I Died And Went To El Pelon Taqueria

As many of you might know, late last night, the Boston community lost a very near and dear compadre, El Pelon. Who is this hombre you might inquire? This is no mere man, rather an institution, a pillar of our Mexican-American community and the greatest burrito joint in all of MA and perhaps the world (I'm sure many of you would argue that Anna's produces a better burrito, but you are wrong and although I am sure you were raised to believe that you are entitled to your opinion, this time around, you are in fact NOT entitled to anything but a feeling of sadness for the loss of El Pelon).

A raging inferno ravished and razed the once quaint taqueria located on a quiet street just beyond Fenway Park. Gone are the picnic tables once filled with smiling customers enjoying a fresh burrito on a breezy summer day. Gone are the reggaeton beats that once warmed the harsh winter air. Gone is El Guapo (the finest burrito ever to be wrapped in tinfoil). Gone is my appetite.

I hope that you will all remember this day as one of the darkest days in Boston history (next to the Boston Massacre, The Great Boston of Fire of 1872, game 7 of the 2003 ALCS, that day they got rid of free above ground outbound rides on the T, etc.). I hope the next time you pick up a substandard burrito from one of Boston's many Mexican restaurants you think of El Pelon and remember what once was. I hope that you never forget. I hope.

Note: Although El Pelon is no longer physically standing (you can burn a building but you can't burn the ideals that cooked within its walls) its spirit will remain in all of us. Long live El Guapo. Long live El Pelon.

Cats

Strangers in the Night

there once was a man from western mass
his room young women would trespass
she showed up in a thong
he knew nudity was wrong
so with long johns he covered her ass

Are we there yet?

On my last day in Europe, my final travel itinerary was a bit stressful. My flight home was scheduled out of Amsterdam on a Sunday, and the Saturday before I was traveling from Grenoble, France. I got on a train at 7 am in Grenoble, teary-eyed as I watched the beautiful mountain passes that had been home for me for two months fade away. I arrived in Paris three hours later, and had to switch train stations to catch my connection train to Amsterdam. To avoid an expensive taxi fair, I braved the RER line in Paris to get to the right station. For those of you who are not familiar, the RER is kind of like the commuter rail in Boston, except you can't read the monitors for where next train is going, it's filthy, and it stops in places that are about as safe as downtown Trenton (not to mention it picks up grade-A travelers along the way). Lugging my 70-pound suitcase, a backpack, and a heavy shoulder bag, I finally reached the right station.

I heard that my train was being called, and I hopped on the train that read "Amsterdam" on the side. It must have been a combination of my traveler anxiety along with the glass of wine I had in the "Gare du Nord" that didn't make me realize how it was strange that no one was getting on the train I was on. As I was sitting alone in the train, an employee asked me in French if he could help me. I said I was going to Amsterdam, and he said "you mean that train?" as a train was pulling out of the station on the track next to mine. As I was gathering my things and shedding a few tears, the employee proceeded to yell at me in French saying I was stupid for not realizing I was on the wrong train (looking back it wasn't the smartest thing I've done, but at least wait until I'm not crying, buddy). I was able to exchange my ticket for a later train, and a few hours later I was finally on my way to Amsterdam.

I made friends with the business man next to me on the train, who was a Netherlands native, and he suggested I lock up my huge suitcase at the train station instead of taking it with me through the city, and grab it the next day when I was leaving for the airport. I'm pretty sure if an angel has ever been sent to me, that was the time. Before arriving in Amsterdam, I figured as a seasoned European traveler, I could just glance at the trolley map that ran through the city to take to my hotel. As I was exiting the station, however, a lot of colorful people were passing me by. I finally determined that a gay festival must be going on in the city. Perfect. I hopped on the trolley, and was planning to take it to "Rembrandstadt" station, which was supposed to be about two blocks from my hotel. A bunch of drunk Brits were on the trolley with me, and they said "hey! Why aren't they stopping at Rembrandstadt?” The train kept going, and I got off at the next stop with them. I had no map, no Dutch, and was the only sober person in the city. After walking around for 2 hours through crowds of intoxicated gay people, I decided to hop in a cab and announced the street that my hotel was on. He said he couldn't take me there--that's where the concert was being held and the street was closed. I couldn't really think of another barrier that would keep me from my hotel, and after 13 hours, I finally found my hotel haven. Looking back, it is easy to laugh, but now I'm pretty sure I can handle any travel woes that come my way in the future. Bring it on.

