The Day I Cruised Down Main Street Blasting Handel with the Windows Rolled Down

I was driving out to work yesterday and came to a stop at a - you know - stop light. Someone pulled up to my right and I noticed his presence immediately. This is because he had his windows rolled down and was playing Ludacris' "Ludacrismas" * with the volume up all the way and the bass booster even higher.

* You have to listen past the first 30 seconds to really get the idea.

"How thoughtful of this kind gentleman!" I said to myself. "Here he's not only providing himself with music; he's providing it free of charge to everyone within three city blocks! Some of them probably don't have radios and wish they could listen to Ludacris more often."

The light turned green and the driver to my left moved out ahead of me. I noticed as he went by that he was wearing a doo-rag over a baseball cap over a beanie and had a massive gold chain dangling around his neck. His license plate read: IRGANGSTA.

Touched by this anonymous fellow's simple gesture, I drove on and worked my shift. On the way home, as I pulled to a stop at the nearest stop light, I did a moment of brief soul-searching. It didn't seem right, I reasoned, to sit here keeping my music to myself when people all over town probably wanted to hear it. How could I be so selfish, especially after the good example given me by IRGANGSTA?

So I rolled down the windows and pumped up the volume. My radio was playing Handel's "Harmonious Blacksmith" ** at the time.

** The first 30 seconds will give you a pretty good idea.

The light turned green, and I drove on to the next light. As I pulled to a stop, I noticed a few pedestrians at a bus stop looking around in all directions as if trying to find out where the music was coming from. I waved but they didn't seem to connect the dots. They were looking up in the air, in the sewer drain ...

Green light. Off we go. At the next stop, who should pull up alongside me but IRGANGSTA himself. He looked at me for a second with a look of incredulity. I flashed him a thumbs up and a big grin.

He rolled down his windows.

"Hi there, my brother from a different mother!" I shouted over the music. "Are you not totally digging this beat, yo?" He stared for a moment, then turned on his radio. I didn't catch the piece, but it was in the same vein as what he'd been playing this morning. He cranked the volume up all the way.

We listened to our competing musical selections. After a few moments I felt obligated to say something. "Excuse me, home dog. Sup? Anyway, I wonder if you would mind turning your music down. You see, it doesn't sound very nice when played alongside Handel. The tempos are different. So is the melody. In fact, they're not even in the same key. We're talking some serious shizzle here. I mean, what is up with that? Are you with me?"

He made a gesture to indicate he was definitely not with me just as the light turned green. As we drove, side-by-side, to the next light, I wondered how something as simple as community-mindedness could suddenly get so confrontational.

But having been confronted, I was not one to back down. I turned MY music up all the way. I'm happy to report that my speakers were significantly louder than his. Drivers behind us couldn't pick out IRGANGSTA's music, but they could see his car pulsing and vibrating.

Then I leaned over and shouted at him: "Who is the unfaithful woman now, you unfaithful woman? I am not coming on your tab because your tab isn't a hummer. If you want to blow your wig on my blip, that's solid, because I'm perfectly willing to slide my jib until you're done spouting, so help me. Let's face it, you unhep yard dog. You came up on the wrong riff. You can jump this joint all you want. Mellow. But don't you dare start beating it out while I'm busting my conk keeping the port in the groove. You feel me? Because I suggest you latch on to my signification as soon as you can."

I meant that metaphorically. You know that.

I took a left soon after and we parted ways. I declared victory. But I'm sincerely sorry that we couldn't get along more peaceably. Community radio should be about bringing people together. It should be an act of harmony and unity. And it should be a lot of fun. So if you ever see IRGANGSTA around, tell him I'm sorry.

And give him Josh Groban's latest CD. *** I'm good for it.

*** You really don't need to listen to it to get the idea.

Alone on Valentine's Day

It's the 14th of February and all across the land,
Little boys and girls take each other's hand.
It's a happy sight, all sweet and pink,
But someone isn't happy, I think.

He's tried his hardest to get a girl,
But when he gets close, most just hurl.
He doesn't smell or look that bad,
He's just too desperate, which is sad.

