My trip to Tijuana

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I really wanted to write an inspiring blog, chock full of thematic weight and revolutionary ideas. That’s a work in progress though, and I’ll allow you to believe I have something up my sleeve that will leave you coming back on a daily basis waiting for the instructions to the first phase of Project Mayhem. In the meantime I wanted to eek out a quickie if for no greater reason than to have done something at least mildly productive for the week. I don’t think one blawg poast a week is too much to ask do you? Anyway as I’m biding my time thinking of lengthier, tear-inducing entries I wanted to write about an incredible voyage I took this week.

In the past year I’ve been struggling with the concept of being a racial minority for the second time in my life. Here in East Boston, I’d say if you don’t speak Spanish you’re fucked. Thankfully, not only do I speak nominal Spanish, but I also hoof it from my house to the T stop any time I’m actually caught outdoors. Got to avoid that sunlight right? But every time I pass by Maverick Square I must pause….the smell…it’s fondling my face with gigantic Mexican hands. It’s the awe inspiring smell of Pollo Campero. I’ve long been putting off a trip to the place, but then the cosmos aligned and the moment was right for inevitable showdown with fate. (I always get funny looks taking pictures of shit in fast food establishments)

I walked into Tijuana. It was like Platform 9 and 3/4ths straight into Mexico. Not a single word of English other than those loudly blurted out by me were uttered in the place. Not even an attempt at it. Upon googling Pollo Campero, it’s like an immersion project being tested in the United States; it’s not even a wide released fast food chain! Upon looking at the menu I discovered it was almost identical to the mcdonalds in the same block, except with Chicken Burritos. The choice of what to get was painfully obvious, though I did have to place my order about 37 times before the translation was successful and the burrito was launched into the deep fryer. I’m treading on thin ice with this blog I think. The truth must be told though.

(the proof)

Here’s the real kicker. Inside there was a little old Chinese man (like the shopkeeper in Gremlins) selling pirated DVDs inside slipcases. Like NEW releases. He was going around cat calling to people and getting them to come over and look at his pile, right behind the counter of the restaurant. I had to comically rub my eyes a few times to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. No other establishment in the world would allow that to fly. Nowhere. Well, having missed out on the new horror flick Insidious in theaters the other day, I flipped through his stack. Five bucks for a brand new film that’s still in theaters really isn’t a bad deal. He even had Sucker Punch, quite possibly the most offensive turd that’s been flung at the pictures business since Catfish. I politely passed on his wares, but I don’t think I can unsee what I saw. Cheap deeveedees….new ones…I might have to journey back South of the Border and take my business to the movie peddler. No wonder the Blockbuster next door went out of business.

bedebedebede that's all folks