JUST RUN

October. 2003.
A dark knight guards his fortress and all who reside within.
Dare I challenge this master of his domain?
I must. For I am a nomad.
My comrade steals ahead, I catch a final glimpse as he retreats on the way to his chamber...
...But not before he turns, and whispers those wise final words: JUST RUN.
With the grace of a maniacal gorilla I rush past, the Knight calls out - He knows of my name, my place
I cannot look back, I am too far gone
I begin my ascension. stairs two, three at a time, heart racing, at last I reach my place of solitude.
Tonight I sleep with one eye open
For this Knight is omniscient
And I am Caroline Claire O'Donnell and this is not my MF-ing place of residence.

The No Thank You Note

After receiving a wonderful cable knit sweater (turtleneck) for my past birthday, I sent the following to my ninety year old aunt living in upstate NY:



Dear Aunt Linda,

I am writing this note to express my discontent with the social norm that is the "Thank You" note. Please do not be confused. This is by no means a "Thank You" note even though the Hallmark provided words written across the front might suggest so. In fact this is a "No Thank You" note. If your gift requires a reciprocal act, a handwritten letter, to express my thanks (which I believe I communicated quite eloquently and articulately at my birthday party less than one month ago with a direct and heartfelt "Thank You") than I would like to duly return the aforementioned gift.

This might seem a bit harsh and forward of me, however, I am a man of my principles and cannot justify forsaking my beliefs to conform to such a society and the expectations of said society. In fact, if we are being completely honest with each other, which I feel we are right now (well at least I know I am), it was your sister (my mother) which suggested writing you a "Thank You" note in the first place. If she were not standing in front of me right now watching my every move, I would not even be writing you a "No Thank You" note, nor would you be apprised of my revolutionary views on social norms/etiquettes and would in fact receive no note (Thank You or No Thank You) whatsoever.

I do not believe that gratitude must be expressed via written word when we are both fully capable, vocal, human beings. If you are unable to remember and retain my verbal "Thank You", that is your own problem. The weight should not be on my shoulders to provide you with a written testament of my appreciation.

Please do not mention the content of this note to my mother. You and I are both grownups and do not need her to be the mediator of this situation. Ultimately, I do not want to incur her wrath (she inserts herself into my life enough as it is and is hell bent on the fact that because I am forty, single, and living at home, I will never provide her with the grand kids she so longs for) and quite honestly, if you do take issue with my philosophy you can contact me directly. Please call my cell phone (565-4311) and not the house phone. I do not want to run the chance of my parents answering your call (if you do in fact call).

I must get going before my mother becomes suspicious of the length and content of this note and requests to read it. I cannot risk another subversive maneuver on her part to quell my writings and revolutionary spirit. My voice will be heard, beginning with you.

Your nephew,

Jack

Condensation.

It goes by in a blur. Grey trains, in a grey yard, framed by the grey sky and the grey rain. The windows inside glisten with moisture. It reminds me of a cold beer left stranded on a hot summer day. Condensation. My arch enemy. These little beads of water or sweat or whatever the hell is now lining the inside of the bus, drip, drop, and roll with each lurch and acceleration. I am trapped inside three walls of glass, prespiring and twinkling with the reflection of the city lights. All the paper towels in the world couldn't dry this balmy beast.

My eyes dart from window to window. I am sitting in the direct center of the bus as far back as physically possible. My back against the only surface in the bus without a window. Surrounded. I take off my coat and use it to dry the window to my left. I slowly slide to the right and start drying the next window. As my eyes look back to my left to admire my victory, I am met with a surprise. The beads are reforming. Rapidly reassembling their army, ready to continue their downward march. A flow of fluids, falling faster and faster with each breath. It must be a cheap parlor trick, some elemental slight of hand. I scan the crowded bus. The air outside is too cold. Inside, too many mouths breathe, hot, warm air.