Amid all the laughter hugs and kisses,
Stands one guy alone, no one misses.
His heart is full of love to share,
If only a girl would dare.

On Valentine's Day when all are happy,
He writes poems, and they get sappy.
His rhymes are weak, his verse uncreative,
It could even be packaged as a sedative.

Love and warmth he does not inspire
But his writing does make others tire
So I'll tell you the story of how I got this way
Alone, miserable and sad on Valentine's Day

It's an open secret that I have been as indefatigable in my search for female attention as a dog and peanut butter. In turn, females have been just as adamant about denying it. Whether it's been Luce or Carrie or, well, all the others, I've had about as much luck as Dennis Kucinich in politics (speaking of which, remind me to pass on the latest about Carrie: never talk politics on a third date). I'm batting like Jason Giambi after knocking off the steroids.

A friend kindly took me aside on Valentine's Day morning and advised that the holiday has diddly squat to do with establishing a relationship and is actually intended as a time to strengthen relationships and renew passions with existing girlfriends. V day is about servicing, that's why guys go out of their way to buy all the goofy chocolate, mawkish cards and childish teddy bears. In Aretha Franklin's terms, girls are "zoomin'" guys on Valentine's Day.

Oops, did my cynicism seep out? Maybe that's why I couldn't get a date yesterday...

The morning wasn't that bad. Most students don't take their beaus to class (unless, of course, it's "take your beau to class day") and I'd almost forgotten about the Holiday when Melanie leaned over and stuck a pink heart on my to-go coffee cup. She giggled when she did so and I think, deep down in her diabolical Melanie mind, she was daring me to forget about my horrid love life. The heart starred at me for the duration of the class. I wanted terribly to rip it off and chuck the cup, remaining liquid and all, but was mesmerized by the anatomically inaccurate shape.

Work at General Mills was even better. None of my coworkers wanted to chat about relationships and the conveyor belt seemed to move more slowly. Maybe Valentine's Day wasn't so bad afterall.

Little did I know how much Saint Valentine had lured me into a false sense of emotional security.

Plans had been laid well in advance for me to get together with my hetero lifemate and watch an action flick, which I figured would be largely unattended. I've known my lifemate since before I met my father and I'd seen my mother's face and we get along really well, apparently, but he still doesn't count as female company.

Walking into the theater reminded me of a scene from Confessions of a Dangerous Mind. If you haven't seen the movie, Chuck Barris walks into the cinema feeling down on his relationship luck. As he sits down, the camera pans away to reveal everyone around him kissing. It's kinda disgusting and, if you're there without a date, it's depressing.

The movie was a gore-fest and the romance wasn't even romantic. Despite these impediments, the couple to my right couldn't get through any of the fight scenes without fooling around and a couple below me started snogging every time the screen went blank. After the film, duos held hands, giggled and skipped away, oblivious to the impact they were having on my psychie. Deflated and wishing the movie had been better, I walked alone to my car (the hetero lifemate drove separately) and meandered home.

On the way back to my house, even the streets were deserted, a reminder of the emptiness of my heart. One car did follow me for a few miles, but it was a police cruiser and I was too worried about making an infraction to enjoy the company.

Maybe I should have purchased a box of chocolates or a bouquet of long stems. Perhaps a little more effort would have had me asphyxiating in the dark corner of the theater with a beautiful girl by my side. Maybe I totally blew Valentine's Day.

Or maybe I didn't. My selfish perspective on the Holiday is as wrong as it is depressing, I just can't help myself. I feel I'm entitled to the attention of others and I have repackaged V day for that very purpose.

But something about that kind of approach never jived with a male college student, ticking away the final months of his derelict teenage years. So, I wrote a poem.

The Day I Fell Asleep in a Public Sauna

It's one of those things you just don't do. Every guy knows it even though it isn't written in any book of rules. If animals watched animal planet about human beings, the narrator would say that it's a miracle that this inviolable rule is passed down through the generations. It's the unspeakable error; the unpardonable sin. We all know saunas are full of perverts, but we can handle them when awake and on the move. Alas, I let my wits get the better of me. Yesterday, I fell asleep in a public sauna.

