a dynamite magazine-style bummer

Tuesday, dec. 18, 2001   |   0 comments

You know when you go to the bank and take out eighty effing dollars in anticipation of a weekend of carrying on only to discover, at the very doors of La Taqueria, that the eighty fuckadoodling dollars have suddenly gone missing, perhaps slipped from stupidly shallow pockets, perhaps thrown into the air in some sort of blacked-out seizure?

And then, after you go back to the ATM and take out eighty more shit-storming dollars, you return to pay for your tacos, which are so dripping with salsa juice they rip through the bag and fall into the Mission Street gutter, right there on top of all the layers of gum and spore, flattened black condoms and broken glass? But, thinking the double-wrapped foil a trustworthy barrier, you rescue them and carry them home, arms fully extended, hands cupped to catch the drips, legs bent and lowered to minimize jarring and maximize speed?

Then you get upstairs and drop them onto a plate with the sighing, sweat-wiping relief of a bomb squadroneer successfully dismantling a land mine, only to unwrap them and find a single pigeon feather planted and swaying there like some sort of fuck-you flag?

And then you twist into a beer and just eat the taco anyway?

Do you know that feeling?