The Kronikle, Vol. 4, Issue 7: Gourmet Taco Bell and a Diatribe on Tupac, Delayed
Greetings from the converted garage that serves as my bedroom (less tidy than the basement at the Convention
Center, but with a lot more character)!
To finish up …
The Lunch. Perhaps this is one of those morality tales that sums up the entire experience. I’m not sure as I have not finished digesting, physically or intellectually, the experience. (Wanted to put “nor” in that sentence but
Word told me that was wrong and I’m not a confident enough writer to break all the rules Word tells me I’m breaking. I love the word "nor".) We (roomie, fellow G from Texas, and myself) decide to go to the Food Court instead of the increasingly funereal food distribution facilities in the Convention Center to test my card (as I have been informed is now functioning on, yes, the last day of the reading. We ALL saw that coming.) We planned on Subway. I envisioned a tense moment involvement chintzy spinach application, the guy I transcendentally made make me another sammich on Day 1, and one martial artist who hasn’t been sparring nearly enough recently. But whatever. At this point, a spot of spinach or violence would suit me just fine. We enter the Food Court and the line at Subway
is, literally, 13 hours long. I ate there. It’s not that good. We investigate our other options—Chinese place,
Wendy’s with equally long line, and a KFC/Taco Bell fusion that must have made God cry. We chose Taco Bell because of the lack of line. Ultimately, that was a major signal we ignored, along the lines of that guy who was commanding that new guy at Pearl Harbor one December day and told the new guy all those bleeps were nothing. I walk up and order tacos (who can injure a Taco? Actually, Taco Bell can and I know that. The favorite restaurant of my youth, probably responsible for fifteen of my oldest pounds, I used to go with my cousin and order burritos and pour copious amounts of fire sauce on each and every bite. Then, I bore children and got poverty-stricken, long-term, and did not patronize the restaurant for a substantial period of time. Upon my return, Taco Bell had changed like a best friend you had before you dyed your hair blue. I never returned and WILL NOT spend my money on it for my
kids.).
To a friendly young man with dreads (they had their customer service DOWN! I will give them that. I should call
and compliment them.) I shakily offer up the bane of my existence for the past eight days, the credit card I nicknamed Hitler. He runs it. It worked. Many emotions poured through me. It was special. I grab my receipt and bought roomie’s lunch, too, made a minimal dent on the financial support and uncommon kindness she offered over the past few days. I notice the cashier’s name was Robert D. Lee and I have a friendly conversation with him about being one letter away from being of historical importance and another lady tells me about how her brother was named Simon LeGree. Ha! We sit down and I unwrap my taco. I taste my taco. I have decided that that thing could only taste good to those people you see on Food Network who rave about the sublime joys of goose colon and
fattened pig toe nail cassoulet. Taco Bell has to be gourmet fare because there is no other way the Western
world, birthplace of Marxism, Abbie Hoffman and U2 would allow such a violation of humanity to continue. If someone
told me all that had to happen to eliminate the Gulf Oil Spill from our time/space continuum was for me to take a
bite from Taco Bell again, I would have to roll over on my friends of the fish and fowl variety.
Sorry, Big Bird and Nemo.
I believe I related the epic tale of Archnemesis achieving total victory and dominance over the exams, his table mates, and the Educational Testing Service (he just HAS to be appointed Chief Reader next year or an injustice on the scale of slavery and Jim Crow will have occurred.). I will fast forward.
I return to my hotel room, see my roomie off, warning her that cops are like malnourished dogs around a T-bone when
they catch my scent, which, after eight days, she now carries. I return, depressed at the early loss of my South
Carolina homies and bereft of evening plans. I turned on VH1 to find, to my rapt joy, several episodes of VH1’s top hip hop songs waiting for my viewing pleasure. Videos and music history are to me what crack was to Robert Downey Jr. before he got his stuff together. I watch, enjoying finding out where they all are now and the walk
down memory lane. Little depressed the Dirty South was underrepresented, but no one seems to recognize their
brilliance. “Bombs Over Baghdad” at number 27? Really? That’s ludicrous. No, it’s not! Its OutKast! (That was a
joke for me. Hilarious.)
