Taco Tuesdays

“Taco Tuesdays”

A Non-Seqitarial Work – By Ari Ross

I have a story to tell.

It’s not an incredibly long story.

It’s either extremely poignant or maybe not very poignant at all (depending on the viewpoint from which it’s observed).

It is extremely personal (although not very).

Some may find it engaging and exciting; others may find it boring and still, others may find it philosophically engaging, empowering, and enlightening (it is those people for whom I am most concerned - or possibly for whom I hold the most devout and enduring admiration).

And now, I’ll begin at the beginning of this diamond-encrusted excrement storm:

Delivering newspapers on my bike at 13 years old wasn’t as boring, demeaning, or degrading as one might think a 13-year-old boy would feel about it. On the contrary, it gave my young life a purpose; rather than just staying home and watching cartoons after school and bothering my little brother, I was off to get a bit of exercise and make a few bucks slinging the news.

Of course, as I got older, things began to change.

Additional to a keen new interest in the opposite sex, things were most definitely changing. Not necessarily for the worse, however; in life, change is always, certainly, inevitable.

I learned that it's mainly about how one approaches change and how one decides to be more at cause than effect (of one’s environment, etc.) – indeed, to play the victor and less the victim.

So much of how we shape our own lives has to do with intention and the approach we take.

I feel that positive metamorphosis can occur at ANY age.

As I progressed in life & became more aware… I noticed new things, such as how sauce oozed from the yardstick as the chafing bowling balls headed North.

This was not considered extremely alarming, until I observed a massive contingent of nincompoop farmers deciding to congregate on a somewhat-aging mealy-mouse porcupine habitat, during the fifth annual maleficent wedding-dance marathon & clam basket weaving award presentation ceremony (which occurs annually, in Keokuk).

Now, of course, minuscule Pop Rock conventions rarely host salacious, meticulously groomed bedbug gangs, due to park-bench-painting unions harshly censoring washing machine wingnut convention attendees (most significantly during Wally Wax Wednesdays & Groundhog Day gambling convention attendee head-shaving expatriations).

Part Deux

Ball hockey conventions (mostly of which occur during the High Holidays during Salt Lake City bathtub convention & swimming pool rallies) thankfully, rarely engender praying mantis Eggshell Worshipers to manipulate barnstorming frogman uniform manufacturing pill pushers (unless they become something a bit different from that which was originally intended, including simply phantasmagoric orgies of folks singing “Suzy Q” on Ash Wednesdays and/or Leap-Groundhog-Days).

That said, pitcher-mound bars could make a difference.

Section 2.5

Although we weren't a wealthy family, occasionally my dad would save up so that we could take skiing trips to Mount Baldy.

My brother and I actually didn’t fancy skiing so much, but we enjoyed sledding down small hills on this rickety, yet solid-enough sled that I bought at a garage sale for two bucks.

One funny thing is how we would wear double pants to keep warm (not sure why my parents didn’t buy us long underwear for these “ski” trips).

Sometimes the ski instructors would be flirting with my mother (I probably shouldn’t say this but yes, a lot of dudes used to think she was hot, I guess).

I suppose it was a bit traumatizing, because my dad seemed oblivious to the passes of these "gentlemen."

Although I wouldn’t say seeing guys coming on to my mom scarred me, however, I will say that these events, unfortunately, were often aided by the noises uttered by fried banana hating Juju Warriors who often invade beige-infused aircraft galleys, only to leave behind the smallest rubber-washer casings, which help make up those little red & white plastic chattering teeth winding mechanisms (often found in Telluride during the Snuffleupagus mating season - which, BTW, is something you DON’T want to unsee!)

Now, depending on the time of year, of course, most daughters of Pork belly-trading stockbrokers occasionally serve caviar and strumpets aboard Gulfstreams (Fourth Tuesdays, yet only during “The Rosh Hashanah Era” are occasionally an exception).

Now, occasionally my aunt would come up from Palm Springs to do a little gambling at The Spa Casino during the legendary powered tricycle decathlons.

She was a bit of an eccentric.

Now, of course, these decathlons don’t normally occur in California, however, but on the southern tip of Madagascar during the boiled & masticated sausage season.

As we all now know by now, many of these events are attended by browbeaten Munchausen-Effect experts, who arrive on highfalutin, chartreuse-tinted Learjets.

Division3

Growing up (for a short time) in rural Kansas certainly must’ve had an effect on me.

My brothers came out fairly normal, but I always saw things a little differently.

While my cousins were into playing baseball with their friends or riding their bikes into Millhouse Stream to catch pollywogs - and to occasionally pull harmless pranks on their friends - I was … discovering myself.

Indeed, I was exploring new and fascinating things, such as how I liked watching Storyhawks slowly grooming their collectible Flintstone Vitamin bottle caps and those sort of “Christmassy” slowly-decaying basketball hoop netting fasteners.

Now, as was known chiefly in West Virginia (for some reason) this would be amplified when tornado-watching manatee mating season enthusiasts would stroll through the forests with those bouncy-bouncy leg extender machines, creating incredibly high vaultings (often observed by field mice on warm Wednesdays and cool Thursday evenings, especially during Yom Kippur).

Although something I don’t generally speak about in mixed company, I believe that making whoopie and being SimpliSafe are two past times that I associate with the smell of freshly cut slinkys (often sensed after mowing my Rabbi’s "Chucky Cheese" Pez-dispenser anointments).

Coda (#4)

Standing with my first girlfriend on the top of the Empire State Building in Manhattan was an experience that was truly life informing.

Never before had I felt the thrill of living in the Big City coupled with First Love (well, it was first love, so I guess I never would have felt that before).

After spending some time with Nancy (that was her name) I continued to evolve in my understanding of not only who I was in my own universe, but that of the world and indeed the cosmos beyond.

The Big Bang intrigued me.

I was truly excited to learn new, important things, such as how apple juice & fruit basket munchers (and people who make a fairly good living collecting earwax and Inertia Trading Cards) have more in common than four-leaf-clover-affected nail-biting shoe salesman & the fine men and women who repair refrigerator compressor motor magnet housing bracket washers.

Most polar bear beer, strangely enough, is brewed in a small cabin in the north woods of Nova Scotia.

Fuzziness.

Sibilance.

Zamboni.

I know, you’re probably thinking, “Who the hell knew??!”

My second girlfriend was all about traveling to the farthest reaches of the planet to learn more about indigenous peoples of many lands – many of those lands potentially requiring a number of shots to prevent this or that disease and what have you.

It began to be a strain on the relationship until we finally had to break it off. But I certainly did learn a lot about a number of places to which I never would have known much about, if it weren't for Shirley.

Our breakup was accelerated when I realized that those in the business of harvesting Mexican-Jumping-Bean travel cases have a lot to say about asterisks (as well as bovine denture salesman).

When taking a trip out to West Texas in 2003, it was discovered by an ever-evolving young man that (much to his chagrin) meaningful olfactory buffalo saddles generally eat fried Huevos Rancheros and oft times simmered flashlight casing screws during the High Holidays (although rarely during Passover).

Dude,

The

World

Certainly

Is

A

Wonder.

Chapter One-One-One-One (+One)

OK, yeah, being polite is something my parents always taught me.

I usually know when to keep my mouth shut and "read the room" and do what is right.

Ethics & integrity seem to be a dying “art,” but even in this crazy world, they are not entirely lost.

The world has hope.

Although we occasionally have shared negative experiences, many times the world is crazy only because we say it’s so.

We believe it. We CONSIDER it so.

AGREEMENT.

I suppose one often suffers, only due to “suffering by agreement.”

People who sell chaos tend to sell people on the idea that the environment around them is worse off than it really is.

Dung storms DO exist (but there is no need for the fellows to turn up the freaking volume.

Ah, but there are also merchants of goodness. Yup, indeed, there are those that turn up the volume of goodness.

There IS actually good news.

The good news includes that most of us are trying to win.

Most of us want survival. Survival indeed can be fun (believe it or not).

Individuals are individuals and as time moves forward, things don’t HAVE to get worse.

It many times appears that way only because it’s been generated by “bad apples” who sometimes overtly (or covertly) attempt to make things worse.

History has proven that occasionally people do repair (and even flourish & prosper).

A bit later in life (now, after my divorce) I was realizing new and splenderous things, such as how gentrified snacks do tend to not only encourage promiscuity in sneaky barn-siding salesman on damp mesas (when rain-dances occasionally bring forth vintage Chevrolet window rubber molding clips - known in the automotive industry as “Appalachian-enameled Metal Thingies”) I also discovered that yellow Tupperware parties would bring forth nefarious tales of scampering up Poppy-Pipes during the gestation period of most bargain-basement baseball card gentrification modalities.

I never did any drugs other than alcohol, however, I have to say that Manhattan was a trip in the early 90s!

I mean, as stoned as most of my colleagues were, strangely enough, I learned the most important lessons from my second boss, such as how Berkshire Hathaway Employees rarely thread popcorn loops during toilet-salesman beverage conferences (except when Bing Crosby fan-letter autograph hunters go prowling in the back alleys of Bangkok, during the wet season).

But then again, I was observing clearly how making plastic audio mixer knobs tended to easily engender the ire of earwax worship conference attendees - especially in Vegas during those shady maelstrom events.

Part Six: The Quickening

My grandmother’s Matzoh Ball Soup was not to be equaled.

Not even at the best delis in New York’s Upper East Side came CLOSE; I have to tell you, NOBODY matched my boobie’s Matzoh Ball Soup! (Affirmative, I capitalized Matzoh Ball Soup, even though I suspect, normally, it wouldn’t be.)

Well, being a relatively young man in 1990s New York City was both a delight and a revelation.

I often discovered that, while my coworkers generally ate lunch in the Meatpacking District, I would tend to gravitate toward the Lower West Side, where I was discovering that often, Yoda’s Pez dispenser acolytes often ordered corn-fried cabbage (after which they might often be seen “renting out” chelated power-drill battery clip container sales ladies, who often lived under the auspices of the eldest daughters of sheltered pipe cleaning manufacturing pundits).

Well, that was never to be outdone by the gingerly encroaching bicycle race peculiarities, often seen during the seldom-understood “Exodus to Mecca Moonlight Cabaret” performances.

I was starting to understand what they meant by “Smokey the Bear will save you with healing crystals and echinacea, while serving reversed rice, on the dude ranches of Eastern Dakota.”

Save me indeed!

Last-ish

In grade school, I was bullied a lot; called “Different” (and worse names) by kids, who, I would come to later discover, had their own bullying issues with which they were dealing.

Once I understood that each of us, whether we act out in an evil fashion or simply with anger and frustration, are usually dealing with something that occurred in one’s past (items that, once addressed and purged, can lead to a much better if not exalted existence).

After understanding this more, I actually was able to “close the book” on my demons.

Indeed, I felt a sense of closure with the demons of the past; although they may seem like monsters, most of these demons are only but shadows.

Now, with my increased awareness, I was starting to understand why our local Nickelback fan base administrator often raised the suspicions of docket-producing, mild-mannered moving van paneling salesman, when she would dance to the tune of “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” (when it would broadcast out, over the potato).

Rusty Bilstein often wore a kilt, which was as it should be.

Pineapples

I got a little scared when it was brought to the attention of my grade school principal that abnormally large chocolate-flavored pontificating reading-glass cases often fervently shimmy during October (and sometimes February) rainstorms.

New Orleans revelers sometimes shout scoring tips to small rubber washers in bathrooms of oregano-flavored bowling alley-shaped Pop Rock factories.

Elementary, my dear Watson!

Now, when we took that amazing college trip to Tanzania, life wasn’t ALL that bad and in fact, began to take on an interesting hue...

For one, the pansies popping off in my ornithology teacher’s skating rink were reminiscent of the odorous, yet somehow fragrant Smegma Derby horseshoe benevolence mantle pieces that my second cousin on my mother side often used as apple juice-flavored lotion tables (prior to sunbathing in Mallorca in the summertime, during the running of the popcorn flatulence).

Five plus WAN)

Now in this discourse, I haven’t spoken much about my own family (that is, my progeny).

Although not completely embarrassing, there are details I have been hesitant to share (with anyone, much less you - sorry but that’s sooth).

I’ll start with the story of how the dingleberry balloon I gave my fourth son (twice removed) ended up irking the Fleek Police (until my recording-studio-clock gave birth to that tiny little rubber thingy, which can often be found munching flaxseeds on the tip of my elder brother’s leather-wrapped three-quarter inch nine-iron repair manual, mostly utilized for brainstorm growing, other misinformed Guggenheim Museum tinnitus announcements, as well as various other entertaining areola painting excursions).

Suffice it to say, last spring was a relatively benevolent time to be squirting Maldive macaroni heater cores!

Epidermal Log

Well, that wasn’t as painful as I thought it would be.

Sharing details of one’s intimate life never is an enviable task (for most folks).

On that note, I’ll leave you with that which inspired me to finally bite the bullet and share my story with you).

Back in 1979, I was sitting in a local Moo Shu pub (I wasn’t old enough to drink yet) and overheard from a conniving rapscallion of an off-duty grape juice officer of how on Third Taco Tuesdays' dental hygienists’ shoebox collections are often thrown to the wind (somewhat as a caution) during the oft-touted Heavenly Hippie Hollow Hanukkah puff-rides, unless the pigs are afoot (which is not quite as good luck as when the rabbits are).

I mean hell, you only live once……

In body, after body, after body…

© 2021 & 2022 by Ari Ross LLC