Something has to give. I take off my shirt and start to dry another window. The beads keep forming. They will not surrender. Neither will I. I take off my undershirt and dry another window. My damp wet clothes now line the floor of the bus. The people that sat close to me have moved. I am now alone. Outnumbered. Desperate times, call for desperate measures. If these walls of condensation keep forming and falling, the bus will flood. We will be up to our necks in it.

I stand up and calmly advise my fellow passengers of the dire situation. My words are met with looks of confusion and disgust. Not exactly the reaction I expected. I decide to ask for a favor. "If you could all limit your breathing for the next two bus stops, maybe don't breath at all, I would greatly appreciate it. The levels of condensation have reached their apex. If we all pitch in we can limit the damage. Who is with me?"

The driver slams on his brakes. I pitch forward and land on my bare stomach, sliding to the top of the stairs. I look up. The police. Finally, someone else understands, just how serious, condensation truly is.

The Country of Smelly Cheeses, Berets, and Arrogance

Quelle belle vie! I spent my summer in a dream, living in a little city in the south of France. My days were spent reading French literature, eating lots of bread, and trying to perfect my accent so that the locals wouldn’t find out that I was actually an American. From ordering at a restaurant to inhabiting another family’s home, I constantly noticed the differences between our culture and theirs. Stereotypes were both confirmed and shattered, and living as a charlatan sometimes made me feel like a completely different person.

There’s an Italian phrase known as “dolce far niente” which literally means “sweet doing nothing”. The French engage in this as well, as one of their favorite activities is to go to a café with an “ami” or two, and sit for hours with wine and great conversation. I was stripped of my cel phone, my laptop, and my first language, then submerged into a culture that enjoys doing nothing, so it should not come as a shock that I felt a little lonely at first. French people are not always plugged into their music or in constant contact with their friends, and this was something I grew to love. I’ll be the first to admit that I usually have my cel phone attached to my hand, but the two months I spent without a connection to everyone in my phone book was refreshing.

I bet that when a naïve Frenchie comes to the U.S. and sees a Wal-Mart for the first time, they do all that they can not to faint. Everything in France is teeny-tiny. The “tasses” that one drinks coffee out of is enough for 3 small sips. The tables at cafés are the size of some bar stools. There is no super-sizing of soft drinks and don’t ask for extra ketchup if you expect not to get charged. A typical shopping trip includes cheese, a fresh baguette, some fruit, and whatever vegetables and meat will be used to prepare dinner. They don’t sell cases of 24 bottles of water or “family size” boxes of cheerios. It must have been a francophone who came up with the phrase “less is more”.

As a true lover of French, I have to say that learning their phrases was one of the best parts of being there. To any outside person, just hearing the language is romantic. But the way they express themselves is even more beautiful. The phrase to express the way that they miss someone is “tu me manques” which directly translates to “you are missed by me”. The focus of the phrase is on the person being missed. In English, our “I miss you”, is focused on the person doing the missing. I love that this slight difference is less selfish in French.

In one of my many endeavors there, I tried to get to the bottom of the arrogant stereotype that Americans believe the French are guilty for. A main topic of conversation I had with French natives, aside from my views on our Presidential election and trying to explain to them that there’s more to the U.S. than farms and New York City, was how each country perceives the other. I tried to explain as kindly as I could that Americans believe that the typical French person is overly proud. They responded with the fact that most Americans who come to France are a bit obnoxious with their little attempt to temporarily assimilate into the culture. Americans walk into restaurants loudly speaking English in their shorts and Tiva sandals, and don’t recognize the fact that this behavior is completely contradictory to the norms of France. Imagine the reverse. If there were a country that had a huge tourist population and came into our restaurants, historic monuments, and infiltrated our public transportation, while speaking their native language at a level even louder than a typical New Yorker, all year long, we might be a little bitter too.

