Tuesday, January 10, 2012

In a turn of events truly befitting the end of the Mayan calendar, I dined at Taco Bell for two consecutive weekends, and only now am I unraveling the twisted underpinnings of this self-destructive behavior. It’s no secret I’m an occasional customer. Indeed, I usually find myself stepping into its garishly appointed interiors during my more despondent moments.

That’s right–I have a ritual for my dark periods, just like the artists of old. But unlike Cézanne or Picasso, I don’t channel this dismal momentum into producing great, if unsettling, works. No, I direct all my bleak energy instead toward ordering the T5 (Nachos BellGrande) with a Crispy Potato Soft Taco as an apéritif between the aforementioned nachos and the hard-shelled taco included with them.

This recent trip wasn’t entirely driven by grim tidings, though. Part of the reason was celebratory, in fact, for surviving the gauntlet of holidays with only two extra pounds accumulated, one of which has already dissipated on its own accord. I also derive a grotesque fascination from watching the food move down the prep line and seeing how it’s assembled. “Food” is perhaps a bit too generous here, so let us call it a simulacrum of food, where a shower of beef particulates passes for meat and cheese, or rather cheese substance, is expelled from a caulking gun.