It was a tough day. First the lead in my only pencil snapped off in the middle of a test and my very strict proctor wouldn't let me get up to sharpen it. Then someone snuck Valium into my inhaler ("as a joke, hahaha"). Then some custodian waxed the steps and I ended up tumbling down four stories. I broke the fall with my dignity. And a little old lady with a walker.

By the time I reached the wet sauna I was definitely ready for some R & R. I clambered on in, found a seat next to a fat Chinese dude, rested my head on the wall, and closed my eyes. I let my troubles fade away with every deep breath of the eucalyptus-oiled mist. The extreme heat, the long day, and the obscured, dream-like vision conspired against me. My back slid slowly across the slick tile wall and I curled up in the fetal position. The last thing I saw was four more fat naked guys coming in.

It was definitely one of the most unique wake-up experiences I've ever had. The thought process ran something like:

This is so warm.
I don't even need a blanket.
This mattress sure is hard though.
Oh, it's tile.
That explains it.
Say, I'm all wet.
That's embarrassing.
It's misty, too.
Oh, great.
What did my roomie do now?
No, I'm not in my room.
My room has a lamp next to the bed.
This is most definitely not my room.
I'm buck naked.
That's unexpected.
There's five sweaty fat naked guys sitting next to me.
Also unexpected.
Say, I just fell asleep in a public sauna.

I sat bolt upright, then overcompensated and knocked heads with a sweaty fat naked guy.

"Sorry," I muttered, groping for the door.

He sniffed and snorted as if just waking up. "Hm? What, what? Who's there? Lunch time?"

We'll fast-forward the story to the part where I run, screaming, from the building. Next time I'm bringing a six-pack of Coke and a taser.

The Day I used no Adjectives

I got up this morning and, in the middle of my shower, shave and shine routine, was hit with an idea. I’m not sure where I was hit, but the idea went something like this: Why not go a whole day without any adjectives? Describing words are, afterall, not absolutely vital to everyday existence. I often went a whole conversation or two without ever having to utter a modifying word and I was sure I would be able to go a whole day without one. Guys are supposed to say a lot less than girls anyway, so if I found a way to let others do the talking, my experiment might be pain free.

I went down to breakfast just as my mother was putting out some pancakes. They looked delicious (although I didn’t say that out loud!).

“Did you sleep ok?” Bummer, my mother was trying to make conversation. My plan to listen through breakfast was thwarted already.

“I slept…” Oooh. Tricky. “My bed was…” Humph! That doesn't work. “Yes, I did.” Inward grin.

“Great. Well, we’re going to visit some friends tonight so be sure you come home straight after work, ok?”

“Yes, ma’am; I’ll come home after work.” I didn’t mean for my reply to sound sarcastic, but in my effort to use complete sentences, it might have come across as a little tart.

“Immediately?” Was my mother trying to derail me? It was only 7:50 and I’d already encountered my first adjective-only question.

I just smiled my biggest, most boyish grin and nodded.

“Got home pretty late last night, didn’t you son?” My father had just entered the room and was putting me on the spot. There is nothing worse than having a semantic limitation while justifying a late night to your parents.

“Well, yes. I got home at 11:30. I was in town with a friend; we went to a Bible Study, remember?”

“Oh that’s right. That girl from school; was the study good?”

I tensed, trying to think quickly but reasoning more slowly because of the effort. Then it hit me.
“We were in Revelation reading about…about the…” I was going to say “end times,” but “end” could be considered an adjective, although not necessarily in that use. My father was looking at me expectantly, so I shoveled some pancake into my mouth and mumbled incomprehensibly behind the food. My father seemed satisfied and turned to talk with my mother about something.

I finished breakfast quickly and headed to class where my economics teacher was ruthlessly attacking the institution of a federal currency and the Federal Reserve System in general. More than once I wanted to ask a question pointing out his inconsistencies and asking if his ideology would work well once applied to the real world, but I could never phrase my question without an adjective. For the first time all semester, I stayed silent through the entire class period. I left somewhat depressed and ate lunch alone.

At work, I was called into my boss’ office. As a refresher, my boss is a J. Jonah Jameson wannabe who stopped smoking cigars in the office when OSHA confiscated his supply of Cubans.