It was a summer of learning, feeling uncomfortable speaking in a tongue very foreign to my own, and indulging in wonderful desserts and carbohydrates. The French know how to live in the present, and are extremely proud of the culture that they have established. I appreciated their routines and expressions, and feel nostalgic each time I see the picture of Eiffel Tower I took when I was almost underneath it in awe. As much as I wish I were back there some days, coming back also made me appreciate the things I love about America. Although I don’t order Ventis at Starbucks anymore, I do enjoy drinking my tall coffee in more than 3 sips.

Tatamagouche.

As I walk through the courtyard, cobblestones quip and quarrel with my soles, arguing over the right of way and the passage forward. A drink or two in the morning before my final stand. My hat rakishly perched atop my head, my saber at my side dripping ink, I march forward and sit; rapt in the hard wood chair.

He asks the question and I offer the answer. My laughter echoes and rings at the disbelief that crosses his face. This cycle continues to plague us all, whether we know it or not. We grow old and complacent, content with the doldrums and dealings of the average day. We busy ourselves with the minutiae. Infants, children, schoolchildren, students, workers, retirees. The big picture. Everyday a smaller cycle runs its course. Time lapses. Still it is the pursuit of happiness. Life and Liberty. Where is redemption found? Love. What becomes of those that never find it? I see the worn faces staring across bar stools. I see the empty eyes staring out fogged windows on the crosstown bus. I see.

Her smile alone charges the room. Protons and electrons argue, bounce, and flit with reckless abandon. My heart beats fast, as the thuds mark a cadence for the tiny countless legs that scurry across the floor, carrying a weight Atlas would balk at. As she tosses her hair back, it ripples, like waves of grain, gold, blown by a warm summer wind. I take it in. She crinkles her nose. The buzzer rings and lets me know its time to go.

Misunderestimating W.

The movie 'W.', directed by Oliver Stone, was not totally what I was expecting. That being: a movie portraying a devious and careless man who as president, would willfully lead the United States into the predicaments it faces today. Don’t get me wrong. The movie delivers plenty of laughs. But ‘W.’ also provides an objective look at a likable yet easily manipulated guy who unfortunately just happened to be in the position to be elected president.

Bush was his parents’ firstborn. He grew up fully aware that he was the grandson of a U.S. senator and a descendant of the 14^th president Franklin Pierce (mom’s side). The young Dubya in the movie is a guy that even your grandmother would love to go binge drinking with. And in 2000, George Bush was indeed the guy that half of the country’s voters wanted to have a beer with. Regrettably, they also thought that being a fun drunk is an essential qualification for heads of state.

My point is this. I, along with the rest of my left wing, liberal, dead baby joke telling friends, and probably who ever else Keith brings to the blog, have spent more time hating on George Bush than we have spent listening to indy music or shopping at whole foods. And I figured that the disaster of his presidency and its effects on the rest of the world were calculated attacks on the have-nots for the Bushes and the like to joke about during brunches overlooking the Kennebunkport Sound. But really, George Bush is not evil. He is actually awesome. He knows he is awesome. People have been telling him that he is awesome for his entire life. Now, put an ego like that into the white house.

I don’t know what factors influenced the president’s choice for vice-president and secretary of defense. But Bush was born a crowd pleaser. And, among others, the crowd advising him is Dick Cheney and until recently, Don Rumsfeld. I don’t think that Oliver Stone is asking us to take a leap of faith when he portrays those two as having an agenda. Was Bush the originator of the major and arguably bad decisions of his presidency e.g. invading Iraq? He probably thinks that he made those decisions. Yet Oliver Stone’s theory appears to be that George Bush, never happy to be a buzz kill, is mainly concerned with keeping the other guys in the room happy. What would you do if you started a new job where you were working with a bunch of your father’s friends? Whose advice would you take?

Overall, after you see ‘W.’ you will have an increased like for George Bush. Maybe not as a president, but as an awesome and fun loving guy who can walk into a barbecue and mow down on a few hotdogs while simultaneously charming the pants off of a young Laura Bush.

