misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

The whole "I'm from California and New York has NO good Mexican food" thing gets a little fucking old. It is just like when I lived in California, and every New Yorker busted out the "I'm from New York and California has NO good pizza or bagels". Gross generalizations like this always tend to be untrue, and this one is no different (the only generalization i've found to be true over the past years is this: On any given day during the week, you can be sure Adrian won't be covered in his own filth and vomit, drunk off his ass). The other part I hate about it is the snobbery connected to it. Like somehow the fact that you are from California means anything at all, other than you've eaten both good and bad Mexican food in your lifetime. You aren't suddenly some food expert cause you grew up in Laguna Nigel, like 20 million other Americans.

California has tens of thousands of Mexican food joints. Some suck shit, some are amazing. Everyone knows I'm from San Diego (this isn't some badge of knowledge, cause San Diego sucks, it is just for reference). Is every burrito there good? No, not at all. Is every pizza there awful? No. Lee has described what goes into the perfect burrito, so I'll not do a recap. (One point he didn't bring up is the price. In San Diego, you'd pay $2.95 for a carne asada burrito. Here? I've been places, total shitholes, where burritos will run you $10).

As much as I have my favorite type of burrito, every place in California has a different style, which is why I was highly amused when Jill and I got dinner last night at a restaurant called "Original California Taqueria". What does that mean? What part of California? At what point in time? The original point? That's like saying "Original East Coast Soup" or "Traditional Midwestern Cafe". Even better, down below restaurant name, it read "LA Style". I still have no idea what that meant. Having been to LA a number of times, it is difficult for me to define a style that their 90,000 restaurants had in common.

So, all this rambling is just to spite your fuckers who claims my blogs are too long. To that I say: I'll get to the point so you can continue to masturbate over thoughts of work, tv and all the other important elements that fill your very interesting day (the funny thing about people who complain about my blog-length are people who never read my blog anyway, like Neal and Slaven, both of whom are the important people with important days described above. I do forgive Neal, however, has he does need a lot of time in the day to read fashion articles in GQ, leading to his gay-dominated wardrobe)

The surprise for me was that Original California Taqueria served a damn good burrito. To people from California quick to spit superiority claims, they could find things wrong. The burrito was too big, for one, meaning it couldn't be eaten with your hands. There weren't pinto beans, only black or refried. But enough. For $5.95, the chicken was shredded and seasoned perfectly, the tortilla was fresh and grilled, the salsa had the perfect kick of heat, the Pacifico Beer and lime that came with it was cheap as you could hope for. There's a good chance three years in New York has faded my tastes, and this place would be a dime a dozen in California, but for the twenty minutes I was enjoying that burrito last night, I might of well been in the Mission District in San Francisco. The only thing missing was a couple of guys ass-fucking in the table next to me, while eating slices of bland California-style pizza.

Ahhhh ... It feels fucking great to be needlessly long again with my blogs. Fantastico!