He sat me down inches from his face and began speaking gruffly. “We had three bite sized morsels go through our cereal inspection system yesterday on your watch. Young man if this happens again, we will have to consider demoting you from the Wheaties belt. Is that understood?" His breath smelled like a mix of coffee, tobacco and gingivitis.

“Sir, no flakes got through on my watch. I looked. Nothing happened.” I wanted to say that no bad flakes had gotten through, that I had looked carefully and that nothing untoward had happened, but without adjectives I was left with a very simple sounding response.

Maybe it is better that I used simple, absolute words that weren’t amended by adjectives my boss may have found intimidating, because he looked assuaged.

“Well, ok then. Call Randy in on your way out.”

I drove home in the late afternoon with Carrie Underwood playing on my car stereo. I sang along, except, of course, where she used adjectives.

I dug my key into the side/ of his…drive/ carved my name into his…seat./I took a... slugger to…lights, slashed a hole in...tires

There is nothing quite as tiring as editing a song while listening to it on the radio.

When I arrived at home, my mother was ready to leave for our friend’s house. She asked me if I liked her blouse, which I assume was new.

“Well, it’s a blouse,” I answered, giving her a big hug and cringing at the same time. I pulled away and showed her a thumbs up with my best tough guy look. “Gotta change,” I said, practically running to my room.

At our friend’s house, several younger children were playing Apples to Apples and wanted me to join. I declined, knowing I would never be able to read a green apple card, and went to chat politics with a group more in step with my age, if not my vocabulary de jour.

“I think this whole thing about Obama raising money through YouTube is ridiculous. The feds regulate every other kind of donation; you’d think they have a limit on the online gifts.” My friend was woefully misunderstanding the situation, and my pain must have been apparent because he asked my opinion. Before I could flinch, the entire group was looking my way.

“Barrack Obama is running for President.” I squinted, looked slightly upward and nodded. It worked, after three seconds of this mimed thinking (which passed like a Mother-in-Law’s visit for me), everyone lost interest and resumed their own conversations.

I left for some water.

That night, I called a friend and we chatted for just under an hour. While I am aware that real men do not chat on the phone for extended periods of time, I was comfortable enough in my masculinity to leave our conversation unperturbed. I am proud to say I went through the entire conversation using "yes" and "no" answers and was able to hang up unscathed, with my friend only slightly suspicious.

My takeaway from the experience is that semantic errata are better articulated in determinate vocabulary environments. Then again, that last sentence may be a solid argument for sentences with few and simple words.

The Day I Smashed My Proboscis

I have promised, somewhere in the annals of CN past, to tell the faithful few more about my nose. The exact wording was that it would be a “great topic for another post.” As is my habit, I had completely forgotten about that pledge and was ready to write today about the beauty and grace of undersea turtles, when I was violently reminded of my commitment.

By violent, I mean Hoss sucker punches Little Joe not Brad Pitt and company in Fight Club. You guys have plenty of reasons to be worried about me, but violent rages are not one of them.

Anyway, I was playing basketball yesterday at the gym and taking on the local Arab community which apparently sees hoops as a cultural passtime. You know the scene: A bunch of sweaty twenty-somethings whose little social interaction is the high fives and crude taunts of community ball. If I were of Arabian descent, I would fit in perfectly.

The team that was dominating when I arrived consisted of two super tall college students one of whom could dunk from a standstill, a wizened old man who continues to play only because he has no other life but makes up for it by having a great perimeter shot and a girl. Yes, a female had broken the sanctity of male dominated hoops culture and deigned to play our game.

I hate to say it, but she was good. As I watched the game from the sidelines, taking an occasional warmup shot and stretching periodically to keep my joints lubed, I saw her juke an experienced player for an easy lay-in, pop a perimeter trey while an opponent had a hand squarely in her space and make some awesome ball handling decisions that set up her teammates for easy baskets.

Maybe it was that she jinxed her opponents or maybe her opponents were distracted (if you get my meaning), but it seemed that quality players turned to raspberry Jello as soon as they assumed the defensive posture against her. Predictably, those watching the game would issue snide and sexist remarks at the expense of the player who got “fooled by the girl,” but my attention was focused on the competitive side.

