And safety comes first.
Friday, March 3
Hunger roused my dormant stomach at a cruel, cruel 5:37 in the evening: I was shut inside my own car, rolling across L.A. at a pathetic 10 miles per hour, watching headlights grow bright and everything else lose form. Anyway, I was like mad jonesin' for tacos for weeks by then, so I turned off my radio, remained motionless on the 101, and said to myself, "I bet that one place is open." I wedged myself out off the Lego locked traffic to head to that one place for tacos. That one place, I discovered, was off on a family vacation. Disappointed and now feeling the sharpened pangs of my hunger, I kept driving down the avenue, hoping to find a McDonald's to ease the pain quickly and cheaply. And that was when I saw it. A TACO truck! A big, bad taco truck with little lights across the top like a semi, but smaller and filled with corn tortilla optimism. I made a sharp U-turn, pulled over, and ran up to the truck with a sack of coins in my hand. Carnitas y buche! Carnitas y buche, I demanded. The guy looked at me like he didn't know what was on the menu. What the fuck?, I thought. I looked up and around at the truck to find the name of the business. Los Cinco Puntos? El Taco Loco? Maricela's? Nothing. Suddenly it dawned on me that this wonderful taco truck was actually a useless Hummer: a big useless piece of shit with no true function on these urban streets. You want me to stop hatin' on you, Hummer owners, do you? Well start selling some carne asada!