The Adventures of Captain Carl and Uncle Wayne the Seaman Extraordinaire: Fishing on the S.S. Fun Lovin' Food Cart Vol 1

One sunny, warm, soothing August morning, Carl packed the wife and kids into his food cart to go to the local Bristol Police Department for a job interview. He was not qualified enough to become a cop because of his past criminal record (theft, shop lifting, public nudity, harassment, thinking the giant M in the Mcdonalds near the mall was a vert ramp, dfcui [driving the food cart under the influence] and a hit and run that involved a Mexican on a scooter and a crack head crossing the street). Instead Carl was getting an interview to become the mayor of Bristol, so he thought…

He went into the interview, dressed appropriately of course. He wore one of his finest leisure suits from 1976. He also brought a briefcase that he found with his best friend Uncle Wayne, who we will talk about soon enough. The only thing Carl forgot to do was look in the mysterious briefcase before going on the interview. When Carl went into the interview he looked around and realized that it wasn't an interview. He was set up by the infamous K-Dog, Kev Dog, or Kev Rock (which ever you prefer). Two men jumped on Carl and took the briefcase from him. Carl was so confused, he then started to cry and piss himself, due to all of the Busch Lights he shotgunned before entering. This was the worst day ever for Carl. In the briefcase were15 golden hotdogs, recently stolen from the World Hot Dog Fair. Carl was unaware but he fit the profile of the thief.

After 13 exhausting years, Carl was released from prison and ready for an adventure…who would take the adventure with him you ask? None other than his best friend and seaman Uncle Wayne (aka Waynus, Paynus, Wayne the Pain, Dirty W, William Wallace, Crazy Eyes, Blood Bath and Back Breaker).

Uncle Wayne and Carl were once a famous duo around town. Carl would drive the food cart drinking Busch while wearing a tank top and cut off jean shorts, while Uncle Wayne would sit in the passenger seat, smoke cigarettes and drink rum out of a canteen he won off of the Wizard (crazy bum in Bristol). They would regale each other with the tales from their glory days.

These mostly centered around the time they met the Doobie Brothers back in 1978. Michael McDonald was just a young, grey bearded, heart breaking wonder at this point. Uncle Wayne and Carl fell madly in love with Michael McDonald. Uncle Wayne even grew a beard to match Michael's (which he still has to this day, please see below). They followed Michael all around the country in Carl's brand new food cart, feeding Michael hot dogs and french fries at every tour stop. Eventually Michael fell in love with Carl and Uncle Wayne as well, but the pressures of life on the road and society's unaccepting view of their relationship put an end to the Uncle Wayne - Carl - Michael McDonald tryst. Which brings us to up to today, the date of Carl and Uncle Wayne's infamous fishing trip.

To Be Continued...

Running on Empty

As my family loves to remind me, I don't have an athletic bone or (muscle) in my body! In a few months I will be 50, so my husband and I had a brilliant idea to join a program with a personal trainer and train as a couple. Now remember the only weights I have ever lifted are the 5 lb bags of sugar and flour at Stop and Shop, and then I needed help carrying them up the stairs when I got home. Nate, our trainer, began our 1st session to see where we were at. I don't know a curl (cheese curls) from a crunch (Nestles). Multiple times Nate has had to spot me from tipping over onto my behind, correct my stance and reposition the weights so I can breathe.
He is a wonderful, patient young man who probably can't wait for me to leave! After completing 3 sessions I am unable to climb stairs, sit down, or lift a fork comfortably to my mouth. I am beginning to think that my husband has increased my Life Insurance policy because I am convinced Nate is trying to kill me. I have yet to see the purpose of this program as I complain constantly, but I am determined to conquer at least the 8 lb weights. Nate did mention that he knew he was in trouble when I arrived in my pink sneakers, pink tee shirt and bracelets. Eventually I may show up dressed in black with matching weight lifting gloves and The Rocky theme blaring in the background.The most difficult thing is that we keep a journal of what we eat. Even if you are craving potato chips you don't dare eat them because Nate is watching. I am suddenly dreaming about Crispy Creame Donuts, McDonalds, and hot fudge sundaes. A simple lesson from all of this is don't wait until you're 50 to begin an exercise program, and remember to always struggle with the 3 lb weights because if Nate thinks it's too easy he'll quickly bump you up to 8 lbs!