She favored her right hand, shot from the chest like a WNBA player and telegraphed her shots with a long face up. Her defense was tolerable, but she was slow. If her defender guarded against the right side drive and watched closely for the sign of an impending shot, her play might not be so hot. On offense, quick penetrations and perimeter ball teases might use her own court sense as a weapon to open up driving lanes and maybe allow for the occasional deployment of my favorite move, the pull up jumpshot.

She was good, but I felt she was beatable.

As I took the court and waited for the next game to begin, I stood next to the girl, a nonverbal message to my teammates that she was the person I wanted to guard. She introduced herself as Cindy and we did the athlete's version of a handshake: a firm but soundless handslap that occurs about roughly waist height. Eye contact is optional. There isn't any version for girls, so I used the guy-guy greeting.

My first touches of the game were terrible embarrassments. Somehow Cindy was able to reach in during one of my cross-over teases and poke the ball away for a steal and an easy breakaway lay-in. On the next possession she blocked my pull-up, stuffing the ball back in my face and earning a series of catcalls from the sidelines. I was embarrassed and my team was losing. But none of that was as bad as what followed.

With the game close, we were having success in the low post, banging the ball in low with our big man, an overweight kid from the East side of town named Troy (He was probably named Mohamed, but they called him Troy so as to not confuse him with the other Mohameds) . I dribbled into the front court, fed the ball to Troy and then waited on the perimeter as a kick-out option. Troy did a spectacular post move but his shot landed short on the rim and I ran toward the hoop for the offensive rebound.

What followed was a collision. I don't remember all the details of the smash, but I do know that it involved Cindy and Troy, was about two and a half feet off the ground and that my nose was at the very center. I felt a squish sound – not a crack, but a squeak, like a tire rapidly deflating – and heard gasps from those the sideline spectators. Time stood still for a second and then I landed hard on my rump, creating a bruise as colorful as it was painful.

My younger brother has twice broken his nose and I was present for both occasions, so I am familiar with the circumstances that surround protuberance fractures: One bone is pulled loose from another and the schnoz assumes a shape quite dissimilar from the one it used to claim. A little blood and swelling are inevitable side effects.

But my schnoz wasn't broken. When I inspected my nose in the mirror after the game (which we lost, in case you had to rub it in), I didn't feel any swelling or bone irregularity. The the cartilage was stretched and blowing my nose was painful, but the bones were just as sturdy and stable as before. You really thought I broke it, didn't you?

For shame.

I really think my feat of physical sacrifice earned me respect from the other guys. They all wanted to see my bruise and several were complimentary about my nasal swelling. One guy even said I had "hops," which is pretty rare "for a white guy."

In retrospect, however, I wasn't completely satisfied with the game; I think I would have sacrificed my nose, if only I'd beaten that girl.

FCN Classic: The Day I Ate A Whole Mess Of Taquitos

The other day I ate a whole mess of Taquitos.

I went to the freezer and opened a large blue box of El Monterey Steak and Cheese Flour Taquitos. The box said 24 count, but I didn't intend to eat all of them. I put the package in the kitchen by the microwave, tore open the sealable plastic inner packaging and laid a handful of frozen Taquitos on a microwavable plate.

I wasn't hungry, it was just the time to eat. There were healthier foods in the house, even more convenient faire, had I looked for it, but Taquitos were a comfort food. Just watching them rotate slowly on the turntable reminded me of their salty aftertaste and rich flavor. The microwave's gentle hum had a prozaic effect and the morning's stress seemed temporarily repulsed by the thought of Americanized-Mexican finger food.

When the microwave beeped, my appetite had improved and I tore into the first Taquito quickly. It was still a little cold in the middle, but that didn't bother me. It tasted just the way I remembered it and my stomach was ignited to the possibility of more Taquitos. I finished the plate quickly and, before anyone saw what I was doing or my voice of reason could interrupt my decision-making, I grabbed another handful of Taquitos and started the microwave again.

As the next batch heated, my stomach sent a message to my brain saying that it was pretty close to full and that no more food was really needed to satisfy the hunger requirement. My brain treated the message the way the CIA treats urgent FBI bulletins.

