation my wife and I have been having for years, and I think it’s been going on with all the other couples in my group of friends as well.

One of my friends put it best. When he was in high school, he had a conversation with one of his best friends and he said, “How can girls find boys attractive? I think you’re ugly.”

Friend responds, “I think you’re ugly, too.”

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve tried to understand the reasoning. Why are women attracted to men? Men can be gross, hairy, and stinky – well, at least I am. Actually, I’m not hairy, which was a curse as a kid but a blessing as an adult. Boo-yah! Women don’t like monkey men! Conversely, I get lesbians. Women are soft and nice. They wear make-up and smell good. What’s not to love? So what do women see in men? When I ask my wife, she says things like, “You make me laugh,” or “You’re sweet.” The last time I checked, those aren’t physical qualities – unless, she’s saying she’s attracted to me because I’m funny looking. “You’re chubby face is sexually attractive to me.” I want cold, hard reasons. Your belly, while not a six pack, is solid. Your eyes are the same green as the Green Lantern’s ring. Your hair is like rabbit fur. I could translate that to other men. “Oh, my wife probably thinks Ron Howard is cute because his hair feels like rabbit fur.”

I ask my wife quite frequently if she thinks this actor is hot or that musician is attractive. She always seems indifferent to these questions and humors me with a short, unsatisfactory answer. I get Brad Pitt is a good looking guy, but what exactly is it? I could give detailed, point-by-point explanations why I think Mila Kunis is attractive, which I’m sure Wife appreciates.

One of the examples we came up with is Ryan Reynolds. All of the men agreed that he was good looking, but the reasons why were because he’s ripped up and funny. Those aren’t really reasons to think someone is good looking. Carrot Top is pretty jacked and… I guess I just found the hole in my logic: he’s not funny.

Josh Duhamel was the next example. We, again, agreed that he is handsome. We had a harder problem coming up with why we knew him. Someone suggested that maybe we knew him because he was married to Fergie. I think that’s it. He’s married to a pop star in one of the worst bands to ever be inflicted on the American public. Regardless, what separates him from a soap opera star? I mean, is he any more handsome than Jason from General Hospital? Also, he’s a thin, athletic guy, but really if anyone worked hard enough they could be thin and athletic looking. How is he different than Sam Cassell or Dante Bachette? *Note: These are funny references. Look ‘em up.

Justin Timberlake was another example. He’s a ripped up guy, true, but why would one say he’s better looking than say, Nathan Lane (if he finally got in the gym! I mean, right? Who doesn’t want to see a taut Nathan Lane?)? By the way, I was reading a Rolling Stone article about him a couple of years ago when FutureSex/LoveSounds came out, and he said his goal was to be considered the David Bowie of this time period. What?!? I couldn’t think of two people that are more different. One played trippy music and reinvented himself time and time again before that was common place. JT is an ‘N Syncer from the Disney Channel with an urban accent (for some reason) – just a little different. Also, David Bowie plays several instruments. How can we consider one sexy who’s a musical fraud? *I will concede he could be a good actor.

I’ve asked my wife multiple times if she thinks Michael Jordan is attractive, which she does not. I think if I were a woman I’d think he’s hot. He’s the greatest basketball player ever. On top of being the best, he’s super rich with a Hitler mustache. Outside of the box, baby!

I don’t get what women see in men. Luckily, I’m already married, so I don’t have to worry about more than staying in shape, keeping clean, and brushing my teeth. So…

 I don’t know how to end this post other than I’m not gay, I swear.

Though there is nothing wrong with being gay.

About Last Night, Part I

 

I’ve mentioned before that I think I would have less trouble killing a person than killing a vicious animal, say a wolf. In Texas, I think it’s accurate to say that most people hunt or have hunted in their life, and I don’t see anything wrong with that. My brother-in-law is an avid hunter and I’m cool with that. All I’m saying is that I would have trouble hunting, killing, and gutting something. On the other hand, I can eat steak all day. I don’t find this hypocritical because while I don’t want to kill and gut an animal, eating it is a different story. I look at meat like paper. Paper is something entirely different from a tree to me. Trees are the nuisances in my yard, crapping leaves all over the place. Paper allows me to doodle and draw pictures of eyeballs. Two different things. The same thing goes with meat; I see a delicious steak and not a cow eating grass in a meadow. I guess it’s an ignorance-is-bliss kind of mindset.

My whole point in creating that set up is to introduce this conversation I had with 4 of my friends last night. Obviously, I didn’t have a court stenographer taking notes so this is how I remember the conversation a few pints in.

This starts in mid-conversation.

Dickmar: Johnny, is the one who said he’d kill a person over an animal.

Me: Yeah, I’d have no trouble killing a man coming at me with a knife with murderous intentions versus a wolf with the same intentions – sans the knife – if I only had one bullet.

Pajamas (Dickmar’s wife): You couldn’t take a wolf. They’re really big.

Me: No way. They’re like dogs. I think I could take a dog. My pugs are pretty east to outwrestle.

Pajamas: Wolfs are just slightly smaller than lions. Do you think you could take a lion?

Me: Lions are really big. There is no way I could take a lion but wolves aren’t that big.

Pajamas: A lion is like 500 lbs, so I bet a wolf is like 300 lbs.

Me: No way. 300 lbs is a little less than Shaq. There is no way a wolf is that big.

Pajamas get out her iPhone and looks it up. According to the omniscient phone, wolves range from 80 lbs to 120 lbs.

Me: See, they aren’t that big. I’m 250 lbs, so I could easily take an 80 lb animal. I would shoot the man and then let the wolf bite my arm and then punch it on the top of its head (I motion with one forearm out and my fist making a punching motion across the top of it).

Pajamas: Wolves hunt in packs. You’d have to take the whole pack.

Me: That’s not the scenario: one wolf, one man.

Pajamas: Well, they hunt in packs so what would you do?

This is where my memory of the conversation starts to veer off from reality. I’m pretty sure this was said but not necessarily in these words.

Me: After killing the first wolf, I’d wear it’s carcass as a cape and smear its blood on my face. When the other wolves see this, they would know that I am the new pack leader. As pack leader, I would find the most nubile she-wolf… (Stopping, as to not reveal too much of my iron fisted plans of wolf pack domination or rather just to not embarrass myself any further – it’s still up in the air).

Me: Where are you getting this information about wolves and their fighting abilities, anyway?

Pajamas: Twilight.

Me: Who do you think is better looking Jacob or Edward?

Pajamas: Jacob

Me: Really? Jacob’s nose is weird looking, and the cut off jean shorts and long hair just look ridiculous.

Dickmar (staunch, unblemished record of heterosexuality): As you’ve gotten older, have you gotten into conversations with your wife about which Hollywood hunks are the best looking?

Part II of this important conversation will be concluded tomorrow.