I get tense, as I always do at such things, as they near the Top 10. I just know that the no-talent hacks which the
world knows as Biggie Smalls and Tupac (which I surmise is Swahili for “undeniably yucky”) are going to take the
top spots just cause they got shot (which is the most talented product either of them gave to the world). Biggie
shows up in the top 10. Then we get to the top 5. I know how this is going to play out and I’m already preparing clauses to delineate my views on such a travesty. Then he shows up at number, I think, 3! Top honor was given to
Public Enemy’s “Fight the Power”. I’m OK with that.
I notice I’m hungry. I did not eat my whole lunch. So I wait for the end of the show and prepare to go. Then, before I leave, VH1’s Hip Hop Honors: Dirty South begins broadcasting. A crisis erupts in my overtaxed brain as props are given to my gap-toothed brother, Luther Campbell, and 2 Live Crew (which they richly deserve and never received). Do I stay in the hotel room? Do I eat? I eventually decide that I will be able to find it online and go forth into my evening in Louisville. Some of my most memorable evenings of my life occurred at point in previous Reading incarnations. But I lack expectation, because really, this reading has thrown me for a loop. I decide I have to go to the punk rock bar I found the first year I went. Some readers are there, but I don’t talk to them. I don’t talk to the guy whom I recognize as the friendly kid that insisted, after discovering my summer occupation, I ingest the first (and last) shot of tequila I have ever had-Petrone, fitting for a rap aficionado. I
think I may have had whiskey, too, but that is mere speculation. I order a Red Stripe. It’s icy cold. That’s
what I remember best about the 3rd Street Dive because their choice of punk rock is sketchy and unreliable. Everybody else leaves besides a bevy of women who are sitting so close I am forced to hear snippets of their conversation which was inane. I order another. Then they tell me THEY ARE OUT OF
RED STRIPE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Yeah, it’s time to get outta Kentucky.
Carrie the Red (Stripe)
Center, but with a lot more character)!
To finish up …
The Lunch. Perhaps this is one of those morality tales that sums up the entire experience. I’m not sure as I have not finished digesting, physically or intellectually, the experience. (Wanted to put “nor” in that sentence but
Word told me that was wrong and I’m not a confident enough writer to break all the rules Word tells me I’m breaking. I love the word "nor".) We (roomie, fellow G from Texas, and myself) decide to go to the Food Court instead of the increasingly funereal food distribution facilities in the Convention Center to test my card (as I have been informed is now functioning on, yes, the last day of the reading. We ALL saw that coming.) We planned on Subway. I envisioned a tense moment involvement chintzy spinach application, the guy I transcendentally made make me another sammich on Day 1, and one martial artist who hasn’t been sparring nearly enough recently. But whatever. At this point, a spot of spinach or violence would suit me just fine. We enter the Food Court and the line at Subway
is, literally, 13 hours long. I ate there. It’s not that good. We investigate our other options—Chinese place,
Wendy’s with equally long line, and a KFC/Taco Bell fusion that must have made God cry. We chose Taco Bell because of the lack of line. Ultimately, that was a major signal we ignored, along the lines of that guy who was commanding that new guy at Pearl Harbor one December day and told the new guy all those bleeps were nothing. I walk up and order tacos (who can injure a Taco? Actually, Taco Bell can and I know that. The favorite restaurant of my youth, probably responsible for fifteen of my oldest pounds, I used to go with my cousin and order burritos and pour copious amounts of fire sauce on each and every bite. Then, I bore children and got poverty-stricken, long-term, and did not patronize the restaurant for a substantial period of time. Upon my return, Taco Bell had changed like a best friend you had before you dyed your hair blue. I never returned and WILL NOT spend my money on it for my
kids.).