The next batch seemed to have less flavor than the first, but I wolfed it down as well and started on a third.

I ate the third plate of Taquitos while touching up my Philosophy term paper. In one greasy hand I shoved morsel after morsel toward my gullet while the digits on my other appendage helped explain Descartes' Cogito.

I wondered briefly if the Taquito has feelings and mental formations we might call thoughts. But I didn't wonder for long.

My plate again depleted, I returned to the kitchen for more. This trip wasn't out of hunger or even desire for more, it was just habit. One eats at lunchtime and Taquitos are food. The eating doesn't stop until the food is gone and, since none of my brothers were there to join me in devouring the box, I was alone in fulfilling the Taquito task.

The fourth plate emptied the box, and it felt strange to throw away the now vacant packaging which had been so full of calories a few moments before.

It was kind of hard to eat the fourth plate. My stomach was now sending urgent bulletins to my brain to stop the incoming nutrients and now and again my mouth had to fight against the gag impulse. But I got them down.

I felt heavy. Five minutes after the last Taquito it hurt to stand up. Ten minutes afterward, my stomach felt bloated and tight. I had to loosen my belt by three notches. Twenty minutes later I got really thirsty. But the crazy thing about the thirst was that I didn't want to drink anything. My stomach was too stuffed for fluids. Thirty minutes later I decided to write this post.

I dug the box out of the trash and looked at the Nutrition Facts. The serving size was Two Taquitos (230 calories, 12g of fat, 490 miligrams of sodium); I had eaten 24. After a quick visit with my computer's calculator (I was too stiff to get up and get my own), I found that in the last fifteen minutes, I had consumed 2,760 calories, 144 grams of fat and 5,880 milligrams of sodium or over 240% of my daily value of salt. No wonder I was thirsty.

That evening I tried to eat a normal meal and, to my surprise, was successful. Five hours after the Taquito binge, I was ready to approach the dinner table again. My Gastrointestinal tract was unphased by the barrage of calories and my body was ready and willing to take additional punishment.

I don't suggest the Mess of Taquitos as a daily meal plan -- the activity is not without side effects -- but it was a good experience and one I may repeat if habit and hunger permit.

The Day I Dropped a Water Balloon from the Fourth Story of Cunningham when I should have been Drawing Zebras in Econ Class

Don't get me wrong: I'm not saying that Microeconomics is boring. I'm just saying ... well, okay. It is boring. Sitting in the back of class drawing zebras and playing Midnight Pool on my cell phone gets really, really old. Eventually the zebras submitted a petition asking me to leave them alone.

Yesterday morning at 11 sharp, I placed my hand on the door of Cunningham 411, bracing myself for another fifty minutes of bone-jarring boredom. Then I stopped short and asked myself: What am I doing? It's not like I was about to learn anything. I have a perfect attendance record. I can afford to have a little Me Time.

I turned around and walked away. A delightful sense of purpose filled me. I left campus and crossed the street to the extensive shopping complex, and there, I purchased a pack of water balloons. Then I returned to Cunningham and filled one.

Before going any further, I ought to explain the layout of the Cunningham building. It was built in the seventies. That should fill in most of the blanks, but here are a few extra details: It's four stories tall, and it wraps around a central courtyard. The primary way to get into the building is by walking into the courtyard and up some sweeping stairs to the second story, all the while walking directly under three levels of balconies.

Every hour, the entrance to the Cunningham courtyard is clogged with student traffic. No one goes up to the fourth story, though, except for people who are foolish enough to take classes like Econ 1B.

In a moment of rebellious passion, I went to the balcony and looked down at the ant-like students passing below. Then I dropped a fully-loaded water balloon into the swirling masses. It dropped for several seconds and then splattered on the ground. A few students looked at it and then kept going about their business.

If there's one thing mischiefs can't stand, it's not getting in trouble when they've been bad. I should have been relieved that I didn't get busted. Instead, I was aggravated. I hastily loaded up another balloon and hefted it away. This one hit a student's backpack squarely and exploded, soaking him in water.

The student looked over his shoulder and shouted: "Cut it out you guys!" And then he went on.

This was too much. I was seriously put out. I loaded five water balloons and tossed them over the edge in quick succession, then peeked over to inspect the damage. I found myself looking into the eyes of my thoroughly soaked Ethics instructor. A sample from one of his lectures can be found here.

My prof smiled slowly. His eyes glinted in recognition. Then he leapt, catlike, up onto the second story balcony and started crawling up the side of the building toward me. Animal fear washed over me and I turned to hide. I found a classroom door to my left and ducked into it hastily, then sat in a desk just as the roll sheet was passed to me.

I inscribed my initials next to my name and sighed. It was going to be another long Econ class.

The Day I Ate A Whole Mess Of Taquitos

The other day I ate a whole mess of Taquitos.

I went to the freezer and opened a large blue box of El Monterey Steak and Cheese Flour Taquitos. The box said 24 count, but I didn't intend to eat all of them. I put the box in the kitchen by the microwave, tore open the sealable plastic inner packaging and laid a handful of frozen Taquitos on a microwavable plate.

I wasn't hungry, it was just the time to eat. There were healthier foods in the house, even more convenient faire, had I looked for it, but Taquitos were a comfort food. Just watching them rotate slowly on the turntable reminded me of their salty aftertaste and rich flavor. The microwave's gentle hum had a prozaic effect and the morning's stress seemed temporarily repulsed by the thought of Americanized-Mexican finger food.

When the microwave beeped, my appetite had improved and I tore into the first Taquito quickly. It was still a little cold in the middle, but that didn't bother me. It tasted just the way I rememberd it and my stomach was ignited to the possibility of more Taquitos. I finished the plate quickly and, before anyone saw what I was doing or my voice of reason could interrupt my decision-making, I grabbed another handful of Taquitos and started the microwave again.

As the next batch heated, my stomach sent a message to my brain saying that it was pretty close to full and that no more food was really needed to satisfy the hunger requirement. My brain treated the message the way the CIA treats urgent FBI bulletins.

The next batch seemed to have less flavor than the first, but I wolfed it down as well and started on a third.

I ate the third plate of Taquitos while touching up my Philosophy term paper. In one greasy hand I shoved morsel after morsel toward my gullet while the digits on my other appendage helped explain Descartes' Cogito.

I wondered briefly if the Taquito has feelings and mental formations we might call thoughts. But I didn't wonder for long.

My plate again depleted, I returned to the kitchen for more. This trip wasn't out of hunger or even desire for more, it was just habit. One eats at lunchtime and Taquitos are food. The eating doesn't stop until the food is gone and, since none of my brothers were there to join me in devouring the box, I was alone in fulfilling the Taquito task.

The fourth plate emptied the box, and it felt strange to throw away the now vacant packaging which had been so full of calories a few moments before.

It was kind of hard to eat the fourth plate. My stomach was now sending urgent bullitens to my brain to stop the incoming nutrients and now and again my mouth had to fight against the gag impulse. But I got them down.

I felt heavy. Five minutes after the last Taquito it hurt to stand up. Ten minutes afterward, my stomach felt bloated and tight. I had to loosen my belt by three notches. Twenty minutes later I got really thirsty. But the crazy thing about the thirst was that I didn't want to drink anything. My stomach was too stuffed for fluids. Thirty minutes later I decided to write this post.

I dug the box out of the trash and looked at the Nutrition Facts. The serving size was Two Taquitos (230 calories, 12g of fat, 490 miligrams of sodium); I had eaten 24. After a quick visit with my computer's calculator (I was too stiff to get up and get my own), I found that in the last fifteen minutes, I had consumed 2,760 calories, 144 grams of fat and 5,880 miligrams of sodium or over 240% of my daily value of salt. No wonder I was thirsty.

That evening I tried to eat a normal meal and, to my surprise, was successful. Five hours after the Taquito binge, I was ready to approach the dinner table again. My Gastrointestinal tract was unphrased by the barage of calories and my body was ready and willing to take additional punishment.

I don't suggest the Mess of Taquitos as a daily meal plan -- the activity is not without side effects -- but it was a good experience and one I may repeat if habit and hunger permit.