To a friendly young man with dreads (they had their customer service DOWN! I will give them that. I should call
and compliment them.) I shakily offer up the bane of my existence for the past eight days, the credit card I nicknamed Hitler. He runs it. It worked. Many emotions poured through me. It was special. I grab my receipt and bought roomie’s lunch, too, made a minimal dent on the financial support and uncommon kindness she offered over the past few days. I notice the cashier’s name was Robert D. Lee and I have a friendly conversation with him about being one letter away from being of historical importance and another lady tells me about how her brother was named Simon LeGree. Ha! We sit down and I unwrap my taco. I taste my taco. I have decided that that thing could only taste good to those people you see on Food Network who rave about the sublime joys of goose colon and
fattened pig toe nail cassoulet. Taco Bell has to be gourmet fare because there is no other way the Western
world, birthplace of Marxism, Abbie Hoffman and U2 would allow such a violation of humanity to continue. If someone
told me all that had to happen to eliminate the Gulf Oil Spill from our time/space continuum was for me to take a
bite from Taco Bell again, I would have to roll over on my friends of the fish and fowl variety.
Sorry, Big Bird and Nemo.
I believe I related the epic tale of Archnemesis achieving total victory and dominance over the exams, his table mates, and the Educational Testing Service (he just HAS to be appointed Chief Reader next year or an injustice on the scale of slavery and Jim Crow will have occurred.). I will fast forward.
I return to my hotel room, see my roomie off, warning her that cops are like malnourished dogs around a T-bone when
they catch my scent, which, after eight days, she now carries. I return, depressed at the early loss of my South
Carolina homies and bereft of evening plans. I turned on VH1 to find, to my rapt joy, several episodes of VH1’s top hip hop songs waiting for my viewing pleasure. Videos and music history are to me what crack was to Robert Downey Jr. before he got his stuff together. I watch, enjoying finding out where they all are now and the walk
down memory lane. Little depressed the Dirty South was underrepresented, but no one seems to recognize their
brilliance. “Bombs Over Baghdad” at number 27? Really? That’s ludicrous. No, it’s not! Its OutKast! (That was a
joke for me. Hilarious.)
I get tense, as I always do at such things, as they near the Top 10. I just know that the no-talent hacks which the
world knows as Biggie Smalls and Tupac (which I surmise is Swahili for “undeniably yucky”) are going to take the
top spots just cause they got shot (which is the most talented product either of them gave to the world). Biggie
shows up in the top 10. Then we get to the top 5. I know how this is going to play out and I’m already preparing clauses to delineate my views on such a travesty. Then he shows up at number, I think, 3! Top honor was given to
Public Enemy’s “Fight the Power”. I’m OK with that.
I notice I’m hungry. I did not eat my whole lunch. So I wait for the end of the show and prepare to go. Then, before I leave, VH1’s Hip Hop Honors: Dirty South begins broadcasting. A crisis erupts in my overtaxed brain as props are given to my gap-toothed brother, Luther Campbell, and 2 Live Crew (which they richly deserve and never received). Do I stay in the hotel room? Do I eat? I eventually decide that I will be able to find it online and go forth into my evening in Louisville. Some of my most memorable evenings of my life occurred at point in previous Reading incarnations. But I lack expectation, because really, this reading has thrown me for a loop. I decide I have to go to the punk rock bar I found the first year I went. Some readers are there, but I don’t talk to them. I don’t talk to the guy whom I recognize as the friendly kid that insisted, after discovering my summer occupation, I ingest the first (and last) shot of tequila I have ever had-Petrone, fitting for a rap aficionado. I
think I may have had whiskey, too, but that is mere speculation. I order a Red Stripe. It’s icy cold. That’s
what I remember best about the 3rd Street Dive because their choice of punk rock is sketchy and unreliable. Everybody else leaves besides a bevy of women who are sitting so close I am forced to hear snippets of their conversation which was inane. I order another. Then they tell me THEY ARE OUT OF
RED STRIPE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Yeah, it’s time to get outta Kentucky.
Carrie the